Chapter Text
Two months, seven days and three hours before
Millard stared at the form in front of him.
“Mr Nullings, I don’t have all day.”
He looked up at the stern ymbryne who’d called him into her office, a deep frown creased into her features. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t bother to learn their names anymore.
He swallowed thickly, and he could almost imagine his dry throat muscles brushing up against each other. “I c-can’t sign this. I’m sorry.”
He met her eyes and she pursed her lips, brows knit.
“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice, Mr Nullings.”
He slid the form back to her, the sound of paper against the polished wood desk making him cringe. “Actually, I do.”
She bristled, her upper lip curling slightly. “Why are you going against me on this?”
“My apologies, Miss, but I don’t even know your name.” He stood up, the chair grinding against the floorboards. “I’ve been with this organisation long enough to know my place, and it is not what’s on that paper.”
He started to walk away, and she called for him to Stop, to Sit down young man, and even a Don’t you want us to win the war?
Don’t you want us to win the war?
He stepped into the hallway and immediately took a hard right. At the end of the hallway was a door that read A. Peregrine. He and everyone else often stayed in her old office, sometimes even going as far as to sleep there. In the rightmost corner of the room, there was a small wardrobe filled with blankets and pillows and memories for whenever they needed it.
The inside was cluttered, the remnants of someone trapped in a manic frenzy before flying out on a suicide mission. The desk was dusty save for the rightmost edge, where he’d gotten into the habit of running his fingers through the dust. Millard liked to see the long marks and the grey on his fingers and be appreciative that he could see himself like this, at least. He didn’t often get the option anymore.
(It’s easier to see the privilege and choices that you had after they’re suddenly taken away.)
He collapsed onto the chair in the corner (the one that he liked the most because it was the softest), sinking into it and trying to imagine the chair was a person and that they were hugging him from behind. He closed his eyes to let himself rest for a bit after that long conversation, and he was nearly asleep when someone barged into the office.
Millard shrieked in surprise as Emma, with her shoulders and fingertips ablaze, had what seemed to be a freak-out. She formed half-sentences, then groaned and clutched her head then paced then stamped her foot then repeated the whole thing.
She seemed to cool down after a length of minutes, and Millard said, “Are you quite done? It was peaceful here before you came in and tore up the place.”
Emma jumped, the flames on her shoulders rising and falling as she registered that someone had been in there the whole time.
“Mill! When did you get here?”
“I would reckon that it’s been nearly an hour.”
“Oh.” Her flames dimmed as she thought over that. She shrugged. “Sorry. Something—” the flames rose again, “Happened. And before you ask, it was Enoch.”
Millard watched her as she began pacing the room again. “What’d he do now?”
“Buggered everything right up, that’s what he did!”
He stood up and grabbed the blanket that had been resting on the armrest. He draped it over his shoulders and walked until he stood in front of Emma, where she nearly ran into him. She stopped herself with a huff.
“What’d he do?” he asked again.
She opened her mouth as if to respond, but then her lips started quivering and her face scrunched up. All of her fire died in a flash as she sank to the floor.
“Horace and I are on Council now,” she sobbed.
Millard thought he could feel his heart stop.
“What—” he got out before someone else slammed open the door, hitting the wall where there was already a mark.
“Emma!” Enoch exclaimed.
He dropped to his knees within the second, a resounding thump that surely would’ve hurt echoing throughout the room. Millard hoped that no one heard that and thought of coming up. They technically weren’t supposed to be in their old headmistress’ office in the first place. (It didn’t matter much, as everyone in the building surely knew anyway.)
“Emma, Emma please—”
“Get away from me!” she lashed out as she spun towards him. Enoch flinched so hard that he actually scooted back.
She burst into sobs again. Enoch looked like he was about to cry too.
Horace appeared in the doorway, and he raised his brows as he surveyed the scene. Millard saw him stare at Emma, a sobbing mess of tears and small fires that danced along her arms.
But the instant he saw Enoch, he was on the floor comforting him instead.
“Love, love what happened?” Horace glanced at Emma, glaring daggers at Enoch with tears down her cheeks. “Why’s Emma—what?” He looked around and spotted Millard’s floating blanket. “What happened?” he asked again.
“Ask Emma,” Millard replied.
Horace looked back at Emma, who was now furiously wiping her face. “Em?”
She sniffed. “Ask your boyfriend, he can tell you.” Enoch looked down at the floor as Horace asked him what happened again.
After a few seconds of silence, he seemed to get frustrated, and Millard took a step back as Horace shot to his feet. He put his hands on his hips.
“Someone, tell me what the bloody hell is going on here,” he demanded. “Enoch, Emma said you knew what’s going on.”
Enoch cursed under his breath and muttered something too soft to decipher.
“Pardon? I don’t think I quite caught that.”
