Oh, You're My Best Friend

*Misty and Joshua Hawthorne's House, November 28*

The house itself isn’t particularly strange; a two-story brick house on a tree-shaded street in North Downtown Halcyon, tucked under a scattering of old maples and one particularly venerable sycamore. The trim on the house is white, and the small path leading up to the front door winds around a flowerbed and, in perhaps the only outwardly unusual note, a tree with long, prominent thorns—a Washington Hawthorn, old enough that its bark is ridged and worn. The car up the gravel driveway is small and unremarkable other than the elaborate quilt of bumper stickers that decorate it, most of which are from various state or national parks, but there are several rainbow flags and one “Bigfoot is real and he is gay” sticker scattered among them.

Perhaps the other strange thing is that one of the windows on the second floor is perpetually open, even though it’s now decidedly chilly. But the occupant, who can sometimes be seen making her way onto the roof, doesn’t particularly mind the cold.

She’s on the roof now, actually, but when she sees Angy’s approach she waves wildly for a moment with one hand and then ducks back in through the window with the ease of practice, and a keen ear would hear the sound of footsteps tumbling down a flight of stairs.

Across the street, a small pinprick of light on the pavement expands suddenly into a torrent of green flame, casting long shadows of tree trunks across the street. The flames subside to show a short red figure with black dragon wings, long hair fluttering in the wind.

She lands, her bare clawed feet touching the stones.

Angraxaethe Sevsarstra, dragon princess of Avalon, apprentice of the Archwizard of Anfwynn Tor, starts to cross the street and immediately gets almost run over by a car.

The driver yells at her from the window and she flips him off, growling, before running the rest of the distance. Her scowl disappears the moment she spots Misty on the roof, and she eagerly returns the wave.

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time before Misty throws the door open, looking very pleased with herself and also very much like someone who narrowly avoided falling down the stairs. She’s not in her usual leather vest; instead she’s in dark jeans and a worn North Downtown Halcyon Community Radio t-shirt.

“Angy! You’re here! And also didn’t get hit by that car, which would have been bad, either for you or the car but definitely for all the trees on the street. C’mon in—*dad! Angy’s here!”*

The Angy in question grins, manacles clanking as she waves at her friend. “The metal carriage-contraption would have rued the day it dared touch me. I would have ripped open its chassis and eaten the succulent horseflesh inside. Hello.”

“Yeah, but it might explode,” Misty points out. She's also pretty sure there aren’t horses in cars, but that’s less important. “C’mon!” She ushers Angy inside, into an entryway with Misty’s boots haphazardly kicked to the side and an archway into the rest of the house.

Joshua Hawthorne enters the entryway hallway from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron that says "This is what a cool dad looks like" and smiling. He is excited to meet more of Misty's friends. It comforts him to know that she had people to count on even when she...away.

His smile falters in surprise for a moment when he sees Angy. Misty had said "dragon" but...this still wasn't quite what he was expecting. Certainly very different from the nice young lady with the cupcake shop. Joshua quickly puts his smile back on.

"Welcome to our home, Angy. Misty's friends are always welcome. I made some cookies if you want a snack, and we've got milk and juice."

Angraxaethe looks up at the man. She is still unsure of what to make of human parents - her own family hardly counts, and there's the dimensional gap to consider, and the whole asgard/jotunn-connection, though she thinks she would actually find that easier to relate to. Her eyes pan down to the apron. What a strange garment to wear. Is he a blacksmith? No, the fabric is way too thin and fragile to survive exposure to the heat of the forge. Plus, she didn't see a chimney big enough for that. No, she reasons, it is probably for cooking; she read that cooks sometimes wear aprons, though she has never seen it given that Misaurystes usually just conjured the food directly onto the plates.

She nods. "Greetings, Joshua Hawthorne. In accordance with Midgardian hospitality traditions I have brought a gift.” She holds her hands palm up, and a plastic-wrapped package of meat appears in a flash of green flame. The spirit of the base had suggested chocolate, but that had seemed wrong to her - anyone can kill a plant, that is no achievement. No, the gift should represent the hunt and the risk taken for it to be presented. Not that she’d hunted this cow, of course, but she *could*, and that’s what matters.

