She Doesn’t Flinch When His Shoulder Clips Hers — Just Rocks With It, Weight Shifting Like She’d

( jessica alexander / female / she/her) — IRENE CLERMONT has been living in Port Leiry for 6 MONTHS. They currently work as a SHOP ASSISTANT AT TUMATARAU APOTHECARY , and are 26 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH/HUNTER or if they’re connected to THE BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VINDICTIVE and SECRETIVE, but can also be RESILIENT and COMPASIONATE.

Connections / Pinterest

Name: Irene Clermont Occupation: Apothecary Assistant & Brotherhood Hunter Age & Birthday: Twenty-Six | August 15, 1999 Sexuality: Straight Species: Witch (Mirrormind, aspiring Weaver) - Currently a Hunter Hometown: Columbus, Ohio Relationship Status: Single Personality Traits: Irene is calculating, quietly intense, emotionally closed off but not cold. She’s fiercely loyal to the few she trusts, slow-burning in her grief and rage. Tactical, self-disciplined, and emotionally guarded, she is a survivor before anything else—but her anger runs deep.

TW: Torture / Death / Mental Illness / Exile

"They called her dangerous. And they were right."

Born into the Circle of the Reverie —an insular coven of prophecy, dreams, and memory— Irene was always the wrong kind of magic. A child cloaked in quiet, feared for the way her eyes lingered too long, for the way her presence stirred old feelings. They whispered about her blood. About how her mother had lied. About how no one knew who her father was.

But Irene did.

She found out as a teenager: her father wasn’t some mystery, but a hunter —skilled, tactical, and very much alive. She met him in secret under moonlight and ash, learning to fight with her hands and her heart. He didn’t ask her to shrink. He made her sharp. Loved. Seen. And when her magic began to twist—when she realized she could pull best or worst memories to the surface and make others live them again—he was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

But the Circle was. And fear makes monsters of the devout.

The truth came out. And then everything burned. Her father’s location was leaked. Another coven took him—tortured him—killed him. Her mother, complicit in the secrecy, was punished until her mind broke open. Irene found her father’s body cold. Her mother no longer knew her name.

Then came exile.

Six months ago, Irene arrived in Port Leiry, drifting quiet beneath its fog-covered skyline. She tends an apothecary now—mixing poultices for strangers and tucking herbs into brown paper while her mother stares at walls she doesn’t understand. But at night, Irene hunts. Not for coin. Not for chaos. She hunts the witches who destroyed her family—one by one. The ones who killed her father. The ones who made her mother scream. The ones who stood back and smiled at their pain.

Her magic is unstable—raw, frayed by grief and sharpened by rage. As a Mirrormind, Irene crafts illusions in the waking world—twisting what others see, what they believe, what they feel. She can cloak herself in beauty or fear, turn hallways into labyrinths, or smiles into threats. It’s misdirection at its most intimate, seduction, deception, and control laced into a glance.

But Irene is more than that. She was born different—something the Circle feared from the beginning.

She can do what most Mirrorminds cannot: not just create illusions, but resurrect emotion itself. With a touch or focused gaze, she can pull someone's strongest memory to the surface —grief, joy, terror—and force them to relive it in unbearable clarity. The scent, the sound, the pain of it. As real as the first time. She doesn’t just show you your past—she makes you drown in it. It’s a rare, unspoken branch of Mirrormind magic that even the most devout fear to name.

Now, Irene trains as a Weaver —learning to slip into the minds of her enemies in sleep. To plant nightmares that linger like bruises. To stitch fear into their rest. Weavers are artisans of the subconscious—quiet, slow-burning retribution —and Irene wants that precision. That patience. To haunt before she harms.

Her magic is unstable—frayed at the edges, easily overwhelmed by emotion. The deeper Irene feels, the harder it is to control. Grief tangles the threads. Anger burns through illusion. And when she loses control, her powers lash out in unpredictable bursts—sometimes triggering someone else’s worst memory without meaning to, sometimes trapping her in a vision that isn’t hers. That’s why she’s learning to become a Weaver: not just for the power, but for the discipline. Weaving requires patience, precision, detachment—all the things she’s had ripped away. If she can master that control, she can make her pain purposeful. Turn the chaos into something quiet. Deadly. Lasting.

