He pushed her gently aside to stand and held out a hand. “The police will be able to follow the dust back to you. You should hide out in my place between concerts until the statue of limitations kicks in on Tuesday.” Innate gifts had three days to bring complaints about, making fairy justice move swift in the mortal world. This way pixies, who pixie dust falls off of, wouldn’t clog up the system constantly with issues. Just like controlling a siren humming, or a sheepish eating their way through a salad bar. Things happen, and humans had decided it is easier to quickly forgive them for the things they couldn’t stop any more than a tree giving oxygen. But if the problems were constant in the normie world, because someone took advantage of the normies, the Queen’s Guards would come knocking. And being fairies themselves, there is no limitations, either on how long since the crimes occurred, or the punishment inflicted.
The redhead pulled herself up with his hand then slapped both hands against his chest. “I will get your secret.”
Bowser leaned in closer, each word leaving a breath against her lips. “You can try.” Then he stood straight, his shoulders straining his leather jacket. “Come on. You got two concerts tomorrow, time to pour you into bed.”
“You got only one bed in your coffin-sized apartment.” They started walking to the Fairy Land sector. “You know that right?”
“So I sleep on the sofa.” Bowser sent a smirk her way.
Amie laughed aloud, shoving him on the arm. “You got a sleeper-sofa; your sofa is your bed. And … AND!” she repeated for emphasis, “It is a two-seater bed that opens out into a thin lumpy full-size mattress barely wide enough for your shoulders. You’ve complained about it enough.”
“The floor then?” They turned at Thirteen and Green, and suddenly the trees planted along the street became massive oaks and elms, turning sidewalks into rippling nightmares for pedestrians, or biking bonanzas for the youths, instead of stunted plants held in by pavement to politely reside in small litter-filled dirt squares.
“Where?” Amie started walking backward now they were in safe territory, easily navigating along the broken cement, the trees sleeping under the fairy lights, the snores giving away their locations so she wouldn’t walk into them. “I know I’ve only been to your place twice, but that is because it is so small. There isn’t room to walk, let alone lay down.”
“We’ll figure it out. As small as my room is, it is still larger than a cell.”
“Debatable,” she danced up the steps to his brownhouse. Hand-in-hand they walked through the shields, then he used his key on the door. Amie laid a hand on his arm as he opened the door. “And thank you. The third-chair is getting tired of bailing me out.”
“You are just lucky she hates the second-chair with a passion, and after your night off, Phrued always wants to get back at Bresserexel.” They quieted entering the stairwell, not wanting to wake anyone at the late-night hour. Five flights later, they entered the topmost floor. Bowser snapped up his lease because he had access to the sod roof. A sheepish will forgive even the tiniest stall for access to a pasture. “Home sweet home,” he said, opening the door until it knocked against one of his overloaded bookcases.
She squeezed by him into the one-room apartment. Ten by eight, barely affordable on his two retail jobs, city rents being what they are. A sharp contrast to her shared apartment with two other concert pixies and their rotating boytoy patrons a quick ten-minute walk to the orchestra hall, their contract allowing them to live in the human sector.
Bowser’s bed was folded out, smelling of sweat and lanolin, unmade and covered in piles of colorful woven wool blankets from home. The kitchen had only a single mug in the sink from his morning coffee before his big store job where he unloaded the trucks. Inhaling deeply, a smile controlled the pixie’s face. “Smells like home.”
“You spent way too much time at my place growing up.” Chuckling, Browser unzipped his jacket. He took hers as she shrugged out of it and hung them both by the door on the hook there. Hers first then his.
Amie rolled her eyes. Sheepish oils would transfer between the leathers, and she would smell him for weeks. But one hook, what could you do?
Like one bed.
She stared at it. They hadn’t slept together since primary school, not really. A couple times they passed out drunk since moving to the city, but they never intentionally started out seeking Morpheus’ domain together since becoming adults.
A finger snapped in front of her a couple times. “Am I losing you? Haven’t fallen asleep standing, have you, my pixie power lady?”
“Nope, still on this side of the dreamworld.” She looked over at him, and caught an eyeful of him unbuttoning his shirt. Between unloading trucks in the early morning hours and stocking shelves throughout the day at a different store, his light white wool sprinkled across a very firm humanoid chest and a scratchable set of abs. “Um … you still got my jump case?”
“Sure, all cleaned and restocked from the last time you were in jail. It’s been a year, but I do look it over before every Fourth Friday.”
“Wise man,” she smiled. “You got an extra shirt for me to sleep in?”
“None clean, tomorrow is laundry day,” he tossed her the button-down pink shirt he had been wearing. “I only had this on since I met you for dinner. It may be a little smoky for the bars, but it’s the cleanest thing I got.”
She shook her head, turning her back on him, stuffing the shirt between the top of books on his shelves and the next shelf. “I can’t believe you only own two weeks of clothes exactly.” Amie lifted her left arm to unzip her club gown and then pulled the tight outfit down with a shimmy. “I got more than that just in formal gowns.”
