Caffeine and Magix

“The first rule of love,” her mother says, voice crackling over the phone, “is to never take more than they can give.”

Finola’s eyes dart to the shoebox under her bed and then back out the dorm window. Her room is on the second floor this year and she can see more of the trees than she can see of the grassy space preceding the dining hall. “I know, Mom.”

“Remember.” Her mother’s voice is sharp and Finola can almost see her heavy, thick brows lowering until shadows cover her eyes. “No clothing. No bags. Never any jewelry.”

Finola wraps her free arm around her waist and closes her eyes. The light breeze rolling through the window smells like eucalyptus and mint. Her mouth waters. “I know, Mom.”

“Those are the big things,” her mother says, “but remember that too many of the small things can amount to a big thing.”

The shoebox under the bed gleams in a stray ray of light. Finola licks her lips. “I know, but—I need something. I have to. I feel like she’ll disappear if I don’t.” The words are inadequate for the sick fear in her stomach each time she loses sight of her. The horrible certainty that something bad will happen if she’s not by her side. She rubs a hand over her mouth.

Her mother’s tongue clicks. “That’s old instincts, Finola. Fight it. You don’t want your father and I to pull you out of school, do you?”

The memory of watching her high school fade out of sight surfaces and, in that moment, she’s sixteen again. She can feel her heart beating too fast, the scream ripping out of her throat, the way the ropes chafed her wrists. She can smell her first love’s perfume, cloying peach, in the air. She can feel their separation like a death in the pit of her stomach, radiating up into her chest, her throat, her head.

Now, twenty-years-old, she hisses out a breath. “That’s not fair, Mom.” No one could have guessed that the family affliction would appear so strongly in her. It had skipped her older sister and her brother. They hadn’t known.

“It’s more than fair,” her mother says, uncompromising. “Your grandparents want us to arrange a marriage for you, like they did for me. These rules are the only way you can be as free as your siblings. Your father and I want you to be free. This is how to do it.”

Finola stares out her window. Red shoes pass under the tree to her left, the branches obscuring the rest of the student. She breathes in so deeply that her lungs ache with it. Eucalyptus and mint. “I have to go Mom.”

“The rules, Finola.” A warning.

“One, never take more than they can give,” Finola says. Irritation leaks into her voice, but she won’t be able to get her mother off the phone unless she does. The red shoes are heading for the dining hall. “Don’t ever take clothing or jewelry. The little things can add up to a big thing. Two, if I feel any attachment forming, I’m to call you or Dad immediately for monitoring and advice. Three, if they don’t reciprocate, I’m to call you or Dad and go to a safe place. If I’m already in the second stage of attachment, I have to call Grandma immediately.”

The red shoes are gone, out of sight, but Finola knows where they took the body attached. It’s lunch time.

Her mother’s breath is loud over the phone. “Four?”

Four is her least favorite. Finola’s nails dig into her side as she makes herself say it. “Never give more than they can take.”

“Ever,” her mother says. She sighs. “This is really for your own good, Finola.”

“I know,” Finola says. “Gotta go, Mom.”

She’s heading for the dining hall before the call fully ends.

—————————————————————————-

There’s nothing in the shoebox. Just trash, really, and not particularly interesting trash. Most of it isn’t even Teagan’s, it’s Finola’s. That’s why she doesn’t need to tell her mother about it.

It’s really all hers.

Really.

———————————————————————-

Teagan’s staring at the hamburger station when Finola finally gets to the dining hall. She’s wearing long hair today, an even brown that fades into a honey blonde, striking against her red flannel. She’s in profile, thin nose like a blade in contrast to her soft, rounded chin and high forehead. Finola had first noticed her because of her eyes. They’re direct and more honest than they have any right to be with little laugh lines around the outside corners.

Currently, all of that directness and intensity is focused on the hamburger patties.

Finola slips up next to her and feels all of the anxiety bubbling in her stomach disappear. “Trying to guess what percentage of cow they have?”