Because revenge isn’t just a blade. Sometimes it’s a dream you can’t wake from.

She doesn’t fight loud. She fights smart. And she fights only those who deserve it.

Once, she was just a child. Curious. Kind. Too soft for the world she was born into.

Irene doesn’t make noise. She makes consequences.

More:

She barely sleeps. Between taking care of her mother, Brotherhood work, and pushing herself to control her magic, Irene exists in a state of constant exhaustion. Nighttime is for training. She runs drills in silence, practices weaving on scraps of cloth and empty walls, trying to thread dreams into something she can hold. She doesn’t rest until her body forces her to.

Her mother’s sleep matters more than her own. Irene’s primary motivation for becoming a Weaver isn’t power—it’s mercy. Her mother, fractured and fading, is haunted by memories the Circle forced into her. Irene believes if she can learn to weave well enough, she can soothe her mother’s dreams, give her a few hours of peace. She hasn’t succeeded yet, and every failure feels like a personal betrayal.

She avoids mirrors. Her Mirrormind magic has backfired before—turning a glance into someone else’s memory, or her reflection into a moment from her own past. When she’s overwhelmed, reflections can feel like traps.

She used to laugh all the time. When she was younger, when Riven was around, Irene was a bright, warm presence—curious, clingy, always offering the last bite of her treat. She was the kind of child who believed in promises and tried to keep them all. Sometimes, when she sees him again, that ache creeps in—of who she could’ve been if things had gone differently.

Her most precious possession is a silver-edged knife. Slender, balanced, and etched with quiet runes, it was the last thing her father ever gave her. He said it was forged from hunter’s steel and carried through generations. She wears it at her thigh like a second spine. It’s not just a weapon—it’s a vow, a memory, a tether to the person who believed in her first.

She keeps a small box of things that don’t belong to her. A child’s drawing. A coin from the Brotherhood’s first offering. A feather she once pulled from her father’s coat. None of it is magical, but she treats it like it is. These are her anchors when her magic spirals, her grief surges, or she forgets what softness feels like.

She’s cast a cloaking spell over her magic—layered, meticulous, and laced with intent so fine it hums beneath her skin. It took weeks to perfect, built from forgotten sigils and quiet hours hunched over worn parchment, every line a thread in the weave of her protection. The Brotherhood doesn't tolerate strangeness it can't control, and Irene knows too well what happens to witches who shimmer too brightly. So she dims herself carefully. No flare, no scent of power, nothing for the gifted or monstrous to catch hold of. It’s not just concealment—it’s survival. A hidden pulse beneath her heartbeat. She checks it constantly, reinforces it like a cracked wall. Even when she’s alone, she whispers its binding words. Just in case.

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

Irene’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not when she stammered. Not when she forced that smile like it might hold her together. And especially not when she said she’d be fine.

People always said that. I’m good. They almost never were.

The wind slid in off the street, lifting the edges of Irene’s coat and catching the scent of rain still clinging to the trees. She exhaled slow, watching the girl —Cami—wrap her arms around herself like armor.

That smile hurt to look at.

So Irene didn’t.

She stepped forward instead, smooth and quiet, and in one practiced motion, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and offered it—not as a question, but a fact. A choice laid out gently between them. “Take it,” she said, tone low. “I’ve got layers.”

She didn’t. Not really. But she’d walked home colder.

Irene waited until Cami’s fingers brushed the fabric before continuing. “You can keep saying you’re not usually like this, but the truth is —no one’s at their best when they’re bleeding and scared. Doesn’t mean you owe me an explanation.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the dark behind them out of habit. Something about the way Cami looked over her shoulder had lodged in her gut like a splinter.

At the mention of the woods, she just nodded once, slow. No disbelief —just quiet understanding, like she knew too well the kind of weather that didn’t stay on a forecast. The kind that lived between trees and teeth.

“I know the kind of storms that don’t show up on radar,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “And I know how people crawl out of them.”

Her gaze met Cami’s then —steady, unblinking, but not hard. Just there. Like a lighthouse. Not chasing anything. Just a place to look when everything else went dark.

“I’m not pointing you anywhere until I know you won’t fall over getting there.”

