The Lowing

Steve was tired.

Exhausted.

Just so fucking done with all this, truly.

This island could sink.

“Steve,” Sam told him solemnly with a hand squeezing at his shoulder. “You did a good thing. It is okay to be happy when we do good things.”

Good things. Fuck good things.

“Okay, you know what you need? Coffee. Let’s get you some coffee,” Sam said with confidence.

Steve was glad that he was happy and satisfied. Someone had to balance out Buck’s dramatic flopping and moaning, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be him.

It always sucked to call the police on someone.

It sucked even more when they weren’t committing any crimes.

Well. Not many crimes, anyways. As soon as Peter and Johnny had begged off to be allowed to roam free (another thing Steve thought Bucky deserved immediate and public shaming for, but also another thing that could wait until the caffeine kicked in), things had gone from still to very much not-still.

Screaming. Crying. Screeching. Shattered glass. The whole nine yards.

The girl’s name was Sorcha and she was.

Hm.

How to say?

A fuckin’ fighter.

That’s right.

Someone needed about 30 years of therapy, and this time, it was not Steve. Or Buck.

It was Sorcha. In case that wasn’t clear.

Sorcha’s father was very surprised, but grateful in the end that three out-of-towners with wild accents just happened to be passing by his cottage in the middle of the night. Steve didn’t blame him. God knew what Sorcha would have done to him if one medical professional, one hound, and one guy built to be a human tank hadn’t rushed in and manhandled his daughter off of him.

Steve was tired of carrying screaming women on his shoulders. He’d signed up to be throwing nazis over these shoulders. The damsel in distress thing wasn’t even half as glamorous.  

Sam returned from god knew where at 5am with a cup of coffee that billowed steam up into the air. Steve took it numbly with thanks.

Holding the paper cup made him hyperaware of just how muddy his fingers were.

Sam set Buck’s coffee on top of his head and told him to stay still and stop whining or to suffer the consequences of fate and gravity.

Buck’s moaning toned down about half. But only half. He had superb balance.

Around 5:30am and halfway through another cup of coffee, Steve looked up into the cliffs hanging over the village and caught a burst of orange light.

He paused with the cup halfway to his lips.

“Did you see that?” he asked the others without looking away.

Buck perked up.

“There’s Johnny,” he hummed.

Sam met Steve’s eye out of the corner of his own.

“Did that look like a happy flame to you? Or a distress signal?” he asked.

Steve felt his shoulders slump as his eyes trailed up that cliff face. It was steep. Tall. His shoes would never be the same after this trip.

“Oh,” Buck said suddenly. “Well, I’ll be.”

Steve shared another side-eye with Sam.

“Did you wanna share with the class, wolf-man?” Sam asked.

Buck turned back to them with a lopsided smirk.

“The cliffs are singin’,” he said. “’Honor to Maidiú. Welcome home, Maidiú.’”

Wait.

What?

“He did it?” Steve asked. “Just like that??”

“Without the cane?” Sam interjected.

Buck turned happy canines back towards the cliff.

“I reckon he did,” he said.

Well, fuck.

Alright then. Hell, maybe the abominable DD was more capable than Steve had thought.

Steve thought he was wiped.

“Matt! Matt! Matt!”

Murdock pulled his arm weakly out of Peter’s grip.

“Matt! Matt! Matt. Come on,” Peter insisted, obviously putting great effort into not ripping his buddy’s arm clean out of its socket.

“We gotta go,” the kid whined. “It’s just sittin’ there waiting for you!!”

Murdock decided that it was floor time. Jack grabbed the back of his frankly disgusting, soaked shirt and pulled him away from it and back up onto the bench-seat at the Nelson’s family table.

Peter flopped down across from him in a mix of frustration and restlessness and adopted the guy’s posture, with the exception of the furiously bouncing knee and unyielding gaze.

“Pete,” Wade Wilson—who had somehow joined the group during the night—said with surprising calm from the other end of the table. “It is quiet time.”