“More like how many hours they were cooked,” Teagan says, mouth quirking at the corners. Her lips are painted a smooth brown today and Finola really wants to know what it’d take to mess up the matte finish of her lipstick.

Finola looks back at the patties. They are pretty dark and the grill marks are distinctly dry around the edges. “Mad cow disease is a serious threat.”

“Well,” Teagan says, “thank goodness for the heroes who cooked this double dead then.” She serves herself one, skipping the bun, and starts filling her plate with a corn slaw, potato salad, and jello cubes. “Where were you this morning? We missed you for sun salutations.”

She’d joined the yoga club three months ago, fully cognizant of the fact they met at 6 am every morning and hoping the early start would help her make more of her 8 am classes. She’d quickly discovered that she really, really hates the way the dew clinging to the grass sinks through her leggings every time she gets within an inch of it. She’d decided to quit.

But then, of course, Teagan had joined too. She’d gotten over the dew on the same day.

“I had to call my mom,” Finola says. She copies Teagan’s plate almost exactly, leaving the jello off. She’s not a huge fan of the color green. “I haven’t talked to her since the quarter started.”

“Pretty early to talk to your mom,” Teagan observes. She knows that Finola’s relationship with her parents could best be described as rocky. “Everything okay?”

“Oh,” Finola says, “it didn’t start at 6. I slept in to prepare for it. You know, really make sure I was in top form.”

Teagan laughs. Finola loves the sound, the way pure energy spills from the sound, hanging in the air around them. Most people don’t feel like this to Finola. They’re…contained or, worse, they’re muggy and convoluted. Teagan is always clear, like a bell, and she shares her joy unquestioningly. “You’re something else.”

Finola’s smile flickers and she murmurs something about that being the best sort of person, instinctually following Teagan to a small table. The reality is that she is something else and, as much as she’d like to keep ignoring it, she knows she’s getting far too attached.

It’ll be time to call Grandma soon.

———————————————————————

The movie ticket in the shoebox is still shiny. Usually the gloss rubs away in pockets and wallets, between sweaty hands or under careless feet, or in the washer or dryer. This one is nearly pristine, the only imperfection the slight tear where the ticket taker had gotten a little too enthusiastic taking the other half.

It’s from the first movie she went to with Teagan, a horror movie, and she holds the little slip of paper in her hands like a baby bird. Teagan had looked so beautiful that night, hair cropped close to her head, neck long and arched like a queen, collarbones peeking out from under a loose, green shirt.

Finola pretends that she can feel Teagan in this ticket sometimes. She imagines that the dewy glitter of Teagan’s soul is curled into the fibers of the paper or that the slight crinkle of it in her hands is the sound of Teagan’s gasp when the antagonist first appeared on screen.

It’s not Teagan’s ticket though, so none of these things are true. It’s not Teagan’s ticket and that’s why it’s okay that Finola is keeping it in the shoebox under her bed.

It’s not a big thing and not really a little thing. That’s why she hasn’t broken any rules.

—————————————————

Another month rolls through and Finola think she might be leveling out. Teagan is…even better than she imagined. She’s so funny and she always looks Finola in the eye when she talks like her words are important. Finola loves the way Teagan’s just so smart and she loves that Teagan got tired of being blonde so fast and switched right into flaming, firetruck red.

The attachment (obsession) is still a twist in the back of her mind, but she hasn’t taken anything in a whole month. She’s able to keep her hands in her pockets when they crave the feel of the other woman’s skin, she’s able to seal her lips over the promises she wants to give, she’s able to close her eyes and let Teagan walk away.

She can keep being Teagan’s friend, despite the curl of want in her stomach. She can. It’ll get better in time, better and better and she won’t ever have to call her Mom or her Grandmother.

Then, of course, Christmas happens.