She nodded toward the edge of the sidewalk, where the streetlight ended and something like quiet lived. “I’ve got a kettle on and a couch that’s not haunted —yet. You want to warm up, no strings, no pressure, you can.”

A pause. Just long enough to leave room.

“I’m not here to save you. But I’m not leaving you out here either.”

   meeting people in such a state like this, wasn't ideally how she thought it'd be, being new to town and all. she had hoped to look less.....like a character from the 100. listening to her speaking about the gym, camila's face fell as she started thinking to herself. 'she could pick up a membership as she go there' she thought to herself, as she could feel the anxiety settling in. " uh..um~" she continued before looking down at her muddy clothes & the shoes in question. "i'll....i'll figure it out, sorry! i'm.......not usually like this~" she stated, mostly to herself as she was slowly getting lost in her head.

at the next statement of being new in town, camila froze a bit before she's looking back at the stranger. "I.....I was just passing through....or actually, i'm here to .....to meet someone." she continued while nodding to herself, as if to steady herself from not being so shaky jumpy. the community center mention did catch her attention, as she was soon turning to see just exactly where she was.

"what?" she asked suddenly when questioned if she was hurt or not. "uhh....yeah i...fell in the woods. the weather was.....crazy." she nodded as she slowly crossed her arms, as if to warm herself. the dampness of her clothes mixed with the mud, was a little bit uncomfortable. when the stranger introduced herself, camila couldn't tell if they were nice or not. reading people was always.....her specialty; not camila's.

"i'm....cami. and I don't wanna trouble you, so a point in the right direction and i'll be good!" she continued firmly, while forcing another smile on her face.

Irene

Most admirable quality: She's got a lot of compassion. I think she tries to hide that sometimes, but I try to pay attention when people are reaching out a helping hand to others, and she does it a lot. She's a good person. Most attractive physical feature: Eyes are the window to the soul, right? Hers are really pretty. Most annoying habit: She like to keep things vague and short sometimes when she speaks, and I kind of thrive on details and explanations. Something they would like to do with them: I should really pay her back for bringing me that lunch, so maybe grabbing something to eat together?

//@ireneclermont

Irene glanced at the notebook, eyes tracking the neat scratch of pen to page, then shrugged lightly. “Call it thirty-six even. I’ll mark the rest for morning and bag it when it’s all here.”

She didn’t say thanks for the compliment — didn’t even really react, not right away. But her gaze drifted toward the shelf where the skullcap was stocked, and the corner of her mouth tugged in something that almost passed for a smile.

“It’s better now than it used to be,” she said, quiet. “Place was running on fumes when I got here. Half the labels didn’t match the jars. Found a bottle labeled blessing oil that was just sunflower and perfume.” Her brow lifted slightly like she still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a joke. “Stephens doesn’t do much upkeep. She remembers things. Doesn’t always write them down.”

She watched the little creature — Sage — nose the edge of the basket, but didn’t reach to stop it. Just kept her arms loosely folded, fingers tucked into opposite sleeves. “Long as she doesn’t eat the poke root, we’re good.”

When Juniper mentioned the walk, Irene’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a pause. A flicker of something not quite hesitation.

“I wrap up in fifteen,” she said. “If you’re still around, I can walk a block or two your way.”

It wasn’t a favor. Just a practical offer. That’s how she framed it — like she was doing it for the sake of safety, not company. Still, there was something gentler in her voice than before, like the fatigue had settled into something quieter, less edged.

“You can leave your basket here if you want,” she added, tipping her head toward it. “I’ll keep it behind the counter for pickup.”

Then, finally, she nodded once, as if deciding it mattered enough to register: “I’m Irene. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me too.”

Juniper smiles easy as the other agrees to look over her list. Walking deeper into the store and looking through the shelves as she passes. This place is comfortable for her. Even if it was her first time in the shop there was comfort to be had around dried herbs and potent mixtures. Even Sage seemed to be relaxed among the scent and atmosphere.

“Ha- no, no um… banishing's. It’s not all for one thing really. Just trying to fill the coffers y’know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She tucked hair behind her ear awkwardly. It would be quite a while before she was ready to start growing her own ingredients. “Oh, that’s fine. I figured that verbena would be a long shot anyways.” 

