Kill Them with Kindness
The coffee shop is in the middle of the lunch rush when it happens. A man in an expensive suit storms up to the counter where Brian is working, his face red and his jaw tight. He has the look of someone who’s had a terrible day and has decided to make it everyone else’s problem.
“This coffee is bitter, you burnt the beans,” he snaps, slamming the cup down so hard that liquid sloshes all over the countertop.
Brian looks up with that enormous smile of his. “Oh no! I’m so sorry about that. Let me make you a fresh one right away.”
“I don’t want a fresh one. I want my money back.”
“Of course! No problem at all.” Brian starts working the till with cheerful efficiency. “These things happen. I hope the rest of your day is wonderful.”
The man blinks. He seems thrown by Brian’s relentless niceness.
I’m leaning against the back counter, hand edging toward the baseball bat we keep under the spare takeaway lids for situations exactly like this.
But Brian is still beaming, still radiating sunshine and good vibes like it’s his job. Which, I suppose, it kind of is.
“And you should train your staff better,” the man adds, trying to regain his momentum. “This is unacceptable service.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Brian agrees enthusiastically. “I’ll work on that. Thank you so much for the feedback!”
The man opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “I...” he starts, then stops. He looks utterly bewildered, like he’s forgotten what he came here to do in the first place.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Brian asks brightly. “We have some really lovely pastries if you’d like one on the house?”
The man stares at him, then at me, then back at Brian. “No,” he says finally, sounding dazed. He takes his refund and wanders toward the door, looking vaguely confused, like he’s just been hit over the head with a sack of flour.
Brian waves enthusiastically. “Have a great day!”
The door chimes. The man is gone. I stare at Brian, who is already wiping down the counter and humming something cheerful. “What the fuck was that?”
“What?” He looks up at me with those big innocent eyes.
“That man was ready to tear you apart.”
“Oh, he was just having a bad day.” Brian says this with the same enthusiasm he uses for literally everything, like terrible customers are just another fun challenge to overcome.
“He was actively trying to be horrible to you.”
“I know! But if I’m nice to him anyway, he can’t really stay mad, can he? It’s like emotional aikido. You redirect the energy.” He grins at me like he’s just shared the secret to world peace.
I blink at him. “Did High Priestess Magdalene teach you that?”
“No, I learned it from dealing with Brian Two when he got in his moods. He’d get really worked up about the goats not respecting his authority, and if I just stayed calm and friendly, he’d eventually tire himself out.
” Brian goes back to wiping the counter like this is a perfectly normal explanation for conflict resolution.
“You compared an angry customer to a cult member having a tantrum about goats.”
“Yeah! People are people, you know? Most of them just want to be heard.”
I shake my head because I genuinely don’t know what else to do. This boy. This absurdly cheerful, cult-raised, relentlessly optimistic boy who somehow makes de-escalating angry customers sound like a fun hobby.
“You’re like a sweet bunny,” I say before I can stop myself. “So sweet that even the big bad wolves can’t bear to eat you.”
Brian’s face lights up like I’ve just given him the greatest compliment of his life. “Aww! That’s so nice!”
“It wasn’t meant to be nice. It was meant to be condescending.”
“Still counts!” He actually bounces on his toes slightly, which I didn’t think real people did outside of cartoons. “No one’s ever called me sweet before. High Priestess Magdalene usually called me ‘concerning’ or ‘suspiciously cheerful.’”
“That tracks.”
“Can you call me that again?”
I stare at him. “What, concerning?”
“No! Bunny!” His grin is so wide I’m starting to think his face might actually split in half from the force of his happiness.
“You want me to call you Bunny?”
“Yes! I love it! It’s cute!”
“It’s not... I didn’t mean...” I give up because there’s no point arguing with someone this enthusiastic about being compared to small, fluffy prey animals. “Fine. Whatever, Bunny.”
His grin gets impossibly wider, which I didn’t think was physically possible. “This is the best day,” he announces with absolute sincerity.
“You got yelled at by an angry customer.”
“But I got a nickname! From my grumpy manager who’s secretly nice!”
“I’m not secretly nice.”
“You so are.”
“I’m really not.”
“You gave me a cute nickname. That’s nice.” He’s got me there and he knows it, the smug little bunny bastard.
The rest of the shift passes without incident. Except for Bunny asking me in a very loud whisper, “How is your upstairs problem,” while waggling his eyebrows alarmingly.
Thankfully, he accepts my gruff, “All under control,” without further comment.
He gets back to serving customers with his usual enthusiasm, and I make coffee and try not to think too hard about the fact that I’ve apparently adopted a human puppy. When my shift ends, I head upstairs with a strange mix of anticipation and dread that I refuse to examine too closely.
I gave Dis the remote this morning. Partly because I felt guilty about leaving him with nothing to do all day, sitting there in his circle with absolutely nothing to occupy an immortal mind.
Partly because I was curious what an ancient shadow king would choose to watch when given access to human television.
I’m half expecting him to be watching documentaries about military strategy or something equally pretentious.
The flat is dark except for the glow of the TV.
I can hear voices, dramatic music, the particular cadence of a soap opera.
I flip on the lights and Dis is sitting in his circle, cross-legged, leaning forward with the kind of intense focus that suggests he’s watching something genuinely important.
His eyes are glued to the screen where someone is having a dramatic confrontation in what looks like a pub.
