Page 3 of Werewolves and Witches AU

When I can, I bring things from “the outside” to help grease the wheels for her on “the inside.” Not that she’s not free to leave whenever she wants, it’s just a hassle at her age—a hassle most of the residents here share, and one Ethel is happy to exploit. She returns the favour, of course. A lot of the ladies here now buy my aloe vera hair care products, including Ethel, it’s just harder to tell because she also dyes what little hair she has left.

The flash of blue-purple from it as she approaches draws my gaze, and I notice how her purse strap sits squarely on her shoulder, even as she carries a teapot for one and a cup on a tray. Must be better balanced now she’s added the pastries.

“Nice shirt.” She winks, sliding the tray over to me.

Grinning, I look down. Long-sleeved and black, it reads “werewolves are easy” in big white letters above the cartoon image of a snarling wolf on a leash. I’d bought it for a laugh at the State Witchcraft and Wonder Fayre, because the idea of an alpha wolf on his knees, and me holding the leash, had made me laugh until my stomach hurt. I’d debated wearing it for breakfast, but Ethel’s seen me wear worse.

“You didn’t have to get me a drink,” I say by way of thanks.

“I didn’t. I got me a drink, but I’m old and forgetful, and now I’m back here I can see I already have one. Being senile is a problem.” Ethel winks and takes back her original cup.

I laugh, but there’s that twang again of something deep inside. I lift the lid of the pot to hide it. Tea isn’t my favourite, but I can drink it. For Ethel. I’d do a lot of things for Ethel. It’s been me and her against the world since her Bella died, and before that it was the three of us ever since my parents died. I glance up at her through the steam.

“So, no one to bring to breakfast still?” Ethel’s eyebrow is raised in that way I’m sure she developed the moment my adoption was finalised. That parenting arch that says everything while also saying nothing.

She pushes her purse across the floor to me with her foot, and I reach down to surreptitiously lighten it of the pastries, folding them away inside my jacket.

“Just because they’re not at breakfast, doesn’t mean there’s no one,” I shoot back defensively, pouring tea too fast into a small cup. It spills over the side and pools in the saucer.

Ethel offers a paper napkin she already had in hand. “You need a keeper, Milo.”

My jaw hangs open. “I most certainly do not!”

Plunging the napkin into the too-hot tea, I burn my fingers then waft them in the air. “For a feminist, that’s practically blasphemy, isn’t it? I’m perfectly fine as I am: an independent young man making my own way in the world. Besides, I have you.”

She opens her mouth to comment, probably to remind me how she won’t be around for much longer, when a portly kitchen server all but drops a plate of toast and eggs on the table. I’ve never in my life been so glad for rude service.

“Hey! Watch it.” I scan up his stained chef’s whites to his three-day-old stubble.

Ethel calmly collects her knife and fork from where they’re wrapped tightly inside a paper napkin, and with nothing further to do or comment on, the cook saunters back to his kitchen.

“Here,” she shoves the plate across the table. “I lied earlier. I traded Simon in apartment three for some of his son’s slow-cooked brisket from their family gathering this weekend. If I eat those eggs as well, I’ll bloat like a balloon.”

Accepting her plate, I let out a slow exhale, but it’s for show—I knew this was coming.

“I think, when you’ve finished,” she continues. “I’ll have one of my turns if that’s okay? They’re getting wise to me in poker and teaming up against me, but if they think I’m not well, then maybe they won’t play so hard, and I’ll stand a better chance.” She winks conspiratorially.

Shrugging, I tuck in, and Ethel leans against her high-backed chair. Content in each other’s company, she closes her eyes and rests while I finish her breakfast. Under delicate lilac lids, her eyes strafe left and right, and her mouth hangs slightly ajar, as if in deep sleep.

I love spending time with Ethel, despite that she’s pretend sleeping. There’s something so… restorative, about being with family. Even when she’s badgering me to find my someone, to share him with her before she—

“Ethel,” I lean across the table and touch her hand gently. There’ll be no more of those thoughts, thank you very much. “Want to go for a walk and get some fresh air?”

Her eyes flutter open for a second, then close again, as if she’s in such a deep sleep she can’t wake.

“Ethel, come on. Let’s go take a walk.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it gently.

Nothing.

I know it’s a ruse, we’ve done this before, but my mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenario, because helpful.

What if she’s in a diabetic coma from the BBQ meat?

She’s not diabetic.

Still, my heart strikes hard against my rib cage, and I desperately claw back the panic that rises.

She’s fine, I remind myself. Fine.