“It’s been quiet time for hours,” Peter moaned, lurching dramatically backwards. He forgot there was no chairback to catch him and went pinwheeling before he caught himself.

Steve needed a third cup of joe just looking at him.

“I know, munchkin, and it’s gonna stay quiet time until 9am,” Wade said.

Sam seemed to be in shock at the guy’s tone. It was not often that Wade Wilson was reasonable.

“It’s 7,” Peter said. “That’s hours from now.”

“Where’s that damn fire?” Wade asked. “Why don’t you go nap with your fire?”

“I don’t want to nap. Matt’s coat is right there!” Peter leapt to his feet and pointed out the window towards the cliff furiously.

Steve watched Jack settle in on the bench next to his son. He rubbed a huge hand in wide circles across Murdock’s back. Murdock seemed to sink even farther into the table.

Aw.

Poor guy.

He must have been through hell. His jeans certainly had.

“Alright, come on. You’ve left me no choice,” Wade said. He stood up. Peter jumped back.

“No,” he said.

“Come here, babycakes,” Wade said, advancing.

Peter danced out of his reach.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m not tired.”

Wade said nothing. He took a step forward. Peter took a step back.

Wade hummed and Peter squinted hard at him.

Wade waited precisely three seconds, then lunged.

Steve wasn’t sure where May Parker stood on grown men suffocating her nephew with their bulk, but for once, he thought he could probably get behind it.

If Peter didn’t want to be crushed anymore, he could just chuck Wade off him. He was not doing that. Instead, he was making a lot of frustrated and irritable sounds while Wade manhandled him up into his arms and then carried him into the living room to dump on Johnny, who was, bless him, knocked out cold on the edge of the couch.

Steve heard a firm ‘stay’ and a soft ‘fuck you’ followed by a horrendous gasp from that room that led him to believe that those two were probably alright.

“Rough times?” Buck asked Jack, who continued to rub tension out of his kid’s back.

“Not as bad as it could have been,” Jack said amiably. “I guess Matty met Fionn.”

Buck jerked his face up in shock.

“He met Fionn?” he repeated. “Fionn MacCumhail? That Fionn?”

Jack lifted a shoulder.

Buck lifted a palm to cup his chin and blinked dazedly out the window Peter had been viciously pointing at pre-enforced nap.

Sam waited a beat before asking Steve who Fionn was.

Murdock’s nap lasted until about 8:45am, which was good, because keeping Peter from waking him up in his excitement until then was a task that required all hands on deck.

Steve could not believe how warm this kid was.

Or how tiny, honestly.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked after a minute of a seated fireman’s carry with the little gremlin.

Peter stopped struggling to look at him quizzically.

“Johnny and I met the Owl Witch last night,” he informed Steve instead of answering the question.

He was going to grow up to be like Wade Wilson. 100%. It was totally and completely inevitable.

“Did you, now?” Steve said. “Was this before or after you gave us a heart attack?”

Peter pawed at his shoulder.

How was he not tired?

How the fuck was he not tired?

“After,” Peter decided. “She taught me and Johnny fire magic. And then Matt showed up and he and Wade made a shrine for the Owl Witch’s old fire. And then we went spelunking and I got lost in a cave, and then me and Wade and Johnny got lost in the cave together, and then Mr. Murdock found us and un-losted us—”

“Un-losted isn’t a word,” Steve pointed out.

Peter shut up. Stared. And doubled down.

“—and un-losted us. And then I met the Great Seanchaidhe and all his memories are in his hair and I pulled him out of a mini-cave he got stuck in and then Matt revealed that we were part of his last task the whole time because he secretly loves us and the Great Seanchaidhe gave him his coat back! And now it’s just sitting out there, waiting for him under the fairy thorn, but y’all are boring and slow and someone’s gonna steal it before we get there at this rate and—”

“Gimme,” Wade Wilson said, emerging from the kitchen behind Steve and holding his hands out.

Peter shut up again and sneered at him.

“Not you,” he accused. “We’re not friends anymore.”

Wade slapped a hand over his heart.

