Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nestled within the oldest seam of New York City, just beyond the bustling avenues and high-rise buildings, lay a secret hamlet known only to those with a taste for the arcane. Here, magic hummed in the air, and shops brimming with ancient tomes, enchanted artefacts, and shimmering potions lined the crooked streets, stacked precariously beneath flickering lanterns and slanted signs.

Jack and Lucy emerged from the oak-panelled doors of Grimwald & Bael's Rare Tomes and Trinkets, their arms weighed down with books bound in strange leathers and inked with fading golden runes.

They were hit by a wall of sound and colour as they stepped out into the winding, cobblestone streets. A few paces ahead, a well-dressed storefront displayed cauldrons of varying sizes, while a cluster of mischievous faeries darted in and out of sight between lampposts velveted with lichen, drawn like moths to the pale blue flames flickering within. The woven scents of baked chestnuts and petalled sugar, and the dreamy resonance of loot strings, drifted on the night air, redolent of centuries gone by. Any rogue outsider could be mistaken for thinking they’d stumbled onto an active film set.

‘I can’t understand it, I simply can’t,’ Jack said, shifting his stack of reading material to one arm as he reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes. He’d chosen to wear it thawed today, partly to avoid being recognised, but also because his companion’s close proximity would’ve necessitated touching it up every five seconds, and frankly, he hadn’t the patience for that.

As wonted, he was clad in his favourite pinstriped suit, though the dress shirt beneath was Delft blue rather than frost-white, and he’d exchanged the icicle bolo for a proper silk tie, secured with a monogrammed tie pin that glinted ostentatiously as he walked.

‘Talk about bad takes,’ he went on, incredulous. ‘I mean truly. I'm almost inclined to accuse you of contrarianism.’

Trotting along at his shoulder, and similarly encumbered with a wide-ranging assortment of magical literature, Lucy offered him an apologetic smile. The hourglass heels of her Oxford shoes — lace-trimmed and daintily curled at the toe — clicked a merry staccato against the cobblestones. It put Jack in mind of a dressage pony: Precise, elegant, and perfectly poised, as if aware of the attention her every step commanded. 

'That’s just my opinion, Jack,' she said, with an affable sort of ease. 'I'm not saying you have to agree with it.'

'I don't.'

'Okay.'

'At all.'

'That's fine.'

'I mean, not even an iota-- a-a scintilla of accord.'

'Mm-hm, I hear you!’

As they turned the corner, a shop window of boisterously-coloured clocks caught their eye, ticking backwards and programmed to chime every twenty-five minutes. Jack flinched as a brass basilisk emerged suddenly from the one closest to him, its forked tongue snapping out like a party streamer.

'Aidan just seems so much more... I don't know. Your type, though,' he continued, giving the automaton a wide berth.

'How do you know what my type is?'

'What I imagine your type to be, then, given your overall track-record. I’m flawed you think he was the better choice for Carrie. I mean the man crafted furniture, for Heaven’s sake, Luce. Furniture. And he actually treated her the way a lady ought to be treated. Big was-- well, Big. He was a prick.’

Her unfailing patience notwithstanding, Lucy was fast regretting having introduced this topic of discussion. Somehow she'd underestimated just how familiar her frosty friend was with the material at hand. A rare moment of folly, for someone as sharp-minded as her. That a man who confessed to having read Judith Krantz's Scruples no fewer than twelve times since its publication should hold such obdurate views on a series that exulted the high fashion, sensual mores and romantic intrigue of vibrant '90s Manhattan was entirely foreseeable, now that she really thought about it. 

'Aidan was too good,’ she countered, for just about the hundredth time, employing a tone of gentle forbearance usually reserved for wayward patients. 'Endearing, sure, but he didn’t have that... that spark Carrie needed. You know? That charisma.’

‘Too good?! You -- Lucinda the Light, White Witch of the West Side -- are calling someone “too good”?’

‘In this instance, yeah! I am. He just wasn’t Carrie's type. At least, not to the extent that Big was. ...And I'm more of a Grey Witch, actually, given my profession. Researching dark spells entails careful reiteration of their more basic components, after all. Although my innate magic is white-leaning, I suppose.’ 

'Off-white then, let's say. Maybe a nice cornforth.'

'No idea what shade that is, but okay.'

'--And why go out with the guy in the first place, if that was the case?'

'I don't know. Because she was seeking stability, maybe?' Lucy posited, with a loose shrug of her shoulders. 'His emotional availability made him grounding. But it also made him kind of boring, as things progressed.'

The characteristic buoyancy of her stride was causing her spectacles to slip, little by little, down her nose, making it increasingly difficult to see where she was going. As the two of them emerged into the main square, which was aglow with floating lanterns and teeming with early-evening wanderers, Jack had to tug her firmly against his side to stop her from marching headfirst into a lamppost. For the second time that night.

Maybe not so elegant after all.

'Aidan could’ve given her everything she needed without all the drama, though,’ he returned, letting her go only once the path ahead was clear of obstacles. ‘I mean Big was-was selfish, he was unreliable, he was philandering, he was—'

'Deeply flawed, yes, but that was exactly what made him so interesting! He was a challenge. Carrie was always drawn to him, even when she was with other people. Let’s be real, Jack, no one compared to him in her eyes. Even Aidan, no matter how perfect he was on paper. Which is why the two of them didn't work out, long-term.'

‘Well, you’ve got me there, I suppose... I’ll be benevolent and choose to overlook the second movie, in this instance; seeing as it made me regret having eyes. And ears. And long-term memory.’

Lucy wrinkled her nose in open distaste. 'Honest to Gowdie. I wish I could erase it from my mind.'

‘With a strong enough charm you could do precisely that. Though it’d mean risking permanent amnesia, of course.’

‘I think I'll take my chances.’

A troupe of mummers was holding court beside the food market, their patchwork costumes a riot of velvet, bells, and enchanted sequins that shimmered like fish scales under the lantern light. One of them — a bard/mage-type figure with ribbons in his hair — summoned bursts of golden light with each jingle of his tambourine; another mimed climbing an invisible staircase, disappearing briefly behind a fog of conjured rose petals. A small crowd had gathered, enthralled by the strange, wordless pantomime that teetered somewhere between comedy and surrealism.

One performer in particular captured their attention. A polypode, with a handsome, lavender-painted face and the veiled musculature of a contortionist. Balanced on three patchwork legs while his other four limbs danced with dexterity, he juggled an assortment of magical objects: A flaming top that changed colours as it spun, a sphere of water that reflected the small crowd like a fisheye lens, a chain of tiny, fluted bones that tinkled like wind chimes, and, most strikingly of all, an ivory-white flower with translucent petals that shimmered softly as though lit from within.

The mummer’s variegated eyes locked onto Lucy with a twinkle of recognition, and in a single, fluid motion, he plucked the glowing blossom from his rotation and leaned forward, presenting it to her with a dramatic flourish.

‘Flower for the beautiful lady?’ he simpered, his voice as cloying and saccharine as the cobweb candy-floss being spun lazily at the neighbouring stall. ‘The elusive spiritbloom. Glows brightest in the presence of twin flames, healing soulmates, kindred spirits, et-cetera. A valuable addition to any witch’s larder, without a doubt; and a vital ingredient in any standardised love potion. Not that you need succour in that department, dear doctor.' His grin was a silver sickle, stretching his face just the slightest bit too wide.

Lucy took a step back, visibly unnerved. 

‘Oh. Gosh. Thank you, Mr… uhm...?

'Vanpoker, at your service, o’my lovely. Mr. Vanpoker.’ The burly arm proffering the flower flexed to the beat of the first performer’s tambourine. ‘Though you can call me Vanpo.’ 

Jack couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Vanpo” (stupid name) was just the latest in a steadily lengthening procession of men that evening to be drawn, moth-like, to the luminous flame that was Lucinda Miller. And frankly, he was getting tired of it.

First there’d been the spotty-faced shop clerk who’d all but tripped over his own feet trying to offer her a discount and a dinner date, both of which she’d declined with a gentle, “Honey, I’m old enough to be your mother”. Then came the fold of half-pickled satyrs loitering on the steps of Mordacre’s Alehouse, who’d let fly with a string of predictably lewd observations as she passed.

She’d waved it off, as was her character. Told Jack, with a practiced roll of her eyes, “They’re clearly out of their heads. Frankly, I’m more concerned about the condition of their livers!” before flicking her wand and turning the remaining contents of their tankards to water. And not the sparkling kind.

Still, Jack had fixed them with a frost-edged stare so severe it might have chilled the pipes beneath the cobblestones, privately mourning the death of an era in which men behaved like civilised members of society around the opposite gender. Or at the very least, kept their crude remarks to themselves.

He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised by all the glad-eyeing, of course, striking as his friend no doubt was. Particularly in her current attire, which exuded both effortless sophistication and otherworldly charm. Magenta silk hugged her delicate curves from chin to ankle, deepening to shades of violet and indigo as she passed beneath the gas lamps.

The dress was as much garment as star-flung tapestry -- celestial bodies wheeling across it in long, gleaming arcs, their orbits mapped out in the finest filigree. Beneath her ribs a comet blazed, its tail unfurling towards her hip in a stream of golden fire. Tiny moons clung to their mother worlds, some sickle-thin, others round and full, all rendered with such exquisite care one might swear they waxed and waned with every shift of the light. 

Jack, as the talented modiste behind said embellishments, down to the last orbiting speck, (a thirty-sixth birthday gift, commissioned by Lucy herself) couldn't help but swell with pride each time he overheard someone compliment their artistry. 

A stray bolt of lighting struck the air mere inches from Lucy’s hair, which caught the flare and shimmered copper-bright. Primped and polished to the burnished lustre of a new penny, her hairstyle evoked the elegance of early-to-mid 20th century glamour: Soft curls framing her jaw, bouncing gently against her shoulders as she turned her head.

Yes. Very striking indeed, Jack thought idly, his gaze tracking the gracile sweep of her silhouette as it dipped in and out of relief, each slow transfer of weight from one dainty heel to the other limning her features anew. But that's no excuse for poor etiquette. Certainly not prolonged gawking. At least he, as her companion for the evening, knew how to comport himself. Though of course, his regard for her extended no further than that of a close (if doting, he would admit) friend.

Without conscious thought, he extended his arm and drew her subtly closer by the shoulder, shielding her from stray sparks with a fluid, casual motion. His palm hovered just above her upper arm before resting there; light, but sure. 

‘Thank you, Mr. Vanpoker. That’s very kind of you,' Lucy said politely, spots of colour blooming like roses under the freckles of her high cheekbones. ‘But— you see, my arms…’ 

Were full to brimming, at present. Not just with books (though they made up the bulk of the load), but also with potions ingredients, new parchment and quills, scrying numen for Melusine, a pair of antimicrobial gloves, a new ballistics pendulum, a bag of peppermint mice and candied violets, and a wedge of broomstick rosin.

Jack, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, stepped forward with a disingenuous smile. 

‘I’d be more than happy to accept it on the doctor's behalf,’ he purred, smooth as honey. ‘If, of course, she’s content with that?’

The mummer's sickle-grin inverted at this intrusion, but he relinquished his offering all the same — plunging into a theatrical bow in the process. With deliberate care, Jack tucked the blossom into the ribbon of Lucy’s witch’s hat, adjusting the angle just so; a subtle, almost proprietorial touch. While he was there, he gently nudged her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, ensuring she wouldn’t stumble into any more lampposts.

‘There,’ he said, tapping the tip of her nose fondly once he was finished. ‘Parfaite, mademoiselle. Nothing says "inconspicuous" like luminous shrubbery, hmm?’

Lucy tilted her head up, favouring him with a smile like Spring sunshine.

'Why, you're positively glowing, my o’my lovely. In fact... Goddess of the Springs. I dare say--' 

'Thaaat's great, Vanpoo,' Jack interrupted silkily, pushing a hand in Vanpo's painted face as the latter attempted to swerve around him to Lucy's opposite side. ‘Thanks so much.’

‘Uh, it's Vanpo.'

‘Whatever.’

As they moved on, the rosiness in Lucy's cheeks persisted, and Jack couldn’t shake the strange, unfamiliar pang that gnawed at his insides at the sight of it. 

She hadn’t… liked the mummer, had she?

The question struck him with equal parts distaste and curiosity.

Had he been out of line, stepping in like that? He’d only meant to spare her the same pathetic fawning she’d been forced to endure since the evening’s start — or so he’d told himself, at the time. But now, in hindsight, he wasn’t entirely sure what had come over him. It wasn’t something he’d felt compelled to do before.

Heavens, he hoped she didn’t think poorly of him for it. Perhaps next time he ought to keep his mouth shut. Let her handle things herself. She was, after all, trained in the art of jujitsu; she was more than capable of fending off unwanted advances without his help.

Still… Jack knew her well enough by now to understand that, had she wanted to stay and chat, she would have. Indeed, had she wanted to give out her number, she’d have done so without blinking. Melusine had once mentioned, with some amusement, that Lucy had been the instigator in all her past relationships. A fact Jack couldn’t help but respect.

And surely she had better taste than ol’ Vanpoo? What was there even to like about the guy? Sure, he was handsome. And young. And built like a Greco-Roman statue. And yes, those multiple limbs probably had their uses in certain, ahem, specific contexts--

Jack frowned, deciding not to pursue that line of thinking any further. He gave his head a subtle shake, as if physically dislodging the thought, and straightened his coat with unnecessary precision. 

Some questions, he decided, were best left unanswered.

Particularly ones that left him feeling oddly warm and uncomfortable…

Their stroll through the Withy continued, the whimsical sights and sounds providing an enchanting backdrop to their playful banter. Above them, a gibbous moon was rising, casting a silvery wash across the crooked, ivy-cloaked buildings, whose warped chimneys reached like fingers into the night sky. 

Being the day before Valentine’s Day, the entire hamlet had taken on a festive, romantic air. Red velvet ribbons and garlands of blush-pink roses hung from gas lamps and balconies, swaying gently in the breeze. Shopfronts glowed warmly with heart-shaped lanterns, while tiny cherubs fluttered overhead, occasionally firing glittery arrows at unsuspecting passers-by, who would then burst into giggles or blushes before the spell wore off. Even the cobblestones beneath their feet had been charmed to shimmer faintly in shades of rose-gold and lavender, like the inside of a seashell.

The deepening twilight drew cats of every colour from the shadows; slinking between stoops, under market stalls, prowling the gutters in search of tidbits. Jack sidestepped them with a look of faint distaste, muttering something under his breath about how he could never have one as a familiar. His sister’s “uniquely endearing old feather-duster” notwithstanding, he’d never been too fond of the creatures. When pressed for a reason, he explained, with haughty conviction, that it was the way they strutted about with their tails in the air, flaunting everything underneath for all the world to see.

Lucy had to physically bite her tongue to keep from mentioning a certain incident in the Park, twelve years prior.

Further along, a gaggle of ghost-children in Regency-era skeleton suits capered through the mist, their translucent forms flickering like lanterns caught in a breeze, voices ringing out with an eerie, bell-like clarity. They were laughing uproariously as they tossed something back and forth between them, and it wasn’t until Jack and Lucy drew nearer that they realised, with a squeak of concern from the latter, that it was a fifth ghost’s severed head, still grinning as it flew through the air. The rest of the child’s body sat politely on the steps of the nearby school, legs swinging idly, hands folded in its lap.

As Jack and Lucy passed, the giggling group let loose one final toss, sending the head sailing straight through Jack’s torso.

He gasped, shuddering violently.

‘Goddess above!’

‘What?’ Lucy asked, wide-eyed.

‘It was like being skewered with— well, with an icicle,’ he mused, rubbing his ribs as if to check for damage. ‘Not the most pleasant experience, as I'm sure my dear sister can attest to. ...Little rapscallions.’

The children cackled, the headless one blowing a raspberry, and darted around the corner like a shoal of fish; silvery forms catching the light in a broad sweep.

He and Lucy ducked into another shop at one point, its name spelled out in worn, hand-painted lettering that shimmered feebly under the lamplight: Gallowmere’s Cabinet of Curiosities. It was the kind of place that smelled as old as it looked: A combination of dust, mildew and the faint, carbonic twang of enchantments long expired, with shelves buckling under the weight of mysterious relics and peculiar oddments from centuries' past.

Lulled into a false sense of security by the shop’s oppressive warmth and twee furnishings, Jack immediately landed himself in hot water by prising open a beautiful, silver-plated music box that turned out to contain the disembodied voice of a siren, its song barely a whisper now, but still potent enough to coax him into a slack-jawed trance. With sudden, startling clarity, he felt compelled to leap out of the nearest window and land in a dramatic roll, or perhaps wrestle a griffin into submission, just to assert his masculinity. Fortunately, before he could act on any of these heroic delusions, Lucy’s gentle tones cut through the haze, accompanied by a squawk of laughter from the harpy-like shop clerk. Jack blinked, dazed, and snapped the lid shut with a sheepish mutter, resolving not to handle any more of the merchandise for the remainder of their visit. 

Neither woman, notably, had been affected.

(‘At least now I know what to get Mel for her birthday,’ Lucy teased sweetly, wiping something from his chin that Jack had a horrible feeling might be drool. ’She’ll be guaranteed to win any future arguments against you with that little number in her arsenal! A bespoke Frost Tongue-Tier, how nifty.’)

Shaking off the embarrassment, Jack drifted towards a display of self-turning hourglasses and a set of cards that whispered unpleasant omens under their breath, while Lucy all but pressed her freckly nose to a locked glass cabinet near the back of the shop. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion the colour of milkweed, was an impossibly delicate eighteenth-century microscope slide. The sample was of a rare magical virus (long deceased, but perfectly preserved), infamous for causing temporary time disjunctions in patients, leaving them momentarily unstuck from the present.

Jack wandered over eventually, only half understanding his friend’s reverence. He knew she collected such things now — fragments of scientific history, frozen in plexiglass — an oddly fitting evolution from her snow globe obsession. There was something about that permanence, that delicate containment, that clearly spoke to her, for she also had a number of antique (and rather creepy, in Jack's opinion) formalin specimens in her possession. Apparently, she’d had to prevent Melusine from dicing the latter up for use in potions/stews on multiple occasions.

She lingered over the slide for what felt like ages, deliberating aloud. The price tag was steep, and though Jack encouraged her to buy it ('For Heaven’s sake, Miller, you look like you’re trying to gnaw your way into that display'), Lucy ultimately shook her head. 

‘I can’t justify it, Jack,’ she murmured, reluctant but resolute. ‘Not when I have three grant applications pending. The therapies I'm already in the process of developing are spendy in and of themselves. Materials, space, laboratory staff, medical leads, legal staff, protocol writers, data scientists, staticians… testing for safety and efficacy. The financial outlay is extensive.'

As they stepped out into the night air once more, Jack made a show of patting his coat pockets, telling her, with feigned frustration, that he must have left his wallet back in the shop.

Lucy barely had time to open her mouth, halfway into asking when and where he’d last seen it, before he pirouetted on the spot and minced off towards the shopfront, one hand raised in a regal gesture that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Renaissance tapestry. She watched him go, bemused.

When he returned several minutes later, looking smug and suspiciously empty-handed, Lucy didn’t press him.

Instead, she glanced sideways and said, almost absently, ‘Do you think I should have just bitten the bullet, Jack? I keep thinking about it.’

'I'm not sure why anyone would want a mirror that allows them to see what they'd look like as an OAP, personally. But if it brings you joy, who am I to judge?'

'It does not bring me joy. I don't need to be reminded every day that I'm eventually going to have bingo-wings that might actually be capable of flight. I was talking about microscope slide.'

Jack’s answering chuckle, light and airy, came perhaps a shade too quickly, but for once Lucy seemed too preoccupied to notice.

‘Yes, of course. Your enduring fondness for laminated sneezes,' he mused, in that arch tone he often adopted when indulging her peculiarities. ‘Charming... though it was, Miller -- and I mean that sincerely -- best err on the side of caution, in my opinion. You’d only've spent the next few months pinching pennies and resenting it.’

‘Mm,’ she mused, still looking thoughtful.

He slipped a casual hand into his coat pocket, his knuckles brushing something small and cool nestled against the inner lining. As they resumed walking — his other hand coming to rest lightly at the small of Lucy’s back, steering her gently forward — his mouth curved into a quiet, private smile. Had she indeed "bitten the bullet" and ventured back to the store she'd have found herself sorely disappointed. The slide, he knew, was no longer sitting on its little velvet cushion.

After a couple of hours they came upon a small lot tucked between two looming dosshouses, where further street lamps bathed everything in a jewel-blue glow.

All around, the magical “carpark” was filled with an assortment of whimsical vehicles. Shimmering broomsticks hovered a few inches off the ground, winged bicycles flapped quietly in place, and even a peculiar teacup-shaped contraption puttered and spun lazily in its lot, awaiting an owner who, from the size of it (or lack thereof), could reach no higher than the tops of Jack’s knees.

An elegant phaeton carriage stood hitched to a pair of towering silver hares, their long ears twitching attentively as they drank from pails of some dark, ichorous liquid that smelled suspiciously of brandy. Not far from them, a sleek obsidian sleigh hovered proudly, balanced on skeins of fern-green vapour, and across the way, a snail the size of a Shetland pony appeared to be sleeping, its riding saddle adorned with parasols and richly-woven Persian rugs — several weathered old map holders strapped securely to its flank. Its shell had been painted meticulously to resemble the night sky, Lucy noticed. Complete with constellations that flickered faintly as it shifted.

Lucy paused to take it all in, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘for all our many quirks, we magical folk do know how to travel in style.’

‘Oh yes. None more so than you.’

Indeed, among the ragtag collection was Lucy’s broomstick. A sleek, cherry-wood model, polished to a soft gleam and humming with latent energy. Bundles of dried lilacs and gypsophila nestled amongst its bristles, interspersed with a colourful nest of shew-stones, painted feathers and crystal beads.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ Lucy preened, striding over to the article and patting its handle affectionately. She tossed her yield into the small, enchanted satchel affixed to the back, which swallowed the massive tomes as if they weighed nothing. Jack did the same, taking care not to crease or otherwise damage anything. He’d bought little for himself this eve, electing instead to keep his arms free to help Lucy carry her haul. He’d have helped her buy it too, and indeed had offered several times, but she wasn't having any of it. Which is why he'd surreptitiously slid his Legendary Figure badge across the counter when she wasn’t looking, so that she might at the very least benefit from his store discount.

‘I’ve enjoyed this little interim, Dr. Miller,’ he said, standing back with his hands on his hips.

‘Ditto! Thanks for keeping me company. I know you're a busy bee, so it means a lot.'

‘Never too busy for an old amiga. And it was nice to have a reprieve from Snow Business, t'tell you the truth. We're in Full Steam Ahead Mode, currently, so things have been… intense, to say the least. But I suppose I'd best be “slingin' my 'ook", as Ms Melville would say.'

‘Boo.' Lucy gave him a thumbs down.

‘Hm, yes, how bereft you'll be without my incomparable charm.’A roughish tilt touched Jack’s mouth, deepening the dimple in his left cheek. ‘However, the Big Apple—’ he made an expansive gesture at the city environs, ‘—insatiable old harridan that she is, demands moi attención. She's overdue a little TLC this eve, so the aim, as things stand, is to have her done and dusted by midnight, at the very latest. Try to overturn a personal best.’

‘Sure thing, bud. Completely understand,’ Lucy replied with cheerful equanimity — then let out a loud, theatrical cough that bore an uncanny resemblance to the word “workaholic.”

‘Whew. Goodness. Sorry about that!’ she added breezily, patting her chest. ‘Must’ve picked something up at the hospital.'

‘Pot-kettle disease, by any chance?’

'Tsk. How dare you.' She winked at him, dainty fingers hovering an inch or two shy of her breastbone in a show of mock-affront. The lace of her gloves was so sheer it resembled cobweb, Jack mused absently. A gossamer wisp that caught the lamplight just enough to shimmer. Yet, it still served its purpose — veiling the intricate network of faint, silver-white scars that coiled like smoke up the backs of her hands.

Lucy rarely spoke of them. He doubted most people even knew they existed. The gloves, ever-present, were both fashion statement and shield; a barrier against the awkward questions and sympathetic winces she had no patience for. They allowed her to move through the world without explanation. Without having to relive the story of how they came to be.

Smirking in return, Jack extended his own hand to help her onto the broom, which she grasped gratefully, hoisting herself up with ease. Just as the moment seemed to draw to a close and they made to part ways, however, Lucy paused, an idea forming in her head (always dangerous).

‘Jack,' she began, tightening her grip on him enough that, instead of detaching from her as he’d intended, Jack stumbled forward slightly. Her disparate strength to size ratio always caught him somewhat off-guard, when it presented itself. She’d once claimed, with no small degree of confidence, that she could pick him up bridal-style if the situation ever called for it. While they’d yet to test that particular theory, Jack had little doubt she was telling the truth.

‘Y— uh, yes?’

‘I don’t suppose you fancy a ride before you go, do you?’

‘I beg your pardon?'

'On Twiggy.'

'Who-y?'

'Twiggy.' Lucy nodded to the broom. 'That’s what I named her. After Lesley Hornby, the model.’

‘Ah yes. Of course,’ Jack said, straightening his tie primly. ‘That-that makes sense.’

'Have you even been on a broom before?'

His reply came out as a breathy scoff: ‘Many times.'

Lucy raised manicured brows at him, too perceptive for her own good. 'Have you really?'

'Oh like I’m gonna lie?'

'Pathologically, yes.'

'Why, madame. I’m stung!’

They exchanged mutually obstinate looks, each unwilling to be the first to back down. Finally, Jack’s gaze lifted skyward, and he let out an exasperated sigh.

'Alright, fine. Little Miss Human Polygraph Test. …No. I haven’t been on a broom before.'

'Seriously? Never?’ Lucy blinked at him with those big, doe-like eyes of hers, genuinely surprised. ‘Even when you were cozying it up with Cheri?’

Cheri being the Grand Mistress of the Dark Arts. Someone with whom Lucy, as both a fellow witch, and Senior Consultant of the Dark Magical Injuries Department at Crystal Springs General Hospital, convened on a semi-regular basis.

‘I wouldn’t say we “cozied it up”, per se,’ Jack answered, a little uncomfortably. ‘It wasn’t an extended affair, after all. I simply… ahem…'

'Took her to dinner, made use of her "portal", and then conveniently forgot to call her for several thousand years?'

Lucy smiled as she watched the colour drain from his face.

'And there you were pontificating about "how ladies ought to be treated",' she chastised him, jokingly. 'Tut-tut.'

'I was young.'

'Mm, heard that one before.'

'--Entirely self-absorbed. I'm a different man now.'

'Of course.'

'You and she’ve been speaking, then, I take it?' Jack deduced. 'Cheri.’

'Usually about new case studies in arcane spell-casting or amendments to current curse legislation, all very Bechtel Test-abiding. But you do crop up now and then.'

'Two exceedingly gifted and high-powered women with extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts conspiring behind my back. I'm sure that won't come back to bite me in the rear.'

Another laugh bubbled from Lucy, warm and musical. 'Only if you don't behave yourself.'

'Never really been my forté.'

'Mm, good point. Best sleep with one eye open then, eh?’ She flashed her brows at him. ‘But we’re getting off-topic. Twiggy’s in need of a co-pilot, and it would appear that you, my good sir, are overdue your first flight. Hop on.'

'Boy, you know I’d love to, Luce. Really. In-in-in fact there’s nothing I’d rather do more. But— oh! My. Would y’look at the time…?' Jack made a show of indicating his wristwatch, two of the seven hands of which pointed to the Roman numeral “VIII”, while the rest ticked and whirred to the tune of some complex meteorological paradigm. 'I’ve one of those deeply invasive, “So You’re Middle-Aged now”, men’s health examinations to get to. Tss. What a pity. Ta-ta now, tootle-loo—'

'Oh come on, really?'

'Wretched timing, I know, but one mustn't let these things fall by the wayside. I'm sure you understand, as a, uh, medical practitioner.'

'You won't even consider it?' Lucy wheedled, her voice slipping into that familiar, sportive lilt she set aside for moments of gentle persuasion. Typically when coaxing him into doing something strenuous, undignified, or both. 'You never know, you might just have fun.’

Jack pivoted to face her again, skepticism painted across his features. ‘Fun.'

‘Or something there-adjacent. Enjoyment. Amusement. Light-hearted pleasure. All of the above.’

'You and me. On,' he wiggled his fingers in the general direction of the broom, 'that.'

‘Her, Jack, show some respect. Women don't like to feel objectified.'

Jack hesitated, eyeing the sleek handle as if it might bite him. Thrill-seeking though he was (or had been, in his younger years), the idea of soaring above the city on something so… negligible made his heart stutter, but Lucy’s eyes shone with such earnest enthusiasm it was difficult to refuse. 

'Come o-on,’ she urged again, clicking her heels together like an overexcited showgirl. 'Where’s that gung-ho kid who was so desperate to learn how to fly he jumped off the roof of his three story childhood home, huh?'

'I knew I shouldn’t’ve told you about that.'

‘But you did, and here we are.'

'You’re not gonna let up about this until I do it, are you?'

‘Statistically unlikely.’

‘You’ll just keep on and on—'

'And on and on. And on and on and on, ad nauseam. You’re only saving yourself time by saying yes now and cutting out the back and forth. But hey. Look. I'm not one for forcing people beyond their comfort zones. You just take a moment to think it over, okay? No pressure.'

'No pressure? From you? Wonders never cease.'

'None. Nada. Absolutely zilch. '

A pause ensued.

...One Lucy managed to endure for a record time of five seconds before checking the nacre ring watch on her index finger and muttering, 'Takeyourtimehurryup.'

'Lucy.'

'What? I'm excited!'

Jack rubbed the space between his eyes and sighed, long and resigned. There was only ever going to be one outcome here -- they both knew it. When, in all honesty, had he ever managed to refuse her anything she wanted? He might as well surrender with dignity (while he still had it) and embrace the inevitable.

‘H’one quick spin couldn’t kill me, I suppose,' he heard himself capitulating.

‘That’s the spirit!’

In fact, it could kill him. Badly. Permanently, even, but Jack had more or less accepted his fate at this point. What were a few shattered bones in the interest of making her happy, after all? He might even end up breaking his nose at precisely the right angle to realign his septum, wouldn’t that be something?

The only remaining hindrance, of course, was the “precious cargo” in his breast pocket; but as long as they were careful, and didn’t go too fast…

‘Where d’you want me?’ he asked, in a tone of weary defeat. 'Front? Back?'

‘Caboose, I think, seeing as you’re heavi— aller,’ Lucy amended quickly, when he narrowed his eyes at her. 'Taller, I said taller.'

‘I should think so too. I work hard at keeping myself this svelte, you know. Strict dietary regimen. Iron-clad self-discipline. Scrupulous adherence to Cosmo’s “Ten Days to a Slimmer You”. And more jazz-ice-cise classes than you can shake an icicle at.’

Visions of him draped, leonine, across his favourite chais lounge — luxuriating over Château Lafite-Rothschild, baked camembert with honey and truffle oil, and Swiss chocolate-dipped strawberries — danced through Lucy’s head, and it took real effort not to laugh. She’d walked in on that exact scene more than once, while visiting him at his condo in Gstaad. Oftentimes he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his day robe/moccasins.

‘Iron-clad,’ she echoed, with a staid little nod. ‘Very admirable.'

With the air of a man being walked to the gallows, Jack swung a leg over and settled in behind her -- only to regret the decision almost immediately. 

‘What's wrong?’ Lucy asked, glancing back at him in concern as he let out a strained grunt. 'Is there a problem?'

‘Ah… that's one way of putting it,’ he replied, voice pitched a full octave higher than usual. He shifted his hips one way, then the other, trying in vain to find a position that didn’t evoke visions of medieval torture. 'Two problems, actually, if we’re being grammatically precise.’

Realisation dawned across Lucy’s features, and she made a noise that was part pity, part mirth, her lace-clad fingers rising to her lips as though to trap it there.

‘Oh, Ja-hack,’ she said, the second syllable catching on a giggle. ‘I'm so sorry, I probably should’ve warned you. These things aren’t exactly built with, um. External fixtures in mind.’

‘I’m becoming increasingly aware of that, yes,’ Jack winced, shifting again as if that might improve the situation. It made little difference. If anything, the broom seemed to grow more vindictive by the second, no doubt punishing him for his earlier comments.

‘Someone really needs to invent a more ergonomically considerate design, come to think of it,' Lucy mused, tapping her chin in thought. 'Something a little less... straddly.'

'Y'don't say.'

'--Perhaps a spell that distributes pressure evenly across the seat...? I'll give it some thought, maybe draw up a schematic or two. Do you think you'll manage for the time being? I don't want you to be miserable.’

‘As long as you're prepared to tell my parents you’re the reason I won't be giving them grandchildren, yes. I suppose I’ll soldier on.’

Lucy snorted at that, torn between laughing again and rolling her eyes. He truly was the biggest drama queen she knew; bar none.

Settling for a look of amused sympathy, she slipped her wand from inside her sleeve and gave the broom’s handle a couple of precise taps, murmuring the word, ‘Emollire.’ At once, a soft, sepia-toned glow bloomed at the wand’s tip and settled over the sleek handle like a fresh layer of polish. The spell rippled outward, spreading smoothly across the burnished wood and expanding to cover nearly two-thirds of its length.

Jack repositioned himself once more, letting out a quiet breath when the motion yielded slightly less pain.

‘And that was?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching quizzically.

‘A softening charm,’ Lucy answered brightly, twirling the wand once like a baton before sliding it back up her sleeve. ‘Far from a perfect solution, of course, but hopefully it'll take the edge off. Quite literally. Remind me to float the idea to the Association for Broomstick Flight Safety and Accreditation at some point.’

No sooner had one problem been addressed, however, than another made itself known:

Jack was clearly grappling with the delicate question of where to rest his hands. After several seconds of vacillating between her shoulders and her hips — arms hovering like a malfunctioning marionette — Lucy decided to take pity on him.

‘Anything else I can help you with there, bud? This is a safe space.’

‘I just, uh... wasn’t sure where would be the more appropriate… area of personage…’

‘My waist, maybe?’ she proposed, endeared by his choice of wording. Area of personage. Bless. 

‘Your wa— are you sure?’

‘If you want to stay on the broom, yes. Which is generally the aim.’

‘You won’t find it, ehm, indecorous?’ Jack asked solicitously, scooting back slightly in an attempt to put more distance between the two of them. ‘There isn’t exactly much room on this thing.’

‘No, you know what? You’re right. You're absolutely right, Jack, how silly of me; I’d forgotten I’d recently enrolled with the Carmelite Sisters. While we’re on the topic, actually, I’d be grateful if you could refer to me as “Mother Miller” from now on, kay? Or “Mother Superior”, whichever suits.’

‘Mothe— mmh.’ Jack adopted a look that said something to the effect of “that was funny but I’m going to pretend not to approve for the sake of my ego”. ‘Now there’s no need for that. I was merely—’

‘Being a gentleman, I guessed,’ Lucy anticipated him, with a look of fond exasperation. ‘And it’s sweet. Really it is. But not necessary. Now scooch thine pinstriped butt back here while I’m still young enough to see where I’m going, we're losing moonlight.’ 