——————————————————————

The paperclip in the shoebox isn’t technically Teagan’s either. It’s the paperclip their World History 2b professor used to clip her paper together. It’s the professor’s, technically, but…

Finola remembers the way Teagan spun the flimsy metal between her agile fingers. Her nails had been acrylic that week, long and black with matte paint. She’d been using rosemary lotion or something and the air was lightly scented with it every time she spun it through her hands.

Finola had watched the metal glint over and over and over, Teagan’s voice filling her head with warmth. The other woman had been happy with her grave and that happiness had sunk into the metal and found a home there.

So, yes, maybe it’s got a bit of Teagan in it, this paperclip, but it’s not a big thing. She wouldn’t have slipped into her pocket when Teagan wasn’t looking if it was a big thing. That would have been against the rules.

At most, it’s a small thing. A little bit of Teagan that Finola can touch. It doesn’t have her soul in it, just her smile. That’s why it’s okay.

—————————————————————————

Finola doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. She didn’t want Teagan here, in her dorm, perched on the bed over her shoebox without any clue what’s down there. Except, of course, that’s a lie because she always wants Teagan there, in her space, on her bed, for as long as Teagan wants to be.

Finola feels herself slipping off that plateau.

“I know we said no gifts,” Teagan says, the package sitting innocently in her hands, “but I didn’t buy it so it’s not really a gift. More like a…oh, I don’t know, an indefinite loan.”

Finola is sitting on her desk, feet on her desk chair, keeping the back of it between Teagan on the bed like a barrier. Eucalyptus and mint fills her little dorm room and it’s torture. Worth it, completely, to hear all about how Teagan’s parents are in Lithuania for the holidays and how happy they were to hear that Finola would be keeping their daughter company, but torture nonetheless.

And now, of course, this.

“I—“ Finola swallows and her fingers curl along the edge of her desk. “I didn’t get you anything. I can’t.” Don’t give more than they can take. At this point in their relationship, Finola is very close to giving Teagan more than she can take.

Teagan makes a little annoyed sound in her throat and scoots so her butt is almost hanging off the bed. “I just said it’s not a gift, it’s a loan. So, technically, I didn’t get you anything.” She pushes her hand across the distance between them. The present is wrapped in green paper, Finola’s least favorite color. It’s the most beautiful thing Finola’s ever seen. “Go on, open it.”

Finola’s mind whirls. Would it be better if it were a gift? This—this is technically still Teagan’s. A loan means that whatever this is, it’s still Teagan’s and not Finola’s. If it was a gift, maybe it wouldn’t hold any part of Teagan in it. But, then again, if she specifically chose it for Finola then—

She’s acting like she has a choice right now. She doesn’t. Her mouth is already watering and she can’t take her eyes off the green wrapping paper. Teagan’s giving it to her, Teagan’s giving it to her. Her hands are nearly welded to the desk, but they won’t stay there for long. This is one temptation she can’t resist.

Even if it is a big thing, Finola thinks, it’s okay. I don’t have any big things. It might be okay.

Then, a voice much like her mother’s says, small things can add up to a big thing.

Finola takes the present and ignores both voices. Her mother’s and her own. Her fingers are steady as she carefully unwraps the paper so that it doesn’t tear.

(She shouldn’t be thinking about putting it into the shoebox. Teagan’s definitely handles this too much, she can feel her anticipation and her excitement in it. She doesn’t even like green, except for how she loves it.)

The necklace falls from the box without Finola meaning it to. She doesn’t know it’s a necklace at first. The silver chain is long and fine, like a spiderweb. When she finds the clasp, she knows that it’ll hit her right over her sternum when she puts it on. There’s a pendant, a cylinder made of dark stone and wrapped in wire bent to look like leaves.

“Do you like it?” Teagan asks when Finola is too quiet, staring at the way the stone catches the light. Her eyebrows pinch. “You’ve probably seen me wearing it…I just thought it’d look so good with that dress you just got.”

