136- Your methodology is so smooth and deliberate.
ANDREW
The next morning, I return to the garage wearing my apron and oven mitts like a man preparing for battle. I’ve got my noise cancelling headphones slung around my neck, my laptop fully charged, and a fresh thermos of coffee in hand. I am ready. Sort of. I got an email an hour ago saying the new shelving units will be delivered this afternoon. If I can just clear ONE side of the room, I can start putting things away, which will hopefully create enough space to tackle the rest of the room. Like some kind of magical clutter based chain reaction. I survey the mess. My spreadsheet is already ten tabs deep and I’m going to be here all day. Still, I’m weirdly excited. But first things first, coffee. I glance around, searching for a clear surface. Hah! Good joke. But then I spot it, a folder already stained with old coffee rings sitting on the edge of the bench. Close enough to stable. Good enough for me. There’s a note taped to it in Rowan’s handwriting. ‘Don’t touch this.’ I squint at the stains.
“Too late to save that one.” I mumble, and set the thermos on top. The moment the mug touches the folder, there’s a click, a shimmer of light, and then. Thump. A cloud of sulfur scented air puffs into the room, and a tiny figure materializes in the middle of the workbench, looking extremely displeased. He’s maybe a foot tall, scowling like I just insulted his mother. He has wiry limbs, windswept hair, and black eyes that look far too big for his small, judgmental face. He smells faintly of burnt parchment and… Cinnamon? He straightens his minuscule tie (yes, he’s wearing a tie), adjusts the strap on his clipboard, and narrows his eyes at me. Then, without a word, he walks across the bench, picks up a nearby contract, and gasp sputters like he’s been personally offended by the universe.
“Comic Sans?” He croaks, horrified.
“That hunter used COMIC SANS on a legally binding pact with the Fae Courts? Has she LOST what’s left of her clearly bargain bin common sense?!” He exclaims angrily. I blink.
“Hi?” I say mildly. Not sure what else to do. The little creature spins around and points his tiny red pen at me, holding it like a sword.
“Who are you, mortal coffee gremlin? Have you any idea what you’ve done?” He demands.
“I, uh… Just needed somewhere to put my coffee?” I lift my thermos sheepishly.
“Didn’t expect to summon anything...” I trail off. The creature’s eyes narrow into glittering, black slits.
“Of course you didn’t. You look like you organize your socks by vibe.” He says condescendingly. I can’t help but frown.
“Excuse me, I use a colour coded drawer divider system.” I mutter defensively. He huffs.
“Well, congratulations. You’ve summoned Garth Fiddle, lesser demon of contracts, destroyer of disarray, and reluctant participant in this dimension’s ongoing tragedy of paperwork neglect.” Then, he drops the contract he’s holding.
“Comic Sans. I should hex her into Helvetica.” He mutters.
“I, uh… I’m Andrew.” I say, raising both hands slightly like I’m talking to a very grumpy squirrel.
“I take it you know my wife, Rowan? The hunter you mentioned?” I ask tentatively. Garth gives a long suffering sigh that sounds like it’s been stewing for at least a decade.
“Not personally,” just by reputation. She’s CONSTANTLY behind on her paperwork. The council sent me to help her get caught up and teach her how to properly file, but instead she trapped me in that folder and left me here.” He explains. I wince.
“Right. That… Sounds like her, honestly.” I admit. He crosses his arms.
“Three years. Three. I’ve been living next to a summoning scroll and an expired coupon for vampire repellent. She put me in a coffee stained folder, human.” He says accusingly. I take a long, deep breath. Okay. So I’ve accidentally released a pissed off lesser demon into my wife’s workshop. This is, technically, the opposite of making her life easier. But I’m already wearing oven mitts, and I’ve gotten reasonably good at dealing with cursed paperwork. Time to lean into this. A few minutes later, Garth is sitting on the bench, legs crossed, sipping tea from my World’s Okayest Husband mug and slowly, visibly relaxing.
“You’re telling me that you’ve voluntarily taken over the filing here? That you’re trying to organize this mess?” He says between bites of a digestive biscuit from the kitchen. I nod.
“It was getting out of hand. I’ve started a spreadsheet. Colour coded. But I might be a little out of my depth with some of the… More obscure languages on these things.” I admit. Garth stares at me. He blinks once, slowly, like I’ve gone insane.
“Well, at least someone around here respects the bureaucratic arts.” He mutters. Then, he hops down, dusts off his sleeves, and points his tiny clipboard at me like a wand.
“I’ll help you. BUT only if we do this properly.” He says firmly. And just like that, we get to work.
What follows can only be described as a bureaucratic fever dream, equal parts war zone, archival purge, and magical HR disaster. Garth and I dive headfirst into Rowan’s filing catastrophe, sorting through cursed ledgers, screaming folders, and one glitter laced banshee treaty that Garth claims nearly caused a minor diplomatic incident with the Pixie Court. Whatever that means… Working with Garth is… An experience. Every time I try to file something in a way that makes even the slightest bit of sense to me, Garth has a dramatic objection locked and loaded.
“No, no, no! You can’t store exorcism expense receipts next to vampire incident reports! One’s holy, one’s unholy. They cancel each other out! It’s practically metaphysical tax fraud!” He insists. Another time, he snatches a stapler out of my hand with horror in his eyes.
“You can’t staple anything written in Celestial script! That’s a sacred document, Andrew! What are you, a heathen?” He demands. When I file banshee reports under B, he gives me the kind of look you reserve for someone who puts milk in before cereal.
“If you alphabetize banshee reports under B instead of S for ‘Screaming Entities,’ I will break your kneecaps. Or fine you. Probably both.” He says in a dark tone. Even when I try to bring some logic to the chaos, I’m apparently doing it wrong.
“You’ve created a ‘To Be Filed’ pile. That’s how my last intern vanished.” Garth says flatly, arms crossed.
“I have a degree in Business Administration, and yet here I am, arguing filing procedures with a miniature demon who spells ‘priority’ with three i’s,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. Garth is completely unfazed. At one point he lights incense ‘for ambiance’ and starts mumbling about energy flow and document morale. At that point, I’m pretty sure he’s only about three scented candles away from unionizing the cursed documents. I sip lukewarm coffee and pray the folder full of coupons doesn’t start vibrating again. When I watch him fling a quill across the room because it ‘disrespected his creative vision,’ I don’t even blink. I’m getting used to him.
“Cool. Just a casual Tuesday.” I mutter to myself. By mid afternoon, I’m calmly updating the digital spreadsheet while Garth rants about a pile of enchantment charms.
“Oh yes, let’s just slap runes on everything like we’re toddlers with a sticker book. I’m sure nothing will explode.” He complains.
“On the bright side, no one has burst into flames. Yet. I’m not counting minor scorch marks,” I add.
Eventually, we clear one glorious corner of the room. The shelving I ordered arrives, and before I can even open the instructions, Garth starts reorganising it.
“The feng shui in this room makes my head itch.” He mutters, repositioning every shelf by exactly two inches. I don’t argue. I just continue to update the spreadsheet. By the time we stop for the night, Garth is sipping his fifth cup of tea, scribbling tiny, furious annotations in the margin of his paper ledger. He glances up at me, briefly, begrudgingly.
“You’re not bad at this, Oven Mitt Overlord. Still reckless. Still mortal. But… At least you respect the paper.” He declares. Coming from him, I’m pretty sure that’s the equivalent of a standing ovation. We’ve made a lot more progress than I expected and I think I might actually be starting to appreciate his company. That or I’m losing my mind. Either way, at this rate, we really might be done by the time Rowan gets back. So I’m pretty damn pleased.