At length, Jack acquiesced. But only insofar as shifting an inch or two closer, his fingers landing hesitantly on the dip beneath her ribs. Her waist felt narrow and taut between his touch, and warm. Very warm.

Rolling her eyes at how uncharacteristically priggish he was being about the whole thing (especially given what an outrageous flirt he was with just about everyone else), Lucy reached back to pull his arms fully around her, surprising him enough that he let out a little snort of indignation.

‘Why do you look so nervous all of a sudden?’ She nudged him kittenishly with her shoulder. 'What d'you think I’m going to do? Gobble you up whole, like a preying mantis? I’m not that scary, surely.’

‘Gobble me up, no, but you may well have jinxed me had you thought I was taking liberties.’

In my dreams, Lucy thought archly, and then immediately scolded herself for it. 

He's your friend, Miller. Friends don't think about friends like that. Get a grip.

‘Do go easy on your ol’ pal, won’t you?’ Jack went on, as she turned away to fiddle with the manifold dials and notches running the length of the broom’s handle. ‘Not that he isn't raffishly courageous and intrepid and what-have-you, but, to reiterate, this is his first time.’

‘I’ll be very gentle, I promise,’ Lucy said, aiming for reassurance as she removed her witch’s hat and, with a snap of her fingers, shrank it down to the size of a coin -- tucking the finished article into her satchel. The spiritbloom that had been nestled in its ribbon received the same treatment; though she took the added precaution of casting a protective charm around it to guard against bruising or breakage. 

In the hat's place she donned headwear that combined the archetypical aviator's cap with a 1930's lady's cloche.

Her spectacles were swapped for a pair of purple-lensed goggles, their multiple attachments and appendages reminiscent of the “steampunk” style Jack knew her to be a fan of. Tiny brass rivets gleamed at the hinges, and one lens slid out like a monocle on a track, magnifying and shifting with a click as it calibrated to altitude.

‘No surprises or crazy-kooky moves,' she vowed, with great sincerity. 'Cross my heart and hope to... well, not die, actually. That'd be counterproductive. Get a nasty headache, maybe.'

‘You won’t try any of your usual "Jeté Jayne" gymnastics?' Jack asked pointedly, making a little loop-de-loop motion with his index finger. 'Barrel rolls? Immelmans? Pas de chat?'

‘Nope. None. A-plus use of the lingo, though. Top marks.’

The name Jeté Jayne had stuck years ago, half-joking at first, when Melusine first saw her housemate practicing midair pirouettes over the south side of the Park. 

Both broomsticks and flying styles came in many forms, and reflected their practitioners’ intentions. Couriers, mounted on thickset, robust models, prioritised load-bearing and endurance. Their brooms were built for distance, not finesse. Racers, by contrast, favoured sleek, narrow designs and had honed their flying into a precise science of angles and airflow, every movement optimised for speed and razor-sharp turns. And then there were the artistic flyers. Those who choreographed their paths through the sky like calligraphy. Their brooms tended to be more elegant in conformation, often customised with flared tails, flexible shafts; subtle enchantments that responded to nuance of posture and weight distribution. Some even trailed coloured mist or light behind them. 

There were sub-styles within that category, too. The Russians with their sharp, dramatic lines. The Italians with their flourish and grandeur. Lucy favoured the French style, which was noted for its balletic undertones. It had come naturally to her, especially with her background.

She'd taken ballet classes from the ages of three to seventeen, eventually reaching the stage of dancing en pointe. When medical school overwhelmed her schedule, she'd hung up her slippers for good. Adopted martial arts, instead, as a less demanding avocation -- something she could indulge in if and when she had time. But that muscle memory showed in every movement she made on a broom.

The poised hover of an arabesque, one leg extended in elegant defiance of gravity; the lightning dart of a pas de chat, as if she leapt between clouds rather than through them. Her assemblé was so clean it looked choreographed, limbs snapping inward as she twisted into a barrel roll. She'd even mastered a broom-mounted pirouette, spinning in place while the tail of her cloak flared like a tutu caught in an updraft.

Now, she rummaged through the weathered satchel before drawing out her flying shoes, the cream-coloured leather (faux, of course) still soft where it hadn’t been scuffed dark by weather and time. Each toe was reinforced with a hard platform, not unlike that of a ballerina’s pointe, but retooled to lock into stirrups along the broom's shaft. The same applied to the springy shock absorbers curving into a heel down each calve, which were vaguely reminiscent of the long-fall Velocity Challenge Braces from Portal. The soles pulsed faintly with magic: Gravitational grip charms and toe-angle stabilisers, allowing for the exact kind of precision she demanded. 

They had been her last pair of real ballet slippers. She’d transfigured them years ago, back when she’d been a poor student and couldn’t afford proper flying shoes. One might assume she kept them out of sentimentality, but the truth was more practical: They still worked perfectly. And besides, there was something neatly poetic, she felt, in that evolution from stage to sky.

Lucy slid the shoes on with practiced ease, binding the ribbon-like straps around her ankles and calves, double-knotting each one with a flick of her fingers.

‘Do I have your word, Lucy?’ Jack pressed, apparently unmoved by her assurances. His tone was light, but there was an edge beneath it. A flicker of genuine nerves masked under the usual polish. 'That this isn't going to be my last hurrah, as it were?'

‘You have my word.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

‘Truly-truly?’

‘Truly-truly.’

‘Truly-truly-truly, because I consider myself far too young and handsome to deprived the world of my presence—’

‘Jack.’ She spun around again, taking his face in her hands. ‘Just. Trust me, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t I always take good care of you?’

Jack stared at her — all wide, blue eyes and squished cheeks — looking so uncharacteristically guileless all of a sudden that she had to resist the urge to kiss his silly, crooked nose. 

‘Yesch,’ he lisped softly, following a pause. ‘I schupposh you do.’

‘And you know I would never put you in a situation that could potentially lead to you being harmed?’

‘I… guesch not. Can you let go of my fasche, pleasche? It’sch schtarting to go numb.’

‘Then you've nothing to worry about, do you?’ She lowered her hands to his shoulders, smoothing out the rumples in his suit jacket with practised ease. ‘I am nothing if not an advocate for health and safety, after all. Which reminds me, put this on.’

‘Put what o— ?’

Suddenly she was forcing something solid and heavy over his head. Bewildered, Jack glanced into the left wing mirror, and glowered.

‘You, my freckly friend, are toeing a very narrow line.’

'And here I thought I’d crossed it altogether.’ Lucy’s eyes sparkled with mirth as she tightened the strap of the hot-pink bike helmet he was now wearing. A hot-pink bike helmet with the words “Princess” stamped across the front in large, glittery lettering.

‘Are you serious right now?’ he said, jabbing a finger at it.

‘I never joke about protective head gear, Jack. It's a serious state of affairs.'

'It's ridiculous, is what it is.’

‘I think the word you’re looking for is “vintage”, thank you very much,’ she corrected him primly, swatting his hand away as he went to take it off. ‘This baby earned me major street cred back in the summer of ’98. And, given that you’re technically my passenger princess right now, I’d say it’s fairly appropriate.'

She reached up to give his head a fortifying wiggle, making him go cross-eyed. 

‘Kay, it’s on nice and snug, so that’s fab. Need to keep that clever, scheming brain of yours safe, after all, mm? Now, in the event that we crash--'

'We're going to crash?'

'We're not going to crash,' Lucy told him staidly. 'This is a purely hypothetical scenari--'

'Then why in Heaven's name are we preparing for it?'

'It's just a precaution, Jack; as your flight instructor it's my duty to make you aware of the appropriate line of action, so would you please let me finish, for Hecate's sake? In the event that we crash, I want you to curl forwards in on yourself. The goal is to protect as many of your vital organs as possible; avoid internal rupturing and/or bleeding. As well as restrict the movement of the arms and legs, preventing them from flailing and causing further injury or becoming entangled during the impact. Got it? ...I don't suppose you'd be open to signing a waiver, would you?’ 

Jack’s eyes widened further in trepidation, a clear indication that the joke had flown over his head. 

‘I— kidding. I was kidding, sorry.’ Lucy scooped up his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Clearly I need to work on my timing. No legal releases required; you’ll be back on the ground, safe and sound, before you can say “litigious”. H’okey dokey, hold on tight now!’

Without her even having to issue a command, the broomstick began to glow, and Jack, quickly forgetting about the helmet and the discomfort between his legs, steeled himself with a sharp intake of air, his grip on her midsection tightening almost painfully as they rose, slowly and carefully, out of the carpark.

A woman of her word, Lucy was indeed very gentle, at least to begin with. She didn’t want her passenger throwing in the towel after only five minutes, after all. 

Moving at an even clip, they weaved between the gabled buildings, curving around a bell tower, even grazing past a large flock of glowing paper cranes that scattered in surprise, their delicate wings flapping against the night sky. The lights of the Withy glittered below them, an intricate mosaic of vibrant shop windows and swirling lanterns, the quiet hum of magic growing steadily dimmer.

Unfortunately, the higher they climbed, the more turbulent the air became. And the more turbulent the air became, the more Jack’s tension mounted.

‘This is fine,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth, repeating the phrase like an invocation. ‘This is fine. This is fine. This is—’

'Not working, huh?’ Lucy said sympathetically, glancing over her shoulder at the increasingly frantic gestures he was making with his right hand; some arcane combination of fluttering fingers and sharp flicks. She could only assume it was an attempt to stabilise the air currents.

It didn’t appear to be going particularly well.

‘Very astute,’ Jack responded dryly, without breaking his gaze.

‘Why is that? Your whole “deal” is controlling the weather, after all. Or have I been misunderstanding all these years?’

‘You've been understanding correctly. In the wintertime temperature gradients between air masses are at their most acute, leading to sharper differences aloft and higher winds within the jet streams,' he rattled off, in his designated Aren't I Clever voice. 

'You don't have authority over the jet streams?’ she pressed, already knowing the answer.

'I have authority over the Polar stream, sure. But if I were to tamper with it now, in the interest of making this journey more bearable, the ramifications would be far-reaching and I'd more than likely end up in the dog house, from the Council’s perspective. Instead, I'm forced to mitigate conditions at a more localised level, which is not unlike trying to smooth down the wrinkles in a bedsheet while someone much bigger and stronger is at the other end shaking it out. This is fine. This is f— !’

Jack's language, much like his skin tone, took a rather violent turn for the blue as he and Lucy were stuck by a powerful downdraft.

‘Okay, you’re okay! I’ve got you,’ she called out, her voice raised slightly to cut through the roar of the wind. She kept one hand firm on the broom and the other braced against his arm, steadying him as best she could. ‘It’s just a few bumps, is all — totally normal! No need to be scared.’

‘“Scared”. Pssht. G-Gimme a break,’ Jack muttered, though Lucy didn’t miss the way his arms cinched a little tighter around her, his heart pounding so fiercely in his chest that she could feel it between her shoulder blades. ‘Jack Frost doesn’t get scared. I-I-I’m just trying to preserve my hair, is what it is. Hours of painstaking effort and it’s getting blown about beyond salvageability.’

'You're wearing a helmet.'

'W-- exactly! I'm quickly coming down with a pernicious case of hat hair. Such inimitable perfection, cut down in its prime.'

‘Oh good God, the humanity. Shall we throw a wake in its memory? Shall we invite Jen Atkin?’ 

When Lucy’s efforts to get a laugh out of her companion fell flatter than a flying carpet with engine trouble, she tried a different approach: ‘You used to fly the sleigh, didn’t you? In the, um, Other Timeline, anyway. This is basically the same thing, if you really think about it! …Except for the lack of reindeer, I guess. And airbags. And… well, a sleigh—’

‘And the fact that I was in control of that, not at the mercy of Jane Jetson and her New Age Space Segway— don’t look at me, keep your eyes forwa— forward, Miller, for Heaven’s sake! Or are you trying to go through someone's window?’ Jack’s voice was now so shrill it was sure to be disrupting local canine communication channels.

Too, the increasing pressure of his arms around her diaphragm was beginning to make Lucy see stars. Though, given that she was the one who put them there in the first place, she didn’t really feel like she could make any kind of comment on the matter. You reap what you sow, etcetera, etcetera.

It wasn’t the worst way to go out, in all fairness...

Gasping for breath, she whipped out her wand and pointed it ahead of her, choking out the word, “Evanescet”. As they plunged through the resulting forcefield a strange cooling sensation trickled down both of their spines.

‘What was that?’ Jack yelped, the words muffled by Lucy’s hair, in which his face was thoroughly buried.

‘Disillusionment spell — we’re now completely invisible to the ordibeing eye!’

‘Oh goo-die. Perfect fodder for commercial jets! Y’know, I always did want my body scattered over somewhere of note when I died; I just would’ve preferred it to have been cremated first.’

‘To be fair, I think a jet engine would do a fairly thorough job of that! Although I'm pretty sure your body just goes to Rosehaven when you die...?’

‘I was being ironic!’

She loosed a breathless laugh, exhilaration bright behind her ribs. The wind surged around them, lifting them higher, unspooling the knots of tension that had gathered between her shoulders. There was nothing quite like this — the heady rush of air, the weightlessness, the brief illusion of being untethered from the world below. It soothed her in a way little else could. When venturing out alone she would often slip on her favourite headphones, thumbing through her designated Flying Playlist (Led Zeppelin when she needed motivation, Enya when she was feeling meditative), and lose herself in the sky. After a gruelling shift at the hospital, or first thing in the morning before the day’s weight settled on her shoulders, she always returned to this.

She loved her work. Lived it, breathed it, often dreamt of it. It felt etched into her very bones, not just a career but a calling; her raison d’être, one might say. And yet, there were days — more than she liked to admit — when it weighed on her. The ones where she sat by a child's bedside and held a tiny hand, when she had to deliver bad news to a loved one. Those days stayed with her, settled in the quiet spaces of her mind. Up here, she gave herself permission to sift through them, to let the grief and the trauma breathe.

Other thoughts crowded in, too. Her parents. Their aging. The subtle but certain signs of struggle each time she visited. They never said it outright, of course. They were too proud for that. But she saw the stiffness in her father’s movements, the extra seconds her mother took to gather herself before standing. Charlie did what he could, when he wasn’t wrangling his classroom of thirteen-year-olds or ferrying his own kids between soccer practices and birthday parties. Three rambunctious children and a full-time career dominated his schedule, and what little time remained was swiftly snatched up by Santa Claus training. An unconventional but undeniable reality of their family life.

In the end, any future care Neil and Laura may require would fall predominantly to Lucy. Unwedded and childless as she was. It wasn’t a burden, just a truth she had accepted. The question was, how would she manage it? Would she have to take a step back from her career? Give up her dream of leading the department one day? Would she still find time to honour responsibilities to her godchildren, her friends?

Money wasn’t too much of a concern, thankfully; despite her comments to Jack earlier. Splashing out on unnecessary luxuries had never been her style, but she made a decent living wage at the hospital. And Melusine refused, point-blank, to charge her rent. No matter how many times Lucy insisted, or how creative she got with slipping money into coat pockets and desk drawers, Mel always found a way to return it. The Willow barely had utility costs, magic shouldering most of the burden, so she couldn’t even pitch in there. It left her restless, unsure how to repay the generosity.

And she worried about Mel. Worried that she spent too much time alone, too much time inside her own head. Worried that any attempts to draw her out might be misread as judgement or over-interference. It was a delicate thing, this line between care and intrusion, and Lucy walked it carefully.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the disappearances. The missing magi-humans. 

For weeks now, the city’s magical community had been abuzz with speculation, details saturating every headline, whispered in every café and clinic waiting room. It was troubling. Deeply troubling. Lucy vacillated wildly between wanting to push the matter from her mind entirely and the undeniable pull of curiosity. Of the aching need to do something.

All of these elements combined, plus many more, had over time calcified into a dense weight at the bottom of her stomach, so tangible she could almost touch the edges of it, map out its shape. 

But flying… flying eased that weight. If only for a time. 

The ground felt stifling, by comparison. Constricting. It closed in around her like the dark, narrow passageways from her dreams. Those claustrophobic corridors with no doors, no windows, just stone and shadow and the press of something unseen at her back. They’d started twelve years ago, after the incident at Harvard, and had never truly gone away. Over time, they’d begun to bleed into another recurring dreamscape: One where she’d carved out whole lives in different centuries: A healer in plague-era London, an alchemist in a skyborne archipelago, a scholar hiding forbidden tomes in a candlelit library beneath Constantinople. Lives that felt too vivid to be fantasy. Lives so vast, so richly-detailed, they left her feeling jittery and disorientated when she awoke, the scars on her hands throbbing ominously.

Thankfully, those markings (and her magic in general) hadn’t pained her to any great extent in several years, or they’d be something else to add to the list.

In the event that she craved a little company on her excursions, she could occasionally persuade Melusine to venture up with her. The latter’s own flying apparatus was a little on the doddering side, to put it kindly. More mop than broom, and an old and dirty one at that, but it knew how to do all the things a broom did, which was the important thing. Albeit at a slower/more meandering pace. 

More oft than not, though, it was just Lucy, the stars and her thoughts. Sometimes for hours. It was nice to have one of those thoughts joining her this eve. Even if he seemed intent on wringing her of her organs, at present. 

Higher and higher they climbed, until they were passing wisps of chilly cloud, New York unfolding below them like a map of the cosmos. Lucy could even make out the multicoloured dots which were cars packed into the narrow streets, or else pouring in and out of the city over the various bridges.

'Can you not?' she frowned, when Jack made a funny sort of "ppfft" noise into her hair. 'Either it's started raining or you just spat down my neck.'

'Your hair keeps going in my mouth.'

'Well then stop sticking your face in it, you walnut! I know it smells fantastic — a blend of lilac oil, honeysuckle pollen and Wolf Flower extract, in case you were wondering — but you're missing this gorgeous view! Go on, take a peek.'

‘And see exactly how many seconds of consciousness I would have before needing to be scraped off the steps of Time Square like burger meat? I think I'll pass, thanks.'

‘Around twenty-two point two seven, bearing in mind your height to weight ratio!' Lucy answered brightly, doggedly overlooking the sarcasm. 'Plenty of time to teleport.’

‘A fine way to lose particles.’

‘So is becoming “burger meat”.’

‘Hmph.’

‘…You’re really not going to look?’

‘I'm really not, no.’

‘Ooka~ay,’ she trilled, lifting her shoulders in a blithesome shrug. ‘But it’s your lo~oss. Remember the whole point of this little excursion was for you to enjoy yourself. See what it’s like to actually, truly fly.’

Jack was forced to concede that she was right. Much as it always pained him to admit it.

Tentatively, he raised his head. 

It was, in fact, gorgeous. A snow moon tilted its light over the city, stripping Central Park to the starch-white of new parchment, while the surrounding skyscrapers bolstered the heavens like spangled pillars.

‘Oh my,’ he muttered. ‘Would y’look at that.’

‘See? Mr. Ye of Little Faith.’

‘Yes, I… I do.’

Once they’d reached her desired altitude, Lucy pitched the handle towards the horizon, effecting a steady cruise. 

Having put the broom in the magical equivalent of autopilot, she straightened her spine, pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger, and announced, in a nasally drawl, ‘Good evening, gents and gents! This is your captain speaking. We have reached our cruising altitude of, uh. Well, high. No need for specifics, right? The seatbelt sign has now been turned off, however please do not feel free to roam about the cabin, seeing as it’s only a couple of inches in diameter. We won’t be serving meals today, nor will we be playing any in-flight entertainment, but we’re certain the views from outside will more than compensate for that!

‘On your left you can see such iconic landmarks as the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Madison Square Gardens. On your right we have Staten Island and good ol’ Lady Lib. Serving looks, as always. Oh, and over there is Long Island, which— well, your average Manhattaner tries not to talk about that, actually. Or acknowledge it in general.’

Jack exhaled abruptly through his nose, which Lucy chose to interpret as an expression of amusement. ‘Very good. Really got that barely-comprehensible, perpetually-congested quality down.’

‘I learnt from the master.’

She waited until they were over the worst of the bumps to loosen her grip fully, craning around to see how her passenger was faring. To her delight, his expression was the same as it was when he played the piano or sketched out some new and complex snowflake design: A soft, almost childlike curiosity, overlain with intense absorption. So enthralled was he, in fact, that he completely missed the tender smile that touched her lips as she watched him. 

After a moment's hesitation, she lowered her hand to where his was still knotted in the fabric of her dress and gave it a small squeeze, her thumb grazing lightly over the backs of his knuckles. Only then did he seem to realise that he was suffocating her, for all intents and purposes — loosening his grip just enough that she was able to draw in a full breath.

‘I knew you’d love it once you got up here,’ she said, with only a hint of smugness.

He managed a shaky laugh, though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was out of enjoyment or sheer relief. ‘“Love” might be a little over-enthused. But it is something, I’ll admit.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘There’s no need to be coy about the altitude, though. I can see it clearly on that lil’ doohickey there. Eight-thousand feet.’ He swallowed down bile, his voice cracking slightly on his next words: ‘Do you usually come up this high?’

‘Actually I, uh… usually go higher.’

‘And how much higher is “higher”, exactly?’

‘Well, I mean, my highest was around sixty-thousand.’

‘Six— sixTY thousand?! As in, six-zero?’

‘Give or take, mm.’

‘Lucy that’s the stratosphere.’

‘It is! Yes. O-oh, don’t worry,’ Lucy was quick to add, when she saw the look of horror on Jack’s face, ‘I was very careful. The moment I felt the saliva on my tongue boiling, I came straight down.’

"Straight" was an understatement. She’d broken the sound-barrier, reaching such intense speeds that the handle of her broom had caught fire. She’d also narrowly missed colliding with a weather balloon, a news helicopter, and been picked up by both Federal Aviation Administration and NASA radar, which had been a witch-with-a-“B” to deal with, in the paperwork department. Thankfully, she had a long-standing contact at the latter — young lad she used to tutor/babysit when she was a teenager; now an aeronautical engineer — so she’d managed to get off with little more than a slap on her wrist.

She decided not to disclose any of these additional details, though. What Jack didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

‘So, you’re… insane, is what you're telling me,’ was his only (somewhat halting) response, revelation and morbid acceptance mingling in his tone. ‘Of course you are, that’s the only logical explanation for this. Great, yes, good to know. I’ve been abducted by a crazy lady and now I’m hanging seven-thousand-feet above sea-level with her.’

‘Eight-thousand feet.’

‘Eight-thousand, even better. Tell me, is-is that a redhead thing? Or just a Lucy Thing? I’m curious.’

‘Jack, I’ve told you, you can’t say stuff like that nowadays. You’ll get yourself cancelled.’

‘No, but really. What on earth could have possessed you to do something so reckless?’

‘Science,’ Lucy answered simply, pulling her goggles down under her chin.

‘Science demands that you take unmitigated risks, does it? Are you sure that isn’t just the voices in your head talking?’

‘Quite sure, yes. Science is punk rock, bud, the empirical stuff especially. It’s giving yourself radiation poisoning in the process of discovering a new element. It’s destroying your retinas from countless hours of observing solar activity using rudimentary telescope technology. It’s hanging 0.9 kilogram weights from your reproductive organs in order to study the phenomenon of referred pain.’

‘Delightful. Who did that?’

‘Anatomists Herbert Woollard and Edward Carmichael. Unfortunately their findings weren’t scientifically valid because no other researcher has been willing to repeat the experiment since.’

‘The mind boggles as to why.’

‘—Then there was Henry Head, who severed the radial nerve in his left arm while conducting research on nerve damage. Allan Blair, who allowed himself to be bitten by a black widow spider as a more direct means of studying the effects of its venom. Giovanni Grassi, who ingested live roundworms in an effort to better understand their lifecycles. Self experimentation is the bedrock of scientific discovery! Me, personally? I wanted to see to what extent I could skirt the Armstrong limit before my charms gave out.’

‘“Charms”?’

'Well, charm, really. Singular.' Lucy tilted her head back, gazing up at the dark vault of sky, speckled with stars. ‘It took years of trial and error to perfect, but I think I’ve had a breakthrough, in recent months. I call it Vitae Lumen. It envelops the wearer in a thin, invisible barrier that functions like a localised version of the Ozone Layer, photolysing UV rays into oxygen so that the person wrapped in it is able to breathe just as easily as if they were on the ground — meaning zero risk of hypoxia. And, as an added bonus it also protects them from the harmful effects of electromagnetic radiation. Photolysis is an exothermic reaction, of course, which means that the wearer maintains a normal internal temperature, despite the low external temperatures. Neat, right?'

Jack gawked at her. 

‘…What?' she said, nonplussed.

‘I'm assuming "N.E.A.T." is code for Newtonian-level Exemplar of Analytical Thinking.’

‘Oh my gosh, no! It definitely isn’t.’ Those same spots of colour reappeared on her cheeks, twice as vibrant as before, and Jack felt an abstruse sort of pride at having managed to make her blush more brilliantly than that painted palooka, back in the Withy. ‘Really. It’s just nature. And me, I guess, tapping into it. Or Her, rather. But it's been a fun little side-project, at the very least!’

Jack let out a short laugh, more out of awe than amusement. 

‘“Side project”,’ he repeated, voice laden with disbelief. ‘Like you’ve taken up scrapbooking or something. You’re an extraordinary woman, you know that? Seriously.’ 

The waggish cant to his mouth softened slightly as Lucy leaned back against him in a silent show of gratitude, his wry expression giving way to something altogether gentler. She felt so warm and delicate in his arms. Not in a fragile way, necessarily (although he did wish she'd eat a bit more regularly, especially while on-call); but something about the way she fit against him, so trusting and unguarded in moments like these, lit up a soft, amorphous instinct in him. Made him want to draw her closer. Keep her there.

He angled his chin up slightly to accommodate her abundance of hair, warmth unfurling inside his chest, like embers stirred to life in a long-cold grate.

The neat and classic do had been thoroughly undone by the wind, by this stage. Now it tumbled freely around her shoulders in soft, chaotic spirals, a few stubborn strands catching in the collar of his jacket. The texture had changed over the years, Jack noticed. Ever since her magical surges began, there’d been a kind of wildness to it. A static energy that resisted taming. It had worried him, initially — another symptom of a condition neither of them yet understood — but as the surges themselves settled down, he'd become increasingly fond of it.

'Hello there,' he said softly, charmed by her sudden reticence.

'Hi.'

'Modest little thing, aren't we? Would you rather I held my tongue in future?’

Lucy's gaze was downcast, feathery lashes fluttering in the breeze. A prismatic shimmer dusted her eyelids — like the iridescence on butterfly wings — catching the light with every blink. The outer corners were lined in a deep indigo, Jack observed, perfectly echoing the cool undertones of her dress. 

‘Yes.' She bobbed her head slightly. 'I think I would. I never really know how to deal with compliments. Especially from you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

‘You’re all catty and sassy most of the time. You don’t exactly hand them out like candy.’

‘Well, they wouldn’t be worth much if I did, would they? Can’t go flooding the market with valuable currency.’ Jack grinned, amused — but also thoughtful. Perhaps he should hand them out a bit more liberally; at least to her. There was something deeply satisfying about watching the unflappable Dr. Miller fluster and glow under so little provocation. It was quickly developing into a new and absorbing sub-hobby, under the umbrella of Bothering Lucy.

'That’s what you do in your spare time, then, is it?’ he asked, moving an errant tress over her shoulder to keep it from blowing in his face. ‘You come up here and practice your homage to Jerry Lewis' Nutty Professor? Very Method. Though the slapstick could use a little work, if you don't mind my saying.'

'Not always. Sometimes I just need to escape the world for a bit. Blow off some steam. Being so high up always makes my problems seem that much smaller, y’know? More in-perspective.’

‘And do you usually bring prospective cadavers up with you? And by that I do of course mean passengers.’

‘Aside from Mel? You’re, um… actually the first.’

A flicker of surprise softened Jack’s expression. ‘I am?’

Lucy nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the horizon. ‘It’s kind of my safe space, I guess. One of them, anyway. There are five, in total.’

The others (which she proceeded to describe to Jack now) included Harvard’s Widener Library, before the attack. The garden at her childhood home in Illinois: A rambling patch of wildflowers and herbs where she’d spent countless solitary afternoons. And, more recently, her laboratory beneath the Willow: A magically-enlarged chamber carved seamlessly into the bedrock. 

Like Melusine’s bedroom and the den above it, the lab boasted Lake-facing windows. Thick, spell-treated partitions that looked directly out onto the murky depths of the lakebed. Pale light filtered through the water at all hours, refracted in dappled greens and blues, giving the whole space an oddly tranquil, dreamlike atmosphere.

Broadly speaking, Lucy disliked being underground, having developed an unfortunate aversion to tight spaces in her adult years -- something not even her closest friends knew about her. But the room was surprisingly expansive/airy, lit by a constellation of lambency orbs in varying hues, floating lazily overhead like oversized fireflies. Lucy had even enchanted the ceiling to mirror the sky outside in real time. Particularly useful for charting celestial patterns on nights when she didn’t have the energy to trek all the way up to the observatory on the top floor.

A chorus of self-maintaining cauldrons simmered on sunken plinths, each bubbling with slow, ongoing experiments. Multicoloured vials lined open shelves, labelled in a tight, neat script, and the air was tinged with the scent of herbs, alcohol, and ozone. Along one wall stood rows of preserved specimens suspended in formalin; curious biological oddities from both the magical and non-magical worlds. Along another hung a series of skeletal displays: A reconstructed bicorn, a juvenile kelpie, the lower half of a merperson.

The wall at the rear of the lab was covered in frames of various sizes, displaying certificates, diplomas, awards, a Master’s Degree in Karterology. Minor satellites orbiting the radiant barycentre of her joint M.M.D.-phD. While undoubtedly proud of her academic achievements, Lucy disliked the idea of hanging them somewhere others might see them. That seemed ludicrously big-headed. But they offered a revivifying reminder of how far she’d come from the young woman who once feared her unassuming character and mortal heritage might preclude her from reaching magi-scientific heights during her lifetime. Not only had she reached those heights, she had forged past them, pioneering groundbreaking treatments that married the precision of non-magical medicine with the transformative potential of healing spellcraft, each success further proof that the barriers she’d once feared were nothing but illusions.

Thus comprised the four physical spaces, such as they were. The fifth space, by contrast, wasn’t a space at all. Not in the four walls and a floor sense, anyway. Rather… four limbs and a (rather overinflated) head, and it was the one Lucy was least inclined to tell present company about. 

‘I’m fairly choosy about who I let in each of them,’ she clarified, glancing up at Jack from beneath her lashes. ‘Especially this one. Though I suppose… technically speaking, you could count…’

She trailed off, looking oddly embarrassed all of a sudden.

Jack tilted his head, watching her with amused curiosity. ‘Go on.’

After hesitating for a moment, Lucy gave a small, almost sheepish smile. ‘Do you remember my ex-boyfriend Ædvik?’

Jack frowned, cudgelling his brains for a face to put to the name. ‘Be-winged gentleman, if I’m not mistaken? Shy? Kind of nerdy-looking? Laughed like a tea kettle?’

‘He did not laugh like a tea kettle, thank you. But yes. That’s the guy. Fellow Dark Magical Injury specialist, moved to the continent from Sri Lanka. Though he ended up switching to paediatrics further down the line, which is how I got so familiar with the department. We were seeing each other throughout the final semester of grad school, and then into my first couple of years at Gen.’

‘Ah yes,’ Jack said, the memory slotting into place now. ‘I recall you being fairly serious, for a time. You brought him to the Fat Man's Christmas shindig one year.’

‘That’s right, I did.’

Jack could picture it now: Himself, sauntering from corner to corner with a cocktail in hand, mingling, as he was wont to do; exchanging pleasantries with friends, colleagues and strangers alike. The usual shuffle of overlong introductions and pithy anecdotes. And then, through the blur of chatter and enchanted snowflakes, he’d caught sight of Lucy and her new beau — a short, rather spindle-shanked young man with jade-green eyes; tawny feathers for hair — cloistered beneath the mistletoe. 

Lucy had risen up on her tiptoes to kiss the lad’s cheek, whispering something in his ear that turned him an impressive shade of magenta. After a beat, “Ædvik”(?) (whom Jack guessed to be in his early to mid thirties, or the magical equivalent) had seemed to collect himself, leaning down to murmur something back. The result had been a surprising one: Lucy giggling in a way that struck Jack as… distinctly un-Lucy-like. Unrestrained, girlish, even a bit bashful.

He remembered smiling at the sight. It had been sweet. Strange, even, to see his prim and practical friend behaving in such a manner.

Nowadays, the memory still made him smile, but only faintly. It also brought with it that same low, gnawing sensation. The one he couldn’t quite name.

Perhaps it was just hunger, Jack hypothesised. He’d barely touched the mid-afternoon lunch he'd scraped together for himself. Too busy fussing over his appearance after a gruelling twelve-hour shift. Between taming his hair, steaming his shirt twice, and debating the merits of two near-identical jackets, he’d scarcely had time to glance at the sandwich, let alone eat it. Though perhaps what little he had managed to get down was now considering an early exit, after that less-than-steady takeoff?

In any case, it occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that this was a part of Lucy's life he knew relatively little about. Her preferences, what sort of people she gravitated towards, romantically-speaking. From what he’d seen/heard, there was a definite trend. Brilliant minds, shining resumes, a certain mutual intensity. Fellow medics. Thinkers. Nerds.

‘Our college campus had a flying pitch, as most tend to nowadays,’ she ploughed on, drawing Jack back to the present. She was speaking with significant use of her hands, he noticed (not without disconcertment. He couldn't help but wish that she’d keep at least one on the broom handle). ‘And there was this one night, when…’ 

Her lower lip snagged between her teeth, drawing attention to its petal-like softness. 

‘—We’d just come out of an evening class, for context. Numerometrics and arithmurgical diagnostics, which we were both taking as an elective—’

‘Numeromet-what?’ Jack interrupted, with an upraised hand.

‘Numerometrics and arithmurgical diagnostics. Deriving magical constants from patient biodata, quantifying the degenerative pull of dark enchantments, forecasting illness progression using magical time-series figures, that sort of thing.’

‘I see. So kid stuff, basically. Got it.’

‘Anyway, the sky was unusually clear for that time of year, and I wanted to get in a bit of practice before the end-of-term flight assessments. The pitch was always deserted on Fridays — everyone else was off partying in one of the on-campus bars — so we were completely alone up there. Bear this in mind going forwards, okay?’

Jack gave a full-bodied chuckle. ‘Of course you were spending your Friday night at a math class.’

'Oh shush,' Lucy pursed her lips to keep from smirking, elbowing him gently in the ribcage. ‘Some of us find integrating spell matrices far more exciting than sticky dance floors and endless games of pool. But that’s besides the point. Æd said he wanted to come up with me, given how little we’d seen each other that week (exams, and such) so we turned it into a date of sorts, and…’

‘And?’

‘This may be a little TMI, sorry.’

‘My, I’ll be poised to clutch my pearls, in that case. We all know what a paragon of propriety I am, after all.’

‘You won’t laugh at me?’ She raised entreating brows at him. ‘Or judge me too harshly?’

‘Let's find out.’

‘I’m telling you this very much in confidence, Jack.’

‘And how deeply unwise of you. Continue.’