Finola’s mouth is so fucking dry. She knows the dress Teagan is talking about. It’s the same endless black, tied around the waist with a half-moon buckle belt. Teagan had been the one to convince her to buy it for the Dean’s dinner at the beginning of next quarter. Teagan had bought a similar one, holes cut into the shoulders, a built in bodice with the same fucking half moon closing the ties at the back.

Too much.

Teagan’s worn this necklace. Even if Finola hadn’t seen it perched on Teagan’s chest, she would have known. It sings with Teagan’s aura, like electricity, like bird song. She can feel it vibrating against her fingers, purring in her grip.

Never, her mother says, take jewelry.

“I—“ Finola says. Stops. Tries to get moisture back in her mouth. “This is too much, Teagan. I can’t—I can’t accept this. Really.”

“I want you to have it,” Teagan says fiercely. She hops off the bed to press her thighs against the back of the desk chair, pushing it in until it’s pressed against Finola’s shins. She’s inches from Finola now, too close, and she curls Finola’s fingers around the necklace with her own hands. “I’ll ask for it back if I need it, but I want you to keep it. Okay?”

Finola can’t not meet her eyes. There’s something so intimate in Teagan’s right now, so soft and burning all at once. There’s meaning in this for Teagan too, too much maybe, and Finola can feel the other woman’s heartbeat in her hands.

“You’ll ask if you want it back,” Finola checks. She feels her resolve cracking and she desperately searches for confirmation in Teagan’s face. If Teagan asks for this back, she’ll be rejected and she’ll call Grandmother. “You will, right?”

“Of course,” Teagan says and smiles. “But I don’t think that’ll happen.”

Finola looks down to hide all her conflicting emotions. She doesn’t want to call Grandma. She doesn’t want to let go of the necklace. She doesn’t want Teagan to step back, doesn’t want to lose the warmth that’s seeping into her from the proximity.

She’s so focused on hiding everything she’s feeling that she misses the flash of triumph in Teagan’s eyes.

—————————————————-

The flower crown in the shoebox is probably a small thing. Finola has a suspicion that it might not be, it might be quite big, but she doesn’t think on it for long. If it’s big, she can’t keep it and she wants to keep it.

Oh, she wants.

The crown is dried now, two months in salt enough to preserve a faint shade of the pink and yellow and green interwoven. Finola doesn’t know the flowers’ names, but she knows they’re not from around here. Teagan told her they were. It’s one of the only lies that Teagan told Finola, but Finola can’t see why.

What could be so special about flowers?

This is the only thing in the shoebox that Finola rarely touches. She doesn’t want to damage it, sure, but there’s something about it. Like maybe Teagan put too much of herself in the interwoven stems, like the eyes of the flowers are watching her, like it’s…sentient.

Finola thinks she’s imagining too hard when those thoughts cross her mind. She does know that it’s dangerous to handle anything that feels too much of Teagan so she ignores the flower crown on the days when she can.

On the days that she can’t, she holds it in her open palms and whispers to it. She doesn’t  know why. It just feels right. It feels almost like she’s talking to Teagan when she does it, like the other woman is looking out from the center of the soft, pink flowers and the spiky leaves in between them.

The flower crown feels like a big thing, but how could it be? It’s just plants, after all, and Teagan made it sound like they were just weeds she picked up when she was bored. She was laughing when she gave it to Finola, plopping it on her head, and why would you laugh like that if it were a big thing?

You wouldn’t.

That’s why Finola doesn’t think the crown is a big thing. And since it’s not a big thing, it’s okay.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

——————————————

Finola can’t sleep. The necklace isn’t in the box under the bed. It’s under her pillow, so close that she can feel the sting of the metal against the back of her head. The room is as dark as the stone pendant and every second is spent trying not to touch it. She can’t touch it. She can’t reach for Teagan right now because—

Because it’s over if she does.

She’s frozen in bed, eucalyptus and mint heavy in the air around her. It’s only been hours since Teagan gave her the necklace, but her scent should have cleared out with the window open. It’s freezing outside, the ground sparkling with new snow, but the cold’s never bothered Finola (or her mother, or her grandmother).