Enoch inhaled shakily, “I… may have—accidentally—landed you and Emma… uh, Council positions.”
Millard saw the moment Horace stilled completely. The air took to a standstill, thick and rough and solid.
“Repeat that,” Horace whispered.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Repeat it.”
Enoch pinched the bridge of his nose. “I got you and Emma Council.”
Horace squeezed his eyes shut, silently mouthing what Millard guessed to be un, deux, trois, and so on.
A few more moments of silence.
"Fucking Christ, Enoch,” he muttered.
Enoch pulled his knees to his chest and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
Horace wasn't done.
"I mean, how big do you have to fuck, up?" he said, louder, emphasising the space between fuck and up. Horace started pacing the room. "We do everything—everything—to avoid doing even more for those chickens, and you just hand them our souls? Bloody hell, Enoch!"
Enoch looked up at him with knit brows and despair.
"I'm sorry," he said more forcefully.
"As you should be!" Horace spat back at him.
Millard gritted his teeth and pulled Horace to his chest from behind.
"Would you stop yelling already?" he said.
Horace wrestled out of his hold. "Easy for you to say, you're not the one on Council! We’re fucked. We’re,” Horace carded his hair, “We’re never getting out of here, are we? Never seeing Hugh, Fiona, Claire, Olive again,” he tallied one finger for each name. “Stuck here as puppets, slaves to our own whippers.” He exhaled sharply. “We. Are. Fucked,” he repeated.
“Yes, we heard,” Millard chastised.
Horace looked like he was about to say something to the glaring person on the floor that was Enoch—opening his mouth and closing it—but instead paced around the room before abruptly throwing off his overcoat and darting out the door, slamming it on his way out. Millard saw Enoch flinch horribly.
Emma shakily stood up and followed him out the door, shutting it more gently than Horace had. Enoch put his head in his arms and curled tighter into himself, leaning against the wall next to the door.
Millard didn’t know what to do. Anyone who’s ever been in the same room as him for more than ten minutes would know that he wasn’t good at feelings. He didn’t have much empathy, never knew what to say when a friend said their dog died or when they were excited about an ‘A’ on a test.
In more recent years, though, he’d been gaining some. Perhaps it was because most of the unfortunate things that were happening lately had some sort of direct effect towards him.
Maybe he was simply maturing. He didn’t know.
He stood around awkwardly while he tried to think of something to say, hands sweaty with stress. He heard Enoch sniff, still crumpled on the floor.
“Jesus,” he said to himself. He walked over and tapped Enoch on the bicep with two fingers.
Enoch peered up at where his face would be, eyes red yet somehow still dry.
“C’mon,” Millard said. “Get up.”
Enoch exhaled shakily and Millard grasped his hand to help pull him up. When he was on his feet, Millard draped the blanket he’d been using to make himself visible over Enoch’s shoulders.
“Have a seat.”
Enoch dumbly nodded and sat in the nearest chair; the one they’d sit in when talking to Miss Peregrine about whatever, about how Horace was too nervous to fire a gun or about how they missed Bronwyn, oh so terribly.
Millard pulled up another chair that usually lived in the corner next to Enoch’s and sat in it. Enoch rested his head on Millard’s shoulder and sighed.
“Is he going to be mad at me for long?” he murmured. Millard cringed; didn’t Enoch realise he was the worst person for this?
“Honestly? Or do you want me to lie?”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s going to be pissed for between two to three weeks.”
Enoch grimaced and screwed up his face as if in pain.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way,” Millard backtracked.
“Stop that. You did.” Enoch lifted himself off of Millard, turned away and wrapped the blanket around himself instead.
Millard didn’t have the capacity in him to lie anymore (the real estimate had been between two to three months), so he stayed quiet.
“This is my fault.” Millard saw Enoch rub at his eyes. “Wish I weren’t here,” he mumbled, soft enough that Millard reckoned that he didn’t want him to hear that part.
Millard didn’t know what to say.
So they sat in silence instead of talking.
For minutes. Maybe an hour.
Then the door swung open again and shattered the peace.
Horace tramped in. He immediately saw Millard and Enoch and swerved to grab a simple stool.
“Horace!” Emma called out as she rushed into the room herself.
He plopped it down in front of where they were, eyeing Emma as she stood in the doorway, conflicted. Eventually, Emma just shook her head and opted to remain standing up. She walked across and leaned against the bookshelves facing Millard and Enoch. Millard and Enoch on one side; Horace and Emma on the other.
Horace leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
“So. How did this happen, Enoch?”
Enoch pulled the blanket tighter around himself and brought his knees to his chest.
“And no bullshit, either. What happened?”
Enoch stared off to his left; at what exactly, Millard hadn’t the faintest idea.
