Chapter Text
i walk a lonely road
the only one that i have ever known
It was quiet in the strange apartment.
Not a mere absence of sound, but a quiet that breathed deep and blanketed the senses like a nighttime pillow. It was a quiet that examined every scuff, every rustle, every soft exhalation with cool curiosity. It listened, with the hush of trees in the night. It watched, with the perilous regard of faeries.
Virgil let the door softly shut behind him and let out a breath, one he’d probably been holding since leaving Ohio two days before. After multiple bus rides across multiple states and hours and hours of strangers, suitcases, and stress, he appreciated the quiet. Despite how it put his paranoid senses on edge, he felt glad to be away from open spaces and curious eyes.
But the apartment was also dark, and a little cold, and its owner was painfully conspicuous by his absence.
The place belonged to a half-faery named Logan Ursae: who, according to the Youngstown Grimms, was someone they trusted to provide pursued changelings a place to run to and start over. Changelings like Virgil.
Virgil, who would much rather be with his Ren Faire troupe back in Ohio.
The reappearance of his old faery master had brought his scarce two years of freedom to an abrupt end. Now he stood in some ordinary human apartment owned by an absent half-blood with a human name, in some middle-of-nowhere city in hot, muggy Florida, a thousand miles from everyone he knew.
Figures, the guy isn’t even here when I show up. He tugged his oversized black plaid hoodie tighter around himself. It’s not like I’m ever anyone’s top priority.
“Uh, hey?” he called, flipping a light switch. “Anyone home?”
Silence.
Virgil rolled his eyes.
Despite his relief at not having to answer questions or make small talk with a stranger, Logan’s absence unsettled him. What kind of person supposedly regularly took in changelings on the run, but then couldn’t be arsed to be around when they turned up on his doorstep? If Virgil had any other place to go, he’d have turned around and walked out on principle.
Instead, he huffed out a sigh and let his ratty duffle bag slide to the floor.
Logan Ursae’s apartment was spacious and clean, making Virgil uncomfortably aware of his own travel-mussed, unwashed state. Hopefully the half-faery wouldn’t care if he used the shower…well, if he wanted to lay down rules, he should’ve been here to do it.
The foyer spilled into a modest living room, with a navy sectional couch and a low coffee table, several standing lamps, a hallway presumably leading to the bedrooms, and the dining space off in its own niche. Heavily-laden bookshelves hid practically every wall in the place, housing an inconceivable number of books—especially to Virgil, who’d lived on the road or on the run his whole life.
A half empty water dish with ‘Nic’ spelled out in neat cursive sat against the far wall, but he saw no other signs of pets. If Logan did have a dog or something, it was as absent as its owner.
Virgil wandered to the oval dining table, trailing finger pads across classy pale wood and a dark blue runner. A low counter separated a small galley kitchen from the rest of the apartment, with navy towels hanging evenly from the oven handle and galaxy-themed potholders hanging under the cabinets.
The guy clearly had a thing for blue.
Even the curious scent that hung in the air smelled blue to Virgil’s changeling-sensitive nose, tickling at his senses in a swirl of color. Subtle, masculine, more middle note than the patchouli oil Virgil himself liked to wear, like dark teal skies and rich bronze bark against a background of earthy brown. He inhaled, imagining that scent against a warm masculine neck, and then wondered where the hell that thought came from.
Maybe you’re just gay, Virgil, he groused to himself.
In place of a television, Logan’s living room housed an intricately carved wooden cabinet: antique, waist-high, with drawers and two swinging doors. On top of this sat an old-fashioned record player with a huge brass horn. The setup could have easily graced a 50s movie set; both cabinet and player looked heavy, solid, and polished with care.
Virgil idly pawed through the impressive vinyl collection on the shelf above, recognizing a few artists, and knelt to see if there were any more inside the cabinet.
“I’ll thank ye not to touch that,” a small voice said.
Virgil’s heart skittered into his throat. He whirled.