She needs space. She needs to be able to breathe. She needs to stop thinking about how smooth the chain of the necklace felt against her hands, how Teagan’s eyes had been dark with something unspoken, how the other woman had been so warm even through the back of the chair. She wants to see Teagan. She can’t. She has to stay here.

But she wants.

Finola blinks and finds herself outside. Her bare feet crunch through the fine layer of snow as she turns and looks up. Her bedroom window on the second floor is open, curtains fluttering in the light breeze.

Did she jump out? She doesn’t remember getting up and—she knows she’s more durable than most (full) humans, but she’s been socialized by her mom to not do things like jump twenty feet to the ground. Why did she do that? Why didn’t she grab shoes? Why—

The necklace is in her hand, the chain wrapped around her wrist and the charm dangling out from between her fingers. The black stone catches the moon and the sense of Teagan races up her arm so fast that she nearly drops to her knees. She can feel Teagan’s fingers tracing the pendant over and over and over again in a nervous tic. She can feel the way the chain slid across the back of her neck, cold and smooth. She can feel the beating of Teagan’s heart underneath the necklace, constant and steady.

Teagan, Teagan, Teagan, TEAGAN—

She comes to gasping, on her hands and knees on the ground. The cold snow is barely enough to break through the overwhelming sensations. Campus is still around her, too late for any of the students, too early for any animals.

Finola feels like she’s underwater. She needs to call her grandmother. She needs to go back to her room and pick up her cell phone.

Instead, her feet take her further away from the dorm lights, into the dark quad. The grass is sharp underfoot, icy with the dusting of snow, glittering under the moon. She walks as if in a dream, watching the bare trees slide by.

Teagan’s dorm looms out of the darkness. She’s in the older building, the one story one, the one that’s built like one long corridor instead of a nest of them. It’s the honor student dorm and Finola can feel how empty it is. Nobody’s left over the holidays except for the one who matters most.

Teagan’s window is closed, of course. That’s good. Finola doesn’t want Teagan to get cold, ever, but it’s a little inconvenient right now. Finola puts her hand flat against the glass, as close to the lock as she can manage with the pane in the way. She furrows her brow and concentrates, reaching for what she wants.

The lock clicks open, the glow of Finola’s magic fading fast.

She slips the window open and leverages herself inside, uncaring of the way the curtain musses her hair. It folds away from her and Finola finds herself standing in Teagan’s dorm room, just like that.

Teagan is asleep. She gets cold, Finola knows, and her comforter is thick and soft. One of her arms is thrown over her head and she’s wearing a red silk cap that almost seems to glow in the dark. Her mouth is open slightly and, when Finola freezes, she can hear the faint whistle of the other woman’s breath. Finola watches the rise and fall of her chest, timing the movement to the sound of her breathing.

Her intensity is curiously absent, but she’s not gone. Finola can feel her dreams in her aura, fast and light. It’s cliche, but she’s softer like this, quieter, and it’s a shock to see her without the thoughts racing behind her eyes.

She’s so beautiful and giving and warm and—

And Finola just broke into her room and is standing over her sleeping figure like a lunatic. Her hand is stretching forward, the dark pendant swinging from her wrist, and her fingers are curling as if to hold Teagan’s throat in the palm of her hand.

This is against the rules, Finola thinks. Her breath catches in her throat as her mind clears and she takes a step back. This is so far beyond the rules.

Every instinct she has is begging her to take that step. To find out how soft Teagan’s lips are, to find out if she’ll accept Finola into her arms like she thinks she will, to kiss each knuckle of that carelessly outflung hand.

It takes every ounce of willpower for Finola to stumble back to the window and fall out of it.

“Wha-“ Teagan starts to say, awoken by the sound of Finola’s back hitting the pavement.

Finola can’t let her see her there. She can’t let Teagan know that she’d broken into her room like a—like a stalker or a pervert, incapable of controlling herself. She can’t let Teagan see her now, panting, pupils blown, her necklace so tight around her wrist that it’s cutting into her skin.