“Miss Bunting approached me; cornered me, really. She asked me how my day was, and I had no option but to stand there. Eventually, she got to the point. She proposed—once again—that I should join Council. That we all should. And I declined once again.” Enoch scratched his ear. “I, uh, think she got frustrated. And she said, ‘Either Mr Somnusson and Miss Bloom join the Council or they’ll get sent to Spain to work with “the hard cases,”’” he said the last bit with air quotes. Millard saw Emma’s hand jump up to her mouth in shock. Enoch sighed. “So, basically she said, ‘Put them on Council or I kill them.’”
Enoch met Horace’s eyes. “And I couldn’t let that happen. So I said ‘yes.’”
No one actually knew what went on in Spain. It was the place with the highest density of wights, and so therefore many missions were there. But when the ymbrynes sent out people to live there, that’s when people never heard from them again.
After all, that's what had happened to one Isabel Cuckoo.
There were a couple of seconds where Horace looked exactly the same as he processed this. Then his eyes softened and he looked down at his palms.
“Oh. That’s… unfortunate.”
Enoch laughed. Empty and filled with repressed pain. “Yeah. It’s pretty fucking terrible.” He pawed at his eyes. “At least now we know who they find most valuable.”
Horace crinkled his brows. “Who?”
Enoch chuckled, a bit more solidly now. “You, dumbass.”
“She threatened Emma and I’s life,” Horace said with a frown.
“Because she knows I’d rather kill myself than let anything happen to any of you.”
Enoch said this as if he announced that on a daily basis. As if he hadn’t just said that he valued all of them over his own life.
(Millard never understood people like that. Life was the basis of everything; you couldn’t undo life. It was stupid to even consider sacrificing your own for another person’s; consequently, he often felt as if he was a bad person for thinking this way. For not understanding. But he couldn’t find anything to do about it, just as the rest of them couldn’t find a way to save themselves from this life.)
Horace gave Enoch a wobbly smile. “Aw, shit. Now you're making me feel bad for yelling at you.”
Enoch seemed to remember what had happened when Horace brought it up and Millard felt irritation spike off of him all of a sudden. He flicked the blanket off, stood up, and walked to the other side of the room.
Horace grimaced. “How mad at me do you think he is?” he asked the two of them. Millard groaned.
“You two really are meant for each other.”
Horace looked at him weirdly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Emma spoke up for the first time in that conversation. “Nevermind that. Just go talk to him.”
The second Horace left, she took his seat with a small grin on her face. The two situated themselves to optimally (and not so discreetly) spy in on the others’ conversation. Being invisible, Millard simply turned around in his seat, while Emma had to position herself in such a way that allowed her to eye them from the side. Considering that their friends didn’t even leave the room, they obviously felt comfortable with the others knowing what was going on anyways.
Horace stood across from Enoch, who had his arms crossed and was staring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.
Horace spoke first. “I may have overreacted earlier.”
“May have?” Enoch groused.
Horace rubbed the back of his neck.“You’re right. I overreacted. And I’m sorry.”
Enoch finally levelled his eyes at Horace. Or as level as he could get. He never ended up getting much taller than a hundred sixty centimetres.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it and went back to looking up at the ceiling.
Horace kept on talking.
“Is there a way I can help make this up to you?”
Enoch hummed.
Horace wrapped his arms around himself as he waited for Enoch’s response. Though, after a while, Horace muttered, “This is going to be a very long conversation if you don’t say anything…”
Enoch moved his head to look back at Horace, a crease between his brows and a frown tugging at his lips. He opened his mouth again; closed it; swallowed; whispered something indiscernible.
“Pardon?” Horace asked.
Enoch cleared his throat and tried again. “I s'pose you can make me a cake.”
His voice came out thick and choked, as if he was desperately holding in tears. He went back to looking up at the ceiling, and at that angle Millard was able to see his Adam’s Apple bob up and down as he swallowed again.
Horace must’ve been able to figure out what was happening, and he said, “Oh, Enoch.”
Enoch just shot him a dirty look. Millard assumed that he thought that he’d start crying if he tried to talk.
Horace smiled at him. “I can bake you a cake,” he said, gently, as if he was talking to something very, very delicate.
Enoch slowly took in a big gulp of air as he collected himself and he drummed his fingers on his arm. “Carrot cake, please,” he said, voice wobbly and small.
“A nice carrot cake,” Horace amended with a small chuckle.
Enoch was finally able to look Horace in the eye again, and he nodded once, quickly, before walking over and rested his forehead against Horace’s chest. Millard looked away when he overheard muted sniffling.
Emma was picking at the frayed carpet with the toe of her shoe, and she must've felt Millard watching her because she looked over at him and raised her eyebrows suggestively as if to say ‘can you believe these kids?’ before looking back down.
Even after Enoch and Horace rejoined them to talk in low voices about what to do next, Millard spent the rest of the day thinking about how she couldn’t have had any idea whether or not he’d actually seen her.