Netflix and Actually Chill
I’m climbing the stairs after closing up the coffee shop with my stomach in knots. Dis has been quiet all day. No temperature drops. No ominous sounds making customers nervous. Which means he’s either planning something, or he’s dead, and I’m genuinely not sure which possibility I’m dreading more.
The flat is dark when I let myself in. I flip on the lights and peer into the living room, half expecting to find the circle empty or the runes burned through or some other catastrophe that proves I’ve failed at even this one thing I was trying to accomplish.
Dis is sitting in his circle. Cross-legged. Looking exactly like he did this morning when I left for work. Perfectly still, eyes open, watching me with that unnerving focus that makes me feel like he’s cataloguing every detail of my appearance for future use against me.
“Oh,” I say, and relief floods through me even though I don’t want it to. “You’re alive.”
“Disappointed?” His voice is dry, almost amused.
“No. Just checking.”
The guilt hits me immediately. I fed him last night in the most intimate way possible, felt his emotions tangling with mine in ways I still don’t know how to process, then immediately fled to my bedroom like a coward and avoided him all morning before leaving him sitting here all day with absolutely nothing to do.
Not that I owe him anything. He’s still my prisoner, still the being who destroyed my life. But the guilt sits there anyway, uncomfortable and unwelcome, making my chest feel tight in ways I refuse to examine.
I take off my boots and leave them by the front door. Then I just stand there in the hallway, unsure what to do next. This is ridiculous. This is my flat. My space. I shouldn’t feel awkward in my own home, shouldn’t feel like I need permission to exist in my own living room.
Fuck it.
I march in with more confidence than I feel and flop onto the sofa.
The cushions wheeze under my weight in protest. It’s second-hand and smells faintly of someone else’s life, but it’s mine and I’m reclaiming it.
This is my space, and I refuse to let a trapped former shadow king make me feel like a guest in my own home.
I grab the remote and turn on the TV, some petty part of me wanting to do something normal, something that reminds both of us that I’m the one with freedom here.
The screen flickers to life. Some documentary about penguins waddles across the screen, all nature footage and soothing narration about Antarctic breeding grounds.
In front of me, there’s a sharp intake of breath.
I glance at him, curious despite myself.
Dis is staring at the television like it just personally insulted him, like it’s challenged him to a duel or questioned his honour.
His eyes are wide, wider than I’ve ever seen them, and the shadows around him have gone very still.
That particular stillness that I’m learning means he’s completely focused on something.
“What,” he says slowly, his voice filled with genuine bewilderment, “is that?”
It takes me a moment to understand what he’s asking.
“A TV,” I say.
“What does it do?”
“You’ve never seen a TV before?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
“Why would I have seen a...” He gestures at it with something approaching alarm. “That.”
“Because they’re everywhere?” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I realise how stupid that sounds. Everywhere in my world, maybe. Not in his. “Right. Not in the Shadow Realm, I guess.”
“No,” he says, still staring at the screen with that mixture of fascination and suspicion.
Then it really hits me. He’s never seen a TV before. Why would he have? The Shadow Realm probably doesn’t have electricity, let alone consumer electronics and broadcast television.
“It shows you things,” I explain. “Like a window. But to anywhere. Or anytime, I guess. You can see things happening in other places, or things that happened in the past.” I’m not sure I’m explaining this well, but it’s the best I can do.
Dis leans forward, his entire body tense with concentration as he stares at the screen where a penguin is waddling across ice. The narrator is saying something about mating rituals. Dis looks utterly transfixed.
“There are tiny penguins inside the box,” he says, and he sounds completely serious.
I try very hard not to laugh. “No. They’re not actually in there. It’s just... images. Light and sound.”
“Magic,” he says with certainty.
“Technology. But close enough, I suppose.” I’m not about to try to explain cameras and broadcast signals to an ancient shadow king.