This is more than attachment, more than obsession, more than stage two or whatever stage she’s heard of.

She needs to call her grandmother now while she can still make herself call for help. She needs to call her grandmother now while Teagan still has her soul.

The student center is closest and Finola doesn’t care about being seen. There’s no one there anyway, the gray building silent and dark under the full moon. She uses her magic to open the doors without triggering the alarm and stumbles to the desk. The phone is still on, thank heaven.

Even better, her grandmother picks up on the third ring. “It’s 3 am—“

“I made a mistake,” Finola gasps out. She didn’t realize that she’s shaking. “Grandma, I’m sorry, I made a mistake, I took too many things.”

Her grandmother swears in her native tongue. There’s the sound of rustling sheets, a light flicking on, her grandmother getting up. “What stage are you now?”

Finola’s hands are trembling around the phone. “I-I don’t know. I can only think about her. I just want her. I’ve got two small things and I thought they weren’t hers and a big thing and a really big thing—“

“Slow down,” her grandmother snaps. “You’re fine. We’re going to solve this. Does the girl still herself? Does she still have her soul?”

“I—yes,” Finola stutters. Teagan wouldn’t have been able to sleep like that, dream like that, if Finola had managed to capture her soul. Not without Finola by her side. “But, Grandma, it’s soon, it’s soon. I didn’t mean to, but I broke into her room—“

Her grandmother sucks in a breath and the rustling stops. “What?”

Finola paces to the front of the building, her free hand pushing at her heavy, black hair. The doors are wide open still and the wind’s blown some of the snow into the entryway. The moon is full above her. “I didn’t mean to! I know Mom doesn’t want me to use any tricks and I wouldn’t have, but I had to—I had to see her. I had to at least see her, so I opened the window—“

“Get to a safe place.” There irritation and anger is out of Grandma’s voice now. Instead, there’s something that Finola’s never heard before. “Leave behind anything she gave you and run.”

Finola is obeying the command before she can think better of it. Ten feet outside the door, snow cold against her feet, she stops.“How—how did you know she gave me something?”

Grandma hisses. “I told you to run, child.”

Finola stays put. Her heart is beating very fast. She knows what’s in Grandma’s voice now. Fear.  “No, not until you tell me why you want me to run.”

“We are fae, Finola. We take what we need. The first stage is collection,” Grandma says. It’s nonsensical, this recitation, but Grandma doesn’t wait for Finola to say that. “You take what you can, hoarding it, like the magpie. The second stage is bewitchment. Attaching them to you until they come to you. They come to you.”

Finola stares out into the dark. “But I went to her.”

“I’ll be there in eight hours,” Grandma says. “Resist it, Finola, anything that can call the likes of us is old magic. Don’t touch anything she gave you—“

Finola holds the pendant up, staring into the stone. Is it her imagination,  or are the wire leaves glowing? Is the chain warming too fast against her hand? She tries to make her fingers let go. She doesn’t want to, but she’s never gone against her grandmother. She gasps when she manages to draw her index finger out of the grip she’s got on the chain. “Grandmother, it hurts. I can’t let go.”

“Drop it,” Grandma commands. Her voice rings with power, even across the phone. Old power, like rivers and green mountains so tall they touch the sky. “Drop it, Finola.”

Finola chokes as she manages to draw her thumb away. Then her middle finger. With each one it gets easier. “I can almost—“ The chain slips from around her wrist and plummets to the ground. “I got—“

A hand flashes out from behind her, nails as dark as the sky above them, and catches the chain. Finola cries out when the person behind her brings their arm up, pinning Finola’s left arm to her side before she can shove them away, and slams the pendant right over her chest. It burns when it touches her bare skin, so hot, too much, and the air fills with the scent of eucalyptus and mint.