“How dare you,” he gasped. “I—”

A crash and thud at the front door sent everyone jumping.

Murdock abruptly lifted his head from the table with wide, unfocused eyes. Then after a moment, dropped it right back down and groaned.

“S’Karen,” he mumbled into the wood. “Nap time’s over.”

Karen Page, Steve’s possible third soulmate, once allowed access into the house bypassed Murdock completely to go tearing up the stairs.

The commotion that echoed down was one of a very unhappy Nelson.

Karen frogmarched him down the stairs with a comb still stuck in his hair.

“Okay, we’re ready!” she announced. “Shoes everyone!!”

Nelson slowly turned her way with murder in his eyes.

“We are going nowhere,” he growled. “Matt goes to get his coat with the Sister. Only. I told you this. Four times, I told you this. Do ya not listen to me, Karen?”

Karen considered him.

“No,” she declared.

“I’m goin’ to skin you,” Nelson announced.

Murdock sighed hard into the table.

“S’alright, Fogs. Y’all can come,” he said. “I’m gettin’ up.”

Nelson was scandalized.

“Personal,” he hissed.

“Whatever,” Murdock said, batting his dad’s hands away from him in an attempt to wake himself up. “Might as well get it over with.” He yawned into a hand with all kinds of grit and green in and under his fingernails.

Nelson remained offended at this ritual violation. He glanced around the room at all of its occupants and puffed up as big as he could.

“Well, at least take a shower then,” he huffed. “Your coat’ll be filthy otherwise. Come on. Up, up, up. Peter, come here, ya menace. I have a use for all that energy.”

Steve thought that the demand to bathe had been for Murdock. He hadn’t realized that it was the start of a scrub that he didn’t think he would soon forget.

Nelson’s mothering seemed to summon his own mother who was shocked and disgraced at the state that everyone was in.

Steve hadn’t felt this clean before he’d stepped into that damn needlebox.

For ritual purposes, apparently, they had to bathe in rainwater. Mrs. Nelson allowed them to wash for exactly 2 minutes in hot water before they were dragged outside to a bunch of barrels and instructed to strip down and have a dunk.

The only people spared this treatment were Jack and Johnny. Johnny took the tactic of setting his whole body ablaze and then appearing as neat and orderly and clean as he had ever been. He nuzzled into Jack’s side and napped more standing up. Jack didn’t seem to mind.

Red was not spared the scrubbing.

Red, Steve thought, got the worst of it, actually. Which was cruel. The guy had already been to hell and back, and now he was getting doused with bucket after bucket of freezing cold water?

Just cruel.

“Matty, you need to eat more,” Mrs. Nelson lectured him, rubbing his skin raw with a brush. Murdock wisely chose to focus on his chattering teeth rather than answer. “So skinny. You’ll freeze in the waters at this rate—Franklin, tell your mate that he’ll freeze. Are you feeding him?”

Nelson reminded his mother that he wasn’t Red’s keeper.

She chose to ignore that.

“More blubber, you,” she threatened, shaking her brush at Murdock. “I expect a stone on you before Christmas, you hear?”

Red lifted his head her way in pure misery.

While Mrs. Nelson subdued Peter with fae ritual cleansing, Sam took the opportunity to tell the Daredevil crew about their new best friend in the neighboring village.

“The hound is there, but this gal—‘combatant’ would be a kind way of describing her,” Sam explained. “The police came to check on her but they can only hold her for a limited time before she goes back home.”

“Well, fuck,” Karen said brightly.

Nelson cocked his head.

“Did you get her name?” he asked.

“Sorcha?” Sam said. “Sorcha somethin’—listen. I am telling you all this purely because I feel like you deserve to know. But—”

“She’s in love with the sea?” Nelson repeated. “Did she use those words?”

“She did,” Steve confirmed.

He knew because she’d told him that he wasn’t half as pretty as the great blue depths, try as he might to fool her.

And then she’d bitten him. So, you know. Memorable.

Nelson winced. Karen swallowed a laugh very politely.

“I’ll handle it,” Nelson said.

Mmmm. How about not?