As the basket was placed on the counter, she took a peek inside and smiled. The quality was nice. There was nothing worse than getting herbs with the beginnings of dry rot. These were pristine, however. Well worth whatever the price may be. “This is wonderful, thank you. Would it be possible for me to pick it all up tomorrow? Say late morning? Got pretty much everything else done today so I shouldn’t be held back on account of other errands. What will I end up owing you?” 

She takes out a small notebook to jot down the numbers, so she remembers them. Sage crawled down her shoulder and arm to stand on the counter. Peeking into the basket as Juniper reminded her to not touch anything she wasn’t supposed to. “Juniper by the way. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. New in town and let me tell you I was excited to hear this city has a proper apothecary. This place is very well stocked and taken care of.” She had no idea if this person cared about that sort of thing. But she felt the need to compliment the space anyways. 

The question came out of nowhere from the less than enthusiastic clerk. A soft question that made her smile. People here were surprisingly nice, even when they came off as cold. “I should probably be alright. It’s not that long a walk, streets are well lit. If you are heading the same way I wouldn’t turn down the company for a block or two though.” She offered back. While she felt like she could handle herself, and this woman probably could as well. There was nothing wrong with a little extra security.    

She almost smiles at that — almost. It doesn’t quite make it past her mouth, gets caught in the corner like it’s not sure it belongs there. The bag still digs into her palm, but she doesn’t shift, doesn’t ease the pressure. Let it bite.

"You talk too much," she says, quiet and without heat. Like she’s telling him something he should already know.

Her gaze flicks away just once — toward the ocean — not because she’s afraid to look at him, but because the sea says more with silence than he does with all those cheap words. She listens for a beat. The crash and pull. A rhythm she’s known longer than she’s known her own name. It doesn't scare her. Not really.

“The water doesn’t ask for your permission,” she says after a moment, still watching the waves. “It just takes. That’s the difference.”

She finally shifts the bag to her other side, fingers tingling from the weight. She doesn’t mind the pins and needles. They make sense. Pain usually does.

Her eyes cut back to him then, flat and sharp like a blade that’s been sitting too long in salt air. “And I’m not looking to be liked. Least of all by a storm.”

A pause, long enough to be intentional.

“But if it wants to take me, it’s gonna have to earn it.”

         the wind starts lashing out at him, sharp and cutting. it whistles, even more piercing, it might just make his ears bleed. a punishment for sticking this out, pain to make a smarter man turn back, to make the animal fear the lash. césar doesn’t give a fuck. he likes it, the way it curls around him, seethes, the way it’s fury wrapped into something natural. he likes the taste of it on his tongue, the smell. he likes it. he’s sick, and he’s twisted, and he’s cursed. but in the middle of danger, with adrenaline begging its way back into his system, at least he feels alive.

         “ storm doesn’t like me. ”  césar ignores his choice of her words. of course she’s here, he’s here. everyone’s fucking crazy. whoop de doo. she knows it, he knows it. so what the hell are they still doing here? he keeps talking to fill the time. his boredom, at the center stage of concern. primarily.  “ the sea never does, ‘s not a … reciprocal thing. ”  damn, chiquita’s got him breaking out the 50 cent words, or whatever. the water’s where he’s been for two years, that same water has held him times when there weren’t hands to do so, and, besides, that when there was a brother who did. who always did. but césar’s got nothing to do with that.  “ silly lil’ sea bitches always end up dead, anyways. ‘s prolly no good, to be liked by the storm. ”  before, it had been just aimless, bored musing. now, he looks at her, judgy eyes and all.  “ you don’t seem to be the biggest fan of it though, the water? ”

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She just stood there, half turned, coat stretched between them like a line drawn in wet chalk — fading, but still there. Allie’s words landed softly, but they lingered, like pollen in her lungs. You’re a pretty thing. She huffed out something like a laugh, but it was quiet, more breath than sound. The kind of sound that wanted to be disbelief but came out something gentler.

There was no way Allie knew what she was saying. Not really. Not when she looked at Irene like that — like there was no blood on her hands, no sharp edges tucked behind her ribs. Like this world could still be something soft, and Irene someone who could hold it without breaking it.

The rain kept on falling, slower now, steadier — but the sky hadn’t eased. Thunder growled in the distance, low and mean, a reminder that the storm hadn’t finished making its point. Irene glanced up, jaw tight, then down again at the soaked hem of Allie’s dress, the way she shivered under the weight of the cold even while smiling like she belonged to it.

