Page 13 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
The young warlock had put his foot down and Lord Mabon had conceded. Barely. The apartment was enough. For now.
He moved to the kitchen and started breakfast. Cooking had become his routine, something to do with his hands while Locke slept. French toast today. The bread was already soaked, the bacon waiting. His familiars bobbed around him.
“Boss is trying SO HARD,” Pip whispered, doing a loop around the stove.
“It’s culinary artistry,” Russet corrected from the counter. “Not trying. Succeeding.”
“He’s trying to impress the cute warlock,” Bramble said flatly from the windowsill. “We all see it.”
Lord Mabon ignored them.
Although come to think of it the Lord had been the primary cook for this past week. Seven nights of waking up tangled around Locke. Seven days of learning the ins and outs of the little blond warlock, like the way he hummed while restocking shelves, how he took his coffee with too much sugar and too light on the roasting, the fact that he was completely oblivious to his own magic even though it leaked out of him constantly. Candles burned brighter when he walked past. The herbs in the kitchen grew faster. The protective wards his grandma had built practically sang.
And let’s not forget that for these past seven days Locke had been trying to yank the jack-o’-lantern off Lord Mabon’s head.
It began around day two when Lord Mabon was sitting at the kitchen table when Locke just... grabbed the carved pumpkin with both hands and pulled.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to see your face!” Locke grunted, pulling harder. “This thing has to come off!”
“It doesn’t.”
“Everything comes off!”
“Not this. It’s my face.”
Locke stepped back, panting slightly. “Your face is a pumpkin.”
“Currently.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m choosing to manifest this way.”
“Can you unchoose?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it!”
“No.”
They’d stared at each other. Locke looked like he wanted to argue further, but something in Lord Mabon’s tone must have stopped him. The carved pumpkin stayed.
But Locke kept looking at him. Studying him. Like he was trying to see through the carved surface to whatever was underneath.
Lord Mabon told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself he didn’t notice the way Locke’s gaze lingered on him sometimes, curious and interested in a way that made his carved mouth tighten involuntarily.
He finished the French toast, arranged it on two plates with the precision of someone who absolutely was not trying to impress anyone, and turned as he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Locke appeared in the doorway, hair sticking up on one side, wearing an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. His hazel eyes were still half-closed, one hand rubbing at his face as he yawned.
Adorable. Objectively. Factually.
“Morning, Lord Mabon,” Locke mumbled, shuffling toward the coffee pot.
The name. The full formal name. It grated.