She briefly wonders if she should have gone out and hunted something more impressive personally. Do Midgardians eat rhinoceros meat?

Misty blinks—she hadn’t expected a gift at all, but brightens instantly. She’s not sure the precise train of thought that led Angy to this, but she can figure most of it out—and a gift of food is always a good one, both because it’s always something practical that people need in a larger sense, and also more personally because Misty is always hungry.

“Aww, thanks!” She cheers, moving to snatch the package. “I’ll put this in the fridge—y'know, the cooling cabinet like we’ve got at the base—so it’s still good.” She's pretty sure that even if her dad doesn’t know, *she* can figure out how to cook this. Can’t be harder than finding ways to cook food in Niflheim, right? “But yeah, dad, this is Angraxaethe Sevsarstra, she’s the really cool one I told you about a bunch.” The introductions are a little late, and everyone knows everyone’s name already, but Misty hasn’t brought friends home since…uh…well, possibly *ever,* now that she thinks about it. Also, there’s one more important thing she has to tell her dad, just for—well, general context.

“She’s also the one I told about. Y’know.” She shifts, not quite meeting his eyes. “Father? Uh, so there’s that too.”

Joshua nods, understanding what Misty means. "Good to know. But I trust your judgement about who to tell." He ruffles her hair before turning back to Angy.

"Angy, I'd like to thank you for being there for Misty. It means a lot to me that people were looking out for her before she came home."

Misty relaxes a little at her dad’s approval—she didn’t really think he’d have a problem, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t, well, nervous about it. It’s good to know that he trusts her judgement, even after…well, everything.

And then she instantly tenses back up again at his next sentence. “*Da-ad,”* she whines, exasperated, “I’m not—people don’t need to *look out for me,”* she manages, although she can’t stop herself from smiling a little as well. It’s nice, to have someone who cares. Would be nicer if he didn’t do it in front of her friends who she *really* wants to think she’s cool, but. What can you do.

Angy frowns, the long blackened scales that form her eyebrows scrunching in the center. “I do not need your thanks. Misty is very strong and can take care of herself. Her poisonous claws would easily carve through any wall.” She bites her lip, sharp teeth pulling on her skin, and tries to think back to the myriad lessons on sociability and etiquette the Archwizard sent her to. It’s harder than it should be - she never took them seriously, and no teacher stuck around for longer than a month, so she mostly remembers burning a great deal of fancy handkerchiefs.

She’s pretty sure she remembers one of them saying it’s better to at least try rather than just scowling at people, though.

“It should not need saying that I will not tell people about Misty’s father unless she wants me to. I know something about being… maligned… for what you are,” She shifts uncomfortably, rubbing at her left wrist where the manacles touch her scales, “but I think neither you nor she have any reason to be ashamed. You should be proud.

I would like to try your cookies,” She says, before reluctantly and, with obvious discomfort, adding: “Please.”

Joshua smiles at Angy. “I know that Misty is more than capable of taking care of herself. But all of us need people to look out for us. Especially with the kind of dangerous things you both do.” His eyes look a little distant for a moment. “No one can really survive on their own.”

Then he shakes his head and gestures toward the kitchen. “I’m sure Misty can show you around. You two have fun, don’t eat too many cookies, and door open if you go into your room. Love you. I’ll be in the living room.”

Joshua quickly kisses the top of Misty’s head and retreats to the couch for some light afternoon reading, smirking to himself. Embarrassing your kids is a fine art. He’s been out of practice, but felt that went perfectly.

Misty lets out an embarrassed sputter at the head kiss—and also at *door open if you go into your room—*but doesn’t make any retaliation other than sticking her tongue out at him.

“Just for that I’m gonna make sure there are no cookies left for *you,”* she announces, fully expecting him to ignore her, and turns back to Angy. “Okay! I’ll put this—“ she gestures to the meat she’s still holding— “in the fridge and get the cookies. One sec.”

“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already hidden some away!” Joshua calls back to her.

She pops into the kitchen, drops the meat off, and then lights up at the tray of chocolate chip cookies. They're right out of the oven and probably too hot to eat, which does not stop her from grabbing two, popping one in her mouth, and darting back to give the other one to Angy.

