140- If you were a chicken, you'd be ‘im-peck-able’
ALI
After dinner, we start tidying up in the gentle kind of silence that settles over people who’ve been through something together, something absurd, mildly traumatic, and now strangely bonding. Julian rinses the dishes while I dry them, both of us moving around the kitchen slowly, like we’re afraid to disturb the mythical creature currently snoring in front of the fireplace. The griffin lies sprawled across my hearth like a drama queen in recovery, one wing bandaged and stretched out for maximum sympathy. It hasn’t stopped making theatrical noises, a pitiful chirp every time someone moves too fast or forgets to treat it like the center of the universe. All of a sudden, it sits up, shakes out its scruffy feathers, and starts trotting with alarming speed down the hallway. Julian glances up from the sink.
“Should I follow it?” He asks.
“Yes. Before it tries to eat my aloe vera again.” I say, already moving. We follow it down the hallway, where it sniffs around aimlessly… Then locks eyes with Julian. Staring him down. Julian squints.
“Why is it looking at me like that?” He asks suspiciously.
“I don’t know.” I answer cautiously.
“Maybe it-” I start. But I stop when, without breaking eye contact, the griffin struts over to Julian’s boots by the door, lifts one hind leg, and very deliberately pees on the left boot. There is a long moment of silence. I am frozen in horror and awe. Julian just stares down at it. Slowly. Calmly. The griffin finishes, fluffs its good wing, and struts back down the hall like it just declared war and won. Julian stares at his boot in stunned silence. I’m already biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, but then the griffin, as if it hasn’t already caused enough trouble, turns and struts back toward the fireplace, and stops directly in front of Julian’s coat, which is draped neatly over the arm of the couch. We both watch, frozen, as it gives the coat a good long sniff… And then using its claws, yanks it down and drags it away, dropping it in front of the fireplace where it promptly flops down on top of it. All wings and limbs and smug satisfaction. A few seconds later, it starts kneading the fabric with its front paws like a contented cat, talons gently scritching against the seams. Clearly damaging the fabric. Julian blinks.
“Is… Is it making biscuits on my jacket?” He whispers.
“Uh… Yeah. I think it is…” I trail off. Sure enough, the griffin wriggles in place, rotates three times in that precise, circular way of animals about to settle in, and then flops down with a deep, satisfied sigh right on the chest of the coat. One tiny back leg is still dangling over the sleeve. Julian looks down at it, expression somewhere between betrayed and resigned.
“That was my good coat.” He says, a little put out. The griffin closes its eyes, resting its head on its front legs.
“Do you want me to try and move it?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Julian exhales slowly.
“No. It’s too late. He’s claimed it and probably ruined it. That’s griffin property now.” He sighs, but he doesn’t really look all that upset. The griffin shifts slightly and tucks its beak under one wing like it’s sealing the deal.
“I was hoping he liked me, I didn’t expect him to steal my outerwear.” Julian adds flatly.
“He’s a bold one, at least he didn’t try to pee on you.” I say jokingly, stepping over to squeeze his hand. Julian shoots a look at his boot, then the coat.
“It’s not off the table.” He answers with a slight smile. The griffin lets out a soft, snoozing chirp, the sound of absolute conquest.
The griffin is very interesting to watch, in a house full of my belongings, all my soft blankets, my nest of pillows on the daybed, the literal enchanted pet bed tucked beside the fireplace for occasions just like this, the griffin has zero interest in any of them. No. It has singled out Julian’s things like a tiny, mythological raccoon with a grudge against personal space and an eye for emotionally significant objects. First it claimed his boot, in the most undignified way possible. Then it stole his coat. Now it’s curled up beside his half drunk mug of tea like it’s guarding a treasure. Every time Julian tries to reclaim something, the griffin chirps and flares its one goof wing like a shield. A soft, fluffy shield of passive aggressive ownership. The whole thing is stupidly cute, even if it is badly behaved.. Julian sighs as he watches it, but I see the way his lips twitch at the corners. He wants to pretend he’s annoyed, but he’s not. Not really. He’s completely endeared, and he doesn’t even realise how obvious that is. He thinks the griffin doesn’t like him. But I’m starting to suspect the exact opposite. All the griffin’s possessive actions. They’re not rejection. They’re it’s way of bonding. The griffin is marking its territory, and that territory is apparently… Julian. And if that griffin has claimed him, well. I suppose it’s got good taste. But it had better be willing to share because I found him first damn it.
Julian stays all night. Not out of obligation. Not because I asked. He just… Stays. He moves around my little living room like it’s familiar to him already, gathering pillows and folding blankets like a man on a mission. I watch from the couch, half buried under my own blanket, a warm mug in hand and my heart stuck somewhere around my throat. The griffin is asleep again, or pretending to be, nestled in front of the fire on Julian’s coat. Its tiny talons twitch every now and then, like it’s dreaming of hunting particularly slow mice. Julian sits back on his heels, surveying the scene with a thoughtful look, and then turns to me.
“I’ll take first watch.” He announces. I blink.
“First… What?” I repeat.
“Watch. You know. Like night watch.” He gestures vaguely toward the griffin.
“The griffin is hurt. We should check its wing every few hours. Make sure it doesn’t stiffen up or get infected. I’ll go first, then wake you later.” He suggests. I stare at him. Staying up with an injured animal overnight is something I’ve done dozens of times, always by myself. It’s exhausting and by far the most difficult part about looking after an injured animal. And here he just said let’s take shifts watching it through the night like it’s a sick child. I didn’t even have to ask. Sir. This isn’t our child. Don’t tempt me like this. But Julian is already fluffing a pillow with the kind of quiet seriousness that suggests he’s done this before. (He hasn’t. I’m sure he hasn’t. There’s no way this is a regular Tuesday for him.) Still, he settles cross legged on the floor next to the creature like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He opens one of the books he found on my shelf, an old, clothbound volume on creature care, and starts flipping through it by firelight. The griffin lets out a theatrical sigh and flops a wing across Julian’s knee. He doesn’t even flinch. Just carefully adjusts the wing, tucks it in a little more gently.
“There you go. Brave little guy.” He murmurs. I nearly choke on my tea. He just called it brave. It sneezed directly into his face a few minutes ago and he doesn’t even seem to mind. This is not sustainable. I am going to humiliate myself by just completely swooning or something. Julian shifts again, mindful of the creature at his side, and glances up at me with that gentle, unassuming smile of his.
“You should get some rest, I’ve got this.” He assures me. I want to say thank you. I want to say that he doesn’t have to do this. I want to say I’m completely, utterly ruined by this. Instead, I nod like a normal person, sink deeper into the couch, and pull the blanket up to my chin. My house smells like poultices and roasted vegetables, there’s a baby mythical creature drooling into my rug and somehow, this has been the best night of my life. I turn off the last lamp and let the firelight fill the room. Julian leans over and stirs the coals to keep it going, careful not to wake the griffin now sprawled across his lap like a weighted blanket with opinions. This man just volunteered for magical creature night duty. All evening no matter what happened, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. He just… Made room for it in his evening. I curl up, pretending to sleep. But I can’t tear my eyes away from the two of them. All I can think about is how much I want to kiss him, how much I want to keep him, and how terrifying it is to have found something this good, and have no idea what to do with it.