(no subject)

[professionalcorpse]

Dr. Nolan is a dick. There are probably other things about him that are noteworthy or relevant - like the fact that he studies containment and concealment or that he’s apparently super respected in the field and shit - but all that’s severely outweighed by just how much of a massive bag of dicks he is. He enjoys failing people. Seriously, Bash has never seen him smile harder than the first time he sprung a pop quiz on them about shit that wasn’t even in the fucking $400 textbook he made them all buy. Speaking of which - the man relishes making Bash do read-alouds in class, looking deeply satisfied when he stutters. When the words vacate his brain and he stumbles stupidly. Look, whatever. Dude’s an ass. Bash can handle himself. But this shit. This shit takes the cake. __ The cup is delicate. Not ornate enough to have been expensive, but definitely the sort of nice that was well taken care of. A thing that was worth something to somebody once upon a time. There are little blue flowers up the sides, each one hand-painted and the lot of them nestled in vines. It’d look ridiculously out of place in his and Lucas’ cabinet of mix-and-match mugs from bargain bins and questionable Amazon trolling. Thing’s charmed to high hell too. The work would be beautiful if Bash didn’t want to sock Dr. Nolan in his stupid, smug face whenever he talks about how clever and brave he is to have successfully charmed it in the first place. And more important than all that, is what’s in it. He’s seen them - they’ve all seen them. Okay, more heard them than seen them. But he knows that his classmates have noticed. How small their voices sound when the good Doctor lifts the silencing charms. That they might scream, but they cry too. They’ve all heard it. And it bothers them too. Bash recognizes discomfort when it’s squirming two rows in front of him. A decently representative, but by no means comprehensive, list of questions asked on the subject that have pissed off Dr. Dickbag Junior:     • How long have you had them in there?     • You ever let them out?     • What are their names?     • How old are they?     • How many people have they hurt?     • Well, then what qualifications are you using for ‘dangerous’?     • Why? (Always ‘why’ - the most carnivorous question.) Bash never gets straight answers, but he always gets asked if he’d prefer to report to the Dean about his poor attitude or if he’d rather read the next section of whatever academic bullshit they’re up to that so they can please get back on track. This is a class about spell theory and Statute-maintenance. Which - yeah. Bash is kind of getting tired of it, if he’s entirely honest. And, as far as potentially bad ideas are concerned, this won’t be his first (or his worst) by miles. __ Bash waits until Lucas has an overnight assignment before he actually tries anything. Normally he dedicates a few hours to pacing the living room and rambling semi-anxiously at the cats about safety statistics when Lucas has an assignment, but Hazel’s out on this one with him - and Bash has a plan. Okay, maybe not a plan, in the strictest sense of traditional plan-having. Maybe more of a somewhat questionable idea and several years of experience in casual trespassing. And school security isn’t all that impressive. Maybe because they feel like most people aren’t trying to break in? He has some theories. Either way, it’s quick work getting into the building, no actual breaking required to manage the entering. The halls are quiet and his footsteps echo along after him as he makes his way to the empty classroom. Which, empty classrooms still sort of make him feel like he’s suffocating - like he’s racing against an invisible clock and the clawing in his throat - and the tiered rows of desks rise around him claustrophobically. But he knows what he’s doing (within reason) and the teacup is still exactly where it always is - on a little podium next to Dr. Nolan’s desk, a magically-silenced display to his own perceived cleverness. So Bash makes his way to the front of the room quietly. He plucks his wand from between his teeth and wiggles his fingers out Indiana Jones and a bag of sand style, totally ready to take chances, make mistakes, and get messy - just like Miss Frizzle told him. He sucks in a deep breath, whispers a few words, and then everything abruptly goes a bit to hell. But only a little bit, so it’s still a win. __ It’s clear that they have a thing going. A system. It’s a bit childish, sure. A bit simplistic. But he respects it - even if it’s entirely possible that his facial expression isn’t exactly reflecting this at the current moment. The girl hangs back, her big eyes wide and her tiny fingers caught up in tattered skirts. The trump card. The sympathy play. Look, it’s not that he’s an unsympathetic person, it’s just that he’s gotten those exact eyes from Meggie when she wants him to take the fall for her. He knows what they’re used for. (He’d like to say that it doesn’t work every time - but there’s no one to lie to in an internal monologue.) But the boy rushes forward - all rough and record-skipping motion that makes Bash grin with a strange rush of nostalgia - and lets out a jagged, screaming sound that