I’ll Be There For You
I’ll Be There For You
Aubrey
There’s a trick to surviving the reference desk at the beginning of the year, and it isn’t the sludge masquerading as coffee in my cup.
You have to pick a single battle and ignore everything else until the rush is over.
My current battle is the crates of donated texts that don’t match the accession records, which means I’m recataloguing, indexing for the archives or pitching them by hand.
I’m halfway through examining a possible archival edition of On Shifting and Its Discontents when the sophomore at the front table sneezes directly into her open laptop.
No warning, no hand to her face… just an open-mouthed spittle-filled projection that also coats the damn table..
I glare at her, as if I can set her on fire by willpower alone, squishing my newest unicorn in my other hand with a silent huff.
It would be easier to pick my battles if these brats would respect my goddamn space and not act like it’s a fucking mall.
Six feet to the gross girl’s left, two freshmen are doing shots of espresso from paper cups as they browse the trade paperbacks.
The sign says no food or drink, but they’re ignoring that in favor of looking at the section favored by my two mates —Paranormal Romance.
I smirk to myself as I continue flipping pages in my acquisition, because I don’t mind if they ruin shit there at all.
Okay, that’s not true; it offends my entire being to ruin a book, but that section is a thorn in my side.
A third student whispers frantically to his friends about someone called ‘The Czar’ and whether he can really see you through the campus Wi-Fi.
I have no idea what that means and I’m not sure I want to.
Student lore is a tricky thing and if you try to dispel it through logic, they dismiss you as out of touch or being part of a cover-up.
There’s something about this rumor, though, that gives me pause and I make a note on my pad to use my cursed Smackbook to search that term on the school intranet and see what it references.
For now, I have bigger issues—the aforementioned laptop is blinking password reset notifications at a rate of two per minute, the urgent blue pulsing aggressively.
All of them are from the staff members, meaning something very odd is going on.
Scrolling through the names, I frown as I notice that they are all familiar and every single one is totally locked out of everything.
That’s not normal—I don’t believe—and it reeks of Fitzgerald.
Since I promised to help with whatever bullshit he’s pulling on our way home, I delete the requests, grinning to myself for the first time in hours.
It’s the little things that get you through the day, as Ren always says.
I go back to reviewing the book, finally deciding that it’s good enough to be examined in further detail downstairs.
I set it aside, and dig into the crate again.
The damn thing bites me as I lift another tome out, the corner catching the webbing between thumb and forefinger.
I bare my teeth at it and stuff the obvious fake onto the rolling cart for cataloguing to the general collection.
The clock above the desk reads seven-fifty-six, which means I’m nearly out of time to finish anything else before dinner.
Midway through silently threatening the sophomore to sneeze again, my alarm chirps.
It means someone has tripped the entryway sensor in our private quarters, which hasn’t happened since Chess came home earlier in the evening.
Maybe it’s Fitz or my brooding mate coming in, or maybe we got lucky and Snack size bounced her tail home a bit early like yesterday.
I never did ask her how that happened, but I sure as fuck appreciated it.
We all appreciated it and she’s still walking funny, I bet.
I roll the unsorted crate under the desk with my foot and sweep my phone and tablet into my messenger bag.
As I leave the desk, I make a note to hunt down the espresso freshmen later in the week and tell them that the next time I catch them drinking in my library, I will roast their chestnuts in a way that ends their family lines.
I’ll just save it for a bad day because it will cheer me up to watch them run like pants-soaking cowards.
My library is a mess, and it takes everything in me not to right the stacks or pick up the mess by the print station.
I let it go because at this point, it isn’t my problem for the next twelve hours.
Locking the main door, I enter the security code, and hear the satisfying mechanical click as the tumblers engage.
Since the explosion at Apex, I never really feel safe unless doors lock behind me and alarms are activated.
Dragon instincts paired with worry for our mate changed me after that, and I won’t live in an open air tower like we did there until the assholes are defeated.