“Nelson,” Sam said firmly. “Listen, man. I respect you. You are our lawyer and at this point probably even a friend. But I’m not helping you help this girl die. I was just telling you because—”

“I’m not going to kill her,” Nelson said in shock. “Did you think I was going to kill her? Is that what I am to you? A murderer?”

Sam lifted an eyebrow.

Nelson lowered both of his.

“Don’t answer that,” he said. “As your lawyer, I’m telling you not to answer that.”

“You threatened to skin Karen this morning,” Sam pointed out.

“Lovingly,” Nelson argued back. “I always tell Karen I’m going to skin her, don’t I, Kare?”

Kare made an affirmative sound from where she’d gone to help Candace rinse out one of the barrels formerly containing rain water. Nelson lifted his chin slightly her way and then looked coolly back at Sam and Steve.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “We handle these things. And your hound is about to go roll in dirt, so if you could do something about that, that would be great.”

Steve whipped around just in time to see Buck eyeing up the garden.

Steve was so tired he was 90% sure the only thing keeping him upright was the serum. Peter, on the other hand, the little nocturnal shit, was still wide awake and destined, Wade Wilson said, to crash in a spectacular kind of way in only a matter of hours now.

Wilson seemed unbothered and unsurprised about this information. He’d started encouraging Peter to run ahead and then circle back to their slow-moving group of tired muscles. Steve didn’t know how to react to that so he decided he was just going to absorb that and pretend it was normal.

Johnny was already crashing, so at least that was one ball of energy and distraction out of commission. Adorably, he was starting to get annoyed with, presumably, Peter’s fluttering heart in his chest. He kept grabbing Peter’s wrist when he came close enough for it and staring him deep in the eyes.

Threatening.

Adorable.

“He’s gonna grow up into a big fire one day,” Buck whispered cheerfully, “And he’s gonna make every surface Webs touches burn his l’il tootsies until he submits to reason.”

They were headed for the fairy thorn again. Murdock seemed a little more awake post-bath, although he didn’t seem as enthused about getting his coat back as Steve thought he might have been.

That was probably the exhaustion, though.

Steve didn’t blame him.

The Sister was waiting for them at the top of the cliff. She looked fresh and clean and neat, as always. Steve wondered if she’d slipped away from the other nuns to go wash in a river or something.

“Good morning,” she greeted.

Jack dipped forward and leaned down when he came to her, and Steve thought he was going for a kiss. All his muscles locked in anticipation of blasphemy, but the two of them missed lips and pressed cheeks together softly before drawing apart.

“You look well, mate of mine,” Sister Margaret said kindly.

“That’s what happens when you let me out of the luggage,” Jack told her fondly.

“I like to see what kinds of things you can fit into,” Sister Margaret told him, patting at his arm. “Pup?” she said. “You look like shit.”

Sam choked.

Red, armed with stick and Nelson at his side now, shrugged.

“That’s better than I feel,” he said.

Sister Margaret appraised this slowly.

“Go on then,” she said. “Your coat awaits you. Everyone else, stay back.”

“Is it there?” Red asked her. “Did you see it?”

Sister Margaret’s face stayed completely blank.

“I did,” she said. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

Red perked up. Nelson jostled him a bit good-naturedly.

The fairy thorn was as pink and idyllic as ever. Little petals dropped faster now than before and tiny hints of new green buds peaked through their soft sprays.

Everyone stopped a good twelve yards away from the tree. The wooden basin under it was still there, but next to it now was a woven basket. It was flat on bottom and smaller, but in every other way exactly like the basket that floated on the surface of the mountain lake. There was even a waterlily threaded through the gaps in the weaving. Its pink flower opened up towards the top of the fairy thorn as though paying its respects.

Nelson and Page nudged Murdock forward and Nelson slipped his arm out of Murdock’s grip.

“Go on, Matty,” he said.

Murdock hesitantly turned back at them, then took a breath and, Steve thought, decided to let himself have this one thing.