makes the desks rattle. Which Bash takes a quick second to look delightedly impressed with. He’s more battered than she is, with bruises on his neck and a splintered crack running the side of his forehead, and certainly more angry, his eyes dark pits as they narrow at him. So Bash steps forward boldly and runs his mouth. Which, hey. It’s worked for him so far. And if it ain’t broke - “Dude,” he says, in a tone that strongly suggests a certain level of general expertise at the wrangling of small children. Mortality-status notwithstanding. “That’s just about enough of that nonsense. I didn’t stick you in there - and if we keep screaming bloody murder, someone’s coming in and busting this party right the hell up.” He’d like to think that things calm down significantly after that. __ “Hey,” Bash greets with a crooked wave, once the furniture’s more or less back into its proper places and everyone’s blinking at him like he’s insane. (Not a new experience.) “Sebastien Lacroix, nice to meet you.” There’s a moment where the two of them pause, trade very quiet little looks he recognizes from years of coordinated playground curb-stomping with his own sister. “We know you,” the girl says, authoritative. She’s the negotiator - he isn’t surprised. “He yells at you a lot.” And then Bash laughs, all bright and easy noise that seems to startle her into stepping back. He politely pretends not to notice before leaning his hip into the nearest desk. “Angelface, he ain’t even close to the first person to yell at me a lot.” __ So Bash totally rocks that first part on his own. (Well, the second part. But anyone could’ve reversed the silencing charm. That part’s easy enough that he’s not even counting it. The ‘rocking’ is also debatable, but he’s sticking with it anyway.) Whatever. He figures out the second-first part on his own: They can get out, just about to the width of the front of the lecture hall. But not beyond that. There has to be like, layers or something but Bash can’t tell if that’s a standard thing or some home-brewed bullshit. He’s maybe glaring daggers into the toaster about it. Which does nothing to improve his situation or to encourage the toaster to finish his Eggos any sooner. “Prisons.” It’s probably a testament to his general level of conversational skill that Lucas doesn’t so much as blink at the interjection. “The containment charms on wizarding prisons -” he adds in response to his boyfriend’s inquisitive humming noise. “What do you know about breaking out of them?” “What’s this for?” Lucas mumbles around a mouthful of Lucky Charms and Bash loves him. “Crime,” he replies, and the way Lucas’ eyes light up in the shitty fluorescents of their matchbox of a kitchen is pretty much the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Shit, he’s amazing. Bash definitely isn’t letting Lucas’ supervisor have the pleasure of maybe arresting him. __ “When can we leave?” Ottilie asks, after a few rounds of Bash dropping himself onto the classroom floor. Enoch helpfully scatters the contents of his bag across the tiles. There’s a small, light-up ball in there. Enoch looks (comparatively) delighted. “I haven’t figured out the whole thing yet,” Bash admits, indicating the general lack of success they’ve had with leaving the confines of the classroom itself thus far. “It’s a work in progress.” Ottilie doesn’t look impressed, her bloodied lower lip jutting out in a pout. This attitude, while frankly hurtful, isn’t entirely unwarranted. Bash’s hands fly up, at metaphorical gunpoint. “But my boyfriend’s really good at charms,” he hastens to add, tossing the ball in Enoch’s direction. “He’s got some ideas.” Ideas that are maybe being unwittingly donated to actual, rather than strictly hypothetical, crime. But y’know. Hey. Lucas really doesn’t need to get in trouble if he doesn’t have to. Not that he should get in trouble either. If Dr. Dickbag doesn’t want to reveal his trade secrets, then having to reverse-engineer/Kobayashi Maru himself some complex entrapment spells should be captaincy-winning shit, as far as he’s concerned. Frankly, he deserves an A. For effort. (Whatever that shit means.) A beat of silence and then: “You have a boyfriend?” Ottilie first. It’s always Ottilie first. Bash grins like an idiot. “Yup,” he chirps, nothing but ridiculous fondness in his voice. “His name’s Lucas and he’s pretty much perfect.” The ball bounces - once neatly and again not-so-neatly, careening off the far wall and nearly braining Bash on the ricochet. (Force. They’re really going to have to work on proper application of force.) “You’re a boy,” Enoch says. Slowly. As though he’s pointing something very terribly obvious out to someone that’s particularly dim-witted. This isn’t terribly noteworthy in and of itself. “Yup.” They cast glances at one another, those same furtively communicative ones from the first night, as Bash busies himself Accio-ing the ball before it takes out the pen holder on Dr. Dickbag’s desk. They nod, consensus apparently reached, and Ottilie tilts her head. “That’s allowed?” He pats the space next to him in invitation before leaning back onto the heels of his hands in a loose-limbed sprawl. “Oh man, kiddos. Pull up a tile. This is gonna be a fun one.” __ “How long