#Wolf would you believe i had this concept BEFORE talk started of the poe musical in chat

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

halloween special 2019

(Or, Halloween Special 2027, because this is set immediately after Turnabout Academy but contains no reference to it besides the fact that Juniper exists.)

A Fae AU side story. A classic meme of the autumnal season gets a cannibal joke twist, and the real horror story is the friends we made along the way. Written with the profoundest apologies to the professor from whom I took an entire semester course on Edgar Allan Poe. 

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It still feels like the crack of dawn, after the week they’ve had, but dawn is admittedly later in late October, and the sun is already risen, so it’s not early at all. It’s no one’s problem but Phoenix’s own that his brain is still zombified. Trucy woke him up, flinging her things all around the apartment to get ready to head out: Juniper has joined her trick-or-treating group that already consisted of Trucy, Vera, Jinxie, Athena, and Pearl, and Pearl still doesn’t have a costume, and now neither does Juniper, and Vera hasn’t finished making hers, and it’s T-minus two days until Halloween.

So he scrambled some eggs for his daughter and ushered her out the door after making her promise to say hi to all of the other girls for him, and then he crawled back into bed. Barely three minutes after, his phone rang. That was marginally better than his phone ringing once he had fallen back asleep, but this deprives him of the chance of going back to sleep at all, probably, and actually it’s not better. Phoenix doesn’t know why he thought that. He squints at the tiny screen on his phone to see that an impossible amount of symbols, including what looks like some Japanese characters, a pentagram, and a simplified pixel art hand making a middle finger. 

“Hello, Maya.”

“Niiick! I need you to settle a dispute!”

Phoenix groans. “Between who?”

“Hello.” Iris’ voice comes through as clear as Maya’s, clearer than humans ever are on phone calls. Magical speakerphone. Phoenix drops his face into his pillow. 

“Iris says that the only one of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories to involve cannibalism was his one weird-ass novel that he never finished. But he’s gotta have had more than that right? He strikes me as a cannibalism kinda dude.”

“I don’t know,” Phoenix mumbles into his pillow, and then, resigned to his fate, he lifts his head and repeats clearly, “I don’t know. I’m not the literature guy.” He knows Shakespeare, and what he knows about Shakespeare is that he needs to keep Maya away from it, else she might decide that Puck is a role model. “Iris would have more of an idea than me.”

“Nick! You can’t take your ex’s side over me!”

Iris giggles in the background. “This is an argument about objective facts, Maya,” Phoenix says. “I’m not ‘taking sides’ personally.”

“Okay, but, Montressor was definitely saving Fortunado down there to chill him to a good eating temperature and then have him as a snack with the Amontillado. Like that’s gotta be why he killed him that way.”

That’s one of the few Poe stories Phoenix knows. He can answer this one. “There was no Amontillado,” he says wearily. “That was the whole point of the story, Maya. He lied about having the fancy wine to get Fortunado down to the catacombs because that was the best place to kill him quietly. There wasn’t any cask of Amontillado.”

Maya gasps. “What?” She sounds so betrayed that Phoenix almost laughs and almost feels bad. “He lied? He can’t lie!”

Now Phoenix does laugh. “What, did you think he was fae because elaborately killing someone for some unmentioned slights is a fae thing to do?” She sounds more scandalized at the lie part that the murder part, which, for anyone even slightly versed in fae culture, does make sense. 

“Well—” Maya sputters. “Yeah!” She heaves an exaggeratedly loud sigh. “I guess The Cask of Amontillado really isn’t a story that implies cannibalism.”

“There was other wine in the wine cellar where he walled up Fortunado,” Iris says. “Perhaps one of those would pair with him just as well for Montressor’s meal as you imagine the Amontillado would.”

“You don’t need to patronize me,” Maya says, sounding less irritable than Phoenix expects. “But, oh, Nick, other question! Why would the narrator, obviously possessing greater strength and no morals, not simply eat the old man so as to get rid of his creepy staring eye and better muffle the treacherous tattletale heart?”

“Telltale,” Iris says. Maya groans at the correction.

“Bitch-ass snitch,” Phoenix says.

“No,” Iris says. “Definitely not. Now, to return to the heart of your question, Mystic—”

Maya and Phoenix both snicker. What follows is not a long silence, but it is a loaded one, and then Iris resumes speaking, her clipped tone betraying her annoyance with the inadvertent pun. “The heartbeat was not a real sound,” she explains, “but rather the psychological manifestation of his guilt at committing the murder.”

“Oh,” Maya says. “So it’s like when you want to get coffee you have to have a barista make it and hand you the cup because if you tried to serve yourself from a machine it always explodes back in your face. It’s not the machine that hates you, it’s you who hates you, and the machine is the expression of it!”

“That is…” Iris trails off, clicking her tongue in thought. “Actually, yes, similar, though no one but the narrator could hear the sound of the heart.”