He used his stick to approach the fairy thorn and reached out to feel for its base. He dipped his head until the top of it nearly grazed the tree, then he lifted it and slowly knelt, feeling for the objects under it. He caught the side of the basin first, dipped the tip of a few fingers in and swapped sides for the basket.

He seemed to recognize the weaving immediately and paused. He traced the water lily’s stem up to its head and finally dropped a hand into the basket. He stopped again. Then dropped his stick next to him and brought the other hand up to gather up the coat in the basket.

He seemed overcome. He didn’t move for a long moment, before finally pulling back and settling in on his heels.

“What do you think, son?” Sister Margaret asked. “Is it how you remember it?”

Steve frowned and looked back at her.

She was hiding an absolutely, unrepentantly huge grin behind her hand.

What?

He looked back to Red, who half-turned around with his lap full of heavy-looking cream fur.

Red looked…deadly.

“What the actual fuck is this?” he demanded.

“Matty, it’s so cute,” Nelson wheezed, trying and failing to stop shedding tears of laughter.

“This is a cruel joke,” Murdock raged. “This ain’t fair. I did everything asked of me. Everything. EVERYTHING.”

Sister Margaret appeared to be weeping.

“It’s so fucking cute,” Nelson whimpered.

“It’s wrong,” Red snapped.

“I’m gonna cry,” Nelson gasped.

“I’m gonna scream,” Red countered.

The coat was a pure, creamy white. It was huge. It was heavy. And it was one of the softest things Steve had ever touched.

For good reason.

It was a pelt made of pup fur.

Pup fur that would take weeks to molt.

Red was horrified.

Sister Margaret was overcome. Nelson was beyond endeared.

“I don’t deserve this,” Murdock moaned with his head in his hands.

“Matty,” Jack soothed. “It’s okay, it’ll shed in time.”

“YEARS,” Red snapped at him. “It. Took. YEARS.”

Jack continued to make soothing sounds.

“That’s because you were a baby, honey,” he said. “I’m sure this one will molt faster, it’s just a new pelt. It’s not a pup’s pelt.”

“It smells like a pup’s pelt,” Murdock argued. “Feel this—feel this.”

Jack sighed and obliged.

“Pup’s. Pelt.” Murdock growled. “Pup’s. Pelt. How the fuck am I gonna waltz up to Wilson Fisk with this thing???”

“Son, he don’t know a damn bit of difference,” Jack said calmly. “He’s a fuckin’ idiot, he’s just gonna think you’re a white seal.”

Murdock wasn’t having that. He had a rage to keep stoking.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks--what are the others gonna think?” he flailed. “Imagine some shithead rolls up and says he’s there to help you break your bonds of servitude, and he smells like fuckin’ watermelon jolly rancher, Dad. Imagine. IMAGINE. No one will take me seriously—what if it doesn’t molt?”

“It will molt,” Jack promised.

“What if it doesn’t?” Red snapped.

“Then you’ll be a white seal,” Jack told him.

“I don’t want to be a white seal,” Murdock said, finally finding the next stage of grief.

“Come here, honey,” Jack said. “Let’s hug it out.”

“I don’t want a hug,” Red said in despair.

Jack wrapped him up in one anyways.

“Grace,” he said. “Tell your son that he’s not going to die.”

Sister Margaret stroked the coat fondly.

“Of course not,” she said. “It is my job to protect my pup.”

Red made a hysterical noise into his dad’s chest. Jack gave his mate a dark look. She beamed at him.

Steve was glad that something in the world made the Sister this happy. Even if it was schadenfreude.

“It will be fine, Matty,” Sister Margaret relented. “It’s just very sweet, and honestly necessary. Until you get used to shifting again, it’ll be important for us to be able to find you.”

“A bell,” Murdock said into Jack’s chest.

“No bells,” Sister Margaret said. “This is a natural bell.”

Red made another sound like a sob.

Jack decided that Red was having a hard fucking time because he was tired. He diagnosed his kid with a dire need for sleep and sent him and Nelson and Page off for at least eight hours of rest. When they were gone, he harassed his wife for a good five minutes about being nicer in the face of obvious strong emotion.