The annex hallway is dark compared to my domain and as I enter, my neck cracks audibly when the tension dissipates in a wave of relief.
Fitz’s cameras in this hall probably catch me stretching and shaking out my arms, like I can physically shed the day from my body before I reach my family.
I don’t really care; the crazy tiger has things watching all over the damn place for records, but we can’t possibly actually view them all unless there’s a reason to.
He told me he was rigging the campus like a reality show as we drove home from the train, and I believe him.
When I hit the doorway to the main part of the annex, my world resets to comfort almost immediately.
There’s a hint of spice, a hit of ginger and garlic, and the smell of sizzling heat that must be Chess working on dinner.
I don’t even have to open the door all the way to get the full blast in my snout because he’s running all four burners on the range.
The stovetop is covered with a precise arrangement of sauté pans and pots, and the surface beneath is dusted with rice flour and the edges of chopped green onions.
He’s got the kitchen lights softer and the condensation on the window glows like candle wax.
For a second, I just stand there, watching the way he flicks the chopsticks in his left hand and the wok spatula in his right, alternating between tossing a stir-fry and slapping a knuckle against the phone perched on the counter.
We are truly some lucky motherfuckers that he took Rennie’s help and ran with it after Thanksgiving the first year—I don’t even get nutrients from this and I wouldn’t fucking miss it.
Across the table from him, Fitz’s laptop is open but unmanned.
There’s a bright orange sticker on the back that has a picture of internet cable…
holes… and says ‘Your Ports Were Open, So I Invited Myself In’.
I don’t get it, but knowing the tiger, it’s both dirty and funny to tech people.
He has a pile of thumb drives scattered around the machine, most of which are probably loaded with things that would make someone like me weep.
A plate of uncooked dumplings sits on the other side, and for a moment I picture Chess absentmindedly feeding the laptop like it’s Snacksize’s cat.
My feet make almost no sound on the tile, but Chester glances up as I approach.
His eyes are unreadable as he tilts his chin towards the fridge without speaking.
I’m sure he means for me to grab a drink and have a seat, so I nod.
There are three easy options when I open the fridge—water, a protein shake, or a can of diet cola with a Sharpie’d smiley face drawn on the top.
I take the water and lean on the island, waiting for him to say whatever’s percolating behind that calm exterior.
Before he can, the back door opens and Felix enters, backlit by the motion sensor lights as he strides in. He’s still in his professor's clothes, his hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and his right hand is on the shoulder of our resident bunny.
Doesn’t seem like it has to be scotch night yet, so that’s good.
Dolly looks like she’s tired and has gone several rounds with prizefighters.
Her rainbow hair is held together by three mismatched clips and the deities, her face has a faint streak of dried sweat, and she’s got her gym bag clutched in her left hand like she’s ready to weaponize it.
She clocks me staring, blinks, and gives us a two-finger wave.
She speaks before I can even open my mouth.
“I smell like a locker room and I need hot water before I’m a person again. Be right back, boys.”
The elder Khan laughs and lets her go so she can power-walk down the hall toward her room.
The clatter of her shoes echoes even after she’s out of sight, and I smile fondly as I look at Felix.
He turns toward the kitchen and takes in the room with a single scan.
Chess is still plating up the first batch of stir fry, adding a flick of chili oil with precision.
I’m leaning on the island, my arms folded and my eyes narrowed, and the whole tableau must look like a silent standoff.
“You both look like you’re about to interrogate someone. Is it my turn?” The tiger slumps onto the barstool nearest me, tugging at the tie like it’s strangling him. “Might as well while our darling princess is showering the grime off.”
Chess doesn’t look up. “Only if you make us, Felix. You could choose to simply tell us what the hell you’re concerned about without the faux pliers-to-the teeth act, you know.”
That makes the tiger grin, but it’s faint. “Today was the worst—committee assignments, mandatory wellness checks, and then three hours of the student class with idiots giving me attitude because their parents told them they were super gifted and definitely alphas. Newsflash—they’re not.”