“You’re gonna get yourself struck by lightning if you keep dancing around like that,” Irene muttered, and there was no bite in it — just that soft, tired kind of affection she didn’t hand out freely. “Not a poetic way to go, Allie. Moment’s over. Come on.”

She pulled the coat tighter around her — around them — and her hand lingered at Allie’s back a second longer than necessary. A quiet thing. A steady thing. Something close to safety.

Irene looked at her then, really looked, like maybe she was trying to memorize the shape of someone who still believed the world didn’t bite. And maybe that was why she didn’t say the hundred things clawing at the back of her throat — all the reasons they shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be close, shouldn’t pretend like pretty things could live long when they weren’t careful.

         allie shakes her head, it’s the easiest thing in the world. of course irene isn’t dangerous, matching with her is even less so. it’s natural, it’s perfect, it’s lovely. it’s the perfect day for it, even if the storm turns angrier, wilder, less forgiving for girls who are afraid of them. or at least, girls that are supposed to be afraid of them. allie’s not scared, now. she has irene. and this time, she doesn’t stiffen, or pull back, or watch her with a cautious, careful eye that makes allie feel like there’s a wall between them, even when she’s right next to her. now, allie tries, and irene’s letting her in. even if it’s almost, a whisper of a touch, a slight feeling- a catch of softness, like allie’s closing her eyes and running a finger along her surface. it’s something, and allie holds onto it. the fondness stays in her eyes, watching irene’s reaction to the flower. she’s not mad, she’s not angry, she’s not going to shove allie in the water and leave her behind. allie hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t hurt her.

         it’s why she listens, it’s why she only pouts, doesn’t protest or argue when irene draws them away. her eyes only plead for the whimsy to return for only a moment, before she’s swept under irene’s coat. it had only been the slightest offer of closeness, and she takes it eagerly. it’s only then that she’d considered she had, maybe, been shivering from the cold, and had yet to notice. 

         because there, closer to her friend, it’s warm. she realizes then, the state of her, sopping wet and shoeless. there’s no regret, but she does feel bad for irene’s coat. allie goes, finding it easy to clear a way through the storm, so long as she wasn’t alone, so long as it wasn’t her idea. irene wants her to be safe, so she will. she wants her out of the danger. and, despite their completely separate definitions of danger, allie wants that too, because she does.  “ are you kidding? of course it is! i’m bare-footed, and you’re a pretty thing. ”  she giggles, her finger going to touch the yellow bloom tucked behind her ear, making sure it doesn’t fall.  “ we’re here, we’re meant to be here. if we weren’t meant to, we wouldn’t be. ”  maybe she can get her dance with her, after all.

WHO: @poiscns WHERE: the aviary gun store & range

The Aviary smelled like oil and sawdust and the faint tang of ozone that never seemed to leave her skin. Irene stepped inside with her hood still up, letting the warmth from the threshold brush past her before tugging the door closed behind her. It wasn’t late, but the light was already fading outside—stormclouds banking thick above the ridge, low and restless like they knew something she didn’t.

She didn’t come here often. Not unless she had to.

Her steps were quiet, measured. She didn’t pause to browse, didn’t linger over the racks. The front of the shop was familiar enough, clean glass, careful displays, everything in its place. It was the kind of tidy that tried a little too hard to look casual. The kind that made her teeth itch. She knew where to go. Back, past the display cases and the locked cabinet of antique pieces nobody ever touched but he always insisted on keeping stocked. Through the low-lit hallway that smelled faintly of bleach and dried blood.

She found him behind the counter, of course. Where else.

“Nicolás.”

His name came low and even, no smile attached, no warmth meant. Just a simple acknowledgment. She didn’t take her hands from her coat pockets, didn’t move closer than necessary.

“Need restock on the salt rounds. And the brass you special ordered—three weeks back? I was told it came in.”

A beat passed. Her gaze didn’t waver, but her shoulders shifted slightly, like she was bracing for something.

“That’s it. I won’t keep you.”

She didn’t ask how he was. Didn’t ask about the last hunt or who he’d pissed off this week. Irene didn’t do small talk with firestarters.

Not unless she had to.