She regarded him with soft censure, but elected not to dignify the quip with a response, on this occasion. ‘We were flying around for a good hour or so — chatting, listening to our favourite dungeon synth tunes. It was a warm night, the stars were out, romantic vibes off the charts. One thing lead to another and we ended up getting slightly… carried away…’

Having anticipated the direction of this tale from the outset, Jack couldn’t help the lopsided grin that curved across his face.

‘Why, Dr. Miller,’ he said, tone thick with mock-scandalisation. ‘Out in the open? On a broomstick, no less? The sin of it all, I find myself quite shaken up.’

‘I know.’ She covered her face in shame — deaf, apparently, to the fondly teasing note in his voice. ‘Oh God, it was undoubtedly the worst idea anyone’s ever had. And that includes Project Pluto. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘Does that mean you’re a member of the Mile High Club now?’ Jack mused, with a finger to his lips.

‘Don’t.’

‘Certainly a feat of gymnastic prowess, if nothing else. I cannot even begin to imagine how that would work, mechanics-wise—’

‘It didn’t! That’s the point. Thank goodness he was part-garuda or he probably would’ve ended up qualifying for a Darwin Award.’

Jack did laugh then. Loudly. Gripping Lucy’s waist to steady himself.

‘You dropped the poor fella?!’ he wheezed.

‘Technically-speaking, gravity dropped him,’ she muttered into her hands, only half-defensive. ‘I just… didn’t prevent it in time. He ended up falling off mid— w-well, mid. He was so embarrassed about it too, bless him. Flew away before I could even say sorry.’

‘Is that why things went the way of the Hindenburg between you two?’

She shook her head again, exhaling wistfully. ‘No. No, we just… we were on different pages in the relationship, I guess you could say. It was all very amicable in the end, and we stayed good friends.’

But the truth, of course, was a little more complicated than that.

Lucy had been the one to break things off. Ædvik, sweet and passionate and hopelessly smitten as he was, had been ready to move forward at a pace she simply couldn’t match. He’d started talking about the future with a kind of blithe conviction — houses they could buy, rings he’d been eyeing, even potential baby names he’d floated one lazy Sunday morning. He’d wanted roots. Stability. A quiet, shared life wrapped around each other like ivy.

And Lucy… hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Her career had just begun to bloom into something real, something meaningful. Research opportunities were opening up, she was starting to present at conferences, and there was talk of a rotation abroad. She loved the work. Loved the challenge of it, the speed and stretch of thinking required, the exhilaration of knowing she was standing on the edge of what magic and medicine could achieve together. Most of all, she loved helping people. Being there for them at their most vulnerable. There hadn’t been space in her life for white picket fences or long-term promises. Not then.

And, if she was being brutally honest with herself — an honesty that still came with the faintest sting — there had also been someone else. Someone whose presence had quietly started to take up more and more room in her thoughts. The guilt of feeling that shift, of knowing she was slipping away from one person while her heart tilted unaccountably towards another (an individual who, quite frankly, she’d long felt drawn to), had been the final nudge she needed to let go.

The fact that the person in question showed no signs of returning those feelings was neither here nor there. This wasn’t about reciprocation, it was about decency. Honour. In the end, it was her own sense of morality (paired with a keen, unflinching desire to pursue the career she’d worked so hard to build) that had ultimately guided her actions. She regretted it only insofar as hurting Ædvik’s feelings. From every other perspective it had been the right decision. The ethical decision.

Since then, Lucy had entertained a single, protracted dalliance with a fellow curse therapy specialist, entered into with the mutual understanding that it would be just that: Casual, uncomplicated. A bit of stress relief between shifts. For someone who valued physical intimacy, it had been perfectly enjoyable… but ultimately hollow. Unfulfilling in any lasting way. A means of clearing her head without disrupting the Golden Rule by which she lived her life. That her work, and her patients, came first. 

‘And is that one of the “problems” you come up here to contemplate?’ Jack’s voice cut through her reverie, making her startle just slightly. She felt his hand tighten instinctively at her waist, keeping her steady. ‘Your relationship woes?’

‘Sorry?’

'You said coming up here makes your problems feel smaller,' he expanded, running her through with those sharp blue eyes of his. 

‘Did I say that?’

‘You did. I may be old, Miller, but I’m not deaf. Yet, anyway.’

‘Oh.’ The broom bobbed slightly as Lucy shifted her weight. ‘Right, yeah.’

‘Would you say that’s a regular occurrence?'

The question lingered, uncomfortably sincere. 

Lucy’s smile faltered a little, before she forced it back into place, brushing off the shift in conversation with an elegant toss of her hair. 'Pfffshno. No, definitely not.'

‘Are you sure? That was about as convincing as a Nixon interview. All you're missing is the sweaty upper lip.’

‘Of course I'm sure! It’s me, after all, I’m not really one to ruminate on things. I just— …s-sometimes I feel a little tired, I guess. Or overworked or… well, you know how it is, Jack. What with your busy schedule. “Full steam ahead mode”, as you put it earlier. Speaking of,' she hastened on, directing his gaze across the rooftops, 'do you, uhm. Do you think you could carry out your “Snow Business” from up here?'

Opting to put a proverbial pin in the matter, for the time being, Jack followed her gesture — to the sprawling metropolis beyond, laid out before them like a cake waiting to be iced.

‘Actually,' he said, rubbing his unusually pointed chin between his thumb and forefinger, 'that’s not a bad idea.' 

He made a subtle motion with his hand, long, dexterous fingers splayed wide. A chill crept down his arm, and moments later, delicate flakes began to materialise, drifting from his fingertips like threads of spider silk. 

Within minutes the city was under his spell. Snow gathering on rooftops, clinging to the spires of buildings, frosting the ironwork of old fire escapes and turning them into glistening sculptures.

For the next hour or so, he and Lucy glided through the crisp night air, Lucy steering them with practiced ease. The street lamps below transformed into halos of light, their glass tops collecting fine layers of frost that twinkled like diamonds. Windowpanes of high-rises shivered under Jack’s touch, the frost creeping across them in fine, filigree patterns.

'Showoff,' Lucy quipped, her eyes twinkling with admiration.

Jack’s bark of mirth was lost in the rush of wind. 'You love it.’

Yes. Unfortunately, she did.

They swooped low over the Hudson, the water reflecting their descent in a broad, undulating canvas. Lucy leaned forward slightly, urging the broom into a graceful arc that skimmed the river’s surface. Belting out errant refrains of Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me”, Jack reached forth, his fingers brushing the water, and with a pulse of energy, it hardened under his touch. Ice spread out in crystalline veins, crackling into a thin sheet that caught the city lights like a mirror.

Lucy let out a whoop, the sound a bright contrast to the dark, still air, and Jack felt something loosen in his chest.

For all his skepticism, she’d been right. As she so often was. 

This was fun. 

Though whether it was the ride itself he was enjoying, or simply seeing her so happy, he couldn’t be sure.

Chapter Text

Once acclimatised to life in the open sky, Jack had foolishly given his pilot dispensation to “stretch [her] legs”, as it were.

He quickly came to learn, in the wake of this oversight decision, that Lucy Miller on a Broom and Lucy Miller on the Ground were two entirely different entities.

Lucy Miller on the Ground, while perhaps prone to the odd bout of rashness on occasion (especially when it came to her own well-being), was, at the very least, of sound mind. She was rational, measured, cautious to a fault. Lovably neurotic at times. The kind of person who triple and quadruple-checked the expiry dates on her potions, carried a compact first-aid kit in every bag she owned, just in case, and knew all of her friends’ allergies by rote. Given her profession, she was deeply, painfully, mindful of safety. So much so that she often ran herself ragged pre-emptively mapping out hazard scenarios before anyone else had even registered the potential for danger. Slippery pavements, spell backfire risks, improperly-designed staircases; if there was a worst-case outcome to imagine, Lucy had already imagined it. Twice. And written a contingency plan.

That was the Lucy Miller Jack had known, and held a great deal of esteem for, for the better part of a decade now (two decades, technically, but he’d only gotten to know her properly in the latter one).

Lucy Miller on a Broom, on the other hand…? 

‘Evel Knievel reincarnate! That’s what you are! Evel Knievel reincarnate. I may as well be Krystal-frickin'-Kennedy!’

‘You certainly have her legs.’

‘Lucy!’

It was a compliment—’

‘—You just flew through a building! Through it! Not over or around, no, no — through.’ 

‘I— took a shortcut, is all. No biggie.’

Jack glanced back at the “shortcut” in question. A multi-story high-rise, mid-renovation, its innards laid bare to the night air. Lucy had prestidigitated the glass from one of the middle floors and flown clean through to the other side, threading the needle between exposed beams and swinging cables like it was a goddamn obstacle course. Sawdust still clung to Jack’s sleeves, souvenirs from the great, eye-watering billows she’d kicked up in her wake.

Had it been thrilling and altogether deeply impressive? Regrettably, yes.

Had it made Jack feel things that required filing away for further analysis? Almost certainly.

Did he kind of want to do it again? ...Maybe.

Had it also been terrifying...?

The fact Jack's trousers didn’t end up resembling an aerial map of Dresden was, in his opinion, irrefutable proof of divine intervention. Especially when the only warning he’d been afforded was a breezy, “Mind your noggin!”, followed by wild, unrepentant giggling.

Yet, what unsettled him most wasn’t the close brush with property damage, or the spectre of decapitation-by-drywall. It wasn’t the possibility of his own untimely demise.

Rather, it was hers.

Somewhere mid-flight — heart in his throat, adrenaline thrumming — Jack had found himself curling forward, one hand shooting up instinctively. Not to protect his award-winning smile or beautiful baby blues, but to shield the top of Lucy’s head. To make sure she cleared the gap unscathed.

‘Who are you and what’ve you done with the Lucy Miller who was twittering in my ear about “health and safety” not seventy minutes ago, huh?’ he demanded, lowering his arm and tucking it snugly around her waist once more, as though to anchor her in place before she could attempt any further acts of airborne lunacy.

‘She’s still here, we were never in any danger. I knew exactly what I was doing.’

‘Did you?!’

‘Jack, hun, we’ve been over this. Do you really think I’d risk you getting hurt? I am a medic after all, I took the Hippocratic Oath. Every single move was precisely calculated, I promise. And I kept to my word! No barrel rolls or Immelmanns, etcetera.'

‘Wu-well, regardless…!’

‘…Regardless what?’ Lucy prompted, when he didn’t continue.

‘Just— regardless. Stop! Period! End of sentence!’ 

She chortled again then, charmed by his theatrical nature, and the sound pealed like bells on the winter wind. ‘Do you need to take a breather? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? That you’d like to stop for a minute? Because it’s totally fine if you do, I’m not going to judge.’

Truth be told, she was probably overdue for a little “breather" herself. Lovely though this impromptu aeronautic adventure had been, Lucy was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her attention on the sky with all four of Jack’s limbs now banded around her person, in the manner of an unusually large, unusually cold, koala bear. Albeit one that could swear fluently in at least five languages. She had to admit, it was actually rather impressive just how much strength he managed to pack into those deceptively spindly legs of his.

‘Ye— yes, I think I would,’ he answered, with a purposive nod. ‘I woul— right now, in fact. And I’d like a drink, too. Maybe several.’

‘No problemo, mi amigo. I know a great spot, actually. Hang on.’

After nabbing a couple of hotdogs from a kiosk on Vanderbilt Avenue (Lucy’d hovered overtop and summoned them when the vendor’s back had been turned, spelling the money right into the register) they made their way up to the top of the Empire State Building. The very top, that is. The so-named "Secret 103rd Floor Balcony", just below where the antennae started. As opposed to the more frequently used observation deck.

Somewhat keen to be back on solid ground, Jack’s dismount had been… a little lacking in the grace department, even he would admit. More of a splat, really, and a spectacular one at that.

‘The very nerve. Laughing at me.’ He cast Lucy a withering glare from where he was sprawled dramatically across the concrete — clearly milking the moment for comedic effect. ‘Here I lie, legs akimbo like the village harlot—’

That only made her laugh harder.

‘—and instead of helping me up or offering some sympathy you laugh.’

‘I-I swear your limbs are made of rubber, the way they contort themselves sometimes,’ she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Ugh, oh my God. I should really learn to wear waterproof mascara around you, shouldn't I? Do I look like a racoon right now?'

'Do you want the kind answer or the honest answer?'

'I'll take that as a "yes". Come on, Mister Fantastic, let’s get you back up again, it's dirty down there.’ 

Taking her proffered hand, Jack let himself be hauled to his feet, then set about smoothing down his suit with meticulous care — a vain attempt to restore some semblance of dignity. 

‘There you go,’ she said, voice pitched a little higher than usual, ‘spic and spiffy again, as per! All good? Any injuries I should know about?’

Before he turned back to face her, Jack pressed a discreet hand to his jacket pocket, reassuring himself that its contents were still there. Intact, unshattered, unjostled by neither death-defying aerial stunt nor unceremonious tumble.

‘Aside from extensive bruising to my "external fixtures", you mean? Which I believe I'm being very brave about, all things considered. Just a little mortally wounded pride, nothing major,’ he answered, relieved.

‘Awh, bud, a wobbly dismount is nothing to be embarrassed about. Happened to me, too, my first time.’

‘It did?’

‘Have literally never eaten S-H-I-Z harder than in that moment, yeah. And I have the scars on my butt to prove it. One of them’s shaped like the Czech Republic. Except upside-down.’

‘How… whimsical?’

‘Mm-hm!’

‘Well, that makes me feel better, I suppose. If only in spirit,’ Jack muttered, glancing around with a raised eyebrow. An elegy of low, pitiful groans accompanied his journey to the building's edge, each shift of his weight seeming to draw a new note from the repertoire; half wince, half whine, all theatrically miserable. His gait had taken on a distinctly bow-legged quality, too, as though he’d just dismounted a two-day cattle drive rather than a broomstick.

‘Okay, the noises are uncalled for,’ Lucy commented over her shoulder, tipping her gaze heavenward in long-suffering appeal. She was down on one knee now, deft fingers working at the straps around her calves. ‘And frankly a little obscene.’

‘On the contrary, I think they’re highly warranted,’ Jack countered, straightening enough to peer over the ledge. ‘This is your “spot,” is it?’

‘Yep. “The nearest thing to heaven we have in New York”, to quote An Affair to Remember. Only a select few people have ever been up this far. Mostly celebs and politicians. In fact, you’re standing in the exact same place Taylor Swift was, several days back.’

‘My, what an honour. …For her, that is.'

‘Humble as always.’ She propped her broomstick against the railing, reaching up to remove her eyewear. ‘Also, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m, like, ninety-percent sure the antenna was a port for airships at one point? I definitely remember someone telling me that, awhile back.’

‘That person was me and yes it was. Although it only docked a single ship, that I recall. Fairly clumsily, too, thanks to a prevailing northwesterly courtesy of yours truly.’

‘You menace.’

‘I try.’

‘Good Fact, though! I’ll try to hold onto it this time. But I digress—’ Lucy reached behind a loose panel and pulled it free, revealing a small stash of bottles nestled in the hidden compartment. 'This is what I really wanted to show you. I believe monsieur requested a drink?'

'Well, well, we-hell. What have we here? A little Volsteadian hidey-hole, how naughty.’

'I’ve got pretty much everything. Beer, spirits. Even wine,' she announced proudly. 'Technically some of it’s Mel’s. Sometimes I’m able to coax her up here for a witchy picnic. A witchnic, if you will. But I’m sure she won’t mind.'

'Wanna bet? That slippery friend of yours evokes Gollum and the Ring when it comes to her booze.' 

'Well, maybe we just won’t tell her, in that case. And I’ll replace what’s missing tomorrow.'

As he fumbled to undo the strap under his chin, Jack cast a discerning eye over the cache, wondering how it had managed to go undetected by the technicians who maintained this area of the building for so long.

His mane of hair — more static-y than usual, in its natural state — sprung free with such abandon, as the helmet was removed in earnest, that Lucy (turning away for a moment to hide her amusement) half expected it to leap from his head and scurry off into the night.

'This is quite the repository you’ve got here, doc,' he remarked, raking a placating hand through the chaos, to little effect. 'What’ll you be having?'

‘Beer,’ Lucy answered, without hesitation, causing him to wrinkle his nose in distaste. ‘What? What's with the face?’

‘Peasant water, you mean. I've never understood the appeal.’

‘Ohh, of course. How remiss of me to think that Sire might lower himself to the standards of The Great Unwashed, when he’s been blessed with such superior tastes.’ She affected an uppity English accent not dissimilar to Melusine’s; all clipped vowels and theatrical inflection, the kind of voice one might expect from a duchess ordering afternoon tea. ‘Mea culpa.’

‘Well, now, that just makes me sound like a snob.’

‘No, Jack. You make you sound like a snob. Which is what you are. Open brackets, affectionate, close brackets.’

‘Am not.’ Jack pouted childishly.

‘Are so.’

‘Am not,’ he huffed, then straightened with sudden purpose. ‘Look, I’ll prove it to you.’

Before Lucy could stop him, he snatched the freshly opened can of Miller Genuine Draft from her hand and took a sizeable gulp.

His expression twisted almost imperceptibly at first… then morphed, with slow inevitability, into something akin to horrified betrayal. As if he’d just imbibed a mouthful of troll urine that had been filtered through a gym sock.

Lucy bit down hard on her knuckle to keep from snorting, her shoulders trembling with the effort.

‘Good, is it?’ she asked sweetly.

Jack, never one to lose face, gave a strained nod. 

‘Delicious,’ he rasped, putting a fist to his lips to stifle something that sounded like a gag, a hiccup and a belch all rolled into one. ‘P-Positively artisanal, in fact. You see? Lady Snootypants. I can be “of the people”. Celebrities: They’re just like you.’

‘I don’t usually look like I’m about to barf after the first sip, personally, but okay.’

‘Piffle, nonsense. This is what I look like when I’m… savouring the flavour of something.'

Lucy put her hands on her hips. ‘Savouring.'

'Each time it repeats it's like a wh-whole new experience.'

‘Uh-huh. Well, I guess you've shown me, in that case. What a fool I feel.'

‘Yes, as you should. But, gracious as I am, I shan’t rub it in. Now, be a dear and pass me the vino, por favor? I need something to wash away the taste of burning tyres.’

Before they settled into their picnic, Lucy insisted on dousing both of their hands in generous squirts of Purell sanitising lotion. With a practiced air, she followed this up by casting one of her bespoke cleansing spells. A flick of her wand, a softly spoken incantation, and a faint shimmer of blue light that left their skin tingling with magical sterility. 

Jack thought these provisions a little excessive, truth be told, but he opted (wisely) not to say so.

Lucy couldn’t help but smile to herself each time her companion remarked on how “surprisingly palatable” the hotdogs were, given their dubious origins. It wasn’t until he was down to his final two bites — waxing lyrical about the “exemplary bun-to-meat ratio” — that she finally divulged the truth: The sausages were made from a plant-based meat substitute. The result, of course, being an immediate (and entirely theatrical) fit of paroxysm, with Jack clutching his chest in mock outrage and declaring that, having failed to kill him on “that bristled deathtrap of [hers],” she was now attempting to finish the job with “poison".

(‘I’m trying to preserve your cardiac function, is what I’m doing. They’re much better for the cholesterol. And for the environment, for that matter.’

'Synthetic bushwa, no more appetising than cardboard. I shan't be accepting food off you again in a hurry, I’ll tell y’that much.’)

He still polished off the rest, though, Lucy noted with satisfaction. And the last vestiges of hers, when she declared herself full.

They'd just launched into a debate over which of Carrie Bradshaw’s outfits most powerfully evoked, in Jack’s words, “the visceral urge to scoop one’s eyes out with a rusty spoon” — munching all the while on a dessert of peppermint mice and candied violets, and passing the wine between them now that Lucy’d finished her Draft — when the faint creak of a door hinge shattered the stillness. 

Both stilled, their eyes snapping towards the source of the sound. 

The balcony door, locked and rusted from decades of elemental buffeting, now stood ajar, and two voices drifted out, muffled by the howling wind.

A wide-eyed glance passed between Jack and Lucy. They were invisible under the latter’s disillusionment charm, of course, but the spell wouldn’t prevent someone from physically stumbling into them. 

After covering up the alcove where the drinks were kept, Lucy grabbed her broomstick in one hand and seized Jack’s wrist with the other.

‘Over here,' she whispered, tugging him towards a small recess in the balcony’s architecture. They slipped into the narrow space, squeezing their bodies against the cold metal siding just as two security personnel stepped out into the cold. 

‘…dragged me all the way up here because you saw a pigeon on the monitor again,’ one of them was saying, in a thick, Italian-Queens brogue.

‘This isn’t like that,’ his companion shot back, sharper, faster-paced; an old-school Manhattan cadence that screamed I still know what a Delaney card is. ‘I’m telling you, there was something there.’

‘What is it with you and pulling me into confined spaces, hmm?' Jack murmured into Lucy’s ear, his breath preternaturally cool against the delicate planes of her neck.

Her lips quirked upwards, but she didn’t reply. She was too busy concentrating on not shivering. Less from the cold, than the sudden awareness of his closeness. The narrowness of the alcove pressed in around them, concrete and shadow hemming them in on all sides. And though they were still technically outside, the confined space made her pulse quicken. She felt a faint prickle at the back of her neck, an echo of old anxieties, but Jack’s presence behind her was grounding. Solid and steady. She was grateful for it, even if it meant having to be extra mindful of her physiological reactions to him.

"Svelte" though he was, the sprite still had to hunch his shoulders slightly in order to fit — his broader, more angular torso a marked contrast to Lucy’s fine-boned, almost birdlike frame; all gentle curves and narrow edges. The pair of them were pressed together in such a way that she could feel every expansion of his ribcage, the musky scent of his aftershave crawling up the back of her nose. It smelled thrice as expensive as the Elizabeth Arden she occasionally daubed into the well of her collarbones, and made her picture things like cigar lounges and billiards rooms; Parisian haberdasheries. Spacial exemplifications of the male ego. 

Yet, beneath it — just barely discernible — was that sharp, fresh, ozonic smell she loved so much. The one that typically heralds snowfall. The one that always made her think of snow days, when she was a child: Building snowmen with Charlie, going tobogganing with her school friends. Sipping hot chocolate by the fire with her parents.

It was comforting. Familiar. And so very him.

The guards moved closer, their boots clanging against the metal flooring. One of them, a rotund man with a flashlight in hand, shifted his weight in such a way that his trousers slipped down slightly, revealing the very top of his backside. 

Jack snorted softly at the sight.

'What?' Lucy said, peering up at him curiously.

'Nothing,' he whispered back, a foxlike grin curving across his face. With a wave of his hand, a compact snowball was summoned into existence. It hovered in his palm for a moment, glittering faintly in the moonlight, before he cocked his arm, aiming squarely at the guard’s exposed target.

Eyes widening in alarm, Lucy grabbed his wrist. ‘Excuse you. What do you think you’re doing?' 

'Oh, come on, it’s practically calling out to me.'

She followed his line of vision, and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. 'Jack!'

‘So you agree then.'

'Oh, my God, no. That's so mea-- Jack, don’tyoudare-- !' 

The two of them engaged in a silent tussle, Lucy trying to wrest the snowball away while Jack fought to keep his aim. They jostled each other in the tight space, their shoulders bumping and muffled laughter threatening to give them away. Finally, in one swift motion, Jack yanked his arm free just enough to throw the snowball.

But Lucy’s hand darted out, grabbing his wrist mid-toss, and the snowball veered off course. Instead of hitting the guard’s backside, as intended, it smacked him square in the back of the head, exploding into a puff of icy flakes.

The guard froze, straightening up and patting the back of his head in confusion.

'Hey!' he barked, turning to his partner. 'What the hell was that?'

The latter, clueless, raised his hands in defence. 'I didn’t do anything!'

'Don’t lie to me, Tone. You’re always pullin’ this crap.'

Before the second guard could respond, the first had bent down and scooped up some snow that had collected in a corner of the balcony. He lobbed it at his partner, colliding with his chest.

'Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?' The second guard smirked, bending down to arm himself. Within moments, the two were locked in a full-on snowball fight, their shouts and laughter echoing in the crisp night air.

‘Tsk. Now look what you’ve done,’ Jack teased, catching Lucy’s forearms as she went to give him a playful, half-hearted shove. ‘Honestly, woman, can’t take you anywhere without you causing a ruckus. It’s a good thing I’m here to keep you in line, eh? ...What d’you have to say for yourself?’ 

But Lucy had devolved into a fit of silent giggles, her legs giving out a little beneath her as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his clavicle in surrender. Jack let out a resonant chuckle of his own as he felt the warmth of her laughter radiating through his shirt, and shifted forward slightly to keep her upright. 

Rich and low at first, that chuckle quickly unravelled into undignified wheezing as Lucy's giggles grew increasingly contagious. The kind of laughter that left his ribs aching and his eyes pricked with tears. Her shoulders trembled against him, her breath hitching in small, hiccuping bursts, and he was powerless to resist.

'Stop, my tummy hurts,' she tried weakly, even as his forehead brushed her temple, his nose dipping into the crown of her hair. One hand found the small of her back instinctively, grounding her as they swayed in place like drunks on a storm-tossed ship. 

Finally, he managed to gather himself, drawing in a long breath through his nose and exhaling it in a gentle puff. He wiped under one eye with a curled knuckle and looked down at her, his voice warm and still tinged with amusement.

'Well now,' he said, voice a little gruffer than usual, 'clearly someone isn’t quite as capable of holding her liquor as she’d have me believe. Feeling a mite giddy, are we?' He gave her a gentle squeeze.

Lucy groaned faintly, still half-tucked against him, and muttered something unintelligible into his collar. He grinned. 'What was that?'

'I said,' she mumbled, lifting her head enough that he could see how smudged her eye makeup was, 'You're impossible. It's like taking care of a child.’

‘Thank you.’

‘An overgrown, unruly, sarcastic child—’

‘I possess a certain boyish whimsy, is what I’m hearing. Oh, and you’re welcome for the distraction, by the way,’ he went on, winking at her in a way made her heart skip several beats. ‘If you hadn’t noticed, we’re no longer in danger of being discovered. Thanks to a-moi.’

Barely had Lucy opened her mouth to throw back some sweetly-dry remark, loath as always to let him have the final word, when she suddenly became aware of the position they were in.

Somewhere in their skirmish, the space between them had shrunk to nothing. Jack was slumped forward, pinning one arm above her head, his body half-caging her against the wall. The cool press of his chest against hers was undeniable, even through their layers of clothing. And never, Lucy thought, had the several inches of height between them (which he took frequent pleasure in lording over her, much to her consternation), felt more pronounced. Or more distracting.

The world outside their hiding place faded for a moment. The guards’ laughter, the muffled impact of snowballs meeting their marks — all of it growing distant. Lucy could focus on nothing but the person in front of her: Sweaty and winded from their scuffle, grinning like a devil with his dimples deep-set and his blue eyes twinkling, his mousey hair in uncharacteristic disarray. He was always so meticulously put-together, even down to the smallest fractal, it was rare (and charming) to see him like this. 

Determined to hide the naked vulnerability writ large across her features, she wrenched her gaze away from his, directing it instead at his loafer-clad feet.

Jack — deviating from his usual perspicacity for a moment — mistakenly attributed this sudden shift in character to discomfort. The playful glint in his eyes flickered, replaced by something bordering on contrition, and his grip on her wrists loosened a fraction. Before he had time to move away in earnest or issue some form of apology, however, Lucy caught him off-guard by slipping one knee between his legs and nudging his foot off balance with the other, at the same time pushing her fingers into a spot just above his waist, right beneath his ribcage.

‘H’ah— !’ he yelped, jerking sideways with a sharp, undignified laugh that suggested she’d hit her mark exactly. She used the momentum to spin them neatly, leveraging his instability to reverse their positions. 

A second later Jack found himself with his back against the wall, her forearm braced lightly across his chest, pressing him in place. She was grinning now; flushed and triumphant. 

‘Tsk. Sloppy, so sloppy,’ she chided playfully, puffing a lock of hair out of her face. ‘One of the first things they teach you in jiu-jitsu is to never leave your lower bits exposed.’

Jack blinked down at her, still slightly winded, but clearly impressed. ‘Did you just… fight dirty?’

‘Yes,’ she replied cheerily. ‘Yes, I did. Though not as dirty as I could have, admittedly. A balding hex felt like a step too far.’

The guards were now utterly absorbed in their snowy skirmish, oblivious to the invisible pair roughhousing in the shadows. After a good five minutes or so the fight wound down, the men's shouts turning into breathless laughter as they brushed snow off their jackets. The rotund one leaned against the railing, panting slightly, while his partner bent down to shake snow out of his boots.

'Alright, alright,' the former said, waving a hand. 'I think we’ve had enough fun for one night. Let’s head back in before the boss catches us slackin’ off.'

The second guard grunted in agreement, straightening up and holstering his flashlight. 'Yeah, you’re probably right. Besides,' he gestured vaguely toward the door, ‘I gotta factor in time to pick up a Valentine’s gift for the missus on the way home.'

‘Seriously? You forgot? Again?'

'Hey, ‘least I remembered before the Big Day, this time. Last year it wasn’t ’til the seventeenth that it finally hit me! Couldn’t work out why she was bein’ such a sourpuss.’

'She'll have your pishadeel, man.’ The first guard snorted. ‘You know that, right? This is the sixth year in a row now.’

‘In that case, I hope she mounts it over the fireplace,’ muttered Jack, making Lucy giggle-snort into her hands.

‘Dite should give him a-- ...what does Mel call it again?' she asked, in a low whisper. 'The British term for telling someone off?' 

'A bollocking, I believe.'

'A bollocking, right.'

‘Classy bunch, those Brits. And she may well do.’

‘--If she found out, yeah,’ second guard’s response overlapped with Lucy’s. Though of course, he was referring to his wife, rather than the Goddess of Pleasure. ‘Which she's not gonna. Capeesh?’

‘Eh. I’ll think about it.’

‘Tony—’

‘Hey, with this loose set o’ lips, y’never know what might come out.’

Continuing their lighthearted banter, the pair made their way back toward the exit, the conversation fading as they disappeared inside. The heavy door clanged shut behind them, leaving the balcony silent once more.

Jack and Lucy remained still for a few moments longer, listening to make sure the coast was clear. Finally, Lucy exhaled softly and wriggled out from beneath Jack, twisting her torso just enough to slide her hips through the narrow gap.

'Looks like they’re gone.'

'Good thing, too.’ Jack followed, stretching his arms dramatically. 'I was starting to think we’d have to spend the night out here.'

'Slumber party.'

'Hm, yes.'

'We've already eaten a bunch of candy and talked about boys. Really it's the next logical step. Speaking of, can you believe it's Valentine's Day tomorrow already? Someone should tell Father Time to take a vacation.'

'Snuck up on us, didn't it?’ Jack mused aloud, pushing the hem of his jacket over his hip so that he could access his trouser pocket. With his other hand, he gave the bridge of his nose a thoughtful scratch, moving to stand beside Lucy at the railing. ‘Any Big Plans? I find it hard to believe the esteemed Dr. Miller isn’t paying addresses, in some form or another. Racking up leaden hearts, and so forth.’

‘"Leaden hearts"?’

‘That’s what I said.’ When Lucy only stared at him blankly, Jack elaborated: ‘You know…? Courtship tokens. Crooked coins. Girdle ornaments. Posey rings. A nosegay wound with a romantic verse. Something small and of significant value to the receiver, in other words.’

Lucy raised a hand to her mouth, charmed beyond the capacity for speech.

It was easy to forget sometimes just how old her friend was, such was the ease and dexterity with which he flounced about. That he wasn’t just an unusually spry little man in his mid-40s. If Lucy’s calculations were correct, and they usually were, then that meant mammoths still roamed the earth when he was born. The pyramids were still under construction. Mesopotamia still thrived, its scholars chiseling cuneiform into clay, long before empires had risen and fallen on its gravesite.

When one considered all of that, it was no wonder he was a little… behind the times, when it came to modern dating customs. Human ones, that was, she hadn’t the faintest idea what ancient magibean courtship looked like.

Catching the way she was looking at him, Jack frowned. 

‘What?’ he said. ‘What is it?’

Lucy bit her lip, warmth buzzing pleasantly at her core, courtesy of the wine in her system. ‘You’re just, you’re so…’

‘So…?’

Cute. You’re so cute. And sweet and charming and silly and funny and I just want to wrap my arms around you and squeeze you until that big, pompous head of yours pops right off.

She breathed out, shaking her head. ‘You’re so quaint sometimes, Jack. And I mean that in an entirely complimentary, non-patronising way, I swear,’ she hastened to clarify, when his frown deepened. The alcohol was loosening her tongue, it seemed, but it was too late to stop now. ‘You kind of remind me of my grandpa, actually.’

Jack looked rather affronted. ‘What? Old and wrinkly?’

‘Exactly.’

When it was clear he’d missed the sarcasm entirely, Lucy let out a short, incredulous snort and shook her head. ‘I don’t mean you as a person, you muppet, just some of the stuff you say.’

‘That being?’ 

‘About, you know, the way the world used to be -- way back when. Makes me jealous, honestly. I’d give my life to’ve been able to see as much of history as you have.’

The confusion in Jack's expression wasn't dissipating, so, changing course, Lucy went on, ‘Courtship tokens aren’t so much a thing in human society anymore, you see. Not since, I guess, the Victorian era? Turn of the century, at the very latest.’

‘Oh.’ He coloured slightly. ‘Right, of course.’

‘Is that what you do, when you have your head turned by someone?’ She gave him a look that could only be described as “maternal”, licking her thumb and using it to rub a fleck of powdered sugar from the cleft of his chin. ‘Offer the object of your affection little trinkets and keepsakes? Like a rockhopp-y penguin?’

‘Rockhopp-er penguin, you mean. Though it’s gentoo penguins, actually, that engage in such rituals.’

‘Oh, well, excuse me. I bow to thy superior knowledge, o’ penguin oracle.’

An impish smile pulled at her lips, equal parts amused and affectionate. She’d long found his inexplicable fondness for the ungainly creatures endearing — much like the man himself, in fact.

‘Now tell me, is that a winter sprite thing or just a Jack Thing? I'm curious,' she tacked on: A call-back to his comments about her "Mad Scientist" practices.

‘…Perhaps a little of both.’

‘Awh, Jack, that’s so sweet! Who knew you were such a romantic underneath all that snark, huh?’

Jack shifted his weight, visibly recalculating how best to reverse out of the conversational cul-de-sac he’d driven them into.

Despite being an excessively verbose man at the best of times, he had always found that he spoke least when he felt the most. Outwardly, he was a master of surface charm. Of quick wit, silver-tongued flirtation, perfectly timed banter. But real emotion? Honest-to-Goddess feeling? That tended to catch in his throat. Only now did the realisation strike him that he tended to wrap those things up in gestures. Tokens, objects. A gift could say what his mouth rarely could: I saw this and thought of you. I care, more than I can explain. 

Lucy seemed to sense this. She often did. She had a way of reading him with an accuracy that bordered on telepathy, at times; despite her want of the real thing. And of all he many appealing qualities, one of the most striking was her compassion. Her kindness. Soft and enduring, manifesting in ways that didn’t call attention to themselves. 

She was gentle with the parts of him he rarely let anyone else see. And, as if she could feel the awkwardness creeping up his spine now, she mercifully diverted:

‘Do you also make your hair go extra bouffant and hop around on one leg, too? Engage in some sort of… flamboyant, tropical bird mating dance? But with, you know, ice and stuff? I see that for you, actually; seems totally in-character.’ 