He doesn’t even glance at me when I come in. “Uh,” I say. “Hi?”
“Shh.” He waves a hand dismissively without looking away from the screen. “This is important.”
“It’s EastEnders.”
“Yes. And Sharon is about to discover that Phil has been lying to her. Again.” He says this with the gravity of someone discussing matters of state.
I blink, stare at the TV, then back at Dis. “You’re watching reruns of EastEnders.”
“I have watched many things today,” Dis says, still not looking away from the screen.
“This morning I witnessed more of the competition involving cakes. Then a program about people buying houses and arguing about kitchens. Then something called This Morning, where humans discuss their problems while sitting on a sofa and drinking tea. And now this.” He gestures at the screen like he’s presenting evidence in court.
“Right.” I set my bag down, trying to process the image of an ancient shadow king spending his day watching daytime television.
“It is fascinating,” Dis continues. “The drama. The betrayal. The complex web of relationships and grudges that span generations. It’s not unlike court politics in the Shadow Realm, but with more prosaic concerns.”
“While some people might call daytime TV torture,” I say, not bothering to hide the snipe in my voice, “it’s not quite what I had in mind for revenge.”
Dis finally looks at me, those blue eyes gleaming with something that might be amusement. “You have failed spectacularly at making me suffer, Little Witch.”
“So I’m gathering.” I cross my arms. “You’ve taken to captivity well.”
He shrugs, elegant shoulders rising and falling. “I am finding a certain peace in not having to watch my back constantly.” The words are said casually, but there’s something raw underneath them, something honest that makes my chest feel tight.
In the Shadow Realm, he was a weapon. A king sitting on a stolen throne, surrounded by enemies and schemes and the constant threat of being overthrown. Then Hex did overthrow him, and who knows what’s been happening to him since?
Here, he’s trapped in a circle in a shitty flat above a coffee shop, unable to leave or do anything except sit and watch TV.
And apparently, that’s less stressful than his actual life.
I feel a flash of sympathy, sharp and unwelcome, and I’m immediately annoyed at myself for feeling it. Annoyed at him for making me feel it.
“Sit,” Dis commands, gesturing at the sofa like he owns the place. “A new episode of EastEnders will begin shortly. You should prepare yourself.”
I find myself obeying without even thinking about it, sinking onto the cushions and grabbing the throw pillow to hug to my chest. What am I doing? Why am I taking orders from my prisoner? This is absurd. I should be the one giving commands here.
Dis is still watching the screen as the opening credits start, that distinctive drum beat filling the flat. “I saw a Disney film,” he says suddenly.
“Oh.”
“Frozen. It was shown after the house program.” He glances at me, those blue eyes unreadable. “When you named me Disney, I heard the insult. The mockery. There were notes of pink in your intention. Frills. Soft princesses. Singing.”
I try not to smile. “Maybe.”
“However.” He turns back to the TV with regal finality. “Now I have witnessed the craftsmanship of Disney, I forgive you. The songs are exceptional. The storytelling competent. The ice magic particularly well-researched.”
Stunned silence fills the room. I don’t know what to say to that, don’t know how to respond to an ancient shadow king forgiving me for comparing him to a corporation that makes animated musicals, because he’s decided they demonstrate adequate craftsmanship.
“Good to know,” I manage finally.
The show starts. Someone is arguing with someone else about something that seems very important to them but means absolutely nothing to me. I have no context for what’s happening, but Dis seems completely absorbed, his eyes tracking every movement on screen.
“Have you eaten?” he asks suddenly, not looking away from the TV.
The question catches me completely off guard. “What?”
“Have you consumed food today?” He says it like he’s asking about the weather, casual and unconcerned.
“I had a sandwich at lunch. Why?” There’s a warm feeling starting to bloom in my chest, because he’s concerned about me and that’s almost sweet.
“That is insufficient.” He finally tears his gaze from the TV to look at me properly. “You must keep your strength up so you can feed me.”
The warmth dies immediately, replaced by something between outrage and horrified laughter. Of course. Of course that’s why he’s asking. Not because he cares about my wellbeing, but because I’m useful to him.
I open my mouth, close it, open it again.
The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity of this shadow king.
But there’s something else underneath the outrage, something I don’t want to examine too closely.
The idea of feeding him again doesn’t fill me with horror the way it should.
It doesn’t make me want to flee to my bedroom and hide. And that’s almost worse than if it did.
Dis is staring at me with those burning blue eyes, searching my face for something I’m not sure I want him to find. I relent, because I’m hungry, and because arguing seems pointless, and because some traitorous part of me actually wants to do what he’s asking.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll make pasta.”
Dis nods, the gesture regal and satisfied. “Good. This pleases me.”
My stomach swoops like I’ve just gone over a hill too fast. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. I don’t want to please Dis. Pleasing Dis should not make my stomach do that thing, should not make warmth spread through my chest like I’ve just accomplished something worthwhile. This is bad. This is very bad.
“Hurry,” Dis adds, turning back to the TV like he hasn’t just completely destroyed my emotional equilibrium. “Before EastEnders properly starts. You’ve already missed the beginning, and I don’t want you asking me questions about who everyone is.”
I walk towards the kitchen in a daze, my feet moving on autopilot while my brain tries to catch up with what just happened. What has happened to my life?