She learned nothing.

She agreed with everything he said and said that they had to return to the convent for a time as Red wasn’t the only one in need of rest.

She paused in tugging Jack in the direction of the convent and told Sam, Steve, and Buck to go have a meal and get some sleep and that she and Nelson would help them get the hound that evening.

Steve was too tired to argue.

He woke up to Buck looming over his chest with a ring of twisted together wildflowers in his hands. He was beaming. Steve stared at the flowers. Then at Buck. Then back at the flowers.

“What have you done?” he demanded.

The Spiderkid was wide awake. Six hours of napping and being reunited with his aunt seemed to have worked wonders on him.

On Johnny, too, actually. They were both awake and rolling around in the grass at the base of the cliff by Mrs. Doyle’s home.

She did not approve. But she seemed to be happy that they were out of her house with these shenanigans.

May smiled and waved at Steve when he arrived with Sam in tow.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said.

“Oh no, don’t worry about it,” May said. “It’s good for all of them.”

Was it?

“He’s not that big anyways,” May said. “And he’s very proud of himself.”

Good.

God.

Steve opened his mouth to apologize but didn’t get that far because Sam shouted ‘NO’ behind him and he turned around to see Peter trapped between the enormous paws of a huge, shadowy black and blue wolf.

He might have panicked a little.

Maybe overreacted.

Maybe because he hadn’t seen Buck in any form other than human for, oh, 90 odd years?

Bucky was reluctant to not be in hound form now that he’d figured out how to get into it. He growled at Steve when he stuck a finger in his face with Peter clutched in the other arm.

“He’s just playin’, Cap,” Peter huffed, pushing against Steve’s outer elbow.

“Change back,” Steve said. “It is daytime. People can see you. You shithead. You absolute asshole. Now.”

Buck whipped his tail back and forth and the meadow buffeted either way with wind.

“Dear god,” Sam breathed.

“Now, James Buchanan,” Steve threatened.

He didn’t remember Bucky being taller than him as a hound. He thought he remembered them being about the same height when they were little. It was a hazy memory though because they’d been, what, six? Maybe seven at a stretch, the last time Bucky had had paws to run with.

He’d gotten big. Jesus Christ. Enormous. He was at least three feet taller than Steve and his mark, the one Steve somehow knew was his name, was set in silver under the shifting shadowy fur of his throat.

“Don’t howl,” Steve warned.

Those back legs did a little dance.

“Don’t you do it,” Steve said. “These are nice people in this village.”

Johnny came over to cling to Steve’s arm with Peter in solidarity. Peter thought that was just swell.

“Bucky,” Steve said. “Shift back. Now.”

Those fluffy cone ears went flat and unhappy.

“I mean it,” Steve said. He paused and looked around for the flower crown he had been gifted out of guilt. Sam noticed him searching for it and picked it up from where Steve had dropped it in his haste to get Peter out of harm’s way. He offered it to Steve.

Steve took it and held it out to Buck.

“Bow that fat head of yours,” he ordered.

The ears stayed back and that tail went down.

“Uh-huh,” Steve said. “You brought me an offering. This is me rejecting it. Gimme your head.”

Buck made sad, sad eyes and lowered his blockhead just enough that Steve could set the crown on top of it.

The darkness and shadows exploded and whirled around before fading off into nothing. The world seemed to get brighter around them.

Buck stood in front of him, bedecked with flowers and wild, loose hair, pouting.

“You’re no fun, Steven Grant,” he said.

“I’m gettin’ you a collar,” Steve told him immediately.

Buck hated his new accessory and Steve did not care.

Sam loved it. That was plenty.

Nelson thought it was the most hilarious thing he’d ever seen, too, which was good.

“You look like a reformed goth,” he told Buck, absolutely beaming.

“You look like the ocean’s whiteboard,” Buck told him right back.

Nelson scowled.

“Where’s your mate?” Bucky asked him.

“Mourning his losses,” Nelson said. “Also known as being groomed against his will by his mum. Where are the kids?”