“Quick, eat that one now, while it's still hot and melty. They're good usually but they’re *best* now.”

The dragon follows her into the kitchen, looking around with obvious curiosity. It’s a lot smaller than the kitchen at the base, and more cluttered. She likes it, even if most of the things in there look like alchemy equipment to her. It looks lived in.

She spears the offered cookie on a long black claw and pops it into her mouth. She freezes, and her eyes widen, bright green irises constricting to show black sclera at the edges.

“What are these made of? Fairy sugar? Some new alchemical formula? Have Halcyon’s sorcerers succeeded in bottling dreamspun?” She looks at the claw, which has a bit of melted chocolate on it, and licks it off with a forked tongue.

“Uh, I don’t think any of those unless dad has just *really* improved his recipe,” Misty says, and then thinks about it. “Well, actually, I guess it’s kind of alchemy. I mean, you mix a lot of stuff together and stick it in fire—or, well, heat—and it turns into something *awesome.* But alchemy or just baking, the most *important* thing—“ she finishes the rest of her cookie, pulls a plate out, and starts filling it with the rest of the cookies from the sheet “—is that we have *more.”* Her grin is sharp and bright.

“Anyway, you wanna come up and see my room? It’s better for hanging out than down here, even though I’m not done cleaning up yet.”

Angy looks at the plate with obvious greed, the same expression she wears when looking at a pile of gold or a particularly plump cow. She nods eagerly and follows Misty upstairs.

Misty pushes open a door at one end of the hallway upstairs, revealing…well, her room. It’s kind of big, she supposes, for a bedroom. Half the floor is covered in scraps of cloth and her sewing kit; her quilt is a lot more frustrating than she expected when she started it, but she’s not a quitter (she conveniently ignores all evidence of every other project she’d abandoned halfway through).

Other than that, the room is a dark blue, with low shelves holding an assortment of old toys—the Nerf guns have a place of prominence—and a few windows, one of which has the screen conspicuously removed. In terms of decoration, there are a few places where posters look like they’ve been taken down, Misty erasing all knowledge of embarrassing middle school phases with the dedication of a true teenager. Given pride of place, though, is a framed picture, sitting on top of a dresser.

It’s one of exactly three copies of this photo, as far as Misty knows. It’s a winter day—her seventh birthday, to be exact—but the setting is warm, the living room of the house. Misty is between two men, one of them—blond hair slightly less gray, missing the scar across his right arm, different glasses frames— a younger Joshua Hawthorne. The other, taller man with pointed features and flame-red hair even brighter than Misty’s, is turned to laugh at something one of the others have said, leaving his face in profile but still recognizable.

Of course, Misty realizes in a moment of almost-regret, at the moment all of the warm emotion it pulls up in her is being weighed against the fact that she’s *very seven years old* in the picture. Chubby-cheeked, without the muscle or intensity that years of training gave Misty, the kid has messy, long hair, pulled back in a ponytail in a very bad imitation of Joshua’s. There’s a smudge of red frosting across one of their cheeks, and their grin is embarrassingly guileless.

“Huh,” she says, suddenly awkward. “Forgot I left that out.”

Angy enters after her. “Why does the door need to be open?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at the hallway, before turning back and looking around. The room is much smaller than the one she has at Anfwynn Tor, and the decor is very different, very Midgardian - the bed has no posters or heavy curtains, and there are no elaborately carved bookcases in sight - but it is unmistakably someone’s place, someone’s home, the human equivalent of a comfortable spot on a hoard. And, she thinks as she looks over the projects, it is unmistakably Misty.

She walks up to where her friend has paused next to a small framed painting, of the weird smooth and detailed kind common in this world. She stops next to her and peeks at the picture.

“You look very happy.”

Misty flushes a little bit, and then offers a shrug. “I—I mean, I was. We didn’t get a lot of time to be together, so I really liked it. Dad made cake and my father stuck around for like, the whole day—I dunno what was happening so he could do that. But whatever he did, I’m really glad.” For a second, she has the same smile as the kid in the picture as she sets the plate of cookies onto a shelf. “It was a good birthday.”

