125- I'm in need of a hero. Can you sweep me off of my feet?
ELI
I am freaking out. I don’t know if it’s because Dami might be in some kind of serious trouble, or if it’s because he actually called me for help. ME. Eli. The guy he usually sighs at in mild exasperation. Hell yes! I mean, I don’t want him to be in danger, obviously. But I’m not going to lie… I’m ridiculously thrilled he called. It validates every choice I’ve ever made. Including the one where I sneakily added myself to his speed dial. Sure, I’m only number two, but that’s just a temporary setback. Now all I have to do is show up, fix a few catastrophes, hopefully look cool while doing it, and boom, number one spot, unlocked. And maybe… Maybe, once I’ve proven I’m worth being someone’s first call, I’ll find the courage to tell him how I actually feel. Which is, frankly, terrifying. Because yeah, I’ve never exactly had trouble getting a date before. Being an incubus tends to make that part of life… Easier. But this isn’t like that. This isn’t about charm or flirtation or anything surface level. This is Damien. I care about what he thinks. I care about the outcome. And that’s a whole new kind of vulnerability I haven’t quite worked out how to manage. So that’s my brilliant, barely formed plan. Race to the fire station at three thirty in the morning and hope that whatever’s wrong is fixable, and not, like, dragon related or something. Dami didn’t give me details over the phone, which is both extremely on brand and extremely worrying. He just sounded… Stressed. Edgy in a way I’ve never heard before. He actually yelled at me. Dami NEVER yells. Not at me, not at anyone. He’s all quiet steadiness and calm responses, even when everything’s falling apart. So now I’m driving way too fast through empty streets, adrenaline buzzing in my veins, heart in my throat. Whatever’s going on, it’s bad. Or at least, it’s bad for him, and that’s enough for me. Screw protocol. I flick the switch and turn on my lights and siren. It’s not like there’s really any traffic at this hour. But now I won’t even have to stop at red lights. I’m shaving minutes off this drive and every minute matters. Damien needs me. I get to be the one who shows up for him and I am NOT going to screw it up.
I make it to the station in record time. The place is… Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes my brain immediately suspicious. I pull out my phone and call Dami.
“Are you here yet?” He answers, clipped and abrupt.
“Yeah, I’m out front.” I say, trying to keep my voice level.
“There’s a door around the back that’s open. Let yourself in. Go through the locker room, down the hall, then turn left. I’m in the kitchen.” His voice is slow and clear, controlled, but I can still hear the tension humming underneath.
“On it. See you in a second.” I hang up and wince. Was that too cheerful? It probably was. I sounded like I was heading to a sleepover, not a crisis. I really need to work on my ‘serious and reliable’ tone. It’s one thing to show up when he needs help, it’s another to look like I’m thrilled about it. Last thing I want is for Dami to think I’m enjoying his suffering. I slip around to the back door and let myself in. The locker room is dim and empty, lined with neat rows of gear. I glance around, wondering which one’s his. I’ve never seen him here before. He’s never let me visit the station, not that I blame him. Mixing his steady, structured work life with my particular brand of chaos probably doesn’t sound appealing to him. It’s kind of surreal, being in his space. It smells like soap and smoke and whatever detergent they use on uniforms. Is it weird that I like it? Still, while Damien may not have invited me here before, I’ve been slowly dragging him into more and more of my world lately, whether he likes it or not. The magic stuff, the weird cases, the things that go bump in the night (and occasionally explode) are kind of his problem now. There aren’t many people in the department who are ‘in the know’ about magic, and even fewer working the front lines. Dami is one of the rare few now. And since he’s officially aware of magic now, he’s basically doomed. Poor guy’s probably going to have to handle every magic related fire call for the foreseeable future. Yeah. Welcome to the club, Damien. The higher ups didn’t even blink when I suggested looping him into my cases more often. They think he’s a good stabilizer. Calm. Rational. Good under pressure. And they’re right. Which is probably why I keep involving him, too. Plus it’s just a good excuse to spend time with him. Unofficially, on top of my regular duties, my job is to manage civilians and keep the magic stuff under wraps. My particular skill set comes in handy there. I can’t erase memories or stop people from seeing weird things, but I can usually talk them down, distract them, confuse them just enough that they don’t look too closely at the truth. Most people will believe whatever lets them sleep at night. I walk quietly down the hall, following the path Dami laid out. Then I reach the kitchen door. I push it open and my jaw drops.
There is neon purple goop EVERYWHERE. Half the kitchen floor is flooded with it, and the rest looks like it’s losing the fight. The walls are streaked with violet sludge. There’s even a trail of it dripping ominously from what I think is the coffee machine. But none of that is why my jaw drops. Damien is shirtless. I repeat: Damien. Is. Shirtless. He’s got a mop in one hand and a broom in the other, trying, and mostly failing, to push back the glowing puddle like he’s in a flood zone. His hair’s a little mussed. His expression is pure, barely contained exasperation. And his arms, holy hell, his arms, are flexing with every frustrated movement. My brain completely short circuits. What was I doing? Why am I here? What is air? I think… I might finally understand how people feel when I use my magic on them. Disoriented. Breathless. Mildly enchanted. I’m getting a full dose of my own medicine, and it’s wearing cargo pants.
“Eli! What are you doing just standing there?” Damien snaps. He shoves a broom into my hands without ceremony.
“Help me!” He demands.
“Uh. Help. Yes. Help.” I manage, gripping the broom and joining his battle against the purple tide. I sound like I’ve never spoken English before. One syllable at a time, please. I think my vocabulary got erased by his collarbones. I push the goop with the broom, which feels more like stirring Jello than cleaning, and glance around.
“What are… What is this stuff?” I ask awkwardly, trying to remember how to speak like an actual person. Damien lets out a noise that’s half growl, half sigh. It’s stupidly hot.
“Hell if I know. There’s some stupid overengineered nightmare pretending to be a coffee machine over there. I just wanted caffeine, and then this happened.” He groans as he gestures to the machine, which is humming ominously in the corner like it knows it’s winning. Dami sounds seriously stressed. It punches right through my swooning.
“The coffee machine? I’ll just unplug it. Easy.” I say, trying to sound competent again. I set the broom aside and step toward the machine, but Damien grabs my arm and yanks me back hard.
“Don’t touch the muck!” He barks. I freeze.
“…It’s just goo?” I respond, confused. Sure, it’s weird looking. But how dangerous can it be?
“It’s itchy.” He mutters, like it personally offended him.
“That’s what happened to my shirt. Don’t touch it. Seriously.” He warns.
“Itchy.” I echo, deeply skeptical. He nods, dead serious.
“Itchy. Weirdly itchy. Shirt destroying itchy. Don’t mess with it. And besides, I already unplugged the machine. This insanity is happening on its own now.” He explains. So the goo is responsible for his lack of shirt? I’m suddenly kind of grateful for it. But Damien wants it gone so that’s what I’m going to do. I turn and stare at the machine. Then at the sludge. Then back at Damien. Okay. So maybe this isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.