“Practicing black magic,” Buck said.

“Owl magic,” Nelson translated.

“Fire magic,” Buck corrected. “Mrs. Parker and that witch elder are trying to get them to channel it into something useful made out of the two of them.”

“Hm,” Nelson said, eyeing Buck up and down. “Not sure I like you as a hound.”

Bucky bounced his shoulders.

“Don’t matter, don’t care,” he said. “I’m unstoppable now, pal.”

Nelson lifted his face back up to give him a flat look.

“It’s temporary,” Bucky scowled.

“Baby got collared,” Nelson cooed. “Gonna get leashed next. Someone needs puppy school.”

One day, Steve decided, he would meet some fae that did not immediately antagonize each other. And that day would be the day he finally died.

He caught Sam typing ‘puppy school’ into his phone.

He then redirected everyone’s attention back towards the issue at hand. They were losing light. Steve had made a deal.

Nelson waved a hand and said he dealt with sea sickness all the time. He told Steve that he would take the girl and protect her and then the rest of them could convince the girl’s father to give up the hound.

He also laughed when the rest of them prepared for another round of bog-discouragement and said that there were easier ways to get to the other village.

“You’re getting too used to the fae,” he told Steve charmingly. “But I’ll let you in on a secret: even the fae take the bus.”

Rude.

It was sunset by the time they got off the bus and hiked up the cliff to Sorcha and her father’s house.

Nelson combed back his hair with his hand and scooped up a handful of different flowers from the side of the path to braid into it really quick.

“For the aesthetic,” he explained. “These folks always have an idea of what the fae are going to look like. Doesn’t hurt to indulge them a bit.”

He let the color bleed out of his face until he was nearly whitish-grey with a handful of large and blooming freckles sprayed under his right eye.

He had the others stand behind him as he knocked on the cottage door.

The father answered it and gasped.

“Hello,” Nelson said. “My friends tell me your daughter longs for the sea?”

He gestured behind him at Sam, Steve and Bucky and seemed to hold the movement much longer than necessary.

Steve noticed that he’d developed the faintest glow where the dying sun didn’t touch him.

“Yes,” the father breathed. “Are you Mac Lir?”

Nelson smiled.

“He sends me,” he said gently. “I am one of his arms. One of his messengers.”

“Don’t take her,” the father pleaded. “Please don’t. She’s all I have since her mother died. She’s just sick. She’ll get better—”

“Manannán hears her anguish,” Nelson said. “Her suffering pains him. The sea weeps for her and yourself. You must love her so much to go through such trials to bring his attention to your family.”

“I’m so sorry,” the father said, blinking back tears now. “She’s—”

“Let me speak to her,” Nelson said.

The father seemed helpless. Tears finally spilled down his cheeks.

“Just one second,” he said. He dipped back inside, probably to say his goodbyes to his daughter.

Christ.

“Nelson, is this strictly necessary?” Sam murmured.

“Which thing? The dramatics or the bath?” Nelson murmured back.

The what?

Nelson lifted an eyebrow at them.

“I’m not gonna drown her,” he said. “We’re just going to go have a conversation. It doesn’t concern you. Mind your business. Release the hound.”

The cottage door was wrenched open and yellow light flooded out onto them.

“Mac Lir?” Sorcha, Her Biteyness, breathed.

Nelson turned back all the way towards her. He was more fully glowing now. Almost blue.

“Hello, Sorcha,” he said.

“Mac Lir?” Sorcha repeated, clinging to the door now in relief.

“Not quite,” Nelson said kindly.

There was a long pause.

“S-selkie?” Sorcha asked.

Nelson smiled.

“Oh my god. Oh my lord,” Sorcha gasped. “He sent you for me?”

“He hears you,” Nelson said. “Do you love the sea, Sorcha?”

“So much,” Sorcha said, swallowing hard. “So much.”

Nelson held out a hand.

“Then come with me,” he said.

“You’ll take me?” Sorcha asked him.

“Yes,” Nelson told her.