She shakes her head, refocusing to the first question Angy asked, and snorts, ears going slightly red in embarrassment.

“Oy. That’s just dad giving me grief,” she groans. “Well, probably. I think he meant it, too, but—it’s to make sure we don’t get up to any funny business.” She remembers who she’s talking to, and tries to rephrase more clearly. “I mean, like, making sure we don’t start fooling arou—no, not that either. Uh.” She fumbles for a moment, getting even redder. “I guess it’s so we don’t start making out? But *mostly* it’s him teasing me because he’s *the worst.”*

The amount of affection in her voice clearly proves she doesn’t, for a second, believe that her dad is the worst, but her ears are still red. She grabs another cookie to smother her embarrassment in chocolate.

Angraxaethe blinks, second eyelids flicking across her eyes horizontally. She doesn’t get red - it would, in fact, be hard for her to get any redder - but there is a slight scrunching to her facial features.

She, too, grabs a cookie, briefly opening her mouth to breathe fire at it before nodding and popping it into her mouth.

“Your father would disapprove of you courting me?”

Misty pauses her mortification to consider that for a moment. *Would* her dad disapprove? She can’t imagine that being the case. “I don’t think he would. I think he’d just like to know if it was happening.”

She perches on one of the shelves—the one she usually climbs over to get out the window—and considers while she eats the rest of the cookie. “And also even if he *did* he’s gotta know that he’s got, like, *no* room to talk about romantic decisions, so I don’t have to *listen* to him about it.” She nods, having made up her mind, and then remembers what precisely they’re talking about and goes red again. “I mean. If that ever ends up being what’s happening, I guess.”

Angy relaxes some of the tension she had in her shoulders. “I would have been surprised. It would… not have been the first time,” She grimaces, “But I did not think he seemed the type.” She looks around for someplace comfortable to sit and settles on the bed, shuffling onto it and pulling her knees to her chest.

“My first girlfriend - well, my only girlfriend, I guess, I’ve never really dated anyone else - she was a bard, and when she introduced me to her parents they got all of their guards to chase me out with spears, and it turned out she had just been using me to get back at her parents because she knew they would hate me? Also she turned out to be a knight as well,” she makes a face, “So that was a dealbreaker anyway. Stupid knights. Why would you want to be a knight when you’re already a bard?"

Misty goes quiet as she realizes that Angy is sharing something—important. Personal. Still, she can’t help the way her brows furrow and her teeth dig points into her lower lip. By the end of it, she’s sitting straight up in indignation, embarrassment completely forgotten.

“That’s *bullshit.* Why would—first of all, she sounds like a total jerk and you’re *way* too good for her,” She says resolutely, gesticulating with one hand. “Because that *sucks.* If you have a problem with your parents why not just have a problem with them? You don’t have to be a huge jerk to someone else on top of it! And *also,* why would someone do that to you?? You’re awesome! Geez,” she huffs, crossing her arms as she works herself down from her irritation.

“Well. I hope wherever she is now she regrets all of her life choices,” she declares instead, leaving out the *and if I ever meet her I will make sure she does* that’s rattling around in her head. “And I’m sorry that happened to you, too,” she continues, voice softening out of furious tirade into genuine care.

“Because that *sucks.* But yeah. Dad isn’t the type to disapprove of someone based on something like that. I mean, I’m not really human either, and he’s always—I mean, he gets really upset when people are mean to me because of it. So I don’t think he’d do that to you.”

Angy grins, her thin lips parting to show a row of very sharp and very white teeth.  “Thanks, I’m glad to hear I was right. Last I heard of Merriweather she was on a journey through dimensions to write an epic poem - Oh, hey, that reminds me, I got you something.” She mutters a phrase under her breath, and a similar magic circle to the one she used earlier to summon the meat appears on the bed. Above it, motes of green flame meld together to form the outline of a big book, which gently drops onto the duvet.