A creature no more than two feet tall leaned against the coffee table, tiny brown arms folded over a sturdy brown chest, covered by a tunic that looked to be messily stitched from several colored hand towels. Wild, wispy brown hair parted around a set of bat-like ears, all smooshed under a hat that looked like it had been made from burlap and a Starbucks cup. A pair of black sunglasses perched on a red, upturned nose, nearly obscuring a pair of black, beady, glaring eyes under expressive eyebrows. More wispy hair covered their bare feet. Gender was impossible to determine.
Fae, Virgil’s mind whispered. Fae, Fae, there’s a Fae in the house they’ll tell Deceit where I am what do I do…?
No. He was overreacting. It was just a house brownie.
A solitary.
Generally harmless.
Virgil took a breath and relaxed his shoulders.
“You always sneak up on people?” He mirrored the small faery’s crossed-arm stance.
“You always go poking about in people’s houses?” the brownie countered in a high, sassy voice, the faintest hint of a baroque staining the syllables.
“I’m not poking; I have a key. S’not my fault Logan’s not here—”
“I meant what’s behind you, ye daft changeling.” The brownie nodded toward the cabinet. “I know the Bear is expecting company. Do what ye want in the rest of the apartment. But keep clear of my house.”
Oh.
Virgil shuffled away from the cabinet, trying to recall what little he knew about domestic Fae. Don’t insult them. Leave gifts; never leave payment. Don’t watch them do chores. Don’t give them clothes.
Nothing about making conversation with one; unfortunate, since Virgil sucked at making conversation in general.
“Sorry,” he grumbled. “Just…don’t like being surprised.”
The brownie peeked over their sunglasses—why would a Fae wear sunglasses?—and dragged his gaze over Virgil’s messy eyeshadow and faded purple hair, his ripped jeans and faded black hoodie, seemingly pleased to let him squirm under the scrutiny.
“Um, no offense.” Virgil rubbed his neck. “But your kind don’t usually show themselves to humans.”
The brownie hopped onto the coffee table.
“Well, I see no humans here.” They plopped down, cross-legged, and leaned forward. “Do you, changeling?”
Virgil instinctively ducked his head, letting his bangs obscure his dark brown eyes—eyes that, like all changelings, bore a narrow ring of color around each pupil. Worse, Virgil’s changeling eyes also happened to be heterochromatic, setting him apart even from his own kind. One dark green ring framed his left pupil, while a striking purple one circled his right.
Wearing his hair long in front helped, but they still drew attention.
He hated attention.
“Technically changelings are human,” Virgil grumbled. “We’re just kept in Arcadia for so long that the magic just kind of—”
“Bleeds into ye?” The brownie swung their legs, making their foot hair sway. “Soaks into your teeth and sinew until ye can alter the Contracts same as they can?”
Virgil frowned. “If that means ‘do magic’, then yeah.”
“I live with a half-blood, lad.” The brownie licked their knobby teeth. “I know of your Grimms. Former faery thralls; changelings, using your powers to rescue others like yourselves. I know you’re here for the Bear to keep safe because your master tried to snatch ye back up. What’re you called, then, eh?”
“Um,” Virgil stalled.
It was never wise to give a faery one’s real name, but if Logan and this little Fae had a close relationship, Virgil didn’t dare insult the brownie by lying to them. He suspected if this one knew why he was here, they knew his name already.
“Virgil,” he admitted softly.
The brownie smiled, removing their sunglasses to bare their face properly.
“Mmm. Then you may call me Remy.” They flourished the glasses and parked them back on their nose. “He/him pronouns.”
Virgil nodded, guessing he’d passed some test.
Remy folded his arms again.
Neither spoke for a long, uncomfortable minute, long enough for Virgil’s skin to crawl. He despised awkward silences, and small talk, and making nice with a stranger when he was worn down from paranoia, grimy from travel, and ready to curl up somewhere and just sleep.
“Look, uh, Remy.” Virgil looked away, picking at his sleeves. “Did Logan know I was coming tonight?”
“You want to know why he’s not here to meet ye?” Remy shrugged. “I could explain, or”— he gestured to a neatly folded sheet of paper on the coffee table—“you could read it from the Bear himself.”
