Archive of Our Own ^beta

“What do you mean you’d never make a sex tape?” Margo asks.

She’s “in town” from Fillory for a few days, handing off her royal duties to Fen so she and Eliot can catch up.

They’re in the kitchen, grabbing drinks while everyone else hangs out on the couch, gathered around the new flatscreen Kady had just ordered, watching some new nerd show. Their little ragtag gang has been a tad busy as of late, so they’re just catching up on pop culture from the last few years.

Eliot simply can’t be bothered to remember much of the details. It’s some Star Wars thing with a hot guy they hide under a dumb helmet—an absolute waste. But he does enjoy cuddling with Q and Margo on the couch during tv time, so he’s agreed to partake.

“What would I do with a sex tape? Watch it? When I could just make fresh love to my boyfriend instead?”

Margo makes a gagging noise into her drink.

“You know I love you more than my own life, El, but I’m gonna have to ask you to never use that adjective in that context ever again. Also, never say make love in my presence, in general. God, monogamy is gross,” she groans.

Eliot shrugs.

“Just speaking my truth. I can’t help it if—”

“Guys! We’re about to start the show, are you bringing the drinks or what?” Josh calls out. A tad rude to be so demanding when you’re technically a guest in someone else’s house, but Eliot is happy and in love and willing to be in a generous mood. Also, Josh had brought some incredibly strong edibles, made with Fillory-grown weed and annoyingly good cookies (loath as he is to admit it, Josh has Eliot beat in the baking department, though Quentin loyally insists the cookies Eliot makes are even better).

Margo is more than willing to end the current topic of conversation and they head out to join the others and pass out a round of gin and tonics.

Eliot isn’t really paying attention to the show, content to sip his drink and occasionally turn his head to breathe in the scent of Quentin’s hair as he rests his head on Eliot’s shoulder.

Julia, Kady, and Penny seem to be in a similar boat, half-watching and chatting, occasionally showing each other things on their phones and laughing. They are subsequently shushed by Josh and Quentin, who are avidly watching, of course.

“Nerds,” Margo mutters under her breath. She’s flipping through a magazine and pretending she isn’t that interested, but she isn’t fooling Eliot. He’ll let her keep up the illusion, though.

He himself knows more about Star Wars than he will ever let on, having watched every movie starring Harrison Ford he could get his hands on at the video rental store in his hometown.

So he’s zoned out a bit, feeling loose and warm from the booze and the half of an edible he’d taken earlier—he and Quentin had split one, because they are responsible adults now—when a gasp and an exclamation of “oh holy shit, what the fuck,” jerks him back to attention.

There’s some little big-eared green creature on the screen. It is distressingly adorable.

Quentin is now sitting straight up, staring, wide-eyed.

“Oh my god,” Josh says, sounding distressed, hands on his head.

Julia looks up from where she and Kady had been hunched over her phone laughing about something, and makes a very un-Julia like squealing noise.

“Pretty cute,” Kady acknowledges, which coming from her is a ringing endorsement.

Fuck, even Penny looks mildly charmed.

“Okay, but is it supposed to be Yoda’s kid or what?” Margo says, dispensing with the pretense that she isn’t a Star Wars nerd.

Josh shakes his head. “No way, that would be fucking crazy. But do you think maybe—”

Eliot is expecting Q to chime in with his own theories, but when he looks over…

Quentin is still staring at the tv, which is now rolling the end credits of the show. His mouth trembles and his eyes are huge and watery.

“Q?” Eliot reaches out to place a hand on his back. “Baby, are you—”

“It’s…so cute,” Quentin says, voice trembling.

Then he bursts into tears.

-

They’d eventually managed to calm Quentin down, until he was sniffling weakly with his face tucked into the curve of Eliot’s neck, while Julia rubbed his back, perched on the edge of the couch on his other side, and everyone else had hovered around, unsure what to do, but not wanting to just walk out.

Quentin, clearly embarrassed, had apologized profusely and then yawned widely, like he’d tired himself out. Everyone decided to call it an early night.