“I don’t know if it’s any good, or if any of the stuff in it is, like,” She crumples her nose, “Accurate? It might just be a bunch of derogatory stories and stereotypes, but the bookseller said it’s several thousand years old and from before the dimensions got separated or something, so… maybe not?” The wizard’s apprentice holds up a clawed hand, and the book floats over towards Misty. It has leather covers, with brass fittings at the corners, and a blue ribbon poking out of the pages, but it doesn’t look old. On the cover, elaborate gothic script reads *Jotnar: Children of Ymir.*

Misty is halfway through marking down the name *Merriweather* on her personal mental shit list--because *really,* who does that girl think she is, doing something like that to Angy?!?--when Angy mentions she has something for Misty, completely redirecting her attention. Her eyes go wide at the magic--she’ll never understand it, no matter how many times she’s practiced she just *does not* have the knack for it--and wider still as the title comes into view.

She takes it carefully, making sure her gloves aren’t fraying or wearing thin before she does--they’re leather and new, they should last a while, but the last thing she wants to do is damage a gift from Angy because she got too excited. For a long moment, she stares at it, pupils dilated out from their normal slits, and then she carefully puts it down on the shelf, and launches herself at Angy for a hug.

“Thank you *so* much,” she says, wrapping her arms around the other girl’s waist, “Thank you, thank--even if it’s not got anything true, *thank you.* That--I can’t *believe* it’s that old, it looks so nice!” She pauses to take a breath, which also stops the outpouring of semi-comprehensible yelling, and awkwardly lets go of Angy. “Uh. Got a little carried away. But really, thanks, that looks super cool and I--well.” Angy already knows that Misty doesn’t know a lot about the jotnar--she knows what she gave Misty. Even if it all turns out to be useless, the thought is enough to make Misty *beam.*

“Oh -” Angy tenses up a bit at the sudden hug, unused to the affection. She very awkwardly places her arms around Misty as well, then shifts to make space for Misty on the bed. One should make sure the most important and valuable things in one’s hoard have place of prominence, after all - though, Angy supposes, this is Misty’s hoard, not hers.

“- Uh,it isn’t like, *literally* thousands of years old, it’s a reprint - but you’re welcome. I happened to be in a bookstore in Avalon to pick something up for that nerd Merlin.”

Misty goes red at the explanation, ducking her head down in a completely failed attempt to hide it as she settles in next to Angy, reaching out to bring the cookie plate over--it’s comfy here, she doesn’t want to be getting up every three seconds for more cookies. “Well--okay, that makes a lot more sense, now that you say it like that. It’s still super cool, though. Thanks for getting it for me.” She considers for a moment, looking Angy up and down, and then sighs.

“I was thinking of what I could try to make for you in thanks, but you don’t really like most kinds of clothes, right? They kinda get in the way.” She’s noticed Angy’s penchant for long tunics to the complete exclusion of all else, and while it really works for her, it does not leave an amateur tailor with much to go off of.

Angy nods. "Sleeves catch on my scales and tear, hats don't fit around the horns and breeches are hard with the tail. I could stop having scales and horns and a tail, but that would make me look human." She says grumpily, picking at a cookie.

"If… if you make me something I would consider wearing it. For you, obviously, not because I want to or anything."

Misty’s eyes widen at the admission that Angy would wear something she made, and a second later there’s a familiar stubborn set to her jaw.

“Well, now I’ve gotta figure out how to make something that looks good AND doesn’t catch on anything,” she declares, crossing her arms with a grin. “And it’s gonna be cool enough that you’re gonna *want* to wear it, *and* it’s gonna fit around your scales and horns and tail. Whatever it is. I’m gonna have to figure some things out.” In all honesty, she hasn’t really made clothes for anyone but herself before, and constructing something from scratch is a lot trickier than altering something that exists, but she’s smart. She can do this. Probably.

“Oh—when’s your birthday?” That could give her a timeframe to work with.

Angraxaethe scratches at her chin with a claw. “I hatched on March 12th and metamorphosed on August 1st. I have no idea when my egg was laid.” She laughs. “There wasn’t a note stuck to it or anything. Humans really do just have a single birthday, huh. You can pick one!”

Misty snorts at the idea of a labeled dragon egg—*laid November 5th, handle with care—*before pouting at the single birthday comment.