Virgil rolled his eyes and snatched up the note.
He could’ve led with that, the little bastard. He ignored Remy’s knowing chuckle and unfolded the note with more force than necessary. Delicate, slanted script covered the paper, the lines so straight they looked like they’d been made with a ruler.
‘Salutations,’
Virgil raised an eyebrow. Really? We’re leading with that?
‘If you are reading this, Virgil, then I extend my sincerest apologies for my absence upon your arrival. An emergency has called me away. Though I advised your Grimm sponsors of this as soon as I could, you had already begun your journey. As you have no phone, I had no means to update you.
Remy was right about this note being enlightening. Virgil hoped the guy didn’t actually talk like this.
‘(We must remedy this issue upon my return; considering the circumstances of your relocation, I insist upon having a reliable means to contact you.)’
Patronizing, too. Great.
‘The room on the left is yours. There are clean sheets on the bed and towels in the bathroom. I trust you have brought your own toiletries.’
Was Logan one of those people who believed only barbarians didn’t brush their teeth after every meal, or was he afraid Virgil would steal his shampoo or something?
Whatever.
‘Also, please do not move the bowl on the counter, and if you find it empty, if you could fill it with the cream you’ll find in the fridge, I would much appreciate it. The house brownie may or may not choose to introduce himself; he tends to spend most of his time sleeping. If he does come out, please be polite.’
Virgil glanced up and was unsurprised to find that Remy had vanished. Brownies generally came and went as they pleased and stayed out of sight; he already knew he was fortunate Remy had shown himself at all.
‘I advise you to stay inside the apartment until my return. You will find both the fridge and the pantry stocked; please make yourself at home. I expect to return sometime the night of the 12th and look forward to meeting you then.
Logan’
‘P.S. Do not touch the Crofters.’
Well, August 12th would be over in about an hour, and so far it didn’t look like he’d be meeting Logan that night. Virgil refolded and pocketed the note, sighing again. He found Remy’s bowl and refilled it as instructed, but figured he probably wouldn’t see the little faery again until Logan returned…if then.
Meanwhile, he might as well get settled.
The room mentioned in the note contained a twin bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and a small desk with a chair. Not much, but he had his own closet and everything looked spotlessly clean. Virgil, having lived in a tent before this, was very much not complaining.
After unpacking his clothes—black, very dark gray, more black, a little purple; he maintained a certain aesthetic, okay—he slid out his two most valued possessions: a beat-up tackle box full of well-used acrylic paints and a roll of brushes and palette knives. In his escape from Ohio, he’d had to leave all his sketchbooks and paintings behind. He knew he was lucky to have saved any of his art supplies at all.
Virgil sat heavily on the bed, the last seventy-two hours finally starting to catch up.
Freezing in sheer terror when he spotted his former faery master strolling through that Faire like he owned the place…bolting to his tent, throwing everything he could into his duffle…running with no real plan, nowhere in particular to go, just away…
He was lucky that a Grimm had stumbled upon him and taken him to a safe house; one of many, set up all over the country. He was lucky those Grimms were in contact with the Founders—the original Grimm team—and through them, Logan.
He was lucky.
He’d already escaped hell once. He wasn’t sure he’d survive under Deceit’s thumb again. Working until his fingers bled and his eyes burned with exhaustion, second-guessing every word, every gesture, every silence, never knowing day to day if he’d be fed or slapped, praised or tortured…
Virgil shuddered, wrapping arms around himself. He’d endured over twenty hours of travel without having a panic attack. It would suck to fall into one now that he was, for the moment, safe.
At least…he hoped he was safe.
For lack of anything else to do, Virgil showered in the guest bathroom—with his own shampoo, thank you very much, Mr. Bring-Your-Own-Toiletries—and dressed for bed, despite it being barely midnight. He read through Logan’s stilted, precise note again, frowning the odd postscript before setting it on the nightstand and switching off the lamp.
What in the Arcadian hell is a ‘Crofters’?