They’d gone to bed and woke up the next morning and Quentin had opened his eyes and smiled at him, and then proceeded to wrap his perfect lips around Eliot’s dick and suck him off so hard Eliot almost passed out.

Which, all in all, is a pretty normal morning for them, Eliot is more than thrilled to say.

Minus a small cold and fever that comes and goes in a few days, Quentin seems no worse for the wear. Nothing that a few days resting in bed and Eliot’s homemade chicken noodle soup couldn’t fix.

He continues to watch “the baby Yoda show” and claims to enjoy it, but more often than not, Quentin ends up in a state of emotional distress, hiding his face against Eliot’s arm.

Sometimes it’s just because “the baby is so cute” and sometimes it’s because “the baby is in danger, I’m so worried for him—”

Obviously you’d have to be some kind of sociopath to disagree, but Margo keeps giving Eliot significant glances over the top of Quentin’s head whenever it happens.

Eliot has no idea why until she corners him in the kitchen later that day.

“Do you think there’s something up with Quentin?” she asks.

Eliot turns to her, immediately defensive, because of course there’s nothing up with Quentin. Quentin is perfect.

Because she knows him too well, Margo sizes him up immediately. Rolling her eyes, she takes a delicate sip of gin and tonic. “Okay, you can dial worshipful boyfriend mode down just a fuckin’ tad, loverboy. You know I wouldn’t dream of insulting your man.”

Margo talks a big game, but Eliot knows the main reason she would never dream of insulting Quentin in a genuine way, not in the affectionate, mostly-gentle Margo way, is because she loves him. Not as much as Eliot does, because, obviously, that’s not possible. But almost.

“Noted and appreciated,” Eliot nods. “So?”

Margo’s eyes are back on Quentin, narrowed in thought.

“I don’t mean like, wrong. Just. He doesn’t seem…kind of emotional to you?”

Eliot gives her a look. Not like Quentin has ever been stoic; his sweet, beautiful, expressive (dialing back worshipful boyfriend mode simply won’t be happening any time soon, sorry, Bambi) face has always shown his every emotion, and he’s always let himself feel things deeply, without reservation or embarrassment. It’s one of the things Eliot loves most about him. He is constantly trying to learn from Quentin’s emotional bravery, that openness. He’s getting better.

So that’s always been Quentin, and the whole dying-and-subsequent-resurrection thing had only heightened his emotions. When he first came back, anything and everything would make him cry—tears of happiness, sadness, frustration, and a lot of times, I-don’t-know-why-the-fuck-I’m-crying tears.

“It’s like um...it’s intense, like I’m feeling things for the first time, even though I obviously remember feeling them before?” Quentin had explained. Professor Lipson had nodded and likened it to being kind of an accelerated puberty. Of course, Quentin had groaned about this, but really, he was alive and whole and even if he was kind of a moody asshole sometimes, Eliot would put up with anything, anything, to have him here.

(Also, there was the whole thing where Eliot pointed out that, in his new body, Quentin was technically a virgin again, and Quentin had rolled his eyes, but Eliot didn’t miss the way his cheeks had flushed pink, and later he’d taken Eliot’s hand and lead him to the bed and looked coyly up at him from under his eyelashes and said, “um, this is my first time, so I’m a little nervous…”

Yeah, that had been one of the best nights of Eliot’s life.)

Quentin’s mood has evened out since then (thank fuck) though, because he’s Q, he’s still easily moved, both to smile and laugh, and to cry. Eliot wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I know,” Margo acknowledges. “But I mean…more so than usual? There’s the whole Baby Yoda thing, obviously, and earlier I walked in on him getting really worked up about some article he found online, something about how people don’t buy ugly-looking produce even though it tastes fine. I was like, okay weirdo, but whatever, it’s Q.”

That does indeed sound like something Quentin would get randomly heated about for no particular reason. And he has been on a bit of a kick lately about food waste, determined to be more environmentally friendly now that he’s been given a second chance at life. Eliot finds it deeply cute, Obviously.