A sigh rent from deep in Jack’s chest, as though she were testing the very limits of his patience; though the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth told her he wasn’t truly annoyed, not even close. ‘If I did,’ he said dryly, ‘you can hardly expect me to own to it, can you? I’d never live it down. Least of all in your eyes.’

‘You know me so well.’

‘Mm, too well, I dare say. Now, I’m fast growing weary of this conversation, Miller. Let’s turn it around, shall we? A little tete-e-tete. How do your lot go about courtship matters, if not like that?’

Unfazed by the question, Lucy paused to think about it for a moment.

‘We still gift each other stuff, I guess,’ she answered, at length; each word carrying a slow, thoughtful cadence, as if she were unspooling the idea aloud. ‘But, like… tickets to Knicks’ games or Applebees coupons. Nothing as thoughtful as what you said. Ugh. Gods, I was so born in the wrong era,’ she lamented, leaning heavily on the railing with her chin in her pam. ‘If a guy wrote me a “romantic verse” I’d never recover. I mean we’re talking on the spot, spontaneous combustion here.’

‘Try not to do that, if you can help it, hm?’

‘Because you'd miss me?'

'I'd... miss receiving preferential medical treatment, yes. Oa-houch!’ Jack chuckled, rubbing the part of his head she’d just cuffed. It hadn’t actually hurt, of course — none of her little remonstrative blows ever did, comparable in force to those of a disgruntled kitten — but he never missed a chance to exercise his acting chops. ‘Always with the corporal punishment. Not very "doctorly" of you.’

‘I’m off the clock.’

‘So I see. I'll be sure to exercise due caution in future.' He lowered his gaze again, absentmindedly picking flakes of rust from the railing and watching them flutter away on the breeze. ‘You know full well the answer to that question, missus. And if you don't you possess the interpersonal skills of a gnat.’

Surprised — but undeniably warmed — by this admission, Lucy slipped her arm through his and drew him closer, her chin coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. He had a habit of doing that. Saying Very Sweet Things in a Very Jack Way. A way that, to the untrained ear at least, made them sound like insults.

‘I'm not planning on going anywhere soon, I promise,’ she said, squeezing his bicep so hard she cut off the circulation for a moment. ‘After all, someone has to keep you from getting into trouble, eh?’

‘Says the speed demon-adrenalin junkie.’

‘Scientist. We’ve been over this, Jack. I’m a scientist.’

‘Hm.’

‘Hm.’

Jack turned his head towards the glittering horizon, his posture oddly rigid all of a sudden, and Lucy knew instantly where this conversation was headed. 

Dusting coppery residue off his hands, he said, ‘I trust you’ve seen the recent news?’

And there it is, she thought, her heart sinking. 

‘About the missing girl, you mean? The mage?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I have, yeah.’

‘And how’re you feeling about it?’

‘Deeply concerned? Slash, grudgingly intrigued? The general consensus seems to be that this— whatever it is, is targeting magi-humans exclusively. So that’s…'

'Worrying.'

'Worrying, yes. To say the least. I mean how many disappearances has it been now? Five?’

‘I believe so.’ Jack breathed out, slow and measured, rubbing a hand over his jaw while he weighed his next words. ‘Do you think there’s any chance it could be connected?’

‘Connected to what?’ Lucy asked him.

His eyes flicked to hers.

‘…Oh.’

Harvard. Of course, what else?

A chill licked down her spine, far colder than the night air. Her body went rigid before she could stop it, shoulders locking into place like a drawbridge slamming shut.

‘I don’t know,’ she said carefully, though her pulse had begun to tick faster. ‘Maybe.’

Jack didn’t speak right away. He simply gazed at her, head tilted just slightly, studying the lines of her posture as if they held some sort of Euclidian value.

At last, in a quiet voice, he asked, ‘Do you feel safe here, Lucy?’

Lucy blinked, thrown by the question. ‘In Manhattan?’

He nodded.

‘I mean… as safe as anyone can, these days?’

‘That’s not an answer.’

‘Technically speaking it is.’

‘I think you know what I mean.’

She shifted on her feet, unsure how to respond. After a moment she said, ‘I’m taking precautions, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘What sort of "precautions"?’

‘Regularly reinforcing the wards around the Willow, for starters.’

‘With...?’

‘A little of this, a little of that,’ she replied airily, only to be met with a flat look that said: You know damn well I’m not going to accept that as an answer, Miller.

Letting out a small huff, Lucy whipped out her wand and traced a rune in the air; at once, a shimmering, semi-translucent scroll unfurled before them, its surface glowing like a well-lit window. She flicked her fingers and the list began to scroll down of its own accord as she narrated:

‘Muffle charm on the perimeter that dulls any trace of spellcasting to the outside. Binding deterrent for hexes. Transference loop for kinetic curses — redirects the energy into the ground like a magical lightning rod. Temperament filter keyed to intent; harmless visitors don’t feel a thing, but anyone with violent inclinations gets hit with a long-lasting stunning spell…’

Jack gave a low whistle. ‘Thorough.’

'Thank you.'

'What’s this one here? “Jinx that rotates a person’s intergluteal cleft ninety degrees clockwise”. What’s an intergluteal cleft?’

‘A buttcrack.’

He blinked at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It turns people’s buttcrack sideways,’ Lucy clarified matter-of-factly.

Jack bit the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to laugh. The result was a strange, pursed-lipped expression that made him look as though he were sucking on a lozenge. ‘Would I be right in assuming that was one of Melville's contributions?’

‘No, no, it's mine. There are advantages to having such an in-depth understanding of anatomy, you know. I figured I might as well get a little fun out of the situation, bleak as it is.’

‘Now really, Dr. Miller,’ he said, his voice laced with mock reproach. ‘I’d have expected more maturity from you.’

‘No idea where you got that impression, Mr. Frost, and quite frankly I’m offended,’ she replied primly, though her eyes gleamed with mischief.

A velvety chuckle rumbled through Jack.

‘Even after all these years, you keep finding ways to surprise me,’ he mused, shaking his head in a distrait sort of manner. ‘Extraordinary, truly. And alright, well, that’s all fairly inspiriting to hear, by and large. What about other precautions? Practicing defensive spells, for example?’

‘I could parry curses in my sleep at this point.’

‘Weaving shielding charms into your clothing?’

‘Down to my socks, yes. Alongside a warming charm, on this occasion. Thanks to someone.’

‘Carrying that homing device Melville gave you?’

‘Even to the washroom. I set it off accidentally once, that was fun. She stormed me in the shower.’

‘Wearing a glamour while you’re out and about?’

‘Mm-hm, I think I’m finally getting better at noses. Only took me twelve years.’

Jack’s mouth pressed into a thin line. ‘You didn’t wear one tonight.’

‘A nose? That’s odd, I could’ve sworn—’

‘A glamour.’

‘Well of course not, silly, I was with you. I knew I was totally safe.’

Something flickered in his expression then, something that softened the sharp line of his mouth and deepened the blue of his gaze. It was gone in an instant, but Lucy caught it all the same.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her in quiet wonder. And then, ever so softly:

‘I’m glad you think so.’

Given the ways he'd wronged her, the person he was when they’d first met, it was extraordinary that she trusted him so. But then, he supposed, that had all been a very long time ago, from her perspective. A lifetime, even. 

Her words echoed back to him: The candid admission that he was one of the few people she’d allowed into her “safe space”. The earnestness of that sentiment, simple though it was, had stirred something deep in his chest. A soft, implacable ache.

Jack wasn’t entirely sure he had a designated safe space himself. Not in the way that she apparently did; though his habit of climbing trees when feeling anxious probably counted, in some symbolic way. But if he did have one… he was certain he’d share it with her, too.

After silently observing the view for a few seconds longer, he sucked in a sharp breath, planting his hands on his hips. 

‘Right! Well,’ he said, standing plumb with resolution, ‘this has been a pleasant little interlude and all, but I think it’s time we did something a bit more within my wheelhouse now, don’t you?’

Having been bracing for him to tell her he was heading home, Lucy lifted her brows. ‘Sorry?’

‘Well, I need to recover at least a shred of dignity, after the whole broom debacle. Can’t have you going away thinking I’m completely inept.’

She crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one hip. ‘I just watched you freeze over an entire city.’

‘Ah-ah, almost an entire city.’ Jack wagged a didactic finger in her face, withdrawing it quickly when she pretended to bite it. ‘Ooh. How very uncouth.’

‘Almost?’ She grinned up at him.

‘There’s one place I’ve yet to add a little frosty touch to,’ he told her, rolling the “r” in “frosty”.

‘Yeah? Where’s that then?’

Instead of answering, Jack offered her a pale hand. 

Chapter Text

They rematerialised in a wiry thicket directly across from the Ramble. 

A fine drizzle misted the air, cold on the backs of their necks. In the distance, the Angel of the Water stood sentinel — a rainswept smudge draped in pale lamplight. The tempered glow of the street lamps hung in the damp of night like hazy orange moons, while the real moon, nearing its apex, drowned its closest neighbouring bodies in a halo of translucent silver.

Jack’s presence brought a noticeable bite to the air, like the first breath taken at the summit of a winter climb, and Lucy instinctively drew her capelet closer around her shoulders.

She'd donned the article shortly before teleporting, chilly despite her warming enchantments. It was mauve, silk lined, and trimmed in the same pale lace as her gloves. Threaded through its fabric were constellational figurea, all embroidered in delicate thread that shifted hue with every tilt of her shoulders. The pictorial Cygnus, bright and regal, curved protectively along the neckline, its wings spread wide across her back as though poised to lift her skyward once more. Beneath it, the little fox Vulpecula padded the length of her spine, following lissomely in the swan's wake.

Lucy's flying shoes had been shod and tucked into her satchel. In their place, the Oxfords once again graced her feet, damp already from the snow-blanketed undergrowth -- their ribboned laces stained subtly brown where they'd dragged against the ground.

Having shrunk both broomstick and satchel to a scale small enough to stuff into her pocket, Lucy turned to Jack with a puzzled expression, more than a little disappointed by this development.

‘You’re... taking me home?’

‘Well, in a roundabout way, I suppose.’ He indicated the inky slick of water ahead of them. ‘I thought we could take a... long-cut, of sorts. Killing three birds with one stone, so to say.’

‘What birds?’

‘Knowing, for my own peace of mind, that you've reached your front door safe and sound, for one. Finishing up my day’s work, for two.’

‘And the third?’

Without saying anything further, he took a vaulting leap onto the water’s surface, ice spiderwebbing out beneath his soles, supporting his weight.

‘I get to show off.’

Ah. Of course. Now Lucy understood — he wanted to go skating. 

‘Some of us are wearing heels, you know,’ she said, offering him a dry smile.

‘So I enjoy the extra height? Big whoop.’

‘And, more importantly, weren’t blessed with your divine powers, Mr. Second Coming.’

‘It’s a good thing I’m willing to share them then, isn’t it?’ Jack extended his hand again, fingers and eyebrows wiggling in tandem. ‘Generous soul that I am. Please, hold your applause, it’ll only go to my head.’

Lucy reached to take it, then hesitated, her fingers hovering just shy of his. It had been a long time since she’d skated. Growing up in Illinois, where winters were reliably snowy, she’d done it often enough. But that had been years ago, back when she had the time. These days, she wasn’t sure she’d even be able to stay upright.

Still… like their broomstick ride earlier, this was less about the activity itself and more about the opportunity it presented: To be close to Jack. That and making him happy, anyway, which was pretty much guaranteed any time the opportunity to flaunt his wintery talents factored into the equation.

‘You never know, you might even have fun,’ he coaxed, echoing her sentiments to him in the Withy.

‘Oh, no. Don’t you table the turns on me, Jack Cancius Frost. Puppy eyes are my thing.’

‘I’ll do as I please, thank you very much. After all these years of bending to your every whim, I think I’m owed a little reciprocation.'

Lucy gave the water's surface an appraising look. ‘Are you sure it's safe?’

‘Once again you insult me, freckles. Of course it’s “safe”. It’s my ice.’

‘Are you sure it's legal?’

‘…Yes.’

She eyed him warily. ‘You hesitated.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Yes you did. That was definite hesitation, a good half a second of it. Hold on, I’m consulting Google.’

‘Oh for Heaven’s sake, there’s no need for that,’ Jack huffed, rolling his eyes as she proceeded to pull up the relevant App and type: “Will I get arrested, slash go to court, slash be sentenced to life in prison, slash have my medical license revoked for skating on Central Park Lake?” into the search bar. Each addendum of greater consequence than the last, of course. ‘It’s legal, I promise. And even if it weren’t, who the hell's going to enforce it? Especially at this hour.’

Lucy’s fingers stilled on the screen. 

He had a point.

Chewing her lip, she muttered, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I'm always right. Now, if you’re done with all this needless prevaricating...’ He made a little beckoning motion at her with his index finger. 'Allons-nous, ma cherie?'

After pausing a moment longer, Lucy slid her phone back into her pocket and (against her better judgement) entwined her fingers with his, allowing him to guide her onto the water. “Onto” being the operative word, for — far from wading up to her ankles, as one might expect — she, like him, found her weight supported by strategically-placed patches of ice. With each step she took they spread, threads and veins weaving out across the still-blackness.

‘Wow,’ she breathed, enchanted. 

Jack waved his hand, and the drizzle slowed and turned to snowfall, settling amidst the distant pinpricks of stars, planes and satellites suspended on the water’s now-solid surface.

‘Would you be so kind as to lift your leg for a moment, s'il vous plaît?’ 

Allowing her to brace herself against his shoulder, he dipped low and tapped the tips of her Oxfords with two fingers. A soft crackling could be heard as ice bloomed outward from the plum-coloured satin, curling seamlessly into a pair of sleek, pale blue skates. Delicate, but strong, and glinting faintly in the lamplight.

‘Et voila. Stylish and functional,’ he hummed, reaching for her hand once more.

Reassured by his steady grip, Lucy took a tentative step forward. And then another. On her third, and most assertive, step, however, both feet betrayed her. Her legs shot out from under her, and with a startled squeak she collided full-force with his chest, skidding halfway down his front. In a matter of seconds, she found herself clinging tightly to his narrow waist, her cheek smushed against his stomach, and her legs— well, her legs were a disaster in and of themselves. One had stretched forward, the other flailed somewhere behind, leaving her in a graceless approximation of the splits. 

Jack let out a sonorous laugh that reverberated against her ear, curling his arms around her to steady them both.

‘A tad overzealous, perhaps, but I can’t fault the chutzpah! Or the flexibility. That little flying-pitch caper you mentioned earlier is beginning to make more sense now.'

‘You’re enjoying this far too much,’ she muttered, her voice half-lost against the fabric of his waistcoat.

'How true.'

'So much it's indecent.'

'That too, yes.'

'You do realise I'm in the perfect position to pants you right now, Jack?'

'Rendered breech-less in the middle of Central Park, entirely against my will...?' Jack raised an insouciant brow. 'Been there, done that; your threats hold very little weight, Miller. Now, do you propose to join me up here at any point? I'm not sure how I feel about you conversing with my belt buckle.'

Trying -- and failing -- to regain her balance, Lucy stumbled again, clinging to him like a limpet. The whole thing was vaguely reminiscent of that scene in Bambi, where the poor creature's legs seemed to be operating independently of any higher authority.

Still chuckling, Jack eased her upright, brushing a tangled curl of hair from her face.

'Just hold onto me and you’ll be fine,’ he told her fondly. ‘Think of it like dancing! I seem to recall you being rather good at that, way back when. Balance, rhythm, poise. You're practically halfway there, eh?’

‘Mm-hm, I’m the picture of elegance right now.’

‘We’re only just getting started.’ Jack stepped backwards slowly, bringing her with him. ‘I’ll show you. Easy does it. Keep your weight centred… no, not there — here.’ He tapped just behind her heel with his toe.

They set off, sailing gently across the moon-silvered ice, the cold air trailing their laughter in shimmering ribbons behind them.

After a few tentative circuits, Lucy began to grow in confidence, much to Jack’s delight. The stiff-legged, arms-akimbo awkwardness of her first attempts eased into something looser, more fluid, her skates beginning to hum along the ice with each pass. Every so often, buoyed by her own progress, she attempted a small hop, letting out an enthusiastic little “woo”, as if sheer vocal encouragement might launch her higher. It didn’t, but the effort was endearing enough to make Jack’s grin deepen every time:

('Wow,’ he affected wonderment, giving her a brief round of applause. ‘I tell ya, now that— that. Was a jump.’

‘An amazing jump, right? Are you flawed?’

‘It wu-was a jump,’ he raised an edifying finger, swiping it to the left, ‘was what it was. Without a shadow of a doubt. I mean it had lift and everything.’

‘Mm, a whole Planck length of it. Sorry to outshine you with my incredible talent, there’s just no containing it.’

‘So I see. Have you considered the Olympics?’

‘Not sure that’d be fair to the other competitors.’

‘Mighty sportsmanly of you.’ 

And true, probably, Jack mused, as she regained her bruising grip on his forearm. Woman’d take home the gold on sheer Cute Factor alone.)

She still fell, of course. Twice in quick succession. Each time cushioned by hastily-conjured, Miller-sized snow drifts courtesy of Jack’s Legendary perks. 

If she hadn’t been concentrating so hard on not knocking out all her teeth -- and/or sending her spine through the top of her head -- Lucy would’ve admired just how quickly he was able to summon them.

(‘Want to avoid adding Germany, Austria, or Slovakia to your map of scars, now don’t we?’ Jack teased, offering her a hand as she clambered upright for the second time. 

‘Poland, too.’

‘Ah, of course. Knew I was forgetting someone. Still fighting fit though, yes?' he asked, with genuine solicitousness. 'No bumps or scrapes? Internal haemorrhaging?’

‘Down a couple of digits, but don’t let that put a dampener on things.’ Lucy brandished her gloved hand, two fingers folded inward in mock injury. Jack responded with an indulgent snort as he looped his arm through hers again.)

Around them, the world had blurred to soft glows of silver moonlight and golden lamplight, reflected in the glassy sheen of the ice. The snow-glazed ground, graven fountains, and sprawling woodland were a checkerboard of dark and light where the moon's rays touched and where they didn’t.

They spotted the odd solitary figure here and there. Late-evening wanderers thrown into sharp relief, their shadows stretched long and strange. But for the most part, they remained undisturbed, the vast sweep of the lake feeling strangely timeless, suspended somewhere between the old world and the new.

At one point, while Lucy and Jack circled lazily past the lakeside pines, they glimpsed the elegant phaeton carriage from earlier. The one pulled by those towering, argent-furred hares. It glided by along the path at the lake's edge, its wheels barely seeming to touch the snow-dusted cobblestones, the hares moving with a graceful, bounding gait that seemed almost too fluid to be natural.

The whole thing — hares, carriage, driver and all — was clearly operating under an invisibility charm for the benefit of non-magical onlookers, but it shimmered into view now and again, like oil across the surface of water. At the reins sat a wizard swathed in billowing midnight-blue robes, his beard cascading in brilliant streaks of pink, gold, and viridian. Lucy recognised him immediately as the proprietor of Lapsang & Lilac, the magical tea shoppe nestled in Strawberry Fields.

She’d visited it several times before, mostly for the rose oolong and fennel-topped lemon scones, and knew the wizard (a Mr. Bartholomew Porringer) to be as eccentric as he was kind. He seemed not to notice her now, however, guiding the carriage in the direction of the teashop, its lanterns flickering softly against the dark. 

Finally, a small handful of stragglers from the now-closed Wollman Rink meandered into view — half a dozen bundled figures, their movements cautious as they ventured out across the ice. They were followed shortly thereafter by a column of smartly-dressed men lugging instrument cases and crates, trudging in single file with the weary gait of those who’d been on their feet far too long.

To Lucy, they resembled a raft of penguins, shoulders hunched against the cold, feet shuffling in tired synchrony. It took her a moment to place them as the band that often played on the steps of Belvedere Castle, their music floating through the park on warm summer nights.

The troupe paused when they caught sight of the skaters. There was a brief murmured discussion, some amused glances, and then, with a collective shrug, they set down their bags, pulled out their instruments, and began to play. A gentle, lilting rendition of The Blue Danube floated into the night, soft as candlelight.

‘Oh, how sweet,’ Lucy murmured as the melody filled the air. Around them, the mood shifted; a few of the skaters nearby stopped gliding and began to dance, unpractised, but grinning. Others attempted both, creating a clumsy but oddly charming blend of skating and swaying.

A strange sensation washed over her then, unbidden and disorienting. For a split second, she was no longer in the present. The lake was the same, the snow the same, even the music. But the skaters around her had changed. Gone were the puffer coats and thermals, replaced by heavy woollen skirts, top hats, tailcoats, and— was that a bustle? She blinked, the image flickering, pale-edged and distant, like something glimpsed through a frosted window.

And then it was gone. Just like that.

She stood still for a moment, frowning faintly. Hm. Weird.

Maybe something she’d seen in an old film. Or on a holiday card. Or in one of her strange, overly-realistic dreams. The sensation left as swiftly as it had arrived. 

Before Lucy could dwell on the matter, Jack caught her hand again and dipped into an absurdly theatrical bow, deep enough that his hair actually brushed the ice. The gesture was so sudden, so outlandishly formal, that it startled a laugh out of her.

Then, without missing a beat, he straightened, seized her other hand, and swept her back into motion with an exaggerated twirl that sent her dress flaring like a bell around her. Their skates carved clean arcs across the ice as they picked up speed, his grin all mischief and bravado, hers helplessly infectious in return. By the third twirl, she was laughing again, her cheeks flushed pink from cold and motion and something far deeper at the centre of it all.

‘You’ve yet to answer my question, you know,’ he pointed out, as she stumbled against him with a breathless giggle. 

‘Wh-what question?’

‘The one about whether you have any plans for tomorrow.’

‘Oh right! Right, yes.’ She made a valiant effort to collect herself, sweeping errant strands of hair from her face and, in the process, smudging faint trails of lipgloss from the corner of her mouth to the curve of her chin. ‘Or, uh— no, I mean. No plans. Hospital-bound during the day, as per. Then Mel and I are doing "Galentine's" in the eve.’

‘Am I not correct in thinking today is “Galentine’s”? That’s what Jacqueline tells me, anyway; she’s over at Ellington’s right now, doing… whatever girlie-friends do when they’re alone, I suppose. I’m hardly the authority on such things.’

‘Necromancy, mostly. Attending the Devil’s Sacrament, if and when the mood strikes.’

‘Ah, finally the curtain is peeled back.’

‘--And yes, technically-speaking, Galentine’s is on the thirteenth. But Mel and I tend to celebrate both on the same day, seeing as we're hashtag cottagecore wives, for all intents and purposes. We even have this tradition now where every year we exchange Hers and Hers gifts.'

Jack chuckled deeply at that, his nose wrinkling in that charming, distinctly boyish way that Lucy had always adored. It was a long-standing joke between the three of them that she and Melusine gave every impression of being married, in spite of their official status as friends/housemates.

'What'd you get her this year?' he asked.

'Gardening gloves. She's been needing a new pair.'

'That's... unusually wholesome, bearing in mind the recipient.'

'--Gardening gloves to help her tend her plot of highly illegal herbs and fungi, that I routinely turn a blind eye to.'

'Much more like it.'

Confident in her ability to stay upright without his help now, Lucy attempted to give Jack a spin. It sort of worked, too. Although he had to duck under her outstretched arm in a rather ungainly swoop, nearly losing his balance in the process. He recovered with a dramatic flourish and a theatrical bow.

‘Smooth as ever,’ she said, smirking.

‘Master of my craft, baby,’ he agreed with a wink.

For the next few minutes they alternated between leading and following. Jack would occasionally feign high formality, guiding her like a ballroom partner across the frozen floor with an impish twinkle in his eye, only to dip her suddenly, or steer them into a clumsy pirouette that left them both breathless with laughter.

Without realising it, they'd slowly glided towards Bow Bridge, away from the small gaggle of dancers. The ice here was thinner, its surface laced with faint spidering lines that glimmered in the moonlight. But it was smoother, too, almost glass-like, making each movement feel effortlessly fluid. 

‘Is that really all you're getting up to tomorrow?’ Jack found himself asking, as the band transitioned into Georgy Sviridov's Snowstorm Waltz. His voice sounded strangely airy, even to his own ears, and he cleared his throat before adding, 'Galentining with Ms Melville?'

'Mm-hm. That's all. We’ll probably spend the evening stuffing our faces with chocolate, drinking enough rosé to kill a catholic saint, watching all the Meg Ryan movies. Hopefully starting with Sleepless in Seattle, which is my favourite. Sure, the plot's a little hit and miss at times, but you have to admit, the ending's pretty romantic!’

‘Seriously?’

‘Oh, don't you start on me about that, Frost. I know you claim to be more of a When Harry Met Sally kind of guy, but that’s only because you like that part in the diner where Meg pretends to—’

‘No, no, I mean seriously? No dates? No... painting on some lampblack, slipping into your best nylons and hitting the local discothèque? Two free-spirited young demoiselles such as yourselves, totally unencumbered. You should be kicking your heels up, painting the town red.’

'I cannot stress enough how much that entire sentence belongs in ninety thirty-eight,' Lucy said, amused. 'It was like you morphed into Jack Benny for a second.'

'You know who Jack Benny is?'

'I do after spending twelve years listening to you wax lyrical about "The Glory Days of Vaudeville", yes.'

'Why. I'm so proud.' Jack's voice wobbled, one hand coming to rest briefly over his heart.

Rolling her eyes fondly, Lucy went on, 'In answer to your question, though -- absolutely, definitively not. I think I'd rather drink formaldehyde. A) my town-painting days are way behind me; all the lights and the noise just make my head hurt, these days. And B) I’m terrible at dates, it turns out. Last one I went on was eons ago now and I only did it to make Cecil, my surgery technician, happy, seeing as he’d gone to the trouble of setting it up. Without telling me until the last minute, I should specify. It went… well, a lot worse than Harry and Sally’s, let’s put it that way.’

‘Did I or did I not advise you that the regularity of one’s bowel movements is seldom an appropriate topic to discuss over dinner?’

‘I’m just showing that I care about my friends’ intestinal health! What’s so bad about that?’ she protested shrilly, wobbling perilously as her skate encountered a patch of half-frozen water reeds. With catlike reflexes, Jack’s arm shot out, catching her just below the ribs and pulling her upright in one smooth motion. ‘It-it falls well within my jurisdiction. Far too few people know about the wonders of insoluble fibre and you know what, Jack, it keeps me up at night. It really does.’

Jack grinned despite himself. Truth be told, he found her utter incomprehension of the word “boundaries”, when applied to the health of her nearest and dearest, just as winsome as the rest of her. And he enjoyed how effusive she got when talking about subject matter that interested her. The way her voice would double in speed and she’d become so animated that her conversation partner would be wise to remove anything fragile or spillable from her immediate vicinity.

‘That didn’t come up on this occasion, though,’ she added, in a pensive tone. ‘Hard to say what the clincher was, actually, but it was definitely something I did. Maybe flubbing that joke I made up about amino acids. I said “arginine” instead of “threonine”. Absolute ninny.’

‘An irremissible social faux pas, to be sure,' Jack deadpanned, suppressing the inclination to laugh. Odds were her date hadn't even understood the joke in the first place. 'Did you, by chance, happen to mention your penchant for collecting things?’

‘I—’

‘—Specifically, deceased pathogens, skeletal remains, and pickled organs?'

'I made sure to specify that I use them mostly for research purposes, but… well, yes.’

‘Did you point out things on the menu and draw caloric comparisons to parts of the body?’

‘I just think it’s interesting that a calzone contains roughly the same number of macros as a human heart.’

‘Did you talk at length about those creepy brain-eating amoebas that invade the body through the closest available entry-point?’

‘He ordered unfiltered tap water, Jack, it was apropos. Although I gave him space to talk about his own interests, too, of course. Asked him questions about himself, and whatnot.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, like, where he went to college. What he majored in there. What he does for a living. Whether he has any hobbies,’ Lucy rattled off, ticking each point off on her fingers.

Jack’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘That doesn’t sound so bad—’

‘—Whether he smoked, or did any recreational drugs. What his weekly alcohol intake was, per unit. How often he exercised. Whether he got enough sleep on average. If he’d had any major surgeries or illnesses in the past decade. What his resting heart rate was. When he last had his cholesterol checked, and whether it was normal. If he’d ever had a VD panel, and whether it came back clean. What prescription medications, over-the-counter medications, vitamins, or supplements he took. If he had any allergies. Whether his parents were alive and if not, what they’d died of. Oh, and whether he had any moles, skin tags or other lesions that had recently changed shape… or… colour…’ 

A look of quiet revelation dawned on her features. 

‘Oh God,’ she muttered to herself, looking off into the distance. ‘Oh my God, that’s. That’s a lot of questions, isn’t it?’

Jack scratched the back of his neck, trying to decide how honest he should be. ‘Ehh... a lot, a few. Who's to say, really? Shall talk about something else now?’

‘It’s not a few,' Lucy objected, shaking her head vehemently. 'Certainly not a few. “A few”, by definition, is between three and eight; this is like the Spanish Inquisition on steroids!’

‘I’m not so sure it was the number of questions, Lucy, so much as their nature.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean you essentially conducted a full medical intake,’ Jack pointed out, in what he hoped was a sensitive tone. ‘Short, perhaps, of fetching a cooking thermometer from the kitchens and sticking it in one of his orifices.’

Lucy came to a gradual stop, her skates crunching softly against a patch of rough ice. She stood still for a moment, frowning, her breath rising in pale clouds as Jack’s words sank in.

‘Shoot,’ she said at last, her voice soft with burgeoning horror. ‘I did do that, didn’t I…? Ugh, I’ve become one of those people who can never switch off from work! No wonder he didn’t come back from the restroom — I never actually mentioned what my profession was, so he probably thought I was a total nut-job. I can’t believe it took me this long to realise.’

‘He ran out on you?’ Jack said, appalled.

‘“Ran”, “sprinted”. Call it what you will, poor guy was gone before the dessert menu arrived,’ Lucy recalled, nodding thoughtfully. 'For a while I just thought the red lentil dhal I’d recommended he order had started working prematurely, but after forty-five minutes I began to worry a little, so I asked one of the waiters if he’d mind checking up on him and when he came back he said the dude was nowhere to be seen. One of the windows was wide open, though, and whoever’d used it as an emergency exit had apparently left their jacket and shoes behind so that they could fit through it better.’

'Ah.'

'Yes. '"Ah".'

Suddenly, she was seventeen again, perched on the roof of the science department during lunch, dutifully dusting the solar panels as part of her independent research credit. Below, a cluster of “cool” kids loitered around the trashcans, lazily passing a joint back and forth as they dissected her social unviability. 

“She’d be so much more dateable if she just put a bag over that Type A personality,” one of them had said, to a chorus of snickers. The words had floated up to her on the breeze, sharp and clear as broken glass. 

Lucy hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, of course, but once she’d heard her name it had been difficult not to.

“Wait, who’re we talking about again?”

“Lucy Miller. Little redheaded chick, you know? Top of every class. Always has her hand in the air. Tutors, like, half our year.”

“Oh, her. Yeah, I mean, she’s cute and all, sure — really cute, actually — but the girl just never shuts up. It’s beyond annoying.”

“And she’s such a freaking priss. All she cares about is school, exams and getting into Harvard.”

“I bet she’d make you quiz her on her SATs while you were hooking up with her.”

“Right? It’d be, like, a turn-on for her.”

“God forbid a woman excel at multitasking,” Lucy muttered to herself, a wry twist to her mouth.

“--Nah, dude, she’d quiz you on yours. Make sure you knew your stuff.” 

“Yeah, and mark you on your performance afterwards.”

“In the SAT’s or the hooking up?”

“Both.”

The group dissolved into laughter again, the sound ringing out for several long seconds.

“Darren’d get an F for ‘finished too fast’,” one of the girls sneered, when it finally died down.

“Fuck off, Stella, that was one time. And you said you wouldn’t tell anyone about it.”

“You said you knew where everything was. At least Miller understands basic biology, even if she is a colossal dork.”

"Well go get freaky with Miller, then. Will probably be the best grade you get all year."

Lucy simply stayed quiet, pouring over their assessments of her character like the pages of a particularly revelatory thesis. Inquisitive, but concertedly detached.

Their ratiocination was sound, reflected her present-day self. She knew she wasn’t effortlessly likeable, in the way someone like Jack or Melusine was. Both easygoing, both unfailingly charismatic, even at the worst of times. The cruel irony, of course, being that the latter spent most of her life hiding herself away, thoroughly disenchanted with a world that had done her immeasurable hurt over the centuries.

Lucy, by contrast, had no such excuse. She hadn’t been traumatised into solitude or misanthropy. Quite the opposite, in fact — she loved people. Loved interacting with them, taking care of them. Her mind was clear enough to see the truth of things: That she simply wasn’t to everyone’s taste.

She was overly passionate. Overly studious. She spoke too much, too fast. She held firm, occasionally inflexible ideals and was inclined to moot them without provocation. Or, indeed, pause for breath. She wanted the work she put out into the world to matter, to effect positive change, often more than people were comfortable with. And while she’d been told she was pretty — attractive, even — and was regularly approached by prospective suitors, it was only until she opened her mouth and unleashed a twenty-minute monologue on the biochemical differences between salmonella typhi and paratyphi, or outlined her multi-step plan for eliminating societal taboos and misinformation surrounding women’s health. (To his credit, Jack had sat and listened to all forty-three points with rapt attention, even venturing the odd clarifying question here and there).

People tended to be drawn to her looks, rather than her personality. Once they caught a glimpse of what was beneath, they turned tail and bolted. It was a lot. She was a lot.

Over time, she’d learned to make her peace with that. To put herself out there, day in, day out, despite her lingering insecurities. But that didn’t mean she was impervious to hurt.

She was only human, after all.

‘Y’know, I think I see your problem here,’ Jack remarked, as he watched her bury face in her hands and let out a soft groan.

‘Ut mmh uh clussle drk?’ (Translation: “That I’m a colossal dork?”)

‘Ohh,’ he made an effete little motion with his hand, ‘hardly.’

‘Really?’ 

‘You’re a very small dork, in fact. Miss Five Foot Nothing — look at you. Like a carrot-topped Gloria Swanson. Minus the eight ex-husbands and the evangelical picketing, of course. Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me? Eheh…’

Lucy gave a resigned nod, not sure what else she’d expected from the sprite. ‘Thanks, pal. I feel better already.’

'Are you sure you don't have some pixie heritage in you, come to think of it? Would explain the squeakiness.'

'I am not squeaky,' she countered, growing squeaky.

'You are. Especially when you get all passionate and hot-headed about things. There are times when I'm certain only dogs can hear you.'

'Is this your idea of reassurance, Jack? Because I have some constructive criticism, if you're open to hearing it.'

'That isn't your problem, however.' Jack spoke as if there'd been no interruption, rolling his wrist in a lackadaisical motion. 'It fact I’d count it as an asset, endearing as it is. No, no, your problem, much like the indomitable Ms Swanson’s, is that you have appalling taste in men.’

‘Ex… scuse me?’