has he had you guys in there?” Ottilie’s nose crinkles, the edges of her going fuzzy, as though she loses track of herself in the thinking. “I don’t know,” she says, after a while. “He wasn’t nearly as fat then.” Bash snorts into his sleeve, bites down on the threat of giggles. Ottilie grins back at him like she’s been caught at something particularly clever. Which is right about on the mark. “He wasn’t nice.” Enoch’s voice is curt when it cuts in, his sentences clipped. There’s something about it that’s genuinely and childishly confused in a way that makes Bash’s chest constrict, smile sliding off his face as quickly as it came. “We didn’t do anything. We just wanted him to go away.” The boy frowns at the tiles, the sharp, shattered-mirror of his temple leaking something viscous onto the trembling clench of his tiny fist. “It hurt.” __ He’s going to get shit for this one and he’s honestly pretty at peace with the whole thing. “Was it because it was easy?” The question sort of hangs there for a moment, while several people turn to look at him - and several other people pointedly don’t turn to look at him. Bash feels like he’s in the crosshairs. It’s a bit refreshing. “Clarify, Mr. Lacroix.” Dr. Nolan says, in an arch drawl that conveys exactly what sort of taste his name leaves in the man’s mouth. He says it like it’s a dare, which is his biggest mistake. “The kids,” he clarifies, ever obedient when it suits him, and several more heads swivel in his direction. No one calls them that, but everyone knows exactly who he’s talking about. “Is that why you picked them?” He doesn’t get an answer. And it’s probably lucky they don’t give detention in graduate school. __ God, the details are going to kill him. He’s got maybe twenty photos of the teacup from different angles on his phone (half of them with Ottilie’s fingers curiously getting in the way of the lens) and about as many tabs open on Firefox. Some of them are promising. Promising, but not perfect. “Why are you looking at teacups on eBay?” The voice comes from directly behind him and he startles like a drenched cat, nearly jumping out of his skin. His laptop very narrowly escapes the jaws of certain death via faux hardwood flooring. He has no idea how she does it. Every goddamn time. “Jesus fuck, Ariel! I thought we warded this place against demons.” His sister, horrible demon unsuccessfully held back by security measures, laughs. “I have a key, Gup. You gave it to me.” “Clearly a fucking mistake,” he says, tilting his screen down. She flips him the bird as he continues to grumble, disappearing down the hall and returning a few minutes later with an Oreo Poptart jammed in her face. “How many laws we breaking here?” she asks, flopping on the couch and shoving herself into his space. Bash wriggles a bit, makes room. “I don’t know if there are any strict laws on this exact topic? Like - it isn’t really grave robbing if there ain’t a grave.” Semantics, sure. But he’s not above semantics. As a person. “So just, y’know, general trespassing. Light theft.” Ariel snorts, shoves a piece of Poptart into his open mouth. “Light theft?” He gestures at his laptop screen as he chews, gesturing at the pages of delicate teacups displayed on it. “Light theft.” He likes it, as a conviction. It sounds pleasant. “In that I’m very clearly trying to replace the item I have not stolen.” “Why don’t you just transfigure something, Magic Mike?” “First off: Terrible nickname suggestion. Highly inaccurate.” He ticks one finger up, then another, waving them under Ariel’s nose. “And he’d know.” His nose wrinkles in distaste. “He’s an asshole, not a moron.” Ariel snaps her teeth at his retreating hand and snatches his phone, shuffles through the photos and leans in toward the screen. “I got an idea,” she says, lips pulling up at the corners. “You’re gonna hate it.” __ Muriel Whitman, professional busybody and antagonistic stoop-defender, has lived in the house next door to the Lacroixes since time immemorial. Bash is fairly certain she’s suspected them of some form of devil worship since right about that same time. But in that weird, benign way where she really wished they would just go ahead and worship the devil publicly so she could tell the ladies in her knitting circle about it instead of having to come up with original material all on her own. She doesn’t approve of Halloween for ‘religious reasons,’ somehow hasn’t noticed that the only other white person on the block is his dad, and still asks his mother when he plans on bringing a nice girl home. (Alternatively, when Winnie plans on bringing a nice young man home. The answers are both consistent and disappointing.) Point it, Ms. Whitman has always been there. Watching and vaguely disapproving. Which, as a sensation, is honestly unnerving from this close? Her eyes are remarkably canny for someone her age and her living room looks like a doily vomited all over it and Bash can’t help but squirm in the over-stuffed armchair he’s been ushered into. Basically, it’s a lot of: “Are you still living with that young man?” “Yes, Ms. Whitman.” “And what does your grandmother think?” “She likes him a lot, Ms. Whitman.” Which - he’d much rather discuss the possibility of devil worship as a family