“Also, we both saw him cry when we saw that puppy in the park the other day,” Margo continues.

This is true, but it had been a ridiculously perfect looking thing like the google image that would come up when you search the word puppy: a happy, fluffy golden retriever with a little pink tongue who excitedly wriggled and jumped up on Quentin’s legs, to the profuse apologies from its owner, which were brushed off as unnecessary, as Quentin was thrilled.

“He just got all his vaccinations and this is the first time I’ve taken him out for a walk and he’s just like, excited about the world.”

Quentin laughed and reached down to stroke the puppy’s ears, the top of his head. His hands were always so gentle.

“I know exactly how he feels,” Quentin said, his voice soft, and when he looked up, he had tears in his eyes but he was smiling.

The puppy—Casey—and his owner—they didn’t get her name—eventually went on their way and Quentin had not-so-surreptitiously sniffled and wiped his eyes, then taken Eliot’s hand and declared he was hungry and they should get lunch.

“Don’t try to act like you didn’t find it charming as fuck,” Eliot says. He’d seen her smiling fondly at Q and the puppy when she didn’t think he was paying attention.

Margo rolls her eyes again. “Of course it was, El, it was disgustingly sweet. I’m not a total heathen. I’m just saying…I think something is different. Has he switched his meds?”

Eliot shakes his head. Quentin’s been on the same meds successfully for awhile now, and thankfully they’re working as they should.

“Huh,” Margo says. “Okay then.”

It’s not until Alice returns after a long trip that anything comes of it. She had been off seeing the world with Poppy of all people, doing field work on dragons. Certainly not a travel buddy pair Eliot would have predicted, but Alice deserved to get away. Eliot can’t say he necessarily feels guilty for essentially stealing her boyfriend, which is a categorization of events Quentin absolutely hates, but he’s certainly sympathetic. Living in the same apartment with her ex and her ex’s new significant other is not anyone’s idea of a fun scenario.

if Alice’s study abroad adventure happened to be with an attractive redhead, then hey, good for her. When Quentin had heard they’d be spending months together, he’d gone pale and wide-eyed.

“Oh yeah, they’re absolutely going to compare sex stories about you, Q,” Margo had said knowingly. “But don’t get a big head about it. I’m sure that’s like, one drunken night’s worth of conversation, tops. You’re not that interesting.”

“Don’t listen to her, baby,” Eliot kissed Quentin on the cheek and then shot a glare in Margo’s direction. “I could talk about having sex with you forever.”

Margo scoffs. “You don’t say.”

Kady had occasionally gotten check-in texts from Alice for the last few months, assuring everyone that she was safe and having a good time, and now she was back; tanned, hair in a tight ponytail, wearing yoga pants and athletic shoes, and looking more relaxed than Eliot can ever remember seeing her.

Quentin had clearly been nervous to see her, but Alice had greeted him warmly and they’d shared a tentative but genuine hug.

For Eliot’s part, he and Alice had smiled and nodded politely at each other and moved along. Which is fine. They’ll get to a more comfortable place. Eventually. Whenever she’s ready. He’s certainly not going to push it.

Alice and Q seem to be bonding over the photos from her trip, Q bubbling with excitement and jealousy over all the dragons she’d met. Eliot tries to give them their space, and is pleasantly surprised to find that he doesn’t feel any anxiety or jealousy as he watches them smile and laugh together.

Not that he’d thought Alice would come back from her trip and Quentin would suddenly have a realization that it’s not you, El, it’s me…it’s been nice while it lasted, but actually, I realize now that I’ve always loved Alice and I always will and Eliot would say Of course, Q, I only want you to be happy, I’ll move out and go back to Fillory full-time, so you don’t have to worry about me…

Of course he would never have that completely ridiculous worry in the back of his mind. It’s not something he couldn’t keep out of his head in that weird middle-of-the-night headspace when he couldn’t sleep and felt helplessly compelled to watch Quentin as he slept, desperately listening for each inhale and exhale of breath, reassuring himself that he was back, he was alive.

He most absolutely had never had this worry.