’S’true. Seriously. First one lacked basic balance skills, this one must’ve lacked a brain. Or, at the very least, cognitive processing abilities. I mean, you did ALL of that: Bespoke jokes, fun factoids, the riveting intellectual discussion, even showing a concerted interest in his wellbeing, and he still wasn’t charmed?’ He shook his head, adopting an air of solemnity usually reserved for the bedsides of the dying and/or seriously infirm. ‘Clearly there’s something wrong with the schmuck. Probably terminal. I’d take pity on him, if I were you.’

Lucy gave him a long, level look. The kind that said, Jinx Threat: Imminent.

‘...What?’ Jack asked, unnerved. 

‘I’m trying to decide whether to rotate your inter-gluteal cleft ninety degrees clockwise. Are you making fun of me or do you actually mean that?’

‘I mean it,’ he protested, voice rising a note or two in offence, and Lucy noticed him angling himself ever-so-slightly away from her in an effort to protect his backside. ‘Exceptionally witty as I no doubt am, I do know how to pick my moments, you know. When have you ever known me to make fun of you in any genuine sense?’

'I... guess I haven’t.’

‘Well, there you go. There are few things in this world more compelling than a woman with a brain, after all, and yours…?’ He let out a long, low whistle. ‘My. It’s a wonder you don’t get neck strain. Add to that your shining resume, your — frankly saintlike — benevolence, and looking perpetually as though you’ve just stepped off the cover of Glamour and Hex, with these dash-cutting little getups of yours, and you’ve got the whole package. If he couldn’t see that then he wasn’t worth your time, patently. '

‘You think?'

‘I do. As a friend, and therefore someone who has your best interests at heart, I… well I can confidently say that you deserve better. Lightyears better, in fact. And if you feel like jotting his address down for me, in the near or distant future, I'll be sure to remind him of the fact. Although I can't entirely guarantee you won't end up with an extra patient to mind, as a result.'

Jack considered making further comments about her visual charm, boundless as it was, or perhaps cracking out a few bars of “Moonlight Becomes You”, but he ultimately decided against it, leery of giving her the false impression that he’d spent any length of time ruminating on the matter. He hadn’t. He simply wasn’t blind and/or a moron. And anyway, with the amount of attention she’d received during their shopping session, he imagined she was well aware of her “powers”, in that regard. Indeed, used them to her full advantage.

She certainly had the whole big, soft eyes and lash-fluttering routine down to a fine art, when it came to him. Deploying it with just enough charm and faux-innocence to make resisting feel not only futile, but inconceivable. Jack couldn’t recall a single time it hadn’t worked. Wily as she was, she had him wrapped around her little finger; and she knew it, too. Wielded that knowledge with the same subtle precision she brought to everything else.

He didn’t mind. In fact, he liked that about her. The way she could nudge the world to her liking without ever seeming to push. It became her, that gentle, benign cunning. Just like the moonlight, which tonight appeared particularly smitten: Kissing at her brow, and the delicate slope of her nose. Tracing a necklace of silver across her collarbones.

The effect was strangely captivating, and Jack quickly found himself sinking into a state of soft fascination...

It wasn't until Lucy gave him a light shove with her shoulder -- smiling in that sweet, retiring way of hers -- that he snapped back to the present.

‘That’s... actually really nice, Jack,' she said, quietly.

‘Yes, well.’ Jack smirked, gathering himself enough to return the gesture. Then grabbing her hastily when it almost made her topple over backwards. ‘I’m, ah, capable of it. Sometimes.’

'You're saying lots of nice things about me today. It’s worrying. You’re not dying, are you?’

‘Time will only tell.’

‘No major medical events? Infections? Psychiatric episodes?’

‘None that I’m aware of. But, then again, you’re the expert.’

‘And you really think I’m “charming"?’

‘You? My friend, the witch?’ He repositioned her pointed hat so that the brim covered her eyes. ‘Should that really come as a surprise?’

As she tilted the hat back up with her index finger, Lucy had to fight the immature urge to make some sort of high-pitched, chipmunk-invoking Happy Noise. Or hide her face in her hands again. Perhaps both at once. It wasn’t often that he was so effusively complementary, after all, even on his most expansive days. 

She couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d hold the same view about her taste in men were he cognisant of her present/long-time preoccupation, however. Though she doubted she’d ever get the chance to find out. 

Perhaps on her deathbed. That way, if he appeared utterly repelled by the notion, as she'd long pictured, she could simply say "sike" and shuffle off this mortal coil having dispensed one last poorly-timed joke.

Yes, perfect. Added to her bucket list.

‘You needn’t try to make me feel better, though,’ she went on, in as casual a tone as she could muster (which wasn't very casual at all, actually). ‘I was a little relieved that he didn’t come back, if I’m being completely honest with you. I don’t think he and I were really on the same wavelength.’

‘I’d have to agree with that. Although that doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t be.’

‘True, true. But I’m… I don’t know, I’m not really interested in dating, these days.’ 

‘Oh?’

She made a sound of confirmation, canting her head to the side in thought. ‘Perhaps I’m getting jaded or something, but dating as a woman in your thirties really is the trenches, man. Dating as a woman in your thirties in New York especially so. You’d’ve thought watching all six seasons of Sex and the City, multiple times throughout my life might’ve prepared me better.’

A remote part of Jack wondered why this information evoked in him equal parts sympathy and… comfort? Was it comfort? That didn’t sound right.

Only in the last couple of years had he begun to realise just how much he enjoyed Lucy's companionship. More than he ever planned or expected to. Conversation always seemed to flow between the two of them, although there wasn’t necessarily a need for continuous dialogue when they were together; Jack found himself perfectly content simply being in her presence. Not least because she gave off a warm, nurturing aura akin to that of the Springs.

When they did chat, however, her pronouncements on matters of academics, politics, health, popular culture or, every now and then, issues within Jack’s personal life, could not fall upon more eager ears. Any advice she offered was always salient, logical, well thought out. And she was never judgmental. Far from it. Staunch impartiality was yet another string to her idiomatic bow. 

Then there was her humour.

Gods, but she could make him laugh. And not just a polite chuckle, he meant wheeze-til-you're-crossing-your-legs laughter. Her sense of humour was a touch wicked at times, occasionally even pitch-black, which he attributed to her profession (you couldn’t work in magical trauma for as long as she had and come out the other side unaffected). She had an Eartha Kitt impression that could bring a room to its knees, and her hospital anecdotes? Comedic gold. The kind of material that was funnier because it probably shouldn’t be.

She took a genuine interest in his work, too. Not just in the broad strokes of his wintery duties, but in the finer details. The folklore. The history. The obscure bits of magical theory he thought only he cared about. And in turn, he soaked up every morsel she shared about the body, healing magic, or the medical applications of spellcraft. He never left her company without learning something. Her knowledge rivalled his in most magical disciplines now, and far surpassed it in all things anatomical or alchemical.

She was quick. Dry. And she kept pace with his sparkling wit in a way few people could. While he sometimes found himself softening his barbs for her benefit -- out of affection, never condescension -- he knew she was perfectly capable of throwing them back with equal zeal, if a gentler tongue. Putting him in his place, when the situation merited it. Challenging him, in all the best ways. Not just intellectually or comedically, but morally. Philosophically. She made him examine things he’d long since filed away as irrefragable.

Truth be told, she intimidated the hell out of him (not that he'd ever admit it). And Goddess help him, he wanted to impress her. Hence the skating. This was hardly unusual, though; Jack had always been drawn to strong, force-of-nature-type women. Romantically, platonically. It was something of a running theme in his life. And Lucy, while belonging staunchly to the latter category, was unequivocally that.

No prospective partner in the offing meant no additional obligations. No in-laws. No kids.

Yes, that must be it, Jack decided, as he lifted some low-hanging branches out of the way so that they wouldn’t catch in her mane of hair. He already had her busy hospital schedule to contend with, much as he admired her work ethic. Not to mention her wealth of friends, family and etceteras. She was a dear friend, a dear human friend, and he wanted to maximise their time together... limited as it was. 

Of course, should she choose to fetter herself to some ill-deserving poindexter at some point in the near or distant future he’d be happy for her. At the very least, he’d put on a convincing charade, talented showman that he was. But he knew, deep down, that a small, enduringly selfish part of him would mourn all the time she might’ve spent with him instead.

‘Ultimately, life’s too short to waste on the wrong people,’ Lucy went on, her hands slicing the air for emphasis — which, given that her arm was still linked through Jack’s, meant she was tugging him slightly with every gesticulation. ‘It’s high time I eschew every expectation modern society has placed on me as an almost-middle-aged lady and fully embrace spinsterhood. Maybe I’ll join a hag’s coven, even! Sit around in the nude all day wearing flower crowns and chanting “Cauldron of Changes” and “Hecate, Cerridwen” while someone paints the sign of Venus on my chest.’

‘I tried that once, shortly after I hit my forty hundreds,’ Jack deadpanned, in the flippant manner of a man discussing the weather. ‘Imbolc of fifteen-fifty-or other, if memory serves. Surprisingly restorative… for the five minutes I was there before the High Priestess chased me out with a bundle of burning sage and a surprisingly aggressive tambourine.’

Lucy wheeze-laughed so hard she nearly stumbled again, having to grab Jack’s wrist with her disengaged hand to keep herself upright.

‘In all seriousness though, Miller, you’re thirty-six,’ he said with a grin, once she’d steadied herself. ‘Speaking as someone who’s been “middle-aged” since the Middle Ages themselves, you’ve barely entered your prime. Slow down, enjoy the ride. Cosmopolitan says you ladies “step into your divine feminine energy” as you age, and while I can’t to profess to know what that entails, exactly, it sounds fairly pleasant.’

‘I’m thirty-six now, sure, but in September I’ll be thirty-seven. Then thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Then—’

‘Forty, yes, I do possess basic numeracy skills--’

‘--ninety.’

Jack’s brows knitted together in confusion. ‘You'd tell me if you'd had a stroke, right?’

‘I can already see old age looming, is what I’m saying,’ she elaborated, choosing not to dignify the latter comment with a response. ‘Just over there, on the horizon. Taunting me, like some sort of… Looming, Taunting Thing.’

‘Very evocative.’

‘Plus I have an actual white patch now. Not just a few individual hairs, no, no. A patch. Right here, see?’

‘Mm, well, join the club,’ he muttered, sweeping a hand through his own hair so that it stood on end. ‘We’ve got personalised zimmer-frames.’

Smiling compassionately, Lucy reached up to run her fingers along his temple, where a jet of dignified silver sparkled like the frost he so often wore there. ‘I like it. It makes you look stately, I think. Distinguished.’

‘Distinguished, eh? That’s a new one.’

‘It’s true. I like your natural hair in general, actually.’

‘Why?’

Because it’s dweeb-y, in the most charming way. Because it represents you at your most stripped-back and vulnerable. Because I’m the only person, to our knowledge, who can bring out that side of you and surely that has to mean something?

Because of how poufy and soft and… gradable it looks right now—

‘I just think it’s neat,’ she answered, innocently.

‘Even when it’s combed flat and I -- according to our mutual festive figurehead, anyway — look like someone who collects ballpoint pens as a hobby?’

Lucy answered with an abortive giggle. Abortive, because she tried to disguise it as a cough when she caught the expression on Jack’s face: Reminiscent of a cat that had just been laughed at for missing a jump. 

They had slowed almost to a complete stop now, turning slowly in place as the music swelled around them, like figures in a music box. Lucy wasn’t entirely sure when they had moved so close, nor when both of her hands had come to rest on Jack’s shoulders. But they had, and if he minded he showed no sign of it.

Reaching down to grasp his hand, she guided it gently back to her waist, giving him a look that wordlessly conveyed: Not a praying mantis, remember?

Jack's answering brow-raise, subtle but noticeable, told her he wasn't entirely convinced; but he acquiesced nonetheless. 

‘Yes, Jack,' she sobered up, sliding back into position with her fingers twined together at the nape of his neck. 'Even then. Reminds me of Cary Grant as Nickie Ferrante, and look how much of a heartthrob he was.’ 

‘Hmph.’ 

‘Don’t “hmph” me, mister, I’m being serious.’

Jack lifted his chin imperiously, regarding her with feigned distrust. 

‘Well,’ he drawled, ‘if sincere, and I have my doubts, you’d be just about the only one. President of the Jack’s Natural Hair Fan Club.’

‘I’m okay with that. It’ll be like that time in high school I tried to set up a society in celebration of Female Scientists Who Changed the World and no one joined, so I just ran and attended each of the events myself. Which was a real shame, because I even made complementary t-shirts! On the front they said, “STEM-inist”. And on the back, “Be Curie-ous”. Get it? Because of Maria Skłodowska-Curie?’

Fighting the near-overwhelming urge to fold her into a hug for this outrageous display of geekiness, Jack simply responded with: ‘Ingenious.’

‘…Actually, you know what, I tell a lie,’ she added, after a contemplative pause. ‘My AP calculus teacher came to a couple of sessions. But she was going through a messy divorce at the time, so I think she just needed a place to vent. Not that I minded, of course — I was happy to chat things over with her, particularly when it came to divvying up her and her partner’s assets — but it would’ve been nice to discuss the material I’d picked out too. It was alphabetised by period, scientific subject and whether or not the woman in question was a victim of the Matilda Effect. Spoiler alert: Most of them were.’

‘And you were what age, exactly, when you did this?’ he asked.

‘Well, I still had braces. And I was going through that whole DIY hair-beading phase. So… fourteen? No, wait, fifteen! Because I skipped the eighth grade.’

‘You skipped the eight grade?’

‘Yeah. Apparently there was a running joke amongst the other kids that I was actually a narc.’

‘Huh.’

She looked, for a moment, deeply introspective, before brightening up with, ‘All in good fun, I’m sure. I could’ve just made attendance mandatory, of course, being Class President and all. The school syllabus was sorely lacking in its coverage of female-centric history; something I was very vocal about with the school administrators, which I think may have been why they prohibited me from coming within five feet of their office. But I figured it was a slippery slope from that to total autocratic rule and that’s how you lose votes in forthcoming elections.’ (A joke, of course. Despite the fact that it was delivered with a completely straight face).

Tutting softly, Jack lifted his hand from Lucy’s waist to give the top of her head a consolatory pat. 

She frowned, first at the retreating gesture, and then up at him. ‘What was that? A pity pat?’

‘Why yes, yes it was. My younger self would’ve come to your nerdy club, Luce.’

‘Oh, shut up, he would not.’ She brushed him off with a gentle laugh. ‘Liar.’

‘Uh, it happens to be the truth. What? You think you’re the only fan of history’s most venerated female academics? I had the pleasure of meeting some of them, you know. Rosalind Franklin was a, ah, particular highlight.’

‘Dear Lady above, please tell me she didn’t join the list of people you’ve canoodled with and then ghosted, I’ll never look at a strand of DNA strand the same way again.’

‘Prepossessing though the ol’ vixen was, you’ll be relieved to hear that no. She didn’t.’ Jack paused, just long enough to seem suspicious, before adding slyly, ‘A Ms Mary Anning, on the other hand— kidding. I’m kidding.'

He chuckled at the unimpressed look Lucy shot him, clearly relishing the reaction. 

‘Honestly, you wound me, Miller. Clearly you take me for some sort of rakehell. No, we merely had a handful of rather… stimulating conversations, in the latter instance, during which she expressed frustration over having had so much of her fossil-y whathaveyou—’

‘Pioneering paleontological research.’

‘—dismissed or plagiarised by her male counterparts. So yes, I would have come. In fact, it probably would’ve constituted my entire social milieu, so to say. You remember me telling you that I wasn’t exactly popular myself, at school, don't you? Nothing like the shining socialite I am today.’

‘I-I do, yes. Some time ago now. You've never really, uhm. Gone into it, though.’

'No. I suppose I haven't.' 

Unbidden, Jack’s mind flicked back to images of himself as a boy: Nose buried perpetually in a book, hours of daylight deferred to curse manuals and arcane theory scrolls. He would, of course, avow to anyone who asked that he’d been exceedingly cool and well-liked in his youth. But the truth was something else altogether.

‘Simply put, I was… different, I suppose,’ he reflected, his voice growing unusually distant for a moment. ‘In a way my fellows found distinctly off-putting. And not just because of the curse, although that certainly had an effect.

‘I was a fairly precocious lad, as I’m sure you can imagine. Sharp-tongued, quick to anger, a little bit of a know-it-all, on occasion. Combine that with being rather scrawny for my age and you've a recipe for Pariah Status. I used to spend each recess sitting at the top of this ancient oak tree at the edge of the school grounds, where the larger and more lubberly members of my peer-group couldn't use me as their personal punching bag. Stewing, plotting. Or else in the school library, the shelves of which I was small enough to climb.’

Eventually, he’d realised just how lonely that kind of life could be, however. The silence of the library. The lack of any close comrades. The sense that he was always watching the world rather than moving within it.

So, as he got older, he began to cultivate a persona. The party guy. Mr. Slick. The smooth talker with the gleaming smile and a perfectly tailored jacket, a self-declared expert in wine, sex and witty repartee. It had worked, too. That version of himself had allowed him to cozy up to people in high places, to rub shoulders with those who had power and influence. Beyond what he already enjoyed as the son of two highly esteemed magical beings and heir to a now-dissolved monarchy, that is.

It had opened doors. Upgraded his status. Gotten him into rooms he’d once only dreamed about. And after he’d achieved his Legendary Status (his name officially etched in the lorebooks as Jack Frost: Winter Herald) his reputation had only gained more weight, preceding him across an even broader expanse of social and magical circles.

For a time, it had even felt worth it. Particularly during his twenty and thirty hundreds. With a condo full of the well-heeled and well-connected, with champagne flutes and whisky tumblers clinking in every room, he had felt, if not entirely fulfilled, at least less alone. More like someone important. Someone with value.

The flashy parties he threw, the glamorous circles he orbited, the relative strangers he allowed into his bed, they had filled a void. Made him feel like the popular guy; the one everyone wanted to be around. So what if he couldn’t remember their names the next morning, when they’d been incanting his all night long? Whispering it like a spell, like something sacred, over drinks, between kisses. For those few glittering hours, he was the centre of their world. And wasn’t that the point?

But eventually, the illusion began to wear thin. The conversations, once sparkling with novelty, started to feel rehearsed. Shallow. The laughter too loud, too performative. Being in a room full of people who never asked how you were unless it served their own interests had a way of draining a person. He found himself standing at the centre of things, martini in hand, smile fixed in place, yet somehow lonelier than he’d ever been in the quiet stacks of the library.

It was then, he supposed, that the shine had really started to dull. Coinciding rather neatly with his notoriety in the human world taking a sharp and undeniable nosedive. He’d thought, briefly, that becoming Santa might buff it back up again. Donning the Yuletide mantle, both in the literal and the figurative sense, meant instant acclaim, after all. Inexhaustible warmth. Unconditional love, even. And what better way to exact some long-overdue vengeance for the theft of his seasonal renown? Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick had been imposing his largess on Jack’s hard-won turf since the early Victorian era, by that stage. If was about time stage tilted back in his (Jack's) favour.

But of course, that had failed miserably too. The loneliness didn’t evaporate just because people sang songs about you, put your likeness on soda cans and postage stamps, or left you plates of cookies. And Jack’s brief stint as a married man had been fraught with complication, to put it mildly. As tends to be the case when one tethers themselves to dark magic made sentient. 

Yet, here he was now. Embraced by a family who cherished him for no grand achievement, no borrowed legacy, but simply for being himself. Surrounded by friends of the same posture. And chief among them, the fiercely brilliant, lionhearted (slightly mad) little woman into whose owl-like eyes he now found himself gazing. Perhaps his witchy associate had always been able to glimpse that secret, bookish side of him, Jack hypothesised, even from the very beginning. She had a knack for divining people like that, after all.

And he found — quietly, privately — that he enjoyed indulging it around her. 

‘Oh, Jack,’ she crooned then, the lines of her forehead growing more pronounced as her eyebrows curved upwards in sympathy. ‘You poor thing. That sounds awful.’

‘All snow under the bridge,’ Jack dismissed her, with a nonchalant flutter of his fingers. ‘I brought a lot of it on myself, truth be told, by being such a bumptious and embittered little toe-rag. Was hardly what one could consider a “victim”, except perhaps of my own hubris. And I got by well enough, for the most part; grew adept at throwing punches before they found me.’

It struck him then just how similar their youths had been, in many respects. Both insatiably curious, both uncommonly clever, both a little too enchanted with the world inside their heads. But where he had learned to mask that part of himself — to skin, gut and carve it into something more palatable — Lucy had leaned into it without apology. She’d lived as her most authentic self, never tempering her intellect or oddity to fit anyone else’s comfort. She hadn’t seemed to care whether people liked her or not, and that, Jack realised with a sudden ache of admiration, was something he deeply envied.

She’d had the courage to be fully herself. After over four-thousand years, he was only just starting to catch up. 

‘…It just makes me all the more grateful for the company I keep in the, ah, present day,’ he finished, with a meaningful look in her direction — making her heart swell with affection for him. To the point that it was almost painful. 

Still warm with wine, and therefore bolder than she might usually be, Lucy lifted a hand and gently brushed his fringe aside, her fingers ghosting once more over the silver streak at his temple. Then they drifted lower, tracing the razor edge of his cheekbone, the angular line of his jaw.

And for the briefest moment she could’ve sworn she felt him lean into her touch.

A result of her magic, she told herself, sternly. That ever-present aura of calm she carried, that unintentional balm she so often became to those around her. Still, the air shifted. A soft glow curled down her arms, filtering through the lacework of her gloves; pink-gold light, like liquid dusk.

She’d found herself doing that more and more, in recent years. Offering subtle, noncommittal touches that hovered just shy of the line between platonic affection and something more intricate. She’d kissed him too, once or twice. Innocent, feather-light things, never more than a press of lips to his temple or a quick peck on the cheek. Friendly. Pointedly unassuming in their brevity. He never responded in kind, of course. Not that she expected him to. But there was always a flicker of something in his face afterwards... bemusement, perhaps. As though he couldn’t quite fathom how someone outside of his immediate family might want to touch him without ulterior motive.

Unable to bear that look on his face now, Lucy pulled him down against her, arms circling his neck, her chin settling softly on his shoulder. Her eyes fluttered shut as she allowed herself to sway with him, slow and dreamlike.

After a long stretch of silence, filled only by the gentle scratch of skates and distant laughter, Jack murmured her name:

‘Luce?’

Lucy only hummed in response, eyes still closed, her breath feathering warmly against the lapel of his coat.

His hands flexed lightly at the bottom of her ribcage, fingers twitching as though he didn’t quite know what to do with them. ‘May I ask you something?’

‘Mm-hm,’ she murmured. ‘Of course.’

‘…What was the fifth space?’

At that, Lucy faltered. Her breath caught almost imperceptibly. She didn’t lift her head, but she went still in his arms, a subtle stiffening that Jack, being so close, couldn’t possibly have missed.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘The fifth space. Earlier, when we were on your broom, you said you had five "safe spaces" in total, but you only told me about four. What was the fifth?’

When Lucy pulled back, just enough to see his face, Jack was looking down at her with a benign sort of curiosity, as though he’d asked her what her favourite soup was.

‘Oh. Uh, well…’ she began, then trailed off, blinking rapidly. Her breath came out in a pale puff between them, and she seemed suddenly very invested in adjusting the seam of her glove. ‘It… it, erm…’

The words lodged themselves somewhere behind her teeth, refusing to budge. Not because she didn’t know the answer. She did. But saying it aloud would be something else entirely.

Before she had chance to think up a sufficient substitute, however, she was interrupted:

An ominous (and very loud) crack rang out across the lake, fracturing the moment as well as the night air.

The trumpet player in the band let out a surprised bleat of sound — a squeaky, off-key note that trailed off mid-phrase — before lowering his instrument. One by one, the others followed suit, their confusion rippling across the makeshift bandstand like wind over reeds. Around them, the dancers and skaters faltered in their steps, uncertain, heads swivelling this way and that in search of the source.

‘Well, that didn’t sound good,’ Jack commented quietly, Lucy's hands sliding down his upper arms as he drew himself upright.

Another crack followed almost immediately, sharper this time, like a rifle shot, accompanied by the gelid squeaks and deep, groaning protest of ice under strain. The surface beneath them trembled faintly, and all at once Lucy became acutely aware of how damp the soles of her shoes felt, glancing down to find that— yep. They were no longer bolstered by icy skates. 

Her stomach dropped.

The small crowd began moving in earnest now, scattered pairs rushing towards the banks in clumsy, startled bunches, coats flaring, blades scraping.

Having followed the direction of Lucy’s gaze, Jack’s expression shifted in an instant, from puzzlement to grim acceptance.

‘Um, Jack? Do you think, maybe, we should—’

‘Yes, yes I do.’

Lucy barely had time to react before his hands were on her shoulders, firm and unyielding. Grunting with the effort, he gave her an almighty shove, sending her stumbling backwards several paces.

At the same time, he flicked his fingers with practiced precision, conjuring another compact snowbank to break her fall. She landed in it with a soft whumph, cushioned and unhurt; but by the time she’d scrambled upright, heart hammering in her chest, he was gone.

The ice where he’d been standing had fractured entirely, leaving little more than a dark, comically Jack-shaped hole its place.

Chapter Text

‘How long is the incubation period for cholera?’

‘You’re not going to get cholera, bud.’

‘Hepatitis then.’

‘Or hepatitis.’

‘Typhoid?’

‘Jack, for goodness’ sake, you’ll be fine. Please, stop worrying.’

‘Easy for you to say, you haven’t just ingested a gallon of primordial soup,’ Jack muttered grumpily, folding his arms over his chest with a dramatic huff. 'I can practically feel the bacteria metropolising my duodenum. Putting up scaffolding, forming unions.'

Lucy drew in a slow, steadying breath, placing the heel of her palm against her temple. 

Much as she adored the man — and her patience with him was, by most reasonable standards, Herculean — this marked the third time they’d looped through this particular exchange. It was beginning to feel less like a conversation and more like a Möbius strip.

‘You swallowed maybe half a mouthful, if that,’ she told him levelly, as though speaking to a recalcitrant child. ‘The worst that’s going to happen is you have a bit of an upset tummy. In which case, call me and I’ll prescribe you something to calm it down. Easy as pie.’

‘Great, yeah. Wonderful. Can’t wait to deal with that while traversing the wilds of Alaska.’

'Odds are you won’t suffer any ill-effects at all, okay? So no need to get all riled up. Now, will you please do as you’re told and sit still? You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.’

With a very over-the-top sigh, as if she’d just asked enormous favour of him, he complied, allowing her to heal the last of several minor-to-moderate scrapes on his palms and forearms. 

By sheer dumb luck, he’d come away from his impromptu dunking largely unscathed. Though extricating him from the lake had required far more effort than Lucy would’ve expected.

For one heart-stopping moment he hadn’t come up, and she had dropped to her knees at the edge of the ice, shrieking his name, hands plunged shoulder-deep into the freezing water. She’d just been bracing herself to dive in after him when he finally burst from the surface, sputtering, soaked, and swearing loudly about something “slimy” that had touched his foot.

It turned out to be a kelpie, drawn to all the commotion like a shark to blood, and furious at having been disturbed from its grazing. It had nipped Jack squarely on the backside before retreating into the lakebed in a flurry of bubbles, leaving him kicking and flailing so wildly that Lucy had nearly gone in herself trying to keep a hold of him.

Eventually — soaked to the elbows, frozen to the bone — they’d made it to the lake’s edge, with Jack complaining bitterly the whole time about how he now needed some sort of aquatic rabies shot.

There’d been a brief moment of precariousness when he had slipped on the muddy verge, landing hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, and pulling Lucy with him in the process. His coat and trousers were promptly baptised in (very smelly) lake sludge, and Lucy had ended up sprawled almost entirely on top of him.

She’d blushed at that, though only faintly, and neither of them had seemed quite sure whether to laugh or apologise first. They’d both asked if the other was alright in the same breath, then assured each other they were, and Lucy had cupped his face with careful hands to inspect the scrapes along his cheek -- thanking him, with a breathless giggle, for breaking her fall. As well as apologising profusely for having been the reason the ice had melted in the first place, though he’d dismissed the latter comment before she’d even finished speaking.

The other skaters had dispersed in record time the moment the ice began to crack, screaming and scrambling for the banks. A few lingered on the shore, alongside the ragtag brass band who’d provided that serendipitous waltz. Several of them had rushed forward offering coats, scarves, and calls to emergency services, but Lucy had waved them off with brisk efficiency.

‘It’s alright,’ she’d said, her arm firmly around Jack’s sodden shoulders. ‘I’m a doctor. I’ll see to it that he gets warmed up.’

That had been enough to disperse any stragglers.

Twenty minutes later found the two of them sat on the edge of the moss-covered boardwalk leading up to the Willow’s front entrance. The snow had stopped falling now, but the temperature continued to plummet with each passing minute, making the surrounding woodland look as if it had been carved from crystal. Flower, leaf and mushroom alike wore coats of glass. The Lake was largely refrozen, though silvery ribbons still flowed where the rain had cleaved deep trenches in the bank, joining a whispering brook that curved around to the east. 

It seemed odd be in a place so secluded, so wild, with the heart of the city still beating around them.

‘Lean down a bit, so I can do your schnoz,’ Lucy instructed, in her designated “Do as I Say, I’m an M.D.” voice. ‘And don't move, okay? Not even an inch. I don't want to poke your eye out.’

'Yes, mom,' Jack quipped blithely, before reverting to a contrite, “ma’am”, when this earned him an unamused look.

Finger a-glow, Lucy proceeded to trace gently over his nose, the scrape melding together beneath her fingertip. For Jack, the sensation was oddly pleasant; like the first touch of balm on cold-chapped skin. There was a faint fizz of magic, but it was gentle. Intimate, almost.

At length, he let his gaze wander her face, entertaining himself with the freckles on the bridge of her nose. The soft scatter of them, like stars dusted across the night’s sky, was oddly compelling, and with little else to do he began playing connect-the-dots in his head — ending up with something vaguely resembling the Pleiades constellation.

‘Did you know that your septum is deviated in one… two… three different directions, Jack?’ Was just one of several observations Lucy made during this time. The others being his “overworked masseter muscles, indicating excessive tooth-grinding”, and a suspicious-looking mole she wanted him to get checked out by her dermatologist buddy. ‘And it feels like your nasal bone might be misaligned. Some old, poorly-healed fracture, if I had to guess.’

Jack only shrugged, unfazed. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve taken more than my fair share of right hooks over the years. Completely unprovoked, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘People get awfully jaundiced around this face,’ he said, with a resigned sort of pride. ‘Jealousy, I suspect. Or dazzled beyond reason by my devilish good looks. That accounts for most of it, anyway.’

Lucy cast him a playfully sceptical look. ‘And the rest?’

‘A few may have been… justified. Somewhat.’

‘Oh?’

Jack tipped his head back obligingly, taking hold of her hand and guiding her finger as he spoke:

‘This one,’ he pointed just below the bridge, ‘was from a Venetian duellist. 1483. He said I insulted his moustache.’

‘And did you?’

‘If you can call pointing out its resemblance to what most healthy adults have growing south of their belt buckles insulting, I suppose, rather than simply good-natured raillery between sparring partners.'

‘I— can,’ Lucy said haltingly, pulling a face at the implication. ‘And do. Very much so.’

Jack sighed as if he were the most grievously misunderstood man in existence. ‘You and he would’ve been in agreement, in that case. He insisted, y'see. I said, “Well, now I am. Are you certain you haven’t engaged in amorous relations with an opossum recently?” Next thing you know I’m out cold.’

‘Seven circles, Jack,’ Lucy muttered reprovingly, though a small smile tugged at her lips. ‘It’s like you have a death wish.’

‘Not a very fervent one, clearly, given my continued survival. But I digress,’ Jack tapped a little further down, ‘this one, is a little sexier. The handiwork of a suffragette. 1907, or there abouts.’

‘A suffra— a suffragette decked you in the face?’

‘Well, not me, exactly. I was masquerading as a particularly odious member of Parliament at the time. For a bet.’

‘A bet?’

‘Lost a game of billiards and it was either that or forfeit my entire life’s earnings. Naturally I chose the former, only to be walloped with an early copy of Votes for Women. Very solid paper stock, too, I might add.’

‘I can imagine.’ Lucy held back a snort.

‘The cause was just. And the blow was… surprisingly well-aimed.’ He sounded almost impressed. ‘I let her walk away thinking she’d gained the upper hand, as it were. Or uppercut, more accurately.’

‘How noble of you.’

‘Thank you, I thought so. I also donated generously to her enterprise -- I mean women and arson, what's not to like, right? Though surprisingly that wasn't a common opinion amongst men at the time.’

'Go figure.'

'Mmgh.'

He gestured again, to the slightly crooked spot near the tip. ‘This was Napoleon.’

Lucy raised a dubious brow. ‘As in...?’

‘As in Napoleon, yes. The bonafide Bonaparte himself. The year was 1802, if I’m not mistaken. Consulta of the Italian Republic, in Lyon. We were both in a foul mood for one reason or another, and the wine was Corsican, to make matters infinitely worse.’

‘What’s wrong with Corsican wine?’

‘What’s right with Corsican wine, would be the better question. To which the answer is “the colour, and little else”. Anyway, I said something unflattering about Josephine’s hat, and Little Nippy — bat-eared that he was — overheard; lunged for me over a wheel of Reblochon. Head-butted me, actually, if we’re being precise. I returned the favour by freezing his boots to the parquet when no one was looking.’

Lucy’s resulting laugh rang like sleigh bells across the iced-over lake.

‘You are so full of it,’ she said, fondly.

‘I swear on my honour as both a gentleman and a sprite.’

‘Mm, not sure that first one passes muster, but okay. What was it you said about the hat?’

'Ah. Yes. That.’

Jack hesitated, his expression flickering between pride and self-reprove. The look of a man who knew he’d been magnificently witty and appallingly out of line all in one go.

'Well,' he began slowly, clearing his throat, 'I may have drawn a comparison between it and those traditionally worn by members of the light cavalry. The Hussars, as they were more formally known back then. All very dashing types. Braided jackets, sabres, excessive plumage, etcetera.'

Lucy was already rubbing her temples, having immediately sensed where this was going. ‘I know of them. Go on.’

'And I might,' he continued, a little sheepishly now, 'have remarked that her close associations with their ilk were evidently beginning to influence her sartorial choices. Which would’ve been a perfectly benign comment to make… had she not recently concluded a spectacularly public affair with a Hussar lieutenant named Hippolyte Charles, while her dear hubby was away commanding the French army.'

'Oh, my, God.'

'Yeah.' Jack nodded with a click of his tongue, sucking air through his teeth. 'Yep. It, ah… it was far from my finest moment, even I’ll admit. I feigned ignorance of the fact, of course, but surprisingly no one believed me.'

'Wonders never case.’

‘Indeed they don’t. Turns out Monsieur was still a little sensitive about the whole situation, fresh as it was.'

'I mean, wouldn’t you be?' Lucy challenged him, with an incisive look. 'If it was your wife?' 

'Well, now, that’s different. I’d never give my wife reason to stray.' Jack’s tone veered towards the lofty, a wolfish twinkle entering in his eye. 'See, rumour had it Le petit caporal, as he was so aptly named, suffered the same deficiencies in “armament” — wink, wink; nudge, nudge — as he did in stature. As well as lacking a certain finesse, where procedural tactics were concerned. Young Josie, by contrast, was much less… green, shall we say?’

