Private Finished [Solo] Baked Bads

Still hissing — softly, aimlessly — Fenn eventually worked up the will to fetch his phone and right the foxgloves he’s knocked over with it. While he swept the dirt off the floor, his mind went elsewhere.

To the Academy, specifically. He wasn’t sure if the phone lady had the power to have the nebulous Powers That Be make him go to therapy. Still, the whole thing had him ruffled. His entire being rebelled against the idea of going and letting institutions meddle with him.

His greatest instinct was to pull back from it all, to do no more than necessary, and then to go back to his peaceful isolation and druggy dabbling.

And yet.

“How peaceful are things for me, anyway? Extortion, getting skimped, being paranoid all the time…”

It sounded worse when said aloud, somehow.

“How peaceful are things for me, anyway? Extortion, getting skimped, being paranoid all the time…”

Fenn paced the space between the living room and kitchen halves of his apartment, bringing with him a frosty breeze. He was pretty sure that normal, well-adjusted folk didn’t walk in circles, brandishing a broom, muttering to themselves while still in their pajamas, but what did he know? Maybe they did. And when did he ever claim to be well-adjusted anyway?

Grinding his teeth together, his eyes drew to his closet. His chemistry set, his “refined materials”, they were always there, and in the back of his mind. “Why do even bother with it?” It was an odd question to put aloud. He knew the answers — he’d thought it through and over time and time again. He hadn’t put it into spoken word until now, though. “’S all I know, ‘s all I’m good at, ‘cause fuck the whole “getting reformed” thing?” he pondered. “I mean, it’s a shitty business, but it’s my shitty business…”

Ugh. He’d calmed down some, but his still head spun. What was he trying to keep track of, now? Snowflake, issues with clients, the sleeping-thing (he really didn’t wanna deal with that one), counseling, the seminar… he’d forgotten something. What else was he supposed to be doing right now?

Ting, went the oven timer.

Fenn set aside his broom and wandered into the kitchen. Walking, not fluttering. He didn’t even have the energy to lift himself off of the ground.

The oven door let out a wash of heat. And a chocolatey, slightly bitter smell. His antennae pricked up at it. The brownies he slid out looked… almost like a normal, tasty brownie, actually. Sure, there were some blackened edges, and on taking the first bite, he realized that the coffee sprinklings might’ve been a mistake, but hey, they were edible! Sighing, he set the tin on the floor beside him and munched away at them. Even dragging himself over to the couch felt like too much work. He didn’t even want to think about the effort it was going to take to try and sort out this therapy-counseling-classes mess. How did normal folk manage it? If Manta Carlos wasn’t the issue — was genuinely as helpful as it made itself look — then what was his issue?

He frowned, starting at the ceiling. “Am I... my own problem?”

Fenn would never have said it, had he thought anyone else could hear. Life on this wet rock did feel a little more secure than life in the Reaches. He had to admit that to himself, at this point. Customers here were slightly less likely to threaten violence, for one thing, and for another, people like Snowflake were more anomaly than commonality.

He was starting to think he needed a change of profession. Whether he’d commit to that thought was another thing, and whether he’d be up to the task was even more an uncertainty, but at least he’d acknowledged it. That was something, right?

The fae rested his head on his hands. “I been living like I’m still in the Reaches,” he admitted quietly, through a mouthful of brownie. “That all I’ll ever be? A gutter bug, selling drugs.”

Heh. Maybe he should be a poet.