It’s just simply…good to know. That if an intrusive thought such as that one had made its way into his head at any point, it was completely irrelevant.

Out of respect for Alice, Eliot makes an effort to hover on the periphery of that night’s group hang, knowing full well that if he’s anywhere near Quentin, he simply won’t be able to keep his hands to himself, and that’s not really something any ex, no matter how cordial, wants to see.

So he busies himself with preparing snacks and spends some time out on the balcony, sharing a quiet moment and a cigarette (both he and Quentin have mostly quit, but still indulge occasionally) with Julia. Eliot’s found when Quentin had been dead and that Julia is good company when you don’t feel like saying a lot.

She gives him a knowing glance as he steps out.

“A little awkward, huh,” she comments lightly, and Eliot nods. She passes him the lighter and blessedly doesn’t press the issue.

When they come back inside, Quentin is light and giddy, working on his third glass of wine.

“El,” he exclaims, his eyes lighting up like Eliot has been gone for days instead of thirty minutes. “I missed you. Come sit.”

Who is he to refuse Quentin anything?

They’re clearly not on the same page about the whole PDA thing, as Quentin plasters himself to Eliot’s side and practically crawls in his lap.

Alice makes no comment, but she’s busy talking to Penny at the moment, so she’s not really paying attention.

Quentin smiles up at him and holds up his glass.

“I’m um, a little tipsy,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret.

“You’re such a lightweight now,” Eliot muses, and Quentin giggles. “It’s cute.”

“Mm,” Quentin agrees and leans up for a kiss.

When Eliot turns his head and places a quick kiss on his forehead instead, because a little light cuddling may be fine, but full-on making out is another level, Quentin’s face falls.

It happens again when they’re gathered around the table and Eliot is serving dinner. Normally, when he drops Quentin’s plate off, he would lean down and press a quick kiss to his mouth in the process, to the eye rolls of everyone else. But it always made Quentin smile.

Tonight, with Alice sitting right across from Quentin, Eliot doesn’t deliver his normal kiss with the food.

Quentin is quiet, sipping his wine and staring moodily at his plate as they eat. He flinches away from Eliot’s touch against his wrist, an attempt to silently check on him.

“Q, are you okay?” Julia notices, of course, her protect-Quentin mode always on high alert.

Horrified, Eliot watches as Quentin’s eyes fill with tears.

“Um, excuse me, I have to—” he says, voice quavering, before he bolts out of the room.

Clearly acting on years-worth of instinct, Julia makes a move to stand to go after him, but checks herself and looks to Eliot like, you wanna take this?

It feels like a huge responsibility, a passing of the baton. He is now the designated person who checks on Quentin Coldwater.

He nods at her and gets up from the awkwardly silent table.

“So, hey, Alice, I’ve been wondering, what’s going on with dragons, like, sexually? I mean, do they fuck or what?” he hears Margo ask as he makes his way down the hall.

Quentin is in their room, pacing and brushing his hair behind his ears as tears roll down his cheeks.

“Q, what the fuck is going on—”

“Are you not—attracted to me anymore?” Quentin interrupts, sniffling between each word. “Do you want to break up with me?”

What?

“Um…sweetheart, we had sex this morning.”

“Yeah, but,” Quentin hiccups, “maybe you just felt sorry for me.”

Eliot tentatively approaches him and places steadying hands on his shoulders. “In case you don’t remember it clearly, because I sure do, you blew me.”

“You were just being nice, because you know how much I—how much I love it,” Q sniffles.

“Baby, I really do love that you think I’m that generous—”

“This isn’t funny,” Quentin practically wails. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Afraid to make any sudden movements, Eliot gingerly gathers Quentin into his arms and tucks his head under his chin.

“Shh, I wouldn’t dream of it. But you’re scaring me a little, baby. Can you help me out a little? Why would you think I want to break up with you? Hm?”

Quentin, even amidst his strange insistence that Eliot wants to leave him, sighs in relief and nuzzles his face against Eliot’s chest, surely streaking it with tears and snot. It’s one of Eliot’s favorites, but he truly couldn't care less.