'So,' Lucy spoke slowly, putting her palms together and slicing them forward through the air, 'you’re telling me this guy had zero issues invading Prussia, Spain, the Netherlands, even, but when it came to marital congress, he—'

'Tended to overrun in the first assault? Suffered from a terminal case of short range, rapid fire? Lost the battle before it even began? Take your pick of military euphemisms, all of them are correct.'

Lucy watched him with her mouth partially open, torn between scandal and amusement. 'You really are a font of gossip, aren’t you?'

Jack gave a modest little shrug, tilting his head just so. 'It finds me.'

She let out a soft chuckle, returning her attention to the scratch on his nose, the pads of her fingers feather-light against his skin. A comfortable quiet fell between them as she finished patching him up, the hush of snow settling in the trees, the crackling of ice along the Lake’s edges, and the occasional muffled hoot of an owl. 

'There,' she said finally, when she felt sure he wasn't going to scar, drawing back to examine her handiwork with a satisfied smile. 'Good as new.'

'Still as dashing as ever?’ Jack struck a pose; chest puffed, hand on hips.

Yes. Always.

'I mean, you look the same. So I’ll leave that up to your interpretation.'

He placed a palm over his heart. 'Your praise humbles me.'

‘…You know,' Lucy changed the subject quickly, brushing a stray fleck of sludge from his collar, 'this might actually be the second time you’ve made history in this park.'

‘Second time? What was the first?’

Leaning back on her hands, she cast her gaze out towards the snowy environs. 'There’s a whole local legend built around a little… incident that happened here about twelve years ago. Involving a certain someone blundering through the Ramble in a scandalously short bathrobe. Not naming any names, ahem.’

‘Oh, good God,' Jack groaned. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

She shook her head, mischief playing around at the corners of her mouth. ‘Totally serious. They call him the Nude Rambler, apparently. Legend has it, if you toss a coin into the Bethesda Fountain and say his name three times he’ll emerge from the mist and smack you over the head with a pair of hot stone tongs.'

'Hot stone tongs?'

'Still warm to this day, they say. And speaking of warm, do you need me to cast some heating spells on your suit? Dry it out a little?'

'No, no. Even burning with embarrassment as I am, I think I can just about manage, thank you.'

With a snap of his fingers, Jack conjured a ripple of magic. The air shimmered obligingly, a soft heat-haze rising from his clothing like steam off asphalt; but the spell was only partially effective. His coat remained fairly damp, stained an eye-catching palette of mud-browns and algae-greens.

Looking vaguely betrayed, Jack rose to his feet, only for his loafers to emit a spectacularly undignified sound, somewhere between a deflating balloon and an exuberant raspberry.

'That was my shoes,' he clarified quickly, the look of horror on his face making Lucy giggle almost as much as the noise itself.

'Y'know, some people might consider that a milestone in out friendship,' she teased him, perfectly aware that he was telling the truth. 

'No, really, it—' He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, trying to recreate the noise. Nothing.

More determined now, he gave a few sharper hops. Still nothing.

'Hold on,' he mumbled.

What followed was Jack Frost — centuries-old winter sprite, herald of generation-defining storms, bane of prominent French statesmen — bouncing up and down on the spot as though riding an invisible pogo stick. The resulting cacophony, paired with his look of triumphant vindication, had Lucy half-collapsed onto the boardwalk in a fit of silent laughter.

'You sound like the Pixar lamp!' she wheezed out, clutching her ribs. 

‘You see!?’

‘Okayokayokay, stop, please, before I pull something!’ 

‘Not — until -- you say you -- believe me!’

'Jack!'

'I can do this all night, Miller. I’ll compose an entire wind concerto if I have to—‘

'No, Jack, seriously!'

Heeding her sudden change of tone, Jack stumbled to a standstill, his shoes uttering one last, pitiful squelch. When he followed her wide-eyed gaze over his shoulder, however, he understood why she looked so anxious all of a sudden. 

A pair of NYPD officers was fast approaching from the other side of the island, the light from their torches swinging around like stroboscopes. They looked like they meant business.

‘Shhhoot. Okay, um— uh—’ Lucy scrambled to her feet. 

Thinking quickly, she yanked Jack down to her level and set about trying to glamour his ears to appear less pointy. 

‘Ouch!’ he yelped, trying and failing to pull away. ‘Hey now!’

‘Shh!’

‘What on earth are you— ? You’re messing up my gorgeous locks!’

‘I’m sorry, Jack, but you have to stop wriggling!’

The enchantment was slow to complete, so in the end Lucy resorted to simply pressing Jack’s hair flat over his ears until he looked like he’d been possessed by the spirit of Sheldon Cooper; albeit an unusually short and dishevelled incarnation of the character. At the same time she nudged her hat, broomstick and satchel under the boardwalk with the heel of her shoe, ensuring that they were no longer visible.

Her wand was shoved hastily down the front of her bodice, a manoeuvre that required her to fumble open the high neckline of her blouse, fingers scrabbling at the tiny buttons until there was just enough space to wedge the implement between fabric and sternum.

‘Okay, that is neither safe nor practical.’ Jack averted his eyes quickly, ears pinking at the tips. ‘How many times have I told you to buy a holster? If it goes off accidentally, it’s right next to your heart!’

Pretending not to’ve heard him, Lucy just about managed to nestle the wand between her breasts (taking great care not to jostle it too much in the process, just in case it did go off) before a woman’s voice said, ‘Evenin’ sir. Ma’am.’

She and Jack glanced round in unison.

The two officers could not be more different. One was tall, spindly, light-haired, with a pair of bifocals perched on the end of his long nose and a witless smile smeared across his narrow face. The other was stout, dark-haired, and dour-mouthed. 

‘We received a tip-off, ‘bout ten minutes ago, that some unfortunate fella had fallen through the ice,’ the latter said, while brandishing her walkie. ‘You two wouldn’t happen to know anything about that… would you?’

‘Us?’ Jack prised Lucy's fingers away from his hair, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘Ah--' He coughed into his fist. 'N-No. No, no. Sorry, can’t help you.’

‘Really?’ The officer raised a skeptical brow. ‘Kooky-looking couple, apparently. White male, brownish-grey hair, mid-forties. Blue pinstriped suit that, quote, “looks like something Elton John would wear in a Caesars Palace production of Guys and Dolls”, end quote. With a lil’ ginger lady. Mid-to-late thirties. Wearin’ a pink dress that, quote, “I betcha five bucks was stolen from the costume department at Wicked — you should look into that”, end quote.’

Jack and Lucy exchanged looks, then glanced down at themselves. 

It was a picture-perfect description.

‘…Oh yes!’ Jack said, after a beat. ‘Yeah, that was us. Mind like a sieve, sorry! Bu-but it’s all good now, as you can clearly see. And her dress is magenta, actually.’ 

He sent Lucy a solicitous look, as though he’d just thwarted a profound injustice in her honour. She pressed her mouth into a thin, bloodless line.

‘You went in the water?’ the female officer asked, looking him up and down.

‘Yes?’

‘That water there? Sub-zero temperatures?’

‘…Yah-huh.’ Jack’s voice wavered uncertainly.

‘He don’t look all that bothered by it, do he, Chief?’ the other officer piped up unexpectedly, surprising Jack and Lucy with his Appalachian drawl. ‘Not shiverin’ or nothin’. Hell, my brother Daryl done fell in the crick behind our folks’ place, back when we was kids. This was Dahlonega, middle of winter — snow and ice and whut-have-you. Boy were bluer than the eyes of a saint when he come out! Maw said he should go audition for that bald-y men theatre group from the eighties.’

‘Do you know what language he’s speaking?’ Jack muttered to Lucy.

‘Jack,’ she admonished softly.

‘I’m just saying, if I'd wanted to be regaled with tales from the panhandle I'd have rewatched Little House on the Prairie.'

‘—But you look toasty as anything, mister. Look at that rosey glow — hoo-ey! Like some dewy-eyed schoolboy.’

‘Oh, well thank-thank you!’ Jack scoffed, stuttering in that way he always did when someone appealed to his ego. ‘I’ve a very regimented skincare routine, you know. The key ingredient is retinoid. You can source it from pretty much any drugstore worth their—’

‘I have medical training,' Lucy cut in quickly, concerned and a little vexed that they were receiving such scrutiny from the pair. ‘I was able to bring his core body temperature back up in no time.’

‘How?’ both officers asked, in chorus.

‘Oh, you know. Manual stimulation of the extremities to encourage blood flow. Heightened cardiac function to maintain vasodilation. Prolonged body to body contact for insulation. The usual methods.’

‘She’s very thorough,’ Jack offered, with his most ingratiating smile. ‘Not to mention Class A Hugger. Warm as anything.’

‘Like that-there snowman fella!’ said the male officer, happily. ‘From, er… aw, shoot. What was that movie called again, Dor? “Cold”?’

The female officer, however, had her eyes trained on Jack, taking in his tousled hair and clothing with obvious suspicion.

Drawing back a bit, she murmured into her subordinate’s ear, ‘Betcha anything this is the other report we received tonight.’

‘Fella in the Jedi cloak? Shootin’ spitballs at passersby?’

'No.'

'The lady with the live racoon for a hat?'

‘Nah, man, the Section 245. Over by Wagner.’

Section 245? Jack mouthed at Lucy, who shrugged helplessly.

The male officer raised skeptical brows. ‘Think they look like the type?’

‘Her, I could give or take. Sometimes the innocent-lookin’ ones are the worst offenders. But him?’ Officer 1 glanced in Jack’s direction again, her expression hardening. He waved at her nervously. ‘Without a damn doubt. Got it written all over him.’

‘Should we write ‘em up? Class B Misdemeanour n’ all that.’

‘Wouldn’t hurt, would it? Though, I’m more interested in what they were doing out on the ice in the first place. Given that skating on Central Park lakes without a permit is highly illegal.’

'Highly—' Lucy began, voice sharp with incredulity. 

She turned on Jack with her hands on her hips, looking for all the world like a displeased schoolmistress.

‘Did you hear that, Jack? Skating on the lake is highly illegal.’

'Oh...?' 

Jack gave a breathy little chuckle, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to panic. 

'Surely not,' he said lightly, looking anywhere but at her face. 'That-that doesn’t sound right. I’m-I’m-I’m sure I’d have been aware if that were the case.’

Lucy’s eyes narrowed, and without breaking her gaze, she mouthed the words: Pants on fire. 

Jack looked appropriately chastened.

‘Wu-well— how were we supposed to know that?' He pivoted to the officers again, arms spread wide in appeal. 'It’s not like it’s written anywhere, after all.’

At which point, the female officer calmly bent down and wiped the snow from the base of the metal post they’d been sitting next to for the last twenty minutes. Beneath the snow, in white block letters against red enamel:

NO SKATING. VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO FINE.

Jack blinked at it.

Then gave another wobbly chuckle. 'Oh. Well. Would y’look at that? In bold and everything, goodness. ’

The policewoman did not laugh. Instead, she straightened up with a long-suffering exhale, pulled out a citation pad, and began to write.

'Alright,' she said crisply. ‘So, we’re looking at a civil fine for trespassing on restricted park grounds. Minimum five hundred dollars. Add to that the unauthorised recreational use of a protected reservoir, an additional citation for endangerment, and that Sec 245, and we’ll be issuing you both summonses. Expect to appear in court within the next three or four weeks.'

Lucy made a noise like a strangled cat, her face draining of colour.

'Summonses? Court?'

'Ohh, come now, surely there's a more workable solution to this?' Jack attempted to salvage the situation, adopting what he clearly thought was a convincing tone. ‘I-I-I think we’ve all had a long night, hm? Surely there’s room for just a little bit of leniency here, Officer…’ he took a tentative step forwards, squinting down at the female officer’s badge, ‘what does that say there? Linda?'

'It says Doreen, and no, there definitely is not. So I’d appreciate it if you could back the hell up.’

‘“Doreen". What a beautiful name! Really, ah, rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?’ Another step. 'Though I've long considered myself quite the cunning linguist. Heh. You know, I dated a woman named Doreen once. Great gal, real spirited type. Keyed my car at one point, in fact. I won’t go into specifics… Well, hallucinogenics were involved, and—‘

‘Sir, don't make me use my taser. I said back. Up.’

'Jack, what the heck are you doing?' Lucy hissed, grabbing his forearm in alarm.

'The way I look at it, Miller, we have a couple of options here,' Jack whispered back — unsettlingly calm, given the circumstances. 'Either of which necessitates the implementation of two great aptitudes of mine.'

'Those being?'

'Extraordinary magical ability.’

'And?'

He licked his palm, smoothing it over his hair. 'And raw sex appeal.'

Her stomach dropped. ‘Oh, God. Jack, I really don't think--'

'A-tsh-tsh-tsh.' She suddenly found herself silenced by a cold finger to the lips. ‘Just leave this to the master, he knows what he's doing. I-hi mean, really. What’s the worst that could happen, hmm?’

The cell door slammed shut with a laborious clangour, making both Jack and Lucy flinch.

‘Huh,’ Jack mused, rubbing idly at the inflamed marks encircling his wrists. ‘Well. That's not exactly how was hoping things would go, all things considered.’

'How were you hoping they would go, Jack?' Lucy asked with genuine intrigue, baffled that someone with his penchant for mischief wouldn’t have anticipated such an outcome from the get-go.

Then again. This was the same man whose name preceded an impressive catalogue of poorly thought out, spur-of-the-moment schemes and ideas, so perhaps she herself ought to have seen it coming. 

‘A cheeky slap on the Sitzfleisch, perhaps?' Jack answered, in a genial sort of tone. 'A few choice words? Certainly not a trip to the slammer and— what appears to be mild anaphylaxis, oh my…’

‘What? Come here, let me have a look.’

She crossed the cell in two quick steps and caught his hands, turning them over to inspect the irritated skin. The marks were red, raised, and already beginning to blister faintly along the edges.

‘Contact urticaria,’ she murmured, as to herself as to him. ‘Probably from the steel cuffs. An iron alloy.’

‘See, now, this is exactly why I always buy aluminium. Much more fae-friendly.’

The quip — spoken pointedly in the officer’s direction — was issued with a devilish grin and a playful eyebrow-waggle, and oh, brilliant. Fantastic. Now Lucy was picturing all sorts of things she probably shouldn’t have been picturing.

Not right now, anyway. Not when they had far more pressing matters to deal with.

Following his ill-conceived attempts to wheedle his way out of the charges (a performance he’d later describe as “daring yet courageous”), Jack had earned himself a second round of citations: Obstruction. Attempted bribery ($52.80, and an expired coupon to the Artisan Swiss Cheese of the Month Club). And, to top it all off: “Intent to subvert justice via the offer of amorous favours”.

Lucy, ever loyal, had interjected at that point to defend him, coming up with some bull-hockey story about how he suffered from a chronic, incurable condition that made his mouth move faster than his brain, and please-oh-please couldn’t the officers please make an excuse for him this one time? 

No, had been the resounding answer to that, and she was immediately slapped with obstruction charges herself. 

Handcuffs followed.

They’d been marched through the rest of the park like naughty schoolchildren — Jack’s shoes flatulating all the while — and bundled into the back of a police cruiser that was already three-fourths occupied by what could only be described as the largest and most imposing human either of them had ever seen.

Apparently arrested minutes prior for a delightful cocktail of drug offences and assault-and-battery charges, the man bore a startling resemblance to Frankenstein’s monster. That is, if Frankenstein’s monster had the word “DECAPATATE” [sic] tattooed on all ten of his knuckles and was missing half an ear. His teeth were gold, or perhaps just that shade from disuse, and his smile, when he greeted them, was wide and snarling.

So great was his bulk, in fact, that Jack and Lucy had spent the drive over virtually superglued to the window; Lucy all but sitting in Jack’s lap (trying very hard not to overthink the fact), while Jack attempted valiantly to put as much of himself between her and “tiny”, as he’d so heedlessly referred to their company, as physically possible. 

This, despite Lucy’s murmured protestations that the guy was “probably just misunderstood”. 

By some stroke of fortune, or perhaps divine intervention, he had been taken to a separate part of the precinct on arrival. And now here they were.

The holding cell they’d been led into was about the size of a generous broom cupboard, and peculiarly double-functioned as the officers’ office area. The desk — wedged awkwardly in the corner and piled high with paperwork, takeaway containers, and a lava lamp — appeared to be their command station. A string of Christmas lights, long past due for takedown, hung crookedly above it, and on the adjacent wall, a corkboard bore a menagerie of mugshots and wanted posters.

There was a barred divider halfway across the room, separating the “offenders” from the officers’ workspace. Jack squinted at the clipboard taped to the inside of the cell door:

HOLDING / REPORTING SUITE 3-B.

'Doreen,' he crooned mournfully, as the party in question bustled past — reattaching a massive skeleton key to the carabiner jangling at her hip. 'Baby. Sweetheart. Why’re we fighting? I thought we were on the same page here.'

'We ain’t even in the same library,' Doreen replied coolly, sparing him only the barest flick of a sideways glance. 'And it’s Officer Lovejoy to you. Refer to me as that or not at all.'

'What about— ?'

'That. Or nothing. At all. Capeesh?'

Lucy looked up from his now-healed wrists, her expression teetering somewhere between disbelief and anguish. 'Would you please stop talking?' she dropped her voice to a harried whisper. 'It’s like you’ve learned nothing in the past forty-five minutes. Maybe let me handle the negotiations from now on, alright?'

Jack held up his hands defensively. 'I’m just trying to butter her up a bit! Lay on a little frosty charm.'

'Jack. Bud. Listen to me now, this is important. You have got to let this go. Some people just aren’t charmable that way. It's not a reflection of you, or your, um... aptitudes, it's a reflection of the American Judicial System!'

'Now, see, I don’t buy that,' he said, shaking his head emphatically.

'Jack--'

'I'm sorry but I don't. Everyone has an Achille's heel hidden somewhere; a soft spot; a thing that makes them tick. I just haven’t figured out what hers is yet, but I will. Oh-ho, mark my words.'

Before Lucy could issue some sort of rejoinder to the effect of, “please let me attach electrodes to your scalp sometime, I’d love to study your brain”, or "your death wish is showing and boy is it bigger than I expected", a low growl rumbled from the left-hand side of the cell, where the two of them glanced over to find a large Alsatian tethered to a bolt ring in the floor. Heavy-set and greying along the muzzle, the dog nonetheless looked capable of reducing someone to shreds with alarming efficiency.

'…Heh. Nice doggy,' Jack offered, hand inching cautiously toward its scruff.

“Nice doggy” barked — a sharp, guttural burst that shook its jowls. Jack yelped and leapt back, nearly knocking Lucy off balance.

'Name’s Sergeant Sipowicz,' Doreen called, not looking up from her desk. 'He's due to retire next Tuesday, but the old fella's still got some bite in him yet. Once he’s latched onto something, there’s no letting go, so unless you’re keen on losing an appendage I’d avoid petting him. Also, step away from the bars,' she added, almost as an afterthought. 'I like a little personal space while I work, and one of yous is starting to smell a pretty ripe over there.'

'Now, do you really mean that, or are you just playing hard to get?' Jack slipped into that smarmy, flirtatious tone again — unable to resist the impulse, it seemed. …Much to Lucy's chagrin. 'Ooh! Don’t tell me. This all just an elaborate role-play situation, right? You almost had me going there, you saucy minx.’

‘Oy vey, Jack,’ Lucy groaned, dragging both hands down her face in abject despair. She was beginning to deeply regret not casting a tongue-tying jinx on him the moment they’d walked through the door. Maybe even a stasis charm for good measure.

Perhaps he truly did suffer from some condition that caused his mouth to engage several seconds ahead of his brain, it’d hardly be a surprise at this point.

Too (and if she was being entirely honest with herself), she was also the slightest bit miffed. A couple of hours ago it had taken extensive coaxing to get him to so much as rest a hand on her waist without tensing like a skittish deer. She may as well have instructed him to unfasten his trousers and take her on the spot, the way he’d looked at her. He’d averted his eyes and gone pink merely from her unbuttoning the top of her dress. Yet here he was now, hurling innuendo after innuendo at the police officer like it was a competitive sport.

Seriously, what was it about her that turned him into a stuffy Victorian schoolmaster? Was she really that lacking in allure? What did a girl have to do to get “a little frosty charm” around here — set herself on fire? 

It was manifest in their every interaction, she had come to realise over time. In the way he conducted himself around her: Warm, attentive, but rarely coy or arch. He looked at her in a way other men didn’t, with deep respect, keen interest, with a soft admiration that felt at times almost innocent, strangely at odds with the sharp wit and waggish humour that so often shaped his words. It was fascinating. Flattering. Infuriating. 

And annoyingly, it only made her adore him more.

Because he saw her, every part of her. Her virtues, her flaws. Every dimension mapped out with his usual rigour — a level of detail comparable to that of his needlework projects, or the inner structures of the snowflakes he spent so many hours crafting. …All except the one that ached for him.

Each time their eyes met, Lucy found herself searching, hoping, for something more. A flicker of the longing that smouldered — subtle, yet persistent — beneath her own unassuming exterior. But all she ever found in his gaze was a kind of guarded reverence. Whatever lay beyond that… honestly, she’d no idea. It was like trying to see through a thick blanket of snow, to discern whether the soil underneath was warm and fertile or frozen and barren.

She wanted him to look at her and want. To see her not just as a close friend — someone to do retail therapy with, gossip on the phone to, or indulge his secret bookish side around — but as a woman. A woman with romantic potential, at that. Instead, he held himself at a distance.

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I excel at roleplaying.’ He straightened his tie importantly, blithely undeterred. 'Among other things, of course. Though I will need a moment to get into character beforehand, just FYI. Warm up the ol’ acting chops. The safe word here is "Napoleon", for clarity's sake--'

'Napoleon,' Doreen cut in, flat as concrete.

‘...Y-uh. Are you just trying it out, or— ?'

'Don't test me, Pinstripes,’ she snapped abruptly. ‘Listen to your pretty friend and take them fancy feet to the back of the cell, ASAP.’

Jack let out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort, but shuffled back without further comment. As he passed Lucy, however, something in her expression gave him pause.

Her brow was drawn taught, her eyes shadowed in a way that didn’t speak of fatigue alone. Strained. Almost… sad? That wasn’t like her. Not like her at all.

Of course, the situation was far from ideal, but up until a few seconds ago she’d borne it, if not with cheer, then with her usual dry humour and brisk competence. Stoic, steady and unwaveringly professional. Now she looked like someone who’d just realised they’d been left out in the cold.

A twinge of unease wormed its way into his chest as he studied the expression out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t upset with him, was she? It wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable to presume so, truth be told. This was supposed to have been their “Galentine’s Day,” after all, and it had spiralled into a minor disaster, all because of his choices. His poor judgment. And then, just to crown the evening, he’d just spent the last almost-an-hour practicing (and failing spectacularly at) the art of seduction, instead of telling her just how sorry he was about that.

He’d felt a touch uncomfortable doing it, even in the moment, with Lucy right there. Even more-so now that she had seen him strike out not once, not twice, but three times, which was commensurate in embarrassment to him falling through his own ice. Yet, he’d shoved that discomfort aside and put on his best show. Told himself she’d know it was merely an act, a farce choreographed in the interest of getting them out of the situation.

It only occurred to him now that perhaps she hadn’t known.

Not that he thought her jealous in any way. No, no, nothing like that. But still. Any friend would be justified in feeling a bit stung. She might have presumed he was trying to… blow her off, or something. To abandon their night in favour of spending it with another woman. And in a much more intimate capacity at that.

His gut twisted unpleasantly at the thought, and while it was entirely possible that whatever deadly amoeba he’d ingested back at the lake was now staging a coup, he suspected the cause to be far more emotional in origin. He wanted to reassure Lucy that of course he hadn’t meant it that way; that the night still mattered to him, she still mattered — more than she could possibly know. That if he could go back, he’d choose a better plan. One that didn’t involve turning his full attention on someone else for the sake of expediency. But this hardly seemed the time or the place for such a conversation.

Still, he made no further advances on the officer. No smirks or ridiculous lines. Not just because of Lucy (though mostly because of Lucy), but because he knew when to recognise a boundary being drawn. The former’s increasingly baleful looks had made that perfectly clear, even before the implementation of their designated “safe word”.

Stepping forward in his place, Lucy proceeded to school her voice into something cheery and polite as she attempted a more strategic approach: 

‘How long do you plan to keep us here, Officer?'

Doreen glanced up with an eerily tight, restrained smile, catching them both off-guard.

'Well, now, that depends,’ she replied, mimicking the other woman’s sweet tone.

‘It… wait, it does?’ Lucy found her resolve lifting just a fraction. ‘On what?’

'How much you piss me off.' The smile dropped instantaneously, taking with it any hopes of a civil discussion. 'You too, Lil’ Red. I ain’t fooled by them big ol’ eyes, step back. Dillard!' the officer barked over her shoulder.

Her subordinate looked up from his box of takeout, a single noodle dangling from his lip like a dead worm.

'Ugh. I don’t recall telling you you could go on break. Go fill out the paperwork on these two.'

'Mmph— yes, ma’am!'

'And follow up that tip about the potential break-in at the top of the ESB while you’re at it. See if there’s any evidence on their surveillance cameras.’

'On it!' he called, wiping sauce off his chin and bustling out, still chewing.

Doreen turned back to a very guilty-looking Jack and Lucy, regarding them as one might something moist and offensively-smelling scraped off the sole of their boot.

‘Y’know, I've seen some weird shit in my day, but you two? Some spooky-ass vibes coming off the both o’ yous. Expect a long night. Bed's over there,' she gestured to a narrow steel pallet mounted against the wall, ‘trash can's in the corner. If you need anything else, no you don’t. Make yourselves at home.'

Jack's hand went up tentatively, prompting a look of deepest exasperation.

‘…Yes?’

‘Charming quarters, truly. Very… gulag-chic, and I don’t mean that negatively. But, ah, what if one of us requires access to the necessary house?'

'I beg thy pardon, Little Lord Fauntleroy?'

'You know…? The jakes? The garderobe? The powder room?'

'He means the lavatory,' Lucy intervened, side-eyeing him with a mixture of affection and fatigue. ‘I think.’

Grinning humourlessly, Doreen nodded towards an aluminium partition in the corner of the cell -- around six foot in scale -- behind which, they discovered, was an utterly filthy toilet and sink combination, paired with a half-used roll of toilet paper that looked as though it might qualify as its own biohazard. 

'Be my guest.'

‘Heavens above.’ Jack’s complexion drained to the pallor of skim milk, and Lucy instinctively put her hands out to catch him in case he fell down in a swoon. 

Instead, he darted behind her, regarding the aforementioned facilities as if they might suddenly leap at him and attack. His fingers were like an iron vice as they gripped her shoulders, tilting her ever so slightly backwards.

‘I'd rather die,’ he declared, with steadfast conviction. ‘In fact I'm not convinced it hasn't happened already. Yes, this— this right here is Hell and I am in it.’

‘Well, look on the bright side,’ she replied, more distracted than consoling as she glanced towards the officer again, now tapping away at her cellphone. The name “Vin” flashed across the screen, momentarily piquing Lucy's interest. ‘At least you can stand up to use it, for the most part. Some of us don’t have that luxury.’

'Assuming something doesn’t reach up from the u-bend and drag me in, you mean, which seems altogether too plausible at this point. Gods…' Jack swallowed thickly, adopting the darkly pensive air of a Romantic poet. 'What could I possibly have done to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment, huh? I'm a good person, I pay my taxes. Attend jury duty. Haven't committed any serious crimes in at least a decade or so.’

Lucy looked up at him then, one brow arching incredulously. 

‘What could you possibly have done?’

Of course, he knew perfectly well what he’d done. And now would really have been the time for that apology.

But because he was Jack — and because he’d never quite mastered the art of distilling complicated feelings into uncomplicated, sincere words — it didn’t come out like that.

In fact, it didn’t come out at all.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

‘That’s what I said,' came his muttered reply; by far the worst thing he could have possibly said at that moment.

‘You don’t think trying to avoid arrest using “raw sex appeal” might have at least been a contributing factor, somewhere along the way?’ 

'I-I mean, in my defence, it’s never failed me thus far. Must be the hair.'

‘It’s not the hair,' said Doreen, now flipping through her effects.

‘Hey, we have rights, y'know!’ he bellowed, in an abrupt (and painfully loud) change of tactics, setting his conscience to one side for the time being. 'It may have been a couple hundred years since I went to law school but I remember that much! The right to a decent photo, for one!'

‘The right to remain silent, for two, but you seem to keep forgetting about that one.’ Another page turned.

'You went to law school?' asked a bewildered Lucy, uncovering her ears.

'I cannot believe I had to have a mugshot taken looking like this,' he whined, gesturing down at his mud-stained attire with a scowl.

'Wait a minute, you went to law school?'

‘--That'll definitely've been my worst one yet.’

Lucy tutted softly. 'Is that really the thing to be focusing on here, Jack?'

'Easy for you to say, you looked great.'

‘I--' she stared to say, and then faltered, not having expected the compliment. ‘…You... you really think so?'

'And yes, I did go to law school, and a very good one at that. Not “Harvard Good”, admittedly, but we can’t all be prodigies.’

‘When? No, sorry, bigger picture: Why?’

‘Why does anyone do anything?' He rolled his shoulders. ‘The years were long, I was bored.’

From behind them, Doreen let out a snort. 'And you thought studying law would help with that?'

'It passed the time,’ Jack retorted waspishly, then moved startlingly close to Lucy and whispered in her ear, 'You know what, she's not that tough. I think you can take her.'

‘What?'

'C'mon, a confusion jinx, a good strong stunning spell, it’ll take two seconds! And then we can poof back home and pretend none of this ever happened, eh? Whaddya say?’

'Jack, no. You know the drill,’ she shot back, appalled. ‘“Measures as extreme as stupefaction spells are to be employed only in the most dire or exceptional of circumstances”.'

‘Oh and these aren't "dire or exceptional circumstances”?! Our bathroom is open plan. Open plan, Lucy! To say nothing of it having recently been vacated by Jabba the Hut, by all appearances. I mean this-this-this place makes Alcatraz look like the Ritz!’

‘I… can't pretend I don't have my scruples about that too, in all fairness.' Lucy canted her head to the side in a concessional manner. ‘We’ve only been here five minutes and I've already spotted several human rights violations. No access to proper sanitation. No provision for heating — it’s freezing in here.'

'That might just be me, actually.'

'And look at this poor guy.' She indicated the man in the neighbouring cell, who was lying face down on the concrete floor in a state of total insensibility. He looked alarmingly frail, his body half-draped in a ratty, threadbare blanket that offered little warmth or dignity. His skin had a yellow-grey pallor that caught Lucy’s eye at once — jaundiced, unmistakably hepatic in origin. 'He doesn't even have a bed! Excuse me, sir? Are you okay down there?’

The man didn’t respond. 

‘Sir,’ Lucy pressed, concerned now, ‘can you hear me? …Sir…?’

‘Maybe he’s dead.’

‘He’s not dead, Jack.’

‘He smells dead.’

Suddenly the figure belched loudly, making Jack snort in surprise and cling to Lucy’s arm.

‘We tried giving him a bed,’ Doreen piped up, as she eased herself into her desk chair and opened up her laptop. 'He kept falling off the damn thing. Public inebriation.’

'A -- hic -- men,’ the man slurred in his sleep.

‘—Repeat offender.’

‘He still deserves a proper place to rest,’ Lucy countered compassionately.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, did I say inebriation? I meant urination.’

‘O— …kay. That’s, uh, definitely not ideal, but—’

‘And aggravated assault of a pigeon, on top of that.’

Lucy’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Mm-hm. Drop-kicked that sonofabitch right through the doors of Macey’s. Couple of octogenarians fainted on the spot.’

Lucy gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. 

‘The poor thing,’ she lamented. ‘Was it… alright?’

‘It lived, if that’s what you mean.’

‘…Gosh.’

‘Still think he should get a bed?’

‘I— w-well. Erm…’

Circumstances notwithstanding, Jack couldn’t help the fond smile that twisted his lips as he watched his friend’s moral compass oscillate wildly from one actuality to another. She just couldn’t help herself, it seemed. Always on the look-out for another noble cause to throw her shoulder behind. He wondered which of the two tenets for which she routinely expressed enthusiasm/support was going to win out here, human rights or animal welfare. 

‘Even so,’ she said, after a measured pause, her tone deliberately calm. She brought her hands together and joined her fingertips in a thoughtful steeple; the very picture of someone working hard to maintain their composure. ‘He’s a human being, not a caged animal. Though of course, I don’t consider it ethical to keep animals locked up, either, unless it’s for conservational purposes, and even then they should be given adequate space and environmental enrichment.’ 

Ah. Both apparently. 

‘—And if he was intoxicated he probably didn’t know what he was doing. Which leads me to point out that he hasn’t been put in the semi-prone position, as advised by the International Liaison Committee on Resuscitation.’

‘So?’

’S— ? So that’s really dangerous, officer!’ Lucy’s tone climbed a register, brittle with anxiety. ‘We all know how susceptible drunk people are to vomiting, and in the case of unconscious supine patients regurgitated fluids can collect in the pharynx, leading to aspiration and, worse case scenario, death. Speaking as a medical professional, it’s not something I can simply overlook. And neither should the DOJ Civil Rights Division.’

The lid of the laptop smacked down suddenly, making Lucy jump.

‘Alright. Listen here, Elle Woods.’ The policewoman leant forwards on her desk, serving her with a look so sour it could’ve curdled water. ‘I don’t take kindly to being threatened.’

‘What?’ Lucy balked. ’N-No, gosh, I wasn’t—’

‘Especially in my own office. Now, I’ve spent the last sixteen hours babysitting drunk tourists, processing bogus leads, and listening to Clive over yonder narrate his Grindr messages out loud like a goddamn audiobook. So you’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood to listen to some squeaky-voiced, goody-two-shoes lecture from a pint-sized Barbie Land expatriate playing doctor in a princess dress. This ain’t a nineties romcom, and you are not Reese Witherspoon.’

‘I promise, I didn’t mean to suggest— r-really, it’s the New York State Commission of Correction who has a legal responsibility to—’

But Doreen steamrolled right through Lucy’s objection, jabbing a finger in her direction. ‘You wanna make some sort of formal complaint? Go right ahead. I’ll march you to Internal Affairs myself, if and when you get outta here. Until then, pipe down and enjoy the accommodations. You and The Creature from the Black Lagoon back there aren’t going anywhere until I say so.’

‘Okay, y’know what? I really don’t appreciate your tone,’ Jack bristled, straightening up now with his hands on his hips. ‘I know the two of us have had our differences in the past, Doreen, but this is a step too far, even for you. First of all, no one makes fun of this lady’s—’ (he flung a pointed finger in Lucy’s direction) ‘—unfortunate vertical deficit but me. Same goes for the squeaky chipmunk voice.’

‘Hey.’ Lucy frowned, affronted.

‘—And second of all, she’s absolutely right! Nothing about this cesspit you call a “cell” adheres to the standard of cleanliness and physical decency that is expected in all correctional settings as part of a respectful, humane and rehabilitative culture. Frankly, it’s a disgrace. And you should be ashamed.’