“Where would I put more?” his voice rumbled behind her, sounding gruffier than normal.
She glanced over her shoulder, her red hair sliding across her naked back and bum. “I guess.”
Bowser wore a short wrap of plaid wool, not a kilt exactly, but not a skirt either. The rest of him was bare. He stepped closer. “Let me get that dress hung, so it doesn’t wrinkle.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” She bent over, picked it up, and turned around to hand it to him.
He froze looking down at the dress in her hand and the area just beyond it.
“Oops.” A grin flashed, complete with iridescent teeth. “Sorry, forgot I was naked.” Amie bounced, sending her chest jiggling. “You like?”
Bowser’s black eyes narrowed, his lips creased into a flat line, and he grunted before he snatched her dress. Turning his back to her, he pulled a hanger from the pile beside his hamper, put her dress on it, and hung it from the sprinkler system next to the stove.
“What? You don’t like?” Amie grabbed his pink shirt and put it on. Then she clapped her hands, “That’s it! That is your secret! You don’t like girls! Are you gay? By the berm, I can’t believe I never realized it.” She dashed over to hug him. “Don’t you worry, I got so many people I can introduce you to. Boyd, no, he is an ass. Galoway, oh, that queen is an absolute doll, you’ll love him. He is the stay-at-home type, kettle drums and general percussion, so you can lead him around by his nose. You should have told me. We could have been double-dating this whole time!”
“Amie, Amie, Amie.” Bowser grasped her shoulders, pulling her away from him, his shirt, unbuttoned, billowing around her as it came lose from his wooly chest hair before it settled either side of her breasts, skimming the top of her thighs. “I am not gay.”
“No?” Her heterochromatic eyes blinking. “Are you sure?”
He stood on his tiptoes and kissed her forehead. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“Asexual then? Aromantic?” Her proud flutist lips pouting. “Is that why you never had a girlfriend?”
“No, I am just boring cis-male,” Bowser said. “Just like I’m a boring small-town guy in a big town. Nothing special.”
Amie poked a finger to his chest. “Don’t you go doing that! I told you I will not stand you calling yourself boring! Not after all the adventures we have been on! Who went skydiving for their twenty-first birthday? You. Who snuck both of us backstage for the Troll Fang-static Tour all three nights they played the Garden? You.”
“Quiet down, pixie power. People are sleeping.” The sheepish reached up and encircled her hand where she was poking him. “I’m sorry. I’m exciting and adventurous. I made it to the big city and survived over four years. That has to be a record. Counting them out, one or two or maybe even three of them.” Bowser started backwalking her to the bed.
“Exactly.” Amie agreed. The back of her knees hitting the sofa-seat-bed, causing her to fall backwards, the pink shirt flying to either side of her torso, leaving her bare except where her red hair covered her left breast. Looking at him hovering above her, backlit by the kitchen recessed lighting, the cautious part of her sent a zing of fear through her. The pleasant kind.
Her present angle gave her a glimpse under the wool wrap, and the semi-erect not-so-little little-Bowser. Now, that was something very un-boring about her best friend.
His black eyes stroked down her red hair from the top of her head, passed her tingling lips, over tightening nipples, to her trimmed curly red hairs. Amie lifted her legs to wrap around the back of his knees to pull him closer, making him fall. He caught himself with his muscular arms either side of her. “You are amazing,” she whispered.
“You are drunk.”
“Nope. Not completely sober, but not drunk.” She bopped his black nose. “I’m a fairy and I say I’m sober enough to make contracts. And you are not gay.” She wiggled, sliding her legs up to press his ass, settling him against her properly, like he always was meant to be there. The wool plaid wrapping him created a delicious sensation to mix with being completely surrounded by his scent. Amie lifted her arms to pull him closer.
He didn’t move. The man became a rock. An immoveable object. She could pull herself up, but not him down, and she was too tired to pull up for long.
“Go to sleep Amie, you got to leave here by a flat hand on the horizon past dawn to make it to the Saturday matinee setup. And you don’t have money for a taxi. Four or five dollars in that teeny purse of yours.”
“I’m not tired,” she said, a yawn taking her at the last word. Stupid lanolin reminding her of the safety his home always provided. She had the best sleep there. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Maybe a lot. You got, what, six, maybe seven hours sleep last night?” Bowser lowered himself to the side against his bookshelf, wrapping his warmth around her, his broad hand against her waist. He whispered in her ear. “We can pick this up tomorrow after work when neither of us have any alcohol in us. You are sleeping here for the next several nights, maybe even eight or nine.”
“No, no.” Her brain felt fuzzy, but not from the double handful of beers she banged back. “Wait, are you doing a sheep sleep thing? That spell you guys can do? I thought you had to count for that. Have you been counting? One … two …” she trailed off before she heard an answer.
(words 1998, first published 10/29/2023)
Pixie Power Series