“Because you wouldn’t kiss me,” Quentin mumbles, at least that’s what Eliot thinks he makes out, from where Quentin’s face is smashed against his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t kiss you? When—”

Quentin raises his head to level a watery glare at Eliot. “Just now. You didn’t let me kiss you on the couch and then at the table, you didn’t—and you always—”

He’s getting worked up again, so Eliot shushes him and presses a kiss to his lips. Quentin melts against him, sighing like it’s been years since they’ve had their mouths on each other.

“I don’t want to break up and I’m very much attracted to you, which I thought I was making pretty clear,” Eliot says gently, brushing another kiss against the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “But I can always redouble my efforts.The only reason I didn’t kiss you was because of Alice. Okay? That’s all. ”

Quentin frowns. “Who cares about Alice? What does Alice have to do with anything?”

And okay, it’s not nice at all, but Eliot’s not going to pretend that’s not an instant burst of whatever good hormone comes from unreasonable and slightly guilty pleasure right through his nervous system. So sue him.

“Well, Q, I just thought maybe PDA around your ex-girlfriend wouldn’t be the most classy thing in the world.”

“Um, technically? PDA stands for public display of affection? Last time I checked we were not in public. I should be allowed to kiss you in our home,” Quentin says, ever the adorable little pedant.

Eliot chuckles and brushes their noses together. “Can’t argue with that. Maybe you really should have gone to law school instead of Brakebills.”

“I’d be a great lawyer, actually,” Quentin grumbles, but he’s smiling.

“For the record though, counselor, I don’t want Alice to feel uncomfortable. I want you two to be friends, and I don’t want to do anything to ruin that. I know she’s important to you.”

Quentin blinks at him.

And then, it’s as if a switch has been flipped.

“You’re amazing. I love you so much,” Quentin is gasping against his mouth, practically climbing him. “I want—take my clothes off and fuck me. Please.”

He’s frantic, alternating between biting at Eliot’s neck and tugging at any piece of clothing he can grab; his own, Eliot’s, it doesn’t seem to matter.

“Baby, are you sure—” Eliot tries to ask, and Quentin moans and nips at his ear.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure, why aren’t you naked yet—”

The next thing he knows, Eliot is flat on his back with his pants and briefs pushed down around his ankles and shirt unbuttoned, which is as naked as Quentin has allowed him to get, despite his earlier demands.

Quentin himself has stripped down completely and is straddling Eliot’s thighs, his eyes heated and dark.

“I want…need you inside me,” he gasps, demanding. “El, please, can you—”

There’s a desperation in his voice that Eliot hasn’t heard in awhile, not since those first few days when they’d both had trouble believing they were alive and together, and sometimes Quentin would wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and begged Eliot to reassure him that everything was okay, that the monster was gone, and Eliot was here, and the best way to do that was to touch him, let him feel how much Eliot wants him.

He can’t say it hadn’t happened the other way around quite a few times as well.

More than understandable, given all they went through. But this…there seems to be no rhyme or reason behind it, Quentin’s sudden wildness. Just ten minutes ago they were sitting at dinner with their friends, who are all still out there, eating the pasta Eliot had cooked. Thank whatever god is in charge of gay sex that they’ve had a permanent silencing ward on their room for months now (after receiving several complaints from the others and one enthusiastic review from Margo).

“Okay, Q, hey, you know I’ll take care of you, right?” Eliot says, running his hands down Quentin’s sides in an effort to soothe him. “Just, let me get you ready first, okay? It’s gonna feel so good, baby, I promise.”

Quentin nods. “It’s always—mm, you always make it feel so good, you’re so—”

He really does love taking Eliot’s fingers, and Eliot loves to watch him, his back arched and his head thrown back as he moves his hips in quick little thrusts.

When Quentin sinks down on Eliot’s cock, he sighs “finally,” like Eliot had been making him wait hours and as if he hadn’t just been very enthusiastically getting fingerfucked.