There was a stunned pause while both women processed what had just come out of his mouth. 

When neither responded for several seconds Jack glanced over at Lucy with a shit-eating smirk. ‘Told you I studied law,' he practically glowed. 'Apparently I remembered more of it than I thought. In the words of the inimitable Celine Dion, "it's all coming back to me now".’

A sudden urge to fan herself came over her, and she swallowed reflexively. That had been far more attractive than she cared to admit. In fact, the only thing that could make it better would be if he were to whip out a citation or two—

‘And as per regulations fifteen to eighteen of the Mandela Rules, paragraph three, subsection D,’ (Oh-klahoma, was he trying to kill her?) ‘we are, in fact, well within our rights to sue. So, you know. …There.’

‘Jesus is Lord,’ the officer muttered, rubbing the space between her eyes. ‘I can see why the two of you are… whatever the hell it is you are. You’re just as insufferable as each other.’

‘My friend’s simply doing her job by raising such concerns,’ Jack added bumptiously, as if he hadn't heard her. ‘She’s not “playing doctor”, as you so rudely put it, she IS a doctor. A very well-respected one at that.’

The officer raised intrigued brows at that, fingers stilling on her temple. 

‘Is that so?’ she said, voice misleadingly light. ‘Interesting. I’d’ve expected her to be more mindful of what goes on her record, in that case. But that’s just me.’

Lucy stiffened. 

Then her face fell.

‘…Oh my God,’ she whispered to herself. ‘She’s… she’s right.’

'What’s that?' 

She turned slowly to face Jack, horror dawning on her features. ‘This is going to go on my record. My completely pristine, perfect record, that I’ve managed to keep spotless for thirty-six years! I’m going to be a criminal. The hospital will fire me. No, they’ll excommunicate me. My license — my license, Jack — up in smoke! My whole career, poof! Gone! Kaput-- !'

‘Woah, woah, woah, hooold your horses there,’ Jack said, as she began to hyperventilate. He placed both hands on her shoulders, trying to steady her. ‘Luce— Lucy, breathe, okay? Look at me. In through your nose, out through your mouth—’

‘I’ll go insane without my work, Jack, I’ll end up like that guy on seventh in the lederhosen and the Elvis wig who talks to himself in Donald Duck’s voice. I mean what’s the point of me if I can’t help people? It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, my entire reason for being! Without it I’m— just— just— just— Oh God, is the room starting to spin? Why are there two of you all of a sudden?’

'Officer, for the love of— can we get a bag or something here?’ Jack called over his shoulder, holding Lucy steady as her knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

Feeling uncharacteristically amenable, apparently, Doreen yanked the empty takeout bag off Dillard’s worktop, flicked a stray noodle off it, and lobbed it towards the cell.

‘Go long,' she said. 'And try to avoid choking on any fortune cookies, if you can help it.’

Jack caught it midair and handed it to Lucy, who immediately clutched it over her nose and mouth. She continued hyperventilating, now into the crinkly paper sack, the walls of the cell feeling like they were closing in around her. She'd already been feeling unpleasantly constricted, but all of her sudden her claustrophobia had ramped up to a thousand.

‘Thank you,’ she wheezed out. ‘Th-that’s kind of you. Although there’s actually no definitive evidence to support this technique. The carbon dioxide retention theory posits that rebreathing into a closed system helps correct respiratory alkalosis caused by hyperventilation, but that remains contested due to inconsistencies in CO₂ blood gas data across trials, most of which are decades old and methodologically q-questionable.’

She took another puff, her voice rising in both timbre and speed.

‘The sample sizes were outrageously small, you see. Not to mention the glaring lack of control groups. I mean, how can we build an evidence base when the entire conversation hinges on outdated panic attack models from the 1970s? It’s anecdotal at best! And don’t even get me started on thelackoflongitudinalstudiestrackingrecurrencemitigationorcomparativeefficacyversuscognitivebehaviouralinterventions— !’

‘Luce, sweetheart, you know I always enjoy it when you get all fired up about medical mumbo jumbo, but maybe try to stop talking for a moment?!’ Jack interposed hastily, guiding her down onto the pallet before she passed out.

Lucy gave a frantic nod, still puffing into the bag like a locomotive, her eyes large and glassy. 

Seconds passed. A little colour returned to her cheeks — the tight, staccato rhythm of her breathing gradually slowing.

‘There we go,’ Jack coaxed, awkwardly patting her back with one hand while holding the bag in place with the other — her smaller, softer hand curled tightly around his own. ‘Much better. A-plus, uh… respirating there.’

From behind the desk, Doreen was now watching them with an expression of mild curiosity.

'…Yo, is she good?' she asked, when Jack shot an accusatory look her way. 'Because if she’s having a heart attack we don’t have a defibrillator in here anymore. Some dude hopped up on bath salts ripped it off the wall a few weeks back. Tried to use it as an Ecto-Containment Unit.'

Jack blinked at her.

'You know, like, from Ghost Busters—'

'I know what it’s from,' he snapped, shaking his head in a “I don’t really know what to do with that information” sort of manner. 'And she’s not having a heart attack, for Heaven’s sake. She’s just… a little strung out, is all.’

Slightly insane, too, quite possibly. But he had the good grace not to mention it right now.

Turning back to Lucy — who was still holding the now-crumpled bag (and, incidentally, his hand) in her lap like a security blanket — he said, ‘You’re not going to lose your job, okay? This-this is nothing the two of us can’t figure out together. Hell, look at all the hijinks I’ve pulled over the centuries and still been allowed to keep my Legendary title, eh? So no need to go lederhosen shopping just yet. Much as I would enjoy witnessing that.’

Lucy gave the ghost of a nod, the white-knuckled grip she’d kept on his fingers (ow) beginning to loosen slightly.

Jack watched her for a beat longer, ensuring that she was definitely alright. When no further signs of panic were forthcoming, a mischievous edge crept into his expression.

Dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, he added, ‘That being said… I cannot imagine what it must be like for someone of your profile — nay, your intellect — to be talked down to in such a manner. Why, it’s almost… almost enough to make a person want to—’

‘I’m not stunning her, Jack,’ Lucy cut in, matching his pitch. 

He let out an exaggerated groan, tipping his head back against the wall. ‘Seven billon people on this planet and I end up stuck in here with the one woman who makes Mother Theresa look like an insurance salesman.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No, no, no, look, it’s admirable. That unfailing moral compass of yours. Really, it is. Just not exactly helpful, on this occasion.’

Lucy gave him a distinctly Lucy-ish look. Which is to say, one that made every effort to be admonishing, but contained just a little too much warmth to do the job credibly. 

Clearly, she was already back to her usual self.

‘Okay, a), Mother Theresa provided deeply inadequate medical care in her hospices. A lack of analgesics, unhygienic conditions, limited personnel—’ 

‘Uh-huh.’

‘—honestly, the list goes on, she had this whole ethos about how suffering cleaves a path to divinity; very theodicean, not at all my style. And b) even if I did resort to such measures — which, I’m not saying I would — it’d necessitate casting a memory-wiping charm afterwards.’

‘And?’ Jack prompted, brows raised hopefully.

‘And those are notoriously unreliable,’ she emphasised, turning to face him more fully now. ‘The margin for error is virtually nonexistent. I’d have to get the timing, duration and specificity exactly right, otherwise she might forget how to drive. Or the name of her firstborn child. Or think she’s still in high school.’

‘Would that be such a bad thing? Maybe she peaked in high school.’ 

Lucy ignored him. ‘The point is, it’s dicey. Ethically dubious. And extremely illegal without judicial clearance. Which, even as a medic, I don’t have. Were anything to go wrong—’

‘As if you’d ever cast a spell incorrectly—’

‘—Were anything to go wrong, Jack, we’d be in just as much trouble with the magical authorities as we are with the human ones. Swapping a cell for a cell, in essence.’

‘Right. Yes. Because this is the moment we draw the line,’ Jack said dryly, his voice returning to its usual register -- which was at least a decibel louder than everyone else’s at any given time. ‘Not when we were slaloming vacated office blocks, or-or-or flying at the speed of light. Breaking and entering into one of the city’s most iconic landmarks, noooo.’

'Doing what now?'

The voice snapped through the room like a whipcrack.

Jack and Lucy froze in unison, the colour visibly draining from both of their faces. At length, they turned towards Doreen, who was eyeing them from her desk with an expression of utmost suspicion.

'Uh… nothing?' Jack said, far too cheerfully to be convincing.

The officer didn’t buy it. 'Would this “iconic landmark” happen to be a tall-ass building, with a big-ass antenna at the top of it?'

They didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. Their silence was louder than any admission.

With a grunt, she picked up her walkie and thumbed the call button. 'Dullard,' she said, voice tight.

A burst of static, then Officer Dillard’s slow drawl crackled through:

'Uh, it's "Dillard", ma'am.'

'Don't tell me what I know. Any updates on that break-in at the Empire State?'

'Yes and no. Ain’t nothin’ showed up on the monitors. CCTV’s all clear, just some interference ‘round the time the tip came in. But the guards did find somethin’ up there…'

Doreen leaned back in her chair, already bracing herself. ‘Yeah?'

Please don’t be the alcohol, please don’t be the alcohol, Lucy repeated internally, her eyes squeezed so tightly shut she was seeing stars.

'A tie pin.’ 

Oh balls, that’s even worse!

'A tie pin,' Doreen repeated flatly. Beside Lucy, Jack visibly stiffened.

'Yessum. One o’ them shiny silver ones. Had letters on it. E-nitials.'

Doreen’s expression tightened. 'Fancy that?' she drawled, glancing pointedly over at Jack, who suddenly looked like he might attempt to phase through the wall. She curled one finger in his direction. ‘You. Twinkle-toes. Front and centre.'

Jack pointed at himself, as if there was any confusion.

'Don’t be cute. Move.'

Reluctantly, he relinquished Lucy’s hand and shuffled forwards, trying to look harmless and maybe just a little bit stupid.

'What initials were on it?' Doreen asked into the radio.

There was a pause. Then: ‘JF’.

Jack winced, resisting the urge to swear. A breath hissed between Lucy’s teeth.

At length, Doreen’s gaze dropped to Jack’s tie, where a faint indentation in the fabric clearly marked the absence of a once-present accessory. Her eyes lingered there for a beat, then drifted to the glint of silver at his cuffs.

Monogrammed: JF.

Slowly, deliberately, she removed the radio from her shoulder and set it down on the desk.

'This night,' she said, shaking her head in disbelief, 'just keeps getting weirder and weirder.'

Jack plastered on a smile. Although it ended up looking more like he was fighting off stomach ache.

'That could stand for anyone, you know,' he said. 'Jeremy Fitzgerald. Javier Fernández. Jimmy Fff… Fallon?'

The attempt at innocence was a non-starter, and their individual profiles were henceforth updated to include the additional charges.

...

'Jimmy Fallon?' Lucy repeated pityingly, as she watched Jack traipse back to her side with his proverbial tail between his legs.

‘…I don’t want to talk about it.’

In the aftermath of this revelation, the cell felt even smaller. The two of them huddled on the cold pallet, voices low, wary of attracting further attention. 

Lucy’s first instinct was to reach out to Blaise Frost, Governor of Crystal Springs and Jack's father. The mental link Jack shared with the latter meant they wouldn’t even have to use up their single phone call in order to do so. But Jack was resistant to the idea.

'Bearing in mind the date and time, it seems… ill-advised, Luce. Very ill-advised.’

When asked what that meant, exactly, his answer was similarly muttered and evasive:

'I suspect my dear parents have adhered to longstanding tradition and started their annual game of Valentine’s Scrabble a day early.'

'Valentine’s Scrabble?’ Lucy pressed, still not understanding.

Jack waved a vague hand, wrinkling his nose. 'It’s what I like to imagine they do during this particular holiday. Light candles, play Scrabble by the fire, make up suggestive words. Anything to keep from thinking about the… far more mortifying alternative.'

'Like Strip Valentine’s Scrabble?' Lucy offered innocently, for which she was met with a black look.

Contacting Blaise and/or Winter for aid was a viable option, in all fairness. Jack’s parents always made themselves available at a moment’s notice for any of their children, regardless of time or circumstance. The problem wasn’t whether he could interrupt, it was whether he should. Barging uninvited into whatever “Valentine’s traditions” the pair were indulging in seemed rather rude, all things considered.

Some doors were better left closed. 

Endeavouring to be respectful of this, in spite of her mounting anxiety, Lucy then proposed summoning Jack's younger sister, Jacqueline; but, once again, the idea was dismissed out of hand. 

‘I’m loath to put a dampener on her evening with her gal-pal, is the thing,’ Jack explained, a little sheepishly. ‘Or derail any forthcoming designs with her gal-paramour, for that matter. Given all the grief I’ve caused my dear sister over the centuries, she’s, ah, well overdue some down time, don’t you think?’

And yes. Again, it was a fair point.

Melusine might have been another alternative, of course, but neither of them could stomach the thought of owing her that particular favour -- she’d dine out on it for decades. And anyway, she abhorred having to leave the house without a great deal of advance notice. Charlie and Danielle were much too far away, as were Lucy's Uncle Scott and Aunt Carol. Same thing for Elle and Bernard.

In light of this, bail became the next topic of discussion.

With surprising affability, Jack suggested covering the cost himself. Money was no object, he reminded Lucy. He was thousands of years old, with investments older than some civilisations. But she, prudent and conscientious as ever, didn’t like the idea. Not when they hadn’t yet tried other channels.

'Well, unless you want to try flirting with her, I fail to see what "channels" we have remaining,' Jack whisper-sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to both eyes and rubbing vigorously. Seldom did he have to endure such circumstances beyond the initial charge -- it was all very wearying. 'I fear we may have exhausted all available avenues.'

He paused, considering his own words with a brief, thoughtful squint.

Then, quite unexpectedly, his features brightened.

'You should try flirting with her,' he concluded, as if this were the most obvious solution in the world. 

Lucy stared at him. 'No. No, I shouldn't.'

'Oh, come on, look at you! How could she possibly resist, huh?' he wheedled, nudging her with his elbow. 'I don't know why I didn't think of it previously, it's been staring us right in the face.'

'Do you not recall me telling you, not two hours ago, about the time my date climbed out of a window to escape me, Jack? I think we’ve firmly established that I’m not great at the whole flirting thing.'

Jack waved this off with breezy confidence. 'The man's a certifiable idiot, didn't know what he was missing. It's easy, just fluff your hair up a little,' he reached up and ruffled it for her, earning a snuffy little frown, 'make some small talk. Turn on that famous Lucy Cute-Factor. She’ll be putty in your hands.'

'I guarantee you she won't. She might not even be into girls, for starters.'

'Well, you won't know until you try, will you? Where's your scientific curiosity, hmm? The Dr. Miller I know would never shy away from the opportunity to collect empirical evidence.'

They went back and forth like this for a good couple of minutes or so, each unwilling to the first to back down. Finally, realising he wasn’t going to drop the matter until she humoured him (and bridling a smidge at having her academic principals called into question), Lucy let out a forbearing sigh.

Straightening her spine, she stepped reluctantly towards the bars.

Her intent had been to lean casually against them, affect an air of nonchalant ease, but unfortunately she misjudged the angle and slipped clean through up to the elbow, knocking her head lightly in the process.

Jack winced in sympathy as a reverberating "clang" echoed around the cell.

Strong start.

Recovering quickly and brushing her hair behind one ear, Lucy looked over at the officer. 'Ahem, Officer Lovejoy?'

'Mmm-hm.'

'I was just... wondering,' she began, tapping the tips of her fingers together uncertainly. 'Er, musing, if you will. Do you... come here often?'

Glancing up from her desk, Doreen gave her a slow, blank look.

'...Do I what now?'

'Come here often. Oth-other than for work, that is,' Lucy added hastily, cheeks already reddening. 'Should've made that clear, sorry.'

The officer's brows drew faintly together, confusion writ large across her features.

'You're asking if I come to the station... recreationally?'

'No, no , I-- this area of the city, I meant, as opposed to. You know. Here-here. Wh-why would you come to a police station in your spare time, right? It isn't exactly Applebees, hah. Not that Applebees is that great either, to be honest; their hygiene rating is well below par.'

'I like Applebees,' Doreen emphasised.

'You like-- oh.' Lucy cringed internally. 'Really?'

'Really.'

Nice one, Miller. Really knocking it out of the park.

'Right. Okay. Well, uhm. Good-good taste, in that case! I'm a big fan of their Captain Bahama Mama. Or I was, before I had about seven of them on my twenty-first birthday and then vowed never to touch them again. Believe it or not the pineapple flavour is just the same coming up as it is going down.'

The policewoman simply blinked at her, the silence around them deafening.

'S-So... Well, anyway! Did you know that police officers are especially predisposed to stress-related disorders?' Lucy blurted suddenly, for lack of further recourse, ignoring the sound of dismay this elicited from Jack. 'Statistically speaking, that is, compared to other professions. Hypertension, cardiovascular disease, substance abuse, immunity issues. Even gastrointestinal disorders like bloating and indigestio--'

'Napoleon. Stop, please, this is painful.' Doreen cut her off with an upraised hand, leaning back in her seat and pinching the bridge of her nose. 'I was gonna let you keep going for a bit, give myself some entertainment, but after a certain point it just felt cruel. For the record — and not that it’s any of your business — I swing both ways. And neither of those ways are in,' (she pointed emphatically at them both), 'that direction. Got it?'

'Got it,' Lucy and Jack said in unison.

'Good.'

And thus, Lucy's theorem was proved wholly correct.

‘Personally I think you did great,’ Jack said, hastening forward to give her a reassuring pat on the back.

‘Was I talking to her about… acid reflux?’ Lucy touched her temples lightly in disbelief. ‘I think I blacked out after “stress-related disorders”.’

‘Well, yes. But you did it with passion! Really, nothing could be more erotic.’

…

Scientific curiosity satiated, the latter next brought up bail bond agents -- her tone hopeful -- but that hope quickly faded. The process would take far too long, Doreen informed them. Unless of course they planned to camp out here for the next few days or even weeks, which they very firmly did not. Each had work to be getting back to, after all; Lucy’s shift at the hospital started at six-fifteen, and Jack was already enormously behind schedule with his seasonal heralding.

Looking back, Lucy wasn’t sure which had been more cowing: The looming threat of extended incarceration, the not insignificant risk to her reputation/employment, or the equally grim prospect of having to brave The Swamps of Dagobah, as they had unaffectionately dubbed their washroom facilities.

Still, after a solid hour of watching her bounce her leg like a piston, glaring at the aforementioned penal ware as if it had badmouthed her entire family, Jack couldn’t help but take a certain amount of pity. With exaggerated gallantry, he held out his hand and offered, ever so sweetly, to hold hers — you know, in case something reached up from the u-bend and dragged her in.

'Which, given your size, isn't entirely beyond the bounds of spacial physics,' he added, smirking sidelong at her. 'Far more likely you than I, come to think of it.'

Lucy punched him (gently) in the bicep, prompting an over-the-top, “Ow.”

'I’ve worked full forty-eight hour shifts without using the restroom once,' she muttered, as stoically as she could manage. 'My bladder may as well be made of tungsten.'

'That— does not sound healthy. Good Lord, woman.’ Jack rubbed the place where she’d "struck" him, looking genuinely distressed by this information. 'Why on earth would you subject yourself to that? Besides the obvious answer of masochism, of course, which... honestly would make a lot of sense at this point.'

'I didn’t really have a choice. Too many patients, too few staff members. Same as it ever was.'

'Uh-… huh. And, now, remind me again why anyone would willingly go into medicine? Blink twice if you’re under duress, by the way.'

'Various reasons,' Lucy answered, with a resigned lift of her shoulders. 'Morality. Hubris. Empathy. An unshakable God Complex. It depends on the person, honestly.'

'Mm, well, careful you don’t start veering towards the latter,' he warned pointedly, reaching over to give her knee a solicitous pat, before rising stiffly to his feet — presumably to stretch his legs a bit. 'This cell is only big enough for one God Complex, and feeling cosier by the second.'

Inclined to agree with him, however grudgingly, Lucy blew out a frustrated sigh — arms crossing tightly across her torso. Her fringe lifted a little, before floating back down to cover her eyes.

A brief, rather pained lull ensued; before, finally:

'You know, I… I never thought I’d say this, Jack. Genuinely never, this is a really unpleasant first.' Lucy closed her eyes, drawing in a fortifying breath through her nose. 'But, I think… I might be out of ideas.'

'Oof,' Jack leaned back against the wall, drawing the word out between puckered lips. 'My. I know that had to sting.'

'It did. Please don’t rub it in, I’m in a very delicate place right now.' 

'I’ll try to restrain myself,' he deadpanned, though the look he gave her was one of genuine sympathy. He studied her carefully for a beat -- clearly weighing his next words -- before adding, with no small amount of apprehension, ‘So, ah… does this, by any chance, mean what I think it means…?'

In a show of theatricality, he raised his brows and gave the subtlest of head-tilts in Doreen’s direction, twirling his wrist as though wielding an invisible wand. It was the same pantomimed suggestion he’d been circling for the better part of an hour now: One quick spell. No one would even know.

Lucy drew her shoulders back like a bird preparing for flight, pointedly neglecting to answer. 

Even she had to concede (privately, at least) that she was being rather stubborn about this. But her reluctance wasn’t without cause. 

Memory charms, particularly those cast on the un-consenting, occupied a morally murky space in magical ethics. Powerful, unpredictable, and often irreversible if misapplied, they had the potential to leave lasting damage. And while it was true that she had corrected her fair share of misfired Memorandums and Mentiscera during the course of her career — delicately unspooling scrambled neural threads, rebalancing muddled timelines — casting such charms from scratch was rather a different story. Healing minds? Relatively straightforward with the right training. Tampering with them? Not her strong suit.

She worried deeply, not just about whether she could execute the charm correctly, but about the very principle of it. As she’d explained to Jack earlier, messing with a person’s mind, their recollection of self and experience, was not something she took lightly. If it went badly she’d 1) have irrevocably altered that person’s life for the worse, something she’d never be able to forgive herself for, and 2) be in breach of a number of magical regulations.

The situation, pressing though it was, still didn’t rise to the level of urgency she would need to justify such an invasive intervention. No one was dying. No worlds were ending. As far as she was concerned, the ethical scale had yet to tip in their favour.

Too, the prospect of conducting magic on someone who hadn’t, couldn’t, consent to it — someone incapable of understanding the action — brought an uncomfortable weight to her chest. Magic wasn’t a right, it was a privilege. One she believed came with moral weight. After all, she herself could easily have been born without it. Had, in fact, lived the first portion of her life entirely unaware of her abilities. 

She exhaled sharply through her nose, one hand coming up to rub the space between her brows—
And froze at the gentle touch that intercepted her gesture.

Without her noticing, Jack had come to stand in front of her, head tilted slightly to the side, one hand extended. His fingertip brushed across her forehead, cool and soothing.

'Were you aware that, when you’re puzzling over something with this… rather oversized brain of yours, you get a very distinctive crease?' he observed, tapping her playfully between the brows. 'Right here.'

Lucy blinked up at him, startled; more by the softness of his voice than the touch itself.

He, in turn, smiled down at her — all dimples and charm. Then he hiked up the hems of his trousers and lowered himself into a squat beside her, his knees cracking slightly as he did so. 'H’alright,' he said, more seriously now, picking idly at a ladder in the knee of her stockings, 'out with it, Miller. What’s going down in that labyrinthine Mind Palace, mm?'

Lucy let her gaze drop to the floor. 'It’s… it’s the power imbalance, Jack…’

‘…Go on.’

'I don’t like the idea of performing magic, particularly invasive, bodily magic, on someone who can’t defend themselves against it,’ she explained quietly. ‘Who doesn’t even have the framework to understand what’s happening to them.'

‘Are we sure that’s quite the case here, though?’ Jack challenged, though his tone remained cordially light as he gestured towards the officer — still stationed at her desk, headphones clamped over her ears as she watched what appeared to be an episode of Brooklyn Nine‑Nine on her iPad. ‘She is equipped with a Very Large Gun, after all. Not to mention that charming little taser she so kindly threatened to deploy on me earlier.’

'You know what I mean. Even with those things the playing field isn’t equal. Spells are so much faster, so much more powerful. It feels… wrong, somehow. Very wrong. Especially with everything going on in the world right now.'

Jack didn’t make any comments this time. Just watched her intently.

'There’s a moral responsibility that comes with having magic,’ she went on, with renewed certitude. ‘To use it only when truly necessary. Because people without it, ordinary humans… they’re vulnerable to us. They have no recourse, no protections if we decide to overstep. That’s the kind of imbalance that leads to abuse. And I could’ve just as easily been one of them.' She gave him a pointed look, chin tilted down slightly to meet his gaze head on. 'I was, for a long time. How would you feel, knowing someone had exercised that kind of power over me then without my permission? Without even my knowledge?'

Jack looked contemplative for a moment, as though he were reassessing something he’d always taken for granted.

Then, quite unexpectedly, he nodded.

'You’re right,' he said simply.

Lucy blinked at him, genuinely surprised.

'Don’t get used to hearing that too often,' he hastened to add, with a look of faux-warning. 'And for Heaven's sake, try not to lord it over me. But you are. I… I hadn’t looked at it that way before, somehow. Ignorant of me, really, now that I think about it.'

Guilt flickered briefly across his features, and Lucy answered it with a small, reassuring smile.

‘It’s not a perspective most people arrive at easily,’ she said softly, reaching up to nudge his fringe back into place with gentle fingers. ‘Not unless they’ve lived it. Or have some very personal insight.’

‘Still. I find myself... enlightened, I suppose is the word.’

She appreciated this rare note of humility in him. A quality he surrendered about as readily as she conceded intellectual bankruptcy: Which was to say, hardly at all.

'So, ah, back to the drawing board, then, I take it?' he surmised, apparently resigned to the fact.

She gave him an apologetic look. ‘I think so. Sorry, bud. Mother Teresa strikes again, huh?’

‘Eh, it’s quite alright. Despite my previous comments, I'm not entirely unhappy with the circumstances, truth be told. Things could be worse, after all.’

Mostly (entirely) due to the company he was sharing those circumstances with. Despite everything, he had to admit, he was actually -- in an odd sort of a way -- having fun. 

A flicker of regret pricked at his conscience as he paused to consider what he’d said to her earlier. In truth, there were painfully few people in this world he could tolerate being confined with for any length of time, but she was unquestionably one of them. Jacqueline being another.

From his vantage point, it scarcely mattered what they were doing, so long as they were doing it together.

'That's true, actually,' Lucy admitted after a beat, and the warmth in her smile sent a pleasant flutter through Jack’s stomach. Whether she truly meant it or was simply indulging him, however, he couldn’t quite tell, though he hoped it was the former.

They sat in silence a while longer, the buzz of the overhead lights humming faintly in the background, both thinking deeply.

Teleportation wasn’t a viable alternative either. Not in a modern precinct like this one, rigged with security systems, cameras, and logs that didn’t care for loopholes. Even if they slipped away unnoticed, their identities had already been entered into the digital system. Names, faces, even fingerprints. A vanishing act now would only raise further alarms, drawing unwanted scrutiny and likely prompting a larger investigation. Magical exposure on a broader scale would be far worse than a night or two in holding.

What they truly needed was an official intervention. A quiet word from the Legendary Council, or Bureau of Magical Investigations. The sort who could erase this entire incident from both memory and record with a few sweeps of sanctioned spell-work. But calling in either of those entities posed its own set of problems.

For one, it meant acknowledging the situation had gotten out of hand. That she, Dr. By-the-Book herself, had exercised poor judgement. Worse, it meant troubling institutions that did not appreciate being used as magical mop-up crews. And worst of all, it meant admitting fault in a way that would be formally logged. A blemish on her otherwise spotless magical record. Even a minor infraction would follow her for the rest of her professional life; noted, if not punishable.

In the wake of all these thoughts, Lucy found her gaze straying, once again, to the unconscious man in the neighbouring cell. 

Letting out a little grumble of dissatisfaction — and hoping to distract herself from the circumstances, however fleetingly — she pushed up from the bench and crossed the space in three purposeful strides, dropping into a crouch beside him. Reaching through the bars, she gently rolled him into the semi-prone position she’d mentioned previously. Her hands moved quickly and expertly, checking his airway, turning his head to one side, tucking an arm beneath him.

When she was satisfied he was no longer at risk, she sat back on her heels, then slipped her fingers down the neckline of her dress. A moment later, they reappeared clutching the familiar, cherry-wood handle of her wand.

Having got to his feet again, Jack caught the movement and straightened. She was giving him the look. The one that inevitably meant I’m about to inconvenience you with A Request. And you’ll oblige, just like you always do.

He let out a phlegmatic exhale and pushed off from the wall, doing precisely that. So now she wanted him to interact with their gaoler, did she? Goddess above, women were inscrutable sometimes. 

'Say, uh… Doreen?' he called out, swiping one finger insouciantly across his nose. 'Beauty divine? Light of my life?'

The officer groaned audibly as she removed her headphones. 'What now?'

Jack pointed across the room, towards the cluttered corkboard above her desk, its surface crowded with mugshots, clippings and push-pinned pamphlets. 'That’s a lovely wall of, ehm, wanted felons and violent neredowells you’ve got there. Care to walk a fella through the highlights?'

Doreen narrowed her eyes at him. 'And why in the hell would I do that?'

He shrugged innocently. 'Well, despite what these chiselled, collagen-rich features might suggest, I've been around the block a fair few times. You never know, I might be able to name some names, spill some beans. Or is it tea? Whatever culinary idiom the kids are using these days, eheh.'

As Jack kept her occupied with his patented blend of fake earnestness and casual insolence, Lucy used the cover to murmur a series of quiet incantations under her breath: A cushioning charm for the concrete, a warming charm for the chill, a diagnostic sweep to ensure he wasn’t suffering from alcohol poisoning/that both kidneys were fully functioning.

She kept her head low as she worked, tuning out Jack’s voice — or at least trying to — as he offered an increasingly baroque stream of commentary behind her. From the sound of things, he’d successfully baited Doreen into a full-blown tour of the cork-board. She could hear the officer's boots creaking faintly as she stood and ambled closer to it.

'That one there,' Doreen was saying, her tone deliberately bored, 'he’s got twelve counts of aggravated mop theft. Not even from the same store. Just compulsive, apparently. Kept filching ‘em from janitor closets all over Queens. Never got caught, but we know it was him. Left a manifesto. Called himself The Mopfather.'

Jack made an appreciative noise. 'Can’t fault the branding.'

Lucy smiled slightly to herself as she sent another gentle warming charm through the unconscious man’s torso, watching the faint colour return to his skin.

'That one—' Doreen continued, '—broke into the Brooklyn Aquarium dressed as a walrus. Bit two volunteers. Claimed to be trying to join his “brethren”.'

A soft exhale of amusement escaped Lucy.

‘—And this dude. Well, your archetypal flasher. Middle of Central Park, broad daylight. Nothing on but a too-short bathing robe and a whole lotta brass. Wedding tackle to the wind. This was… hell, twelve years ago now. Still one of our weirdest cold cases.'

Lucy’s hands stilled. Her back went rigid.

'Cold cases?' she repeated faintly.

Doreen hummed in confirmation. 'Never caught the guy. John Doe, apparently, no clear ID. Eyewitnesses said he popped right out of thin air, if you can believe it.'

'Oh-ho, I can believe it alright,' Jack quavered, swallowing bile. He felt Lucy's gaze boring a hole in the side of his head, glancing across the cell to find her giving him a panicked look over one shoulder.

'The image we got came from a tourist’s shaky camera,' Doreen went on, completely unawares. 'Thought he was filming a snowy owl, poor bastard. Got a real eye-full when he zoomed in.'

'I'll bet,' muttered Lucy.

'Had the tin-foil hat community up in arms, too.' The officer's voice tipped towards incredulous amusement. 'There were subreddits, InfoWars threads, podcast episodes. I mean, tell me that ain’t the second cousin of the Bigfoot photo. The 1960s one, you know, Patterson-Gilm… something or other.'

Indeed, it was. Mid-stride, arms outstretched, head turned slightly towards the camera. It was ridiculous. Extremely funny. And undeniably— 

'Ah! Ahahah, yes!' Jack exclaimed suddenly, a shade too loud. 'Fas-fascinating stuff. Colour me intrigued, and whathaveyou. Now, uh, tell-tell me about this charming young fella.’ He gestured wildly at a different photo. ‘With the distinct… want of teeth. Who’s he? America’s Next Top Mugger? Hah. Boy, I kill myself.'

But Doreen wasn’t listening. She’d gone still. 

Very still.

Her gaze snapped back to the flasher photo — then to Jack.

Then back again.

Then to Jack.

And stayed there. Jack wilted visibly.

'Now hold on a damn minute,' she muttered, narrowing her eyes as she took a half-step closer to him, suspicion dawning on her features.

Lucy was already scrambling to her feet, crossing the cell at the speed of light to plant herself firmly in front of Jack; shielding him from view, as much as reinforcing the wall of plausible deniability he was doing such a poor job of maintaining.

'How interesting!' she chirped, voice several octaves higher than usual, attempting composure and failing spectacularly. 'I wonder who it could be. An-anyone, if you really think about it, right? Maybe a lost tourist, or a confused inebriate? Someone escaped from the local psychiatric hospital, perhaps?'

'Local psychiatric hospital my ass,' Doreen said, jabbing a finger at the photo, and then at Jack. 'That’s the exact same build. Same height. Same smarmy lil’ face.'

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but clearly thought better of it.

The photo, Lucy had to admit, was not doing him any favours. Grainy and overexposed as it was, the similarities were striking. His long, thrice-broken nose was clearly visible, instantly recognisable. Even at a distance, his eyes had that telltale glint of preternatural blue. His hair, tousled and slightly grey at the temples, looked exactly the same. Even his legs — pale and a bit hairy in the photo, now hidden beneath blue pinstripes — were unmistakable in their spindly, knobbly length. 

Anyone looking closely wouldn’t need much convincing.

'I don’t believe it.' Doreen shook her head, her voice low and dark. 'I do not believe it. You gotta be fucking kidding me.'

'N-Now, hold on a moment.' Jack raised a stymying finger. 'Let’s not leap to any conclu—'

'You’re the Nude Rambler?'

‘—…sions. Well, like that, for example.'

 'On top of everything else tonight? Are you serious right now, man?'

A sharp exhale left his frame. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his entire posture slumping with the weariness of someone deeply, personally impugned by the universe.

'In what world is that nude?' he ground out, jerking his chin towards the photo. 'You can clearly see the robe! A very expensive robe, too, by the cut of it. Fella appears to have good taste, as well as good looks.'

'That wasn’t the only picture,' Doreen returned flatly. 'Just the only one suitable for public display.'

Jack’s face went ashen. '…’Scuse me?'

'If you wanna take a gander at the rest,' the officer turned and began rifling through a nearby filing cabinet, ‘including one very salacious little number featuring an upside-down tumble in the bushes, I have them riiiight abouuut… Ks, Ls, Ms, ah-ha!’

She turned around with further printouts clutched in her hand.

‘Here we are. I’d advise you to look away, Lil’ Red — spare yourself the nightmares — but I’m guessing you’ve already witnessed—’

‘Him running around in Stuart Little’s hand-me-downs? Oh yeah. I got the live show,’ Lucy anticipated her, with a wry snort.