Irene doesn’t look up right away. Just busies herself behind the counter — adjusting the jar of salt that doesn’t need adjusting, flicking the lamp switch one more time as if that’ll stop the buzzing (it won’t). But mostly, she gives herself a beat. A breath. Just long enough to make sure the lie stays smooth on her tongue, as effortless and worn-in as it’s always been. “I’m not a witch,” she says again, steady, like she’s said it a thousand times — because she has. To strangers. To threats. To people who cared too much or not at all. It never mattered which. It always had to sound the same. “I just work here.” She shrugs, easy and practiced. Like it’s all just coincidence. Like she’s just a woman with a few too many books and a mild intolerance for nonsense.

“Most of it’s just retail.” Her voice is lighter now, teasing around the edges — not mocking, not with Allie — but carefully disarming. “Witches don’t exactly come with HR departments, but someone’s still got to track the moon cycles on the wall calendar.”

The spell wrapped around her hums, faint but firm — the kind that runs deep in the bones, silent and airtight. Designed to slip under notice, to keep the sharp edges of her magic hidden beneath skin and smile and plausible deniability. No slip. No shimmer. Nothing for Allie to feel but what Irene allows.

And that’s safer. For both of them.

Still, the way Allie’s looking at her — bright and soft and full of unguarded belief — makes something uncomfortable shift beneath her ribs. Not guilt, not exactly. Just the ache of being seen too closely, even through a lie.

Her eyes flick to the notebook again when Allie speaks, and for a second, something gentler passes over Irene’s face. Just a flicker. Almost fond. Almost sad.

“You’re better at more than just wishing,” she says quietly, almost like she’s saying it to herself. Then, a little clearer: “Don’t sell yourself short.”

It’s not the kind of thing Irene says often. She doesn’t do comfort well — not the sweet kind, anyway. But for Allie, she tries. Maybe because Allie’s the only person she’s ever met who could make magic out of other people’s words and believe it was enough.

A breath passes, and Irene clears her throat, nudging a candle wick back into place with the edge of a matchstick.

“Still. Keep an eye on what you write in that thing,” she adds, back to dry again. But not cold. “The walls here like to listen. And your kind of magic… the hopeful kind? That’s the sort that sticks.”

She glances up, finally meeting Allie’s gaze, steady and unreadable.

“And trust me — not everything you wish for is something you want coming true.”

        as soon as she lets go, she finds she regrets it. not holding on just a touch longer, not squeezing her harder, not softening like she knows how important it is that irene doesn’t push her away. it’s cherished, and gone entirely too soon. now, she’s holding the little notebook. it fits a little easier, but that doesn’t matter so much to allie. she glides a thumb across the pages, the edges of them. it’s an absent-minded movement, a brush or the gentle pad of her finger, but even that centers her, grounds her memories to something solid. 

        it’s not long, though, as she’s looking to irene with a hopeful kind of curiosity, that allie’s grip loosens on truth, on predictability, and falls dizzy.  “ what? ”  her brown pinches, she whirls to follow irene to where she goes behind the counter. she doesn’t breach that barrier, too afraid of earning irene pushing her away, this time, but she does follow her there, big blue eyes wild with confusion.   “ what do you mean you’re not a witch? this is- this is the witch store. why are you working at the witch store if you’re not a witch? ”  she can’t help but let it feel like another wall, allie’s standing on her tiptoes to try and see over it, reach for it. of course, it makes her impossibly curious, in addition to the total lack of sense it makes. hadn’t she felt irene, like witches feel each other? had she made that all up? she must’ve, because irene says she’s not and even if it doesn’t make any sense at all, she believes her, if only because irene said to.

        her eyes stay soft and round as she listens, a peek of the sun shining through as irene nods towards the journal, her gaze flickers down to look at it, before it goes right back to irene. like she’s looking for … something, but she doesn’t know what it is.  “ oh it’s not really … anything important. i mean it’s all important to me, but it’s, like … just little stuff. anything i hear that i want to remember. like, stuff kiri says, or … um, ”  there’s more names waiting on her tongue, but she leaves them to rest in her heart, instead. irene probably doesn’t care, she doesn’t want to make her listen.  “ but i hope it comes true, whatever it is. wishing’s probably the only thing i am good at. ”