I flip through channels, watching Dis’s face as images flash past. His head tilts with each change, processing, cataloguing. It’s oddly endearing, watching someone so ancient and powerful be completely baffled by something as mundane as television.
I stop on the Great British Bake Off because at least it’s soothing, and after the day I’ve had, dealing with customers and Brian’s relentless enthusiasm and the constant low-level anxiety of having a shadow being in my flat, I need something gentle and wholesome and utterly mundane.
The opening credits roll. Pastel colours fill the screen, cheerful music plays, and an aerial shot shows a white tent in the English countryside.
It’s all green grass and blue sky and the kind of idyllic setting that feels like it exists in a different world from mine, from my cramped flat above a coffee shop with its second-hand furniture and empty walls.
“What is this?” Dis asks, his voice hushed as if he’s witnessing something sacred.
“A baking competition.”
“Competition?” His attention sharpens immediately, his posture changing from curious to alert in a way that reminds me he’s spent centuries surviving through endless wars. “As in combat?”
“As in... they bake cakes, and whoever makes the best one wins.” I try not to smile at how seriously he’s taking this. It’s just Bake Off. Literally the most wholesome show on television.
“Wins what? Territory? Tribute? The loser’s hands?”
“A glass cake stand and bragging rights.”
Dis stares at me like I’ve just told him the most incomprehensible thing he’s ever heard. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“And they fight for this? With honour?” He sounds genuinely incredulous.
“They don’t really fight, they just...”
“Look.” He points at the screen with the intensity of a general identifying enemy positions. “That one has brought her own equipment. She is prepared. Organised. The others scramble. She has the advantage.”
On screen, a woman is calmly setting out her ingredients while someone next to her frantically searches for a whisk. Dis is right. She does have the advantage. I hadn’t even noticed.
“I guess?” I say, bemused by how quickly he’s analysing the situation, applying combat strategy to amateur baking.
“And this one.” Dis gestures at another contestant with something approaching disdain. “Weak. Uncertain. Look at how his hands shake. He has already lost in his mind before the battle has even begun.”
“It’s just nerves,” I point out. “Most people get nervous when they’re on television.”
“In combat, doubt is death.” He says this with absolute conviction, like it’s a fundamental law of the universe that applies to all situations, even baking competitions.
“Dis. It’s baking. Nobody’s dying.”
He waves a dismissive hand, not taking his eyes off the screen. “The principle remains the same. A warrior who enters battle already convinced of defeat has no hope of victory.”
I want to argue, but I’m too fascinated by watching him watch the show. He’s completely absorbed now, his entire focus narrowed to the television screen, watching every movement like it matters.
“That one will fail,” Dis says with the absolute certainty of prophecy.
“Which one?”
“The man in the striped apron. His oven temperature is incorrect. He will dishonour himself.”
“You can tell that from here?” I look at the screen, seeing nothing that would indicate temperature problems.
“I can see the heat distortion around the oven door. The way the air moves. He will burn the outside while the centre remains uncooked.”
Sure enough, when the timer goes off and the man pulls out his cake, it’s burned on the outside and raw in the middle. He looks devastated. I feel a pang of sympathy for him. That must be awful, failing so publicly.
“I told you,” Dis says with grim satisfaction. “He fought without proper preparation. This is the result of insufficient planning and failure to verify one’s equipment.”
“He didn’t fight. He baked.”
“It is the same principle. You face your challenge with skill and strategy, or you fall to defeat.”
The judges are kind about the burned cake.
Their feedback is gentle and constructive.
They encourage him, tell him what went well, suggest what he might do differently next time.
It’s so different from what I’m used to.
Different from the way I was taught, where failure was met with scorn and punishment.
Dis watches this with visible confusion, his brow furrowing. “Why do they comfort him? He failed. His cake is ruined. In any reasonable competition, this would be met with scorn.”