The moment the words left her mouth, she froze, her hands shooting up to cover her lips.

'Shit,' she squeaked, soft and mouselike.

Under different circumstances, Jack might have commented on the rarity of her swearing at all. And how inordinately sweet she sounded when she did it; "like a beloved children’s cartoon character gone rogue". At this precise moment in time, however, he said nothing. Just dropped his hands and fixed her with an expression of pure disbelief: Jaw jutted, brows lifted, eyes wide with incredulous exasperation. 

Lucy, for her part, looked positively stricken — her own eyes huge and round with contrition.

'A confession, huh?' Doreen said bemusedly, shifting her weight to one leg. 'Wasn’t expecting one of those so soon, but saves me a whole lotta time. Looks like your fancy man here’s gonna be spending a lot longer in holding than you are, princess. Though not by much.’

Lucy groaned softly, reaching for Jack's sleeve in a desperate show of penitence. 'God, Jack, I’m… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— it just slipped out. I wasn’t thinking.'

Jack didn’t answer immediately. One hand moved from his hip to her shoulder, patting it gently. His other hand rubbed wearily at his temple.

'I know you said you were out of ideas,' he said at last, 'but if ever there was a moment to be struck by divine inspiration, Miller, now would really be it.'

Lucy made an odd noise in the back of her throat. She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again.

And then it happened. Divine inspiration. 

Except, Lucy wasn’t the one struck by it.

All at once, Jack’s thoughts snapped to the item still tucked safely inside his jacket pocket. The slide.

The virus preserved on that slide — the one causing short, spontaneous time disjunctions in the infected — had reportedly been secured in a deferred state. Dormant. Or, possibly, dead. But Lucy had explained that sometimes these things weren’t always clear, and if, by some small miracle, it was still viable...

If they could reactivate it, if even for a moment, maybe it could reset something. Buy them time. Reverse the last hour or so, long enough for them to slip free of this mess. Granted, it was a long shot. A very long shot. And wildly irresponsible; they’d almost certainly need post-exposure prophylaxis to be safe. But desperate times and all that.

Jack looked down at his chest, the weight of the object suddenly feeling heavier. 

It was supposed to be a gift, of course. But perhaps they wouldn’t actually need to break it in order to use it. Just prise it open, get a sample of the… well, sample, and—

Surely Lucy would rather that, than the alternative?

Making his decision, he glanced over at her. ‘Okay. I might have a solution.'

‘You do?' both she and Doreen said at the same time.

Angling himself away from the latter, Jack slipped a hand into his inner jacket pocket. 'A concealed weapon, if you will,’ he went on. ‘A Gun, of the Chekov variety. This isn’t exactly how I intended for this to go, I feel it prudent to mention, but—'

Before he could finish, however, several things happened at once.

Doreen’s instincts kicked in like clockwork. Having clearly misinterpreted the situation, she drew her firearm in one fluid motion, levelling it directly at Jack’s chest. With reflexes borne of both practice and natural talent, Lucy sprang into action, simultaneously drawing her wand while pushing herself between the two of them in a blur of motion. 

But Jack was faster. 

He turned, seized her, and shoved her behind him in a single, protective movement, shielding her with the full breadth of his body. In his palm, which was now glowing a threatening shade of blue, water vapour condensed into something vaguely resembling a fencing épée -- made entirely of ice.

The result of all this was that Lucy’s wand ended up jutting through the narrow space beneath Jack’s raised arm, latent energy sparking at the tip. Her hand she flung outward — calling on her innate powers — and a translucent barrier, rose-gold in hue, erupted between Jack and the gun, flickering like molten glass. 

‘Gods above, woman, are you mad?!’ Jack snapped at Doreen, whose mouth was now hanging slightly agape in shock. From the corner, Sergeant Sipowicz sounded the alarm with a cacophony of low, gravelly barks. ‘I said a Chekov’s Gun, not a real gun! Were you actually thinking of using that thing?’

‘I—’ The firearm shook a little in her outstretched hand. ‘I-I— uh…’

Beneath the rush of panic, a flicker of something hot and unfamiliar sparked to life in Lucy’s chest then. Something uncannily like… anger?

No. No, not anger. But not far off anger, either. 

Whatever it was, it wasn’t an emotion she was accustomed to feeling, by any stretch of the imagination. Or had expected to feel now. She understood why the officer had reacted the way she had, of course, but... even so. The idea that someone might draw a weapon on her much adored, long-time friend with even the faintest inclination to fire it made her blood pressure spike sharply and the magic in her system run hot.

Absolutely not on her watch.

'Still sure about that playing field, Freckles?’ Jack addressed her tightly, having to raise his voice a little over the racket, and Lucy was forced to admit, however regretfully, that he was right. This time — at point blank range, under threat of grievous injury, and with the policewoman now having witnessed their joint powers — defensive spell-craft was warranted.

Memory magic was still a firm “no” in her book, especially under this much pressure. Some sort of incapacitating hex would have to suffice; they’d just report the incident to the Magical Bureau of Investigations immediately afterwards and deal with the fallout.

'Officer, I’m very sorry about this,' she said to Doreen, tone genuinely apologetic as she tightened her grip on the wand. 

With a swish of her cape, she strode around Jack to plant herself squarely in front of him, and as he looked down at her he couldn’t help but marvel at the intensity of her expression. He had seldom seen her look like that: So openly protective, so unyielding. For all her diminutiveness, there was something formidable about her in that moment — a latent power radiating from her slight frame — that made both him and his implement (the épée, that is) straighten with instinctive respect. 

While he somewhat doubted her ability to ever demonstrate that protectiveness in earnest, if it meant truly hurting someone in the process, he had no doubts in that moment about its presence. Or its potency. Or the surprising effect it was having on his body temperature.

The officer’s hand came up fast, palm outstretched, voice low and sharp: 'Woahwoahwoah— !'

'Try to hold still,’ Lucy instructed her calmly, steadying her aim. ‘I promise this won’t hurt a bit.'

'—Don’t you point that glorified twig at me, Miss Galinda! I am NOT in the mood to be avada-kadavra-d right now. Or whatever it is you hoodoo voodoo folk say.'

Lucy frowned.

That wasn’t the reaction she’d been expecting.

Doreen’s sharp gaze was locked onto the wand with clear recognition. Not the way most ordibeings looked at it — not with confusion or amusement or blank incomprehension — but with stark familiarity. Her breathing had quickened, though she tried to mask it.

'I know what that is,' she said slowly, deliberately. 'I’m not stupid.'

Jack’s brows lifted. 'You know about ma— ?'

'I said don’t point that thing at me.'

Lucy didn’t lower her wand, but her hand wavered just slightly. 'You’ve… you’ve seen one of these before?'

‘And then some. I’ve seen what they can do, and it’s nothing I wanna be a part of.’

The air thickened between them. A taut, uneasy standoff. Sipowicz’s barks had faded to a low, rumbling growl, his hackles still raised.

And then the door swung open with a thud.

Officer Dillard ambled back in, still chewing something, a clipboard tucked under one arm and his other hand clutching what looked like a slushie.

'Hey Dor, I got that paperwork youuu—' 

He stopped mid-step, blinking at the scene before him: Doreen frozen in place, Lucy with her wand raised, Jack standing at her shoulder in a rigid en grade stance.

'…I’ve, uh. I’ve missed something, haven’t I?'

Doreen didn’t look away from Lucy’s outstretched hand. The muscles of her neck tensed, eyes narrowing slightly as she dropped her own weapon. 'Lower it,' she said, voice sharp. 'Please. I’m guessing you’re not Dark, but I’ve seen my sister misfire one of those things before. Inflated the neighbour’s cat, it wasn’t pretty.'

Lucy hesitated, then slowly lowered her wand. The pink forcefield around Jack, however, remained very firmly in place.

It had begun to tickle a bit now, and Jack attempted to banish it with a gentle flutter of his fingers. Keeping her gaze forward, Lucy flicked her wrist behind her — the shield shimmered and pulsed softly, reinforcing itself and delivering a faint, chastising prickle that made him withdraw his hand quickly.

'Your sister’s a witch?’ she said to Doreen, a little skeptically.

'Got the gift late. Still hasn’t figured out how to keep her potions from exploding, but she’s good people. Spooked the hell out of our grammy though; swore she’d birthed a demon. Nearly had her exorcised.'

'Didn’t she turn the vicar’s cassock into a mini skirt and fishnets mid-sermon once?' Dillard reminded the other officer helpfully, tossing his now-finished slushie into the trash. 

'She did. Sent the parishioners into a frenzy.'

'Woulda paid good money to see it.'

As he banished the ice-épée in a flash of blue sparks, Jack tilted his head to one side, interested despite himself. 'And… you?'

Dillard shrugged. 'My ma’s pa were a warlock. Not a strong one, but I guess I inherited a lil’ somethin’-somethin’, somewhere down the line. I get pree-monitions, see. Nothin’ big. Sometimes I dream o’ storms ‘fore they hit, or know which train’s gonna be delayed ‘fore it’s on the boards. Handy for bettin’ on horses.'

Doreen, still watching them like they might try to turn her into a toad, flicked her eyes between the pair. 'So… if she’s a witch? You’re…?' She gestured vaguely at Jack, brow furrowing.

Jack offered a bow so theatrical it bordered on sarcastic. 'Jack Frost. You might’ve heard of me; herald of the winter season? Ring a bell? Nipper of noses and general seasonal nuisance?'

Doreen blinked.

'Screw me sideways,' she muttered, dragging a hand down her face, and it took Jack extraordinary effort not to utter some ill-timed quip in the vicinity of, “Well, if you insist”. 'It really is you. Bright, shiny Council member in my goddamn jailhouse.'

'Oh-ho, madame, please,' Jack preened, waving away her words with a deferent hand, 'let’s not bring airs into this, now, shall we? *Cough* highly esteemed Legendary Figure. Who said that?'

'Which would mean—‘ Doreen’s eyes went wide. 'Shhhit. We just arrested the Governor’s son.'

'Technically one of his sons. But yes. You did. And kept him and his close compadre locked up for a further two and a half hours under suboptimal conditions, tut-tut.’ He made that old-fashioned, scolding motion; finger brushing down finger. ‘Very naughty. I dare say both he and my mother will be hearing of it.'

'Your mother… you mother’s Winter.' The officer paled even further. 'As in, the actual season.'

'Hm, arguably the most formidable of the four,' he confirmed, in a cheery voice. 'Frostbite incarnate. Looks fabulous in a velvet cloak. Routinely lays waste to power grids and motorways, etcetera.'

'Jesus H Christ.'

While Doreen looked like she might actually be sick, Dillard had taken a different approach. He was now beaming at Jack with open delight.

'Didn’t recognise you w’out all your, uh, frost n’ such, but I’m a big fan. Would y’mind—' he fumbled in his pocket, acquiring a marker and the closest scrap of paper to hand, ‘—signin’ this for me? I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…?'

Jack reached out with what looked like genuine warmth… until he saw what the younger man was holding.

'Not that,' he snapped, snatching the wanted poster from Dillard’s outstretched hand and crumpling it into a tight ball. 'Good God, man, read the room. The sooner all of those are shredded, the better.’

'So. Let me get something straight here,’ Doreen interceded, readdressing Lucy. 'You’re a witch, and you’re a doctor?'

'Erm, yes?' Lucy answered, still wary.

'And you stated earlier that your name’s Lucinde?'

‘Lucinda, is the anglicised version. My full name, anyway — I tend to go by Lucy, for the most part.'

'…Lucy? Lucy Miller?'

'That’s right.'

Doreen stared at her, eyes widening. 'Ho-ly shit. The Lucy Miller? The Lucy Miller who used to tutor my brother Vincent? Back in Illinois?'

At that, Lucy’s entire face lit up. 

'Vinny?' she gasped, straightening with an excited squeal. 'Vincent Lovejoy? Big glasses, always carried a box of animal crackers in his backpack? I loved that kid!'

'That’s him,' said Doreen, visibly stunned.

'Oh my gosh,' Lucy’s face lit up, 'I know who you are! You’re Dory. “Like the fish”! 

Doreen let out a disbelieving snort. 'I haven’t heard someone call me that in years.'

'Vinny used to talk about you constantly! Said his big sister was training to be a police officer and could beat up any kid in school. I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you,' Lucy went on, bouncing happily on her heels. 'Small world, huh?'

'I’ll say. He’s a damn aerospace engineer now, you know. NASA contracts, black-budget stuff, the whole nine.'

'I do know! He and I, um… reconnected recently. I guess you could say.'

Jack turned a suspicious frown on her. 'Reconnected when?'

'Just— recently. Doesn’t matter.'

'No kiddin’?' Doreen said, actually smiling now. 'Well, it all started with you, he’d be the first to say that.'

Lucy flushed pink at that, but looked undeniably pleased. 'Gosh no. He was so smart. All I did was help him find his rhythm, study-wise, and stop second-guessing himself. He did the rest.'

'Girl, please. Kid worshipped you. Used to call me up day and night raving about “Lucy” this and “Lucy” that. Swore up and down that if it weren’t for you bein’ so patient with him he’d have flunked trig and chemistry both. He got into MIT the same year you wrote his recommendation, and now he’s out there sending shit into orbit.'

Jack could do little more than watch in stunned silence as the two women launched into conversation; a rapid-fire volley of shared memories, mutual admiration and amiable laughter that left him entirely sidelined. Not that he didn’t try to interject. He opened his mouth once, twice, perhaps three times, but quickly realised there was no opening wide enough to wedge in even a nettled, "I mean this as respectfully as possible but, what the hell is happening?”

Things resolved surprisingly quickly after that.

Doreen, at last connecting the dots, had a sudden moment of clarity that explained — or, at least, seemed to explain — what Jack and Lucy had been doing in all the places they’d been spotted that evening. All in service of Jack’s "seasonal work". It was a bit of a stretch, to be honest. An embellishment, certainly. But what Doreen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and Jack wasn’t about to offer clarifications.

The more colourful accusations (namely the Bigfoot incident) were brushed off with a plausible enough excuse, thanks in no small part to Lucy’s steady explanation of the Kyteler Pipe: A magical device that functioned similarly to a port-key. Clive, for his part, had been utterly fascinated. He had never heard of such a thing, and was halfway through scribbling down notes when Doreen declared them free to go.

'Wait. That’s it?' Jack asked, glancing up from where he’d been rubbing Sergeant Sipowitcz's belly. 'You’re dropping the charges? Just like that?'

'Against my better judgement.' Doreen bobbed her head in confirmation. 'Though something tells me I'll live to regret it one of these days.'

'See? What'd I tell you?' he leaned in and whispered to Lucy, bumping her shoulder gently with his own. 'Putty in your hands.'

She smiled shyly and put a finger to her lips. Thankfully the officers hadn't heard.

'Trespassing -- scrubbed,' Doreen muttered to herself, as she went through her paperwork. 'Breaking and entering — scrubbed. The Section 245...'

Lucy’s hand also stilled on the dog’s fur. 'The section what?'

'245,' Doreen repeated absently. 'Public indecency. Had an influx of those this week, being honest with you. Valentine’s coming up, y’know. People get all hot n’ bothered, can’t keep their hands off each other. Someone phoned one in from Central just before your lil’ man here took his late night cold plunge.' She nodded at Jack, who glanced again at his filthy suit with a look of despondency. 'You guys givin’ off couple-y vibes the way you do, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. Don’t let it happen again.'

Lucy made a noise of protest, just as Jack spluttered, 'Couple-y vibes?'

'And then some. Who was it you likened them to, Clive? When we first brought ‘em in?'

'Mulder n’ Scully,' Officer Dillard answered, with a sage nod. 'From The X Files.'

'Right, sure. “The truth is out there”.'

‘Got it in one. Whew, that chemistry! Really somethin’ else.'

'Let me just— get something straight here,' Jack put in, punctuating each word with a explicatory hand movement. 'You two think we’re… together? As in, romantically? That’s what you meant by that?'

Doreen raised her head, glancing between them with a curious expression. 'Yes, that’s what I meant by that. Are you telling me you’re not?'

There was a beat of perplexed silence. Then:

'Oh my God, no,' Lucy said.

'No,' Jack echoed incredulously.

'Absolutely not.'

'What a ludicrous thought.'

‘Ludicrous. Preposterous in-in fact.'

'We couldn’t be more different.'

‘So different. Wildly different. I mean, we’d be constantly butting heads.'

'Exactly. And bickering.'

'Bickering, right! All the time. We’d barely pause for breath, let alone have time to— do other things.'

Jack paused at that, raising a skeptical brow.

'Well, now, hang on a moment,' he said, turning slowly to face Lucy. 'I think you’re vastly underestimating my multitasking abilities there.'

'Oh, come on, men are renowned for being bad multitaskers,' she shot back, with a cheeky smirk.

‘The majority are, yes, but the word “outliers” exists for a reason, you know; and that reason is moi.' He grinned rakishly, jabbing both thumbs backwards at himself. 'Anyway, I’m not the one who couldn’t keep her broom straight while she was doing… whatever it was you and aardvark—'

'Ædvik.'

'—were doing, out on that flying field. Multitasking? I don’t think so.'

'You see?' Lucy turned to Doreen and Dillard (Clive?) with an amused huff, gesturing widely between herself and Jack. 'It’s happening right now. Bicker Central. Like it’s— compulsive or something.'

The officers had been watching this exchange like a tennis match, their eyes volleying from one to the other in perfect synchrony, expressions caught somewhere between fascination and amusement. 

'Ooo… kay?' Doreen said uncertainly, clearly not buying any of this for a second. 'Uh, my mistake, I guess?’

‘Very much so.'

'Mm-hm! Totally. Just one big misunderstanding.'

Lips twitching faintly, she studied the duo for a beat longer, before deciding to spare them further embarrassment by handing over the final release forms. 

And then, to their mutual surprise, she apologised.

Not profusely, and not without a certain flinty pride, but it was genuine. She admitted, in a clandestine voice, that being a cop in New York meant developing a certain edge, a reflexive armour. Couldn’t afford to be too soft, not in this city. Not if she wanted to be taken seriously. The state of the holding cells, she added with a scowl, was a long-standing sore spot; something she'd raised with her superiors more times than she could count. Nothing ever changed. But if it made Lucy feel any better she would ensure their cell-neighbour made it to a homeless shelter, once he'd been released.

Too — and much to the latter's relief — she admitted that the gun she'd pulled on Jack hadn’t even been loaded. She’d just wanted them both to think it was, in the event that they actually were "packing heat", so to say. Only then did Lucy's forcefield dissipate in earnest, having lingered up until that point in the form of a faint, barely-perceptible disturbance in the air.

Soon enough they were being re-processed and escorted to the exit. Though not before Jack had taken it upon himself to request access to the precinct’s staff rest area on Lucy’s behalf.

‘I really don’t want to be a bother,’ she said with brittle cheer, even as he physically steered her towards the marked door with both hands on her shoulders.

‘That’s too bad. Go.’

‘But—’

‘GoooOO.’ He ushered her through before she could protest further. ‘Ándale, ándale! Arriba, arriba!’

‘Alright, alright! I’m going, for goodness’ sake. No need to— turn Spanish…?’

She threw him a look over her shoulder, but disappeared inside anyway as Doreen keyed in the access code, the door clicking shut behind them.

Officer Dillard, who’d observed the entire exchange with mild amusement, gave Jack a sidelong glance. ‘Curious, in’t she? That lil’ lady o’ yours.’

‘Endlessly so,’ Jack agreed, exhaling wearily as he leaned back against the doorframe. ‘Woman’d sooner risk organ damage than cater to her own physical needs. Or, Goddess forbid, inconvenience someone. Utterly incomprehensible.’

Delightfully so, of course. But incomprehensible nonetheless.

‘Mm, ain’t they all,' Dillard mused, shaking his head. 'Never really been my forté, as it were.'

Jack was halfway into nodding when the rest of the previous sentence registered. He stood up a little straighter. ‘…Once again, though, she’s not my lady. Just-just to be clear here.’

Not that he particularly minded people thinking otherwise, now that he really thought about it. It was quite the compliment to him, after all. The highest of compliments, in fact.

‘An', uh, why is that, if ya'll don't mind my asking?' Dillard asked, with open intrigue. 'She not your type or somethin'?’

The question hung there, simple enough on the surface, but something about the other man’s tone made it feel like he was asking two things at once.

Jack frowned, considering this.

‘No, it’s not that,’ he said at last, quieter now. ‘It’s not that at all.’

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze drifting down the corridor as if she might reappear at any moment. In actual fact, there were a great many ways in which Lucy was exactly his type, though he'd never actual taken notice of the fact before now.

But, even so...

‘We’re friends,' was the conclusion he ultimately came to. 'Close friends. We’ve known each other so long, it’d be… well, ill-advised, foremost. Given the risk to our current dynamic. It's never been like that between the two of us.'

Unbidden, recent memories rose up in his mind: Lucy stepping in front of him, wand raised, every line of her radiating protective intent. The cool precision with which she’d disarmed him while they were hiding from those security guards. The sharp, confident movements she’d made on her broom; graceful, efficient, utterly fearless.

How goofily charming she'd looked while attempting trying to flirt with Doreen, and when she'd accidentally blown his cover as "The Nude Rambler". 

'I, ah… don’t—don’t let myself see her that way,' Jack added, voice catching slightly in his throat. 'And I’m certain she feels the same.'

He paused, lips tightening slightly, realising that the phrasing of not letting himself might be a little misleading. He didn’t feel that way about her, period, would be a more accurate way of putting it. That was the truth after all.

…Wasn’t it?

Instead of answering, Dillard just gave a small, oddly hopeful-looking nod, his gaze flicking up and down Jack's person in open appreciation.  

Finally — after a further ten minutes or so — Jack and Lucy were outside again. Outside, and, more importantly, alone. Blessedly so, from Jack’s perspective, who had just spent nine and a half of those ten minutes fending off increasingly unsubtle hints from Officer Dillard about exchanging phone numbers. 

Apparently, he’d flirted with the wrong officer earlier. He was beginning to regret not having just lied and said that he and Lucy were, in fact, together. 

The night air was sharp with the scent of car exhaust and street vendors, and the muffled thump of drum and bass echoed up from some nearby club. In the distance, sirens whooped and wailed, weaving through the city like spectral banshees. Manhattan was alive and humming.

‘Awh, what a blast from the past,' Lucy said, her voice strangely pensive as she tucked her hands under her armpits to shield them from the cold. ‘She’s actually very sweet. Doreen.’

Jack glanced sideways at her, one brow drawing upwards. 'You’re kidding.'

'She is!’

'That’s like saying a lioness is “really sweet”. Or… I don’t know, Genghis Kahn. Mary Queen of Scotts.’

‘Oh, Jack—’

'Attila the Hun. Queen Ranavalona I. Dr. Evil.'

'—she was only doing her job,' Lucy replied, with gentle censure, nudging his elbow as they began walking. 'You know how it is.'

'She called you a goody-two-shoes! And she made fun of your voice.'

'So do you. Multiple times a day. And yet I still give you the benefit of the doubt, don’t I?'

Jack made a low, noncommittal sound, choosing not to mention that when he did it it was with Great Respect and Affection. 

He liked her voice. Really liked it, in fact. How it went high when she was anxious or excited, how it softened when she was thinking deeply. And over the years it had picked up the subtle rhythm of the city: Quick, a little sardonic at times; the faintest Manhattan lilt that coloured the edges of certain words, giving even her exasperation a kind of musicality he found impossible not to enjoy. 

As well as provoke, when the mood struck.

'Well,' she exhaled, glancing up at the sky, 'this was an… eventful evening.'

'Pssht. That’s one way of putting it.'

'But a fun one, all the same! Kind of got away from us, huh? What time is it now? I need to rewind my ring.'

Jack removed one hand from his trouser pocket to check his watch. 'One-thirty-five in the morning, give or take. You were in there for a “hot minute”, Miller — as my sister would say. I know it’s not really any of my business, but is everything... ship shape?’

‘What…? Oh, yeah.’ Lucy dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. ‘Yeah, totally fine. You know what ladies in bathrooms are like. Chatting and such.’

‘Hm.’

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but opted not to push the issue.

‘One-thirty-five, you said? Mother Shipton.' The prospect of her getting any sleep before the start of her shift was growing increasingly dim, Lucy registered with a wince. 'That’s a lot later than I thought. Or earlier, more accurately. Is that it for you now, then? Will you be heading off on your travels, Mr. Multiple Time Zones?'

'Most likely,' Jack said, sighing. He looked down at himself — at the mud caked on his once-immaculate trousers, the wrinkled material of his jacket. The pungent, swampy odour now emanating from his every nook and cranny. 'Can’t say I’m looking forward to carrying out the succeeding eight-hour shift looking like I just survived the Somme.'

He raised one arm above his head, giving his armpit a cursory sniff. 

'Urgh. Although you wouldn’t know it, by the stench. I might’ve been rotting for weeks.'

Lucy wrinkled her nose sympathetically. And also because he did indeed smell quite bad. 

Reaching up to pick a string of dried algae from his shoulder, she asked, 'Do you have time to head back to Gstaad and clean up a bit?'

He shook his head. 'It's not so much that as being reluctant to expend any more energy on teleporting there. I've a long shift ahead of me, after all.’

She bit her lip, thinking. '…My shower room is perfectly serviceable.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I’m just saying, why don’t you come back to the Willow?' she posed, stretching out her hands expansively. 'If you’re heading up North from here, it would only make sense. No pressure, of course, I just thought I’d mention it.'

Jack hesitated, mulling the offer over. 

He could do that, he supposed. It would certainly be more time and energy effective than teleporting all the way over to Switzerland and back, which would set him hundreds of miles off-course and drain his already dwindling stamina levels.

After several seconds, he gave a brisk nod. 'I’ve just enough time for that, I think.'

Lucy brightened, not having expected this response. 'Oh, great! Great, that’s, uh… wow, I didn’t think you’d actually accept. Kind of assumed you’d be sick of me by now.'

An absurd assumption to make, Jack reflected privately. Though he refrained from actually telling her this, for the time being. He’d already been far too voluble that evening, thanks to all the alcohol they’d jointly consumed — wouldn’t do to compromise his reputation entirely, in the interest of stroking her ego. 

No matter how much he might enjoy seeing her react to said stroking.

'Well, it’s the least you can do, when I really think about it,' he drawled instead. 'After snitching on me the way you did.'

Lucy’s brows curved up into a soft peak, a hangdog look seizing her features.

'Are you angry with me about that, Jack? I’d understand if you were.'

'I’m furious,' Jack answered tonelessly. 'Utterly livid, in fact. I shall probably never speak to you again.'

She gave him a look that could only be described as devastated, eyes seeming almost to “inflate”, as he’d phrased it previously.

'Oh, for Heaven’s sake. Of course I’m not angry with you, you silly thing,' he clarified with a sigh, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and giving her a reassuring squeeze. 'You didn’t do it on purpose, after all. So you can put those things away before you hurt someone.'

'What things?'

'Those things.' He pointed two fingers in her face, making her go crosseyed. 'The veritable hubcaps you call eyeballs, they’re out of control. And anyway. If we’re being candid for a moment. It, ah… it’s me, really, who should be apologising for… y’know—'

'Lying to me,' Lucy interrupted, with a knowing look.

Jack tilted his head to one side, briefly resting his cheek on her crown. 'I was going to say “equivocating”, but whatever.'

'Which would be yet another lie.'

'You know who I am perpetually peeved at, though?' he ploughed on quickly, voice jumping up an octave or three. ‘That slippery little housemate of yours. Ms Melville. She was the one who put me in that situation in the first place, after all. Entirely against my will.' 

“That situation” being wandering around the Park in his bathrobe, of course.

Lucy frowned to herself, brushing a curl behind one ear. 'Technically-speaking that was my fault too. Albeit indirectly. I mean, I was the reason she called you to The Willow that day, if you remember?'

'…Hm. Good point.'

Jack pursed his lips in mock thought. Then, with exaggerated dignity, he retracted his arm and tucked it behind his back, adopting the haughty air of a man nursing grievous betrayal. Picking up on the charade this time, Lucy only laughed softly, her breath furling through the air like a silver ribbon.

They’d only managed a few steps down the street, arms loosely linked, when Jack ground to a halt with sudden purpose.

‘What?’ Lucy asked, nearly tripping. 'What's the matter?'

He squinted, suddenly contemplative. ‘I think I’ve just realised why neither my devastating charm nor your overwhelming cuteness was working back there.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s because of the whole… you and me being an item thing. No one wants to be a home-wrecker, right?’ He looked down at her entreatingly. ‘Surely that makes more sense over us having lost our touch?'

'Unless she thought we were asking her to be our third?' Lucy posed facetiously, trying not to laugh at how seriously he was taking this. 'Or, significantly more likely, Jack, just wasn't into us? I know it may seem incomprehensible to you, but sometimes that's just the case.'

'...I suppose it's a possibility.' Jack put a finger to his lips, tapping thoughtfully. 'Albeit rather an unfavourable one. Tsk, what we really need here is an outside opinion. A control group, as you science geeks would say.'

Lucy opened her mouth to respond to this, but before she could make so much as a sound, he was peeling away from her, gaze locked on someone ambling toward them on the opposite side of the pavement.

There was a look in his eye that gave Lucy immediate cause for concern.

‘Jack,’ she called warily, ‘what are you doing?’

‘Excuse me, madam!’ he said exuberantly, bounding forth to intercept the woman, who slowed at once and regarded him with extreme suspicion. 

‘Uh, yes?’ she answered, in a small voice.

Lucy hastened towards them. ‘Jack, don't—’

‘Quick question for you, and, please. Don’t hold back,’ he began, raising an instructive finger in her face. ‘On a scale of one to ten — one being actively suppressing your gag reflex, and ten being beside yourself with ardour — how inclined would you say you are to making love to either myself, or the rather winsome lady over yonder, at this very moment?’

As a means of distracting him from his stinging cheek (on which the imprint of a hand was still faintly visible) Jack was offered his pick of return methods: Broom, teleportation, or subway. 

The broom, after the day’s misadventures, was firmly off the table:

'I still think we skimmed a little too quickly past the part where you almost qualified as an astronaut,' Jack grumbled, giving Lucy a skewering look as he pressed a handful of ice to the side of his face. 'Not to mention — once again — the fact that you dropped your previous passenger. Doesn’t exactly instil confidence, does it?'

A delicate rouge stained the high points of Lucy’s face.

'Only because my attention was diverted, as you so helpfully reminded me earlier,' she replied, rather prissily. 'As long as you don’t plan on distracting me as effectively as Æd did, we won’t have an issue, will we?'

Jack frowned. 

There was an unmistakable lilt to her tone. Just enough to raise an eyebrow. 

That had almost -- almost -- sounded like a challenge…

Well. Had it indeed been a challenge, Jack would have responded that he was capable of distracting her to such an extent they’d crash right into the Statue of Liberty. But it wasn’t, he decided, so he didn’t.

…

Teleportation, while efficient, was draining at the best of times. Given the hour, and his desire to conserve what magical energy he had left, Jack ultimately chose the subway instead. He hadn’t ridden it in years, he remarked. Could be fun, he reasoned.

Oh, how naive he was. How young and foolish.

Barely two stops in, they were accosted by an elderly man in a long, grease-slicked trench coat that smelled like it had survived several natural disasters; none of them recent. One eye drifted vaguely sideways, the other hidden beneath an ominously stained eyepatch. His hair, wild and tufted, looked as though it had lost a fight with a lightning bolt.

With great ceremony, he reached into his coat and produced — not a weapon, nor a flyer, nor even a plastic cup — but a live rat.

He held it out to Jack as though offering a stick of gum, smiling benevolently.

Several moments later, as the man shuffled into the neighbouring carriage, clutching the rat to his chest like a particularly hairy infant, Jack leaned in and murmured into Lucy’s ear, 'Would you believe I’m starting to regret this decision.'

Lucy, entirely unruffled, had simply favoured the stranger with a radiant smile and a breezy, 'He’s fine, thank you!' before settling back beside Jack with her usual composed air.

'Oh, that’s just Rats Georg,' she explained, with a delicate flutter of her fingers. 'He’s totally harmless. Bit of a fixture, actually. Sometimes I buy him coffee and we have a nice chat.'

'A nice chat.'

'Mm-hm!'

'A nice chat about what, exactly?' Jack arched a curious brow, re-pocketing the change he’d been about to donate. ‘Oh wait, don’t tell me. Ra— ?’

'Rats, mostly! He has a sort of way with them, like they can understand him or something. A modern day Pied Piper.’

'I see. Charming.'

'It’s Needles Dan you really have to watch out for,' Lucy went on cheerfully. 'But he doesn’t seem to be around tonight. Him or Bite-y Steve.'

'How comforting,' Jack said impassively, suddenly very grateful for the absurdly large bottle of Purell his pathogen-conscious friend kept tucked somewhere in the endless recesses of her cloak.

Manhattan truly was a law unto itself.

How she could be so enamoured of a place so profoundly flawed was beyond him. As was her affinity for its madcap inhabitants. But then, he supposed, that had always been her way. Championing the underdog, throwing her lot in with the broken, the difficult, the misjudged.

'Perfectly imperfect, I think, is the best way of putting it,’ she concluded, when probed on the matter, reaching up to adjust the knot of his tie in an absent, affectionate gesture. ‘I mean, what even is “perfect,” anyway?’

‘Not getting shanked outside CVS?’ Jack ventured idly.

‘You know what I mean. “Perfect” is relative, it changes from person to person. And I’ve always enjoyed a challenge; just like Carrie Bradshaw.’ An arch smile tugged at her lips, deepening the creases around her mouth. ‘Maybe that’s why she was so fond of New York, as well as emotionally unavailable men.’

‘Are we talking about your dating preferences here, as well as the city?’

Lucy paused mid-motion, her fingers still lightly grazing the edge of his collar. 

'Oh, er— no,' she stammered, drawing her hand back quickly and settling it in her lap. 'No, we— just the city. Nothing else.'

With a forced cough, she turned her attention towards the opposite side of the carriage, where an advert for men’s multivitamins was pinned beside a map of the 1 Train. She studied it attentively, and Jack suddenly wondered if he’d struck a nerve.

But then, without a word, she slipped her arm through his and leaned against his side with her head on his shoulder, just like she had at the top of the Empire State Building.

'For the record, though… to me, it is perfect,' she said, around a yawn, her voice nearly lost beneath the metallic screech of the rails. 'Exactly as it is.'

Jack glanced down at her, endeared and faintly bemused, and found that her eyes were already closed, her features soft in repose. 

It wasn’t until several minutes later — when he heard a tiny, kitten-like snore — that he realised she’d somehow managed to fall asleep on him.

She was completely nestled into his side now, her head tucked against his collarbone. So unguarded. So trusting. So utterly unbothered by his stench, which had reached biological warfare levels of noxiousness in the heat and humidity of the subway. Remarkable, really, given that the rest of the carriage’s occupants were giving him a noticeably wide berth.

Jack reached around her, tugging her capelet a little more snugly over her shoulder to keep the chill off. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, only burrowed in closer with a sleepy murmur that sounded suspiciously like his name.

Heart melting, he propped his chin up on the top of her head and let his own eyes drift shut, content to stay exactly as they were until the train rolled into their stop.