01-12-2026, 05:18 PM
“Certain? Jesus … There is nothing I’m certain about, Jude. You’ve knocked all the certainty right out of me.” Or, well, he’s still reasonably certain he didn’t call upon any supernatural powers other than pulling hard to perform the miracle of extracting himself from the floor, but it’s like talking to a brick wall, so he declines to reiterate.
Instead, he thinks back to what prompted this. Why Jude is here again, taking up Near’s space. Breathing Near’s air. Come with me, Jude had said in the alley behind The Door, and that was so close to being ... something, until the part about because you might be useful wrecked it.
Here’s a mortifying secret: nothing makes Near happier than an opportunity to prove he’s useful. Or maybe not a secret. Maybe you could ask anybody who’s ever spent more than twenty minutes with him. But it’s not supposed to work like that, Jude’s way, with patronizing declaration that cast Near as a bulky umbrella when there’s a non-zero chance of rain in the forecast. It’s supposed to be a package deal, bundled up with some need, some kismet, some self-satisfaction. Some goddamn gratitude.
“Fine,” he concedes, “I’ve been holding out on you. I’m a wizard too.” In the space immediately after, he turns back around, jerks open the refrigerator and peers inside at the half-empty jar of pickles and five bottles of Modelo that are all that’s left since he cleared it out the other day. He’s moving, remember? And it’s either the moving or the bottle that tickles against a thought that’s been stacked up in the back of his head somewhere for a while, like he’s forgotten something important.
“What do you want to do about it?”
Instead, he thinks back to what prompted this. Why Jude is here again, taking up Near’s space. Breathing Near’s air. Come with me, Jude had said in the alley behind The Door, and that was so close to being ... something, until the part about because you might be useful wrecked it.
Here’s a mortifying secret: nothing makes Near happier than an opportunity to prove he’s useful. Or maybe not a secret. Maybe you could ask anybody who’s ever spent more than twenty minutes with him. But it’s not supposed to work like that, Jude’s way, with patronizing declaration that cast Near as a bulky umbrella when there’s a non-zero chance of rain in the forecast. It’s supposed to be a package deal, bundled up with some need, some kismet, some self-satisfaction. Some goddamn gratitude.
“Fine,” he concedes, “I’ve been holding out on you. I’m a wizard too.” In the space immediately after, he turns back around, jerks open the refrigerator and peers inside at the half-empty jar of pickles and five bottles of Modelo that are all that’s left since he cleared it out the other day. He’s moving, remember? And it’s either the moving or the bottle that tickles against a thought that’s been stacked up in the back of his head somewhere for a while, like he’s forgotten something important.
“What do you want to do about it?”