bonding activity, but it doesn’t exactly come up. And he can’t figure out a natural segue. But it peters off eventually and she regards him over the rim of her teacup. “I believe you’re here for something.” “Yes. I mean, it would be -“ he’s trying not to appear overeager, but he must be going a bit too hard on it because she narrows her eyes at him like a hawk and his right arm viscerally aches with the echoes of remembered swing set injuries. He dials it down. “My friend, Tillie. Huge completionist, y’know? Missing the last in the set.” At the mention of a woman’s name, she sits up, throwing him a look of approval that’s super weird considering his earlier confirmation of having a live-in boyfriend. But, hey. It’s cool. Maybe she’s just interested in adding polyamorous triads to the list of hypothetical Lacroix-family sins. (He’ll float the theory by Lucas later.) Then she trundles off into the kitchen, returning with a little box that he lifts the lid of cautiously, the grin on his face going wide and victorious. Shit, it’s perfect. It’s going to need to be dirtied up a bit, sure. But it’s perfect. He’s going to have to pretend to commune with a dark god out in the backyard on the next full moon as a sign of his gratitude or something. He starts out with a “Thanks so much, Ms. Whitman. I really appreciate it.” for now. Just like his momma taught him. Still has to stick around for some cold tea and stale coffee cake. But it’s worth it. __ It goes off without a hitch. Which is honestly more surprising than any other alternative. He borrows Winnie’s wand just in case Dr. Dickbag asks to check his - hers is easily the most accommodating - and he hands the cup off to Ariel to babysit for the night until he finishes sitting in class and giving absolutely no reason for anyone to look twice at him. In that he’s an ass who asks questions that enrage his professor for an hour-and-a-half. The whole thing makes him feel super covert ops. This is not to imply that he in any way maintains this level of cool the second he hits his apartment with a messenger bag stuffed with a Wendy’s 4-for-$4 and a few long-dead children. (Y’know, the usual.) He trips his way through the front door, carefully places the teacup onto the rickety living room coffee table, and flops himself onto the floor. It takes a few minutes before the twins materialize. Bash makes no comment on their quiet, wide-eyed glances around the small living room - just chews on a chicken nugget as he watches them slowly edge their way around the perimeter. Ottilie first, curiously poking her fingers through the various knick-knacks that line the shelves, Enoch pretending to sulk as he follows. “Okay!” Bash announces around his straw, and Ottilie turns to pay attention, her hand halfway through a succulent that’s barely clinging to life. (He should - probably water that. Later.) “Gameplan time, kiddos. We got until 6 o’clock.” He takes on long slurp and nods decisively. “We got to do this thing nice and slow and subtle.” “We know,” Enoch says, eyes rolling. “Be nice to your boyfriend.” Ottilie elbows him, rolling her eyes right back. “Because he’s pretty much perfect,” she adds, ignoring her brother’s sharp retaliatory tug on her hair. “And he gets to decide if we can visit.” Yeah, okay. Maybe they’re going to do fine. __ They do not do fine. So the introductions maybe don’t go as swimmingly as Bash would have preferred. Lucas getting home two hours early might be a minor factor in how the whole thing goes down. It all happens very quickly: The key hits the lock, Bash winces, the door swings open, and Enoch just goes for it - launches himself straight through Bash’s torso (which, wow, rude - there’s definitely another manners talk in his future) and screams like an unholy thing. “Whoa! Hold up!” Bash yelps, starting forward. Then he just sort of shoves his fingers into the ruffled mess of curls on top of his head and tugs instead, motion harried. “Oh my god, Enoch. That was not subtle. That was the direct opposite of what we worked on.” Enoch immediately stutters to a stop and turns back to face him with a narrow-eyed frown, his head swiveling quicker than the rest of him. It’s - probably not a terribly comforting sight. “He just barged in,” he protests, petulant. Bash shakes his fingers out in the direction of the front door, encompassing the entirety of his (probably less-than-delighted, though he doesn’t really want to confirm visually) boyfriend in the gesture. “It’s our apartment, he’s encouraged to barge in.” Black eyes narrow to slits, clearly sulking now. “I didn’t know.” A snort. “We were literally just discussing -“ “Hello,” Ottilie chimes in, cutting the argument off at the knees, and her posture’s such a perfect imitation of his own ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ act that Bash can’t help but laugh. The follow-up doesn’t help much either. “Sebastien says you’re allowed to be boyfriends now. That’s very nice.” There’s a noise from the doorway that could possibly be another person laughing - or could possibly be another person unexpectedly choking on oxygen. In a more realistic universe. “Hey, babe,” Bash hazards, chancing a glance upward through the disarray of his hair. “We have guests?”