Finola chokes as her strength flees and it takes everything she has just to keep standing. She feels like electricity is racing out from the pendant, freezing her in place, but she can’t panic. She knows who her attacker is.

Teagan wraps herself around Finola, her other arm relieving Finola of the phone. Finola thinks she should push away, but it’s Teagan. She’s overwhelmed with the touch of the other woman, too much after so long with nothing, that her mind fuzzes out.

“No harm,” Teagan says into the phone. Finola feels her press her lips into her hair. “She’ll call you in the morning.” She pauses for a long moment as if thinking. “Maybe afternoon.”

Grandmother’s voice is very tiny from where Finola is floating. “What are you? Don’t you dare—“

“I’m not a threat,” Teagan says. “That’s all you need to know.” There’s a small thud and crunch as Teagan drops the phone into the snow and then steps on it.

Finola’s left arm is trapped to her side. She brings the other up slowly to cover Teagan’s hand where she’s pressing the pendant into her skin. It’s too much effort, her arm too heavy, and she lets it drop back to her side. “Teagan?” Her knees are beginning to shake.

“I know,” Teagan coos into her hair. She eases them both to the ground, never once letting up with the pendant. “You’re okay, this is normal. The weakness will pass.”

Something funny is happening in Finola’s chest. There’s another energy there, besides her own, something that feels…too much. Another energy, maybe, or another soul. It’s pooling around her own energy, sinking into the edges, and curling her over and under. Like an ocean wave. She feels dizzy. “What are you doing?”

Teagan huffs a laugh and presses another one of those sparkling kisses to the side of her head. “It’s what you started, Finola. You’re the one with the box of treasures, little magpie.”

Finola is mortified, even under the pleasant calm Teagan (and it is Teagan) is laying over her.  Teagan knows what she is. Teagan knows what she tried to do. “I—I didn’t mean—I thought I had it under control—“

“Don’t get worked up,” Teagan says, hand pressing a little firmer over the pendant. It pulses. “I’m not complaining, Finola. We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want this. This is just a little more…mutual.”

“I wasn’t going to steal your soul.”  Finola wants to turn and look at Teagan, to show her how serious she is. She tries to twist and feels something in the air pop! It’s suddenly much easier to find her strength. “I swear, I wasn’t going to hurt you—“

Teagan’s arms tighten and her legs come up on either side, pinning Finola in place. She swears. “Guess the stories were true, magic damn near slides off you.” The magic in the air slides back into place and Teagan’s voice is sweeter than honey. “Finola, sweetheart, you need to stay still, okay? Soul magics are a little more difficult than unlocking windows.”

Finola stills. It’s not the unlocking windows part—though if her mind weren’t running a thousand miles an hour, she might be embarrassed about that. “Soul magics?”

“I’m entwining our souls,” Teagan says. “It’s better than one of us owning the other and I’m hopeful it satiates your hunger. I love you, Finola, but I really can’t have a fae trying to make off with my soul every other day.”

That’s what it is. Teagan is touching Finola’s soul. She’s not running or trying to get away from Finola. She’s not attacking her either. She’s entwining them. “You love me?”

Teagan’s joy—unfiltered and boundless—trips over Finola’s skin. Her laugh is low and fond. “I was about to ask if I was overstepping, but I can feel that I’m not. Came you feel me, Finola? Like I feel you?”

Finola reaches deep. She’s used to her own soul, black and green like a magpie’s feathers, but this is—this is like living in a closet for years and entering a coliseum. Teagan is there, right there with her, and her years of knowledge, her strength, her kindness, the way she clicks her pens during class, it’s all here. Right here.

She wants to look at everything. She wants to examine every inch of Teagan. It’s clear that she only knows the surface of the other woman, the parts that she’s let show. There’s light in her, and compassion, but there’s darkness too. Endless halls of passion and love and magic—

Don’t take more than they can give.

Finola draws back too fast, slamming back into her own body at a hundred miles an hour. The magic in the air, mint and orange now, shudders, splitting into her magic and Teagan’s magic.