“Yeah, we kinda have just the one.” She considers, for a moment. “Well. I guess I *could* count when I figured out I was a girl as a *kind* of birthday, but I don’t wanna do the time conversions from Niflheim to Midgard. So just the one for me.”

Speaking of birthdays, though, that reminded her. “Right! You’re in my room now, I can finally get around to making you listen to some music.” Misty had never really gotten the knack of syncing her phone up to speakers in the base, and someone else always stole the Bluetooth connection three seconds later anyway. A second later, though, hesitation catches up. “Uh, if you want to, I mean.”

The response is an eager nod. “Yes! I love music. One of the best reasons to keep humans around.” Angy grins. She had, actually, been hoping for this, had been since Misty first talked about music - which was very soon after they met. She had even gone as far as to acquire a music player for her hoard, though when she came back with it and asked the base spirit for help setting it up she was told it was ‘too old’ and that ‘a record player will not play mp3s’. Which was very silly, since she had obviously gotten the most valuable and advanced model there was. It has gold filigree and everything.

“Will you need money to pay the bards on the other side?”

Speaking of old music technology, Misty reluctantly extracts herself from the bed to head over to a small CD player on the same dresser as the family photograph. She hums to herself, flicking through a stack of CD cases to pick out the one she’s looking for--one of her birthday presents from ages ago, a *Best of Queen* album.

Hearing Angy’s question, though, she blinks and shakes her head. “Oh! No, we don’t need to. Basically, back when dad got this--” She holds up the CD carefully, even with her gloves-- “he paid for it then. The bards involved all sat down in a room that could record their music and then that was put on a bunch of discs like these--and then also on phones and stuff. So when you buy the disc or the song for your phone, you pay for it then and you get to listen to it. More or less.” Misty is not an expert in musical economics. “But, that *means* that now I can just--”

She pops the CD carefully into the CD player, shutting the lid and hitting the play button. There’s the brief sound of the CD starting to spin before the music starts. Her mission complete, she heads back to flop on the bed next to Angy.

“Honestly this is kind of an old-fashioned way to listen to them,” she muses for a second. “Most people just use their phones. But I think Dad likes being able to give me a solid *thing* for my birthday, so he gives me CDs--the discs like that.” She nods to the CD player as *We Are The Champions* starts playing. Misty settles in to listen, but can’t stop herself from glancing over at Angy every few seconds to see the other girl’s reaction.

Angy frowns in confusion at the explanation. "Isn't that more convenient than this "streaming" thing? Why would you pay to have a team of musicians constantly on call waiting for you to send the signal so they can sing through your phone when you can have these…" She peers at the CD. "Flattened memories you can access for free? Humans are so ridiculous." She puffs, confident that she could never be that silly.

When the music starts, she stills. Both sets of eyelids close, first the horizontal and then the vertical, and all the tension leaks out of her body bit by bit. The long spikes at her cheekbones and ears shift, lying flat against the side of her face. Her long, lustrous hair, which had been wanting slightly as if in a non-existent breeze, falls to the bed around her.

There is a slight smile at the corners of her mouth.

She crawls up next to Misty, and lays her head on the other girl's lap.

Misty stares for a moment at the transformation that comes over Angy--but, then, it’s not like she doesn’t understand on some level. Maybe not so dramatically, but she knows what it’s like to get caught up in music, so she bites back the delighted smile on her face--she doesn’t want Angy to think Misty is mocking her. She couldn’t be, not for something like this. Enjoying music is not something Misty would ever mock.

So instead she leans back on her bed, making sure she can stay in that position for however long Angy wants to stay there, and--carefully--drops a gloved hand to awkwardly pet Angy’s hair as they settle in to listen.

Joshua peeks into the room. He's a simple man: he hears Queen, he goes toward the music. There's a tray of juice and glasses in his hands that he'd planned on using as an excuse to barge into the room like an embarrassing dad, but he stays in the doorway. On the one hand, being embarrassing was one of the greatest pleasures of being a parent. On the other, it's been a really long time since he's seen Misty this relaxed and unguarded. And that's worth a lot more than seeing her get embarrassed. So he quietly walks back to the kitchen and puts the glasses away, smiling and humming along to the music.