“Because it’s not about destroying people,” I say quietly, thinking about all the times I was torn apart for my failures, all the times I was told I wasn’t good enough. “It’s about helping them improve.”
“That is a strange approach to competition. Surely harsh criticism would yield better results, would motivate them to excellence through shame.”
“Maybe. Or maybe people perform better when they’re not being torn apart every time they make a mistake.”
I’m thinking about myself, about how I’ve spent years believing I was worthless because that’s what I was told. Maybe if someone had been kind instead, I’d be different now.
Dis considers this, his expression thoughtful. “An interesting theory.”
“It’s not a theory. It’s just... being decent to people. Treating them with kindness even when they fail.”
“In the Shadow Realm, failure is met with consequences. Not comfort. Not encouragement.”
There’s something in his voice when he says this, something that sounds almost like exhaustion.
I look at him properly. He’s still staring at the TV, but there’s something tight in his expression, something that speaks to years of living in a world where kindness is weakness and compassion is dangerous.
“That sounds exhausting,” I say quietly.
“It is what I know.”
The words are simple, but they carry weight. They carry centuries of survival, of never being able to let his guard down, of always having to be perfect or die.
The episode ends, and the next one starts automatically. I should probably turn it off, make dinner, do something productive with my evening. But I don’t move, and Dis doesn’t ask me to change it. We just keep sitting here, existing in the same space, and it’s nice in a way that terrifies me.
“You know,” I say during a commercial break, “for someone who’s supposed to be this terrifying weapon, you’re surprisingly invested in cake.”
His eyes flash with something like indignation. “I am not invested in cake. I am appreciating excellence in all its forms.”
“Sure, Disney. Whatever you say.”
His eye twitches at the nickname, but he doesn’t argue, just turns back to the screen with a huff that’s almost endearing.
We keep watching. Someone makes a terrible cake. Someone makes a beautiful one. Dis has opinions about all of it, a constant stream of commentary that’s simultaneously hilarious and oddly insightful.
Someone on screen burns their signature bake badly. Dis makes a satisfied sound. “I knew they would. Their timing was off from the beginning.”
The absurdity of my current situation hits me, and suddenly, I’m full-on laughing, unable to help myself.
Because Dis is sitting in my summoning circle, trapped and powerless, treating the Great British Bake Off like it’s the most important battle he’s ever witnessed.
It’s ridiculous and delightful, and I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much.
Dis looks at me, his expression shifting, softening just slightly in a way that makes him look less like an ancient weapon and more like something almost human.
“What?” I ask, still smiling.
“You have a pleasant laugh.” The words are simple, but there’s warmth in his voice when he says it, genuine warmth that makes my breath catch.
The words hit me sideways. I wasn’t expecting them, wasn’t expecting the warmth in his voice, wasn’t expecting the way my stomach does that swooping thing again. Nobody’s said anything like that to me before. Nobody’s noticed my laugh or cared enough to comment on it.
“Thanks,” I manage, my throat feeling tight. “I guess.”
“Another battle,” Dis says, leaning forward. “I want to see if that man with the beard can redeem himself after his earlier failure.”
I laugh again, I can’t help it, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in my chest.
And sitting here in my barely furnished flat with a shadow king in my living room, watching baking and listening to Dis’s increasingly passionate commentary about honour and technique, I realise something that makes my chest feel strange.
For the first time since the fire, I feel something other than anger or grief or desperate determination.
For the first time in months, the constant weight of rage and loss lifts just slightly, just enough for me to breathe.
Just enough for me to remember what it feels like to be something other than furious and broken.
It won’t last. I know it won’t last. Reality will come crashing back in eventually. Everything will fall apart the way it always does.
But right now, in this moment, none of it seems to matter as much.
Right now I’m just watching TV with someone who makes me laugh, someone who treats baking competitions with the gravitas of military campaigns, someone who looks at me with those impossible blue eyes and tells me I have a pleasant laugh.
And somehow, impossibly, that’s enough.