Teagan swears. “Don’t hold back on me now, Finola, we’re almost there.”

“I can’t,” Finola whispers. She feels dramatic, sitting in the snow in the arms of the woman she loves, but it’s true. “I-I take too much. I won’t do that to you—“

“I am literally binding our souls together against your will,” Teagan says, incredulous. “You’re worried about hurting me?”

“I took your paperclip,” Finola says. She could address the against your will part, but that’s ridiculous. Clearly it’s not against her will. “I—I stole it and I pretended you were there. I was going to make you need me like you’ve never needed anyone before. I broke into your room and watched you sleep. I just take, Teagan, it’s what I am.”

Teagan’s soul constricts around Finola’s and she gasps, the air chased out of her body. There’s something distinctly serpentine isn’t the way Teagan is holding her now. Intense. Predatory.

“I,” Teagan starts, “knew what you were from the minute I saw you. I gave you a fucking crown marking you as mine. I fed your dreams with images of me and I laid a compulsion spell so powerful on that necklace—imbued with a fragment of my very soul—that should have had you tying your will to mine without a second thought.” She pushes Finola’s hair aside and kisses the side of her neck. “You should be less worried about what you might take and more worried about what I will.”

Finola shudders at the brush of Teagan’s lips. It had never occurred to her that Teagan could take too. She thinks back to the way the crown watched her, to the way Teagan stared at her over the necklace, Teagan’s insistence that they see each other every day. If Teagan could take, did that mean Finola could too?

Obviously, Teagan says in her mind. There’s so much in that one word. Incredulity. Exasperation. Love. I would stop you if it was too much.

“Oh,” Finola says. She thinks about that. From what she can see inside of Teagan, whatever Teagan is is very strong. Stronger than anyone Finola’s ever met.“Would you?”

“Of course,” Teagan says out loud. She cranes her head over Finola’s shoulder and smiles when Finola turned her head so that they’re nose to nose. “I can say no, Finola. I’m not saying no right now.” A flash of uncertainty. “Are you?”

Even if she wasn’t attached, even if she wasn’t obsessed, even if she wasn’t in love, Finola doesn’t think she could ever say no.  She loves every part of Teagan, even the secret parts, and it’s not in her nature to let that go unless someone makes her.

Finola reaches for her magic, dipping through Teagan’s binds easily. Teagan is big and powerful, but magpies are agile. Good at mimicry. Mortal magic seldom has the desired effect on the fae.

She pushes Teagan’s magic off of her, ignoring the other woman’s spike of panic, and turns so that she’s on all fours in front of Teagan, nose to nose. Teagan’s hand is still over her chest, pressing the burning pendant to her skin, and there’s real fear in Tegan’s eyes. Fear that Finola will break the connection. Fear that Finola will walk away.

Fear that Finola will reject her.

I’m here, Finola tells Teagan, mind to mind. She pushes into the other woman’s space, pressing her forehead against hers and opens herself up. She shows Teagan how ridiculous it would be for Finola to leave. To untangle herself from the other woman. To try and forget her. I’m not leaving.

I didn’t think you would, Teagan bluffs. But her hand is shaking on the pendant and her relief is sweet on Finola’s tongue. Ready?

Finola doesn’t answer. Instead, she brings her hand up over Teagan’s and pushes. Her magic floods the pendant, mixing with Teagan’s. The stone lights up and Teagan’s whoop of joy is lost in the roar of their souls intertwining.

“I fucking love you,” Teagan says. Sometime in the rush, she slid backwards, arms collapsing underneath her until she’s laying on the ground. Her words are slurring, pupils blown as she grins up at Finola. Her aura is purring. “I’m so glad I didn’t have to kidnap you.”

Finola’s not shaky at all. She feels strong and full and unrestricted. She grins down at Teagan with far too many teeth. “I’m the fae here. Kidnapping is my job.” She leans down and kisses Teagan, mid-laugh.

They’re complete.

—

(Patreon)