“So he wasn’t fae either,” Maya says. “Otherwise the whole house would’ve been, ba-dum! That they all felt it! And then probably it would explode.”

“Y’know, if he had eaten the old man,” Phoenix says, because sometimes it is fun, a flex of creative muscles he doesn’t usually get to stretch, to play along with Maya when she has her inane musings, “he still would’ve heard the heart beating, right, because it was just in his head. But instead of yelling at the cops that it was under the floorboards—”

Maya knows where he’s going with it immediately; either he knows the way she thinks too well, or she knows him. “—dude woulda been yelling about hearing it in his own stomach. Man, can you imagine? You’re just some beat cop coming in to investigate and then the guy starts shrieking about killing a dude but instead of starting to tear up the floorboards to show you the body he starts trying to claw open his own stomach?”

Phoenix considers that. He decides that yeah, it would be pretty far over on the scale of fucked-up things he’s seen as a lawyer. Sort of like Matt Engarde tearing up his own face in despair and fury, but also way worse because it would involve definite cannibalism and possible disembowelment, depending on how far the narrator got in his attempts. “Yep,” he says. “That’d be fucked up.”

“You could write it,” Iris says. “Poe is public domain, is he not, and you an adult man who could get away with it under the name of ‘literary reimagining’ rather than it being called ‘fanfiction’.”

“No thanks,” Phoenix says. “I’m not gonna be the man who messes with the classics.” He’d pitch the idea to Larry if Larry made his name on literally anything other than wholesome life-affirming picture books. Actually, he still wouldn’t, because Larry is an artist as well as a writer and there’d be a chance that he’d turn it into painting rather than prose and that is a level of horror Phoenix doesn’t want to go to. Better just to stay on the level of Maya reading cannibalism into every horror story that crosses her path. 

(Would Athena call that projection? He is not going to think about that any longer.)

“Glad anyway you could help with our dispute,” Maya says. “Cuz” - she’s never settled on one nickname for Iris, but cousin or a derivation usually means she’s not angry with her - “was getting wistful when Pearly went off to talk shop with all your daughters, so she wanted to get in the holiday spirit and it spiraled. I made it spiral.”

As tends to happen around there. As Maya is wont to do. Phoenix isn’t surprised. He also decides to ignore the “daughters” remark. It’s not worth arguing that Trucy is his only daughter, and okay maybe Vera half counts, but on the other end of the spectrum, he’s known Juniper for not even a week. 

So instead he voices the matter that is bothering him. He’s afraid to speak it into the world lest she hadn’t thought about it, but he also needs to be prepared. “So, Maya,” he begins warily, “you planning on venturing out for Halloween?” 

He’s dreaded this holiday ever since that first year, when she figured out what trick-or-treat meant and decided that this was the most fae of holidays, what with one being allowed to threaten and extort strangers for goodies. It’s more blatant than the fae usually are, even. That first year, he had to keep her entertained and distracted all night, with candy and other sugary sweets and campy movies, so she couldn’t go and fulfill her suggestion of egging Edgeworth’s car as revenge for him being “a huge douchebag to us in court”. She had gotten the eggs ahead of time and stashed them in his fridge so at eleven they made a run to the corner store for other ingredients to teach her how to make omelets. 

“Nah, don’t worry, I’m staying right here. Pearly can have her fun. But you and I are totally on for our post-Halloween bargain bin on-sale candy shopping spree. You’re buying! It’s tradition.”

“Huh?” It happening three years in a row, and then not for the next seven years, does not a tradition make. “Objection!”

“Nope!” She sounds positively gleeful; he can picture exactly what her smile looks like, how wide and toothy. “Ignored! What’s it that judges say again - overruled! You are overruled! And your penalty is reading Poe for a refresher so we can talk about it more! We need to talk about the one with the cat because I can’t decide if the cat is fae! Or even if it’s one cat! I want everyone’s input!”

His phone display shows a pixel jack-o-lantern with a grin in a probable approximation of Maya’s. He drops his head back onto his pillow. “Goodbye, Maya.” 

The second Halloween, they carved pumpkins in the office; Pearl demanded they not have scary faces, Maya ate half of the seeds even before they roasted them, and Phoenix tried not to think about how last year at that time Edgeworth was around that they could consider the prospect of egging his car. When they dropped pumpkin guts on the floor, Mia flung it right back at them to get it stuck in their hair. The third year, they brought Pearl along for candy shopping, too, and she sat in the cart atop a throne of bagged sweets and pointed out clearance decorations she wanted for next year. They’re boxed up somewhere. He should find them for her and the other girls. For next year, or seven years later, it’s not that much of a difference, is it?

“And,” he adds, “I’ll see you in November.” Start anew. “Tradition, right?”

#fae au extras #roddy fanfics #fae au tag #fic: the witches of los angeles #Wolf would you believe i had this concept BEFORE talk started of the poe musical in chat