Chapter Text
The facts go in this order of importance: 1) the pain in her hand is only second to the headache that is listening to Bo's bed bang against the wall for nearly eight hours straight and 2) the Real Housewives crying on her television screen would not last a minute in the Fae world. Kenzi lays back on the couch, stretching out and groaning at the gnawing sensation in her arm. The ceiling shakes and shudders against a background of gasps and moans.
“Rebound sex is the wooooorst.” Kenzi whines and rubs at her wrist.
This was all the Norn's fault.
Her BFF's heart being broken, going on an unfulfilled sex spree with Lauren, Lauren breaking up with her over her succubussy, and Bo throwing her all into deadly dudes with some seriously sharp swords – all because the Norn and her tree of terror.
Not to mention...why in the name of all that is Fae did the Norn take a bottle of itching powder from someone? And why – why? – did it have to spill on her? That jar of black goo stands out clearly in her mind, falling to floor with a few droplets landing on her hand.
In the back of her mind, she can see the Norn, smiling at her before she took off for Dyson's. She'd looked too pleased when the jar fell, too happy with herself, like all the payback she'd been promising had just wrapped itself up in that moment with a pretty little bow.
“And, with that, a gift has been given,” the Norn hisses in her mind.
Pssssssssssssh.
It's been weeks and the only gift Kenzi's gotten was the ability to shampoo her hair and scratch her hand at the same time.
Like, annoying? Sure, but what kind of shitty Fae revenge was this? She had no idea what was coming next – nothing so subtle as this could be considered retribution. Was she going to wake up and break out in the Black Plague or something? Was she going to lose all her bones in that arm – like a Harry Potter moment? Was she going to have to regrow an arm?
Holy shit, she was spiraling.
Calm down, Kenz. It's just an itch.
It wasn't like there was anyone she could talk it over with. No matter how hesitant Kenzi had been to tell Bo about this shitty situation, when she was ready, Bo clearly wasn't. Her and Lauren's relationship issues hit her hard and their breakup even harder. Vex was gone, off on a spiritual journey somewhere between Vegas and Tibet. She tried with Hale, thinking maybe he'd get it and not totally blame her for trying to act like it wasn't a big deal. It wasn't okay, it was actually pretty annoying, but totally manageable and not worth overreacting to. But that...that hadn't worked out. Yeah, it was shitty being tossed aside like a carton of out of date milk but she was fine. He was busy. Whatever. Fuck Hale and his Ash-hole self.
She was fine...and her hand? Totally not a big deal.
It's cool.
She has a handle on this.
This is, of course, when Kenzi's arm feels like it's lighting itself on fire.
“Oh, shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.”
~*~
There used to be a limited amount of time that Dyson could spend at the Dal without being engaged in conversation. Now, the bar was crowded with the boisterous background of drunken conversation and gaiety but Dyson had hardly a look sent in his direction. Then again, how many times had he come to the Dal alone in the last year? How many times had there not been an ally on the stool next to him?
Dyson usually came with Hale, who was happy to play pool and drink with him. Now he was too busy to even reminisce about nights at the Dal. Dyson couldn't blame him. Being the new Ash had left Hale too spent to focus on anything that wasn't his new responsibilities. Up until a week ago, Tamsin frequently followed Dyson in, keen to bring police work in with her and bust his balls about his personal life. She'd hardly spoken to him after their teenage selves had what was still – at least to Dyson - a blurry night of immature antics. However, he'd noticed she and Bo trading several avoidance-filled looks. They both were making themselves scarce and Dyson is relieved.
A large part of Dyson is thankful for the time to himself...but he knows a year ago, he wouldn't have been grateful.
With his love back, he knows he should have complaints. He should have felt longing pangs in Bo's absence, the same kind he felt when they were held apart so long ago. He should feel jealous of Lauren and Bo's relationship. He should be concentrating on getting her back or, at the least, resentful at the idea of letting it all be. Especially after Bo had used him to heal, like she had back at the beginning of their relationship.
Why was it so different now?
Dyson can't pinpoint it, can't explain why that love had gone from fervent need to static inaction. He remembers the rush of jealousy, the impudent need to be with Bo under whatever circumstance. All the desperation was gone. The fight between them for passion and fidelity once felt like a fight for air. Now, it was as though his lungs had been sated and all he could do was remember the taste of exhaustion.
It didn't feel empty anymore, it just felt...different.