“Where? Where will you take me?” Sorcha asked him.

Nelson bounced his white eyebrows.

“Wherever you want to go,” he said.

“Will it hurt?” Sorcha whispered.

Nelson tipped his head slightly and didn’t answer.

“Is it worth it?” Sorcha asked him.

He said nothing still.

“Can I come home?” Sorcha asked him.

“Come,” Nelson said.

“But—my father—”

“Come,” Nelson urged, curling his fingers. “Let me sing you a song, human-child. Let me show you the sea.”

He paused.

“Unless it was never the sea that you wanted,” he said, curling his fingers in.

Sorcha’s eyes went huge.

“I want the sea,” she said. “I love the sea.”

Nelson brought his hand in close to his chest. He let his face fade into disappointment.

“I see,” he said.

“No,” Sorcha pleaded. “I love the sea. I love the sea.”

“Not enough,” Nelson said, shaking his head. “Not yet, anyways.” He paused and then lifted his eyes again. “Say, why don’t you make a deal with me, human?”

Sorcha took a step back.

“What kind of deal?” she asked.

“A friendly one,” Nelson said. “Come away oh, human-child. To the waters, and the wild. With a fairy, hand and hand.”

He re-extended his own hand.

“Yeats,” Sorcha said.

“A wise man,” Nelson hummed.

“You forgot the last line,” Sorcha said.

“Oh, did I?” Nelson said, feigning surprise.

“’The world is more full of weeping than you can understand,’” Sorcha whispered.

Nelson beamed.

“Come away, oh, human-child,” he quoted again.

“I don’t want to die,” Sorcha told him. “I’m just tired of weeping.”

Nelson dipped his head.

“The fae don’t weep in Tír na nÓg,” he said. “I’ll make you a deal. For one night, I’ll take you to see the sea. And at the end of it, you will decide: you will give me your soul to take to Tír na nÓg or a promise. It will be your choice. I won’t make you do anything. You can have my word. So what will it be: will you come?”

Sorcha lifted her gaze into Nelson’s eyes. She reached out her hand and curled her fingers in his.

“I’ll come,” she said.

Nelson swept the girl off and left the rest of them standing outside the front door, listening to the heaving sobs of the father.

Sam was heartbroken. Steve felt his distress in his chest. Bucky left them both to duck in through the cottage door.

“Leave, please just leave,” the father sobbed at the kitchen counter.

“I am a cú sidhe,” Bucky stated.

The room went dead silent.

Buck held it for a moment longer.

“My people have tried to collect your daughter,” he said. “I spoke to them. And then to the selkie. The selkie will not harm your daughter. He is unusual in this. You’re a lucky man to live near such benevolent fae. But my mate has made a deal which ties us to the selkie, and I’m sorry, but we need to bring the hound home to its rightful owner.”

The father seemed to have gone stiff and quiet.

He raised his head to look at Bucky.

“I don’t wish to steal from you,” Bucky told him. “Please give us the hound.”

The old man sighed and shook his head.

“Take it,” he said. “It’s scarin’ the cow, anyways. Just take it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said.

The old man just sighed again.

They released the hound by climbing up onto the old wood in the stable and chucking the iron horseshoe mounted over the make-shift pen containing it as far away as possible. That done, they tore off the black canvas that was stapled the pen and got the hell out of the way.

Steve didn’t see the thing so much as he felt the rush of wind that it left in its wake. It was only in the distance that he saw it; an enormous gray and white wolfhound leaping in bounds across the cliffs. It ran as though it was wind itself. Light and twisting impossibly. Almost the opposite of a cú sidhe.

“Wow,” Sam said. “Is that—is this it? Are we done here?”

Bucky turned back to him.

“I think we’ve done plenty of damage,” he said.

Yeah.

Steve’s chest was both light and heavy at the same time.

“Does it know the way home?” he asked.

“It does,” Buck promised him. “I think we’re good and even, boys. Congratulations. And honor be to Mac Lir.”

Right.

Honor be to Mac Lir.

That was it.

Finally.

They were done.