It felt like a wound closed without him even noticing.
He keeps wondering if this is what letting go felt like. Would he have been able to move on if Ciara had been here? His relationship with her could have been everything to him, was everything to him at the time: safety, strength, loyalty. He owed Ciara so much. He owed her more than he could have ever given her. He'd wanted to love her so badly but couldn't.
His love was spent. Spent on Bo, who he had been willing to give everything for. He could still hear his deepest thoughts as he begged the Norn, 'My life, my soul, my wolf – whatever it is I can offer, take it. Please.' He'd known so little of what pain the Norn could inflict by instead taking his love. That emptiness had nearly hollowed him. It left him a shell when Ciara had died and he had failed so miserably.
He would still be a shell if not for Kenzi.
Kenzi.
You're so bloody human, he remembered saying once to her in anger. The words curl warmly in his chest now. It was the truth. That look in her eye when she slapped him, the determination in her jaw when she came back with his love; she was so human that bursting into the Norn's domicile with a chainsaw and a mission was nothing to her. It was all her and her reckless humanity.
For a moment, Dyson considers her sitting on the stool next to him. She, at the least, would make him laugh. There would be more than a few jokes at his expense. There would be bright blue eyes pleading pitifully at a top shelf liquor and Dyson would end up succumbing. He'd eventually be worn down, unraveled to the core of his thoughts. She'd tell him he was being stupid and he would think fondly that at least one person knew how much of an idiot he actually was.
It's tempting, he thinks, nursing the drink in his hand, but selfish. She doesn't need that burden.
Dyson shakes his head free of the idea.
She's done more than enough for me.
“Quiet night, eh?”
Trick wipes a rag over the already-cleared wood in front of him. He knows Trick won't pry into his business without invitation but Trick pins him with a look of concern all the same. Dyson shrugs his shoulders, setting his glass down on the bar.
“Not for you.” Dyson gestures to the crowd behind him progressively getting louder. “Business stays this way, I'll be lucky to have a seat.”
He takes in the scent of graveyard dirt and sweat with a mix of what can only be pheromones and sex. The crowd is buried in the smell and, by the sound of it, it's been a long night of death and debauchery. The Popobawas weren't subtle when they went on the hunt for pleasure and clearly they'd found whoever (or whatever) they were looking for. When Dyson looks over at Trick, he knows by his grimace he's just as aware of what they've been up to.
“A bunch of Popobawas celebrating their six thousandth unwelcome orgy. I'll be happier when they decide to take their post-coital haze elsewhere,” Trick says pointedly and one of the Popobawas leers while a few others raise a glass to him.
“They do love being uninvited guests.”
Trick rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately for everyone involved.”
In quick movement, the door to the Dal slams open and into the wall.
“Trick! Trickster!” Though the pub does not fall silent, Dyson watches the one eyed creatures delight in the form breaking through the crowd. Kenzi maneuvers her way towards the bar. “Boy, do I desperately need your-”
Kenzi catches sight of Dyson and whatever she's about to say is cut short.
“Oh, um. Hey, D-man.”
Dyson smiles, raising an eyebrow.
It's hard not to notice the lack of color in her face. She’s disheveled, like she’s just rolled out of bed and her frantic demeanor gives her a breathless expression. Gone are the pops of color and rebellion; instead, a gray oversized hoodie hangs low on one side, the sleeve only letting the tips of her fingers peek out. She fidgets under his gaze and he sees her clench the fabric of her sleeve in her right hand.
“Kenzi,” Trick greets her, eyeing the creatures behind her before coming around the bar.
“We gotta talk. Like, now.”
“Are you okay?” The Blood King frowns up at the human.
Dyson moves a fraction of inch in her direction before Kenzi holds up an authoritative hand.
“Privately. Alone. On our own-skies,” she says before adding, “No offense, big guy.”
Wolf instincts or cop instincts, Dyson can hear the alarm bells going off inside his head as Trick takes Kenzi to the backroom. He can't sense anything unusual – not with the stench of Popobawa overpowering the room – but something about this smells wrong. Something is off. He can sense it. A wave of foreboding has him itching to follow them and he tamps it down.
If it were serious, Kenzi would come to him, wouldn't she? Hadn't she always sought him out when she or Bo was in trouble? Had that changed, too, when he wasn't looking? The thought left him uneasy. Conflicted, he stares at the door to Trick's lair.