“You are such a—” The brat that was next out of Eliot’s mouth never makes it, as he’s too busy trying to catch his breath and grasp Quentin’s hips for some kind of support as Quentin rides him like there’s no tomorrow.

Now, Eliot prides himself on being good at a great many things, but making sex enjoyable for his partner has to be number one. At least top five. But now, Eliot can’t even do anything except lie there and gaze up at Quentin in awe.

He has his hands braced on Eliot’s chest for leverage, and Eliot has an amazing view of his arms and shoulders, so defined and strong in his compact little frame. His body, like his face and everything else about him, is so confusingly perfect, like it shouldn’t be real, as if he was created in a lab specifically to be everything that drives Eliot absolutely desperate with desire.

Quentin’s eyes are closed in bliss as he moves, and the noises he’s making are so fucking hot, he’s so hot and tight and perfect, Eliot is really trying to make this last, but he feels out of control and helpless. And he wants to, he has to, make this good for Q.

“Baby, you have to—slow down, I’m—” Eliot gasps, but Quentin just moans and doesn’t let up at all.

If anything, this seems to push him over the edge.

“Yeah,” Quentin rocks forward, again and again. “Come on. I—wanna feel you, give it to me, please—”

And, well.

Quentin is making blissed out noises, as Eliot pulses inside him, but when Eliot is able to regain some form of brain power and open his eyes again, he sees Quentin is still hard and shifting restlessly in his lap.

“Q, I’m sorry,” he starts to say, but Quentin shakes his head.

“No, no, it was…so good, I wanted you to…just touch me, I’m so close,” he pleads as he pulls off as gently as possible and crawls up the bed for a kiss.

Eliot barely gets his tongue in Quentin’s mouth and a fist wrapped around his dick before Quentin is practically sobbing as he comes, hard, all over both of them and the sheets.

He collapses against Eliot’s chest, breathing hard, and as Eliot does a quick cleanup spell, he realizes that the ragged breaths Quentin is taking have turned into actual sobs.

For about the fifth time in the last hour, Eliot is absolutely at a loss.

“Are you—Q, hey, look at me, are you hurt? You need to talk to me, honey—”

Quentin shakes his head.

“I just,” he gulps. “I love you so much.”

“I know that. I love you too,” Eliot says, stroking his hand through Quentin’s hair. He tries not to make it sound like a question, because it’s not, he’s never been more sure of anything in his life, and the ease of saying it is still a bit of a marvel, but…what the fuck.

If anything, this just makes Quentin cry harder as he wraps his entire body around Eliot’s.

“I want to be with you forever, I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t—”

Eliot feels himself starting to tear up in response to the raw emotion in Quentin’s voice, like he loves Eliot so much he’s miserable about it.

It’s not like Quentin is a stranger to getting a little weepy after sex. He has always been prone to it, even back in Fillory, and it’s not just him. Eliot himself has a very clear memory of their first time together after Quentin’s resurrection; his face pressed to Quentin’s neck, hot tears stinging his eyes, as Quentin cradled the back of his head and whispered I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay, into his ear.

And crying for seemingly no reason isn’t exactly new territory in general, as Eliot has fifty-plus years of experience with Quentin’s depression under his belt.

But he can tell this is something different.

There’s nothing to do about it except hold him until he stops crying, so Eliot gathers him up as tightly as he can, and presses kisses to the top of his head, his face, anywhere he can reach, and assures him that they’re never going to be apart, nothing will ever take him away, and he’ll kill anyone who tries.

Some of that is not really in his control to promise, but they’ve literally defied death once before, and Eliot is more than willing to do it again.

Eventually, Quentin’s heartbreaking sobs turn to quiet sniffles, and finally to deep, even breaths as he falls asleep in Eliot’s arms.

Eliot manages to extract himself from Quentin’s grasp, and tucks the blankets around him firmly. Normally he’d never miss out on a chance to hold Quentin while he sleeps, but he absolutely has to talk to Margo immediately.

He makes his appearance back among the group and assures them that Quentin is fine, he just isn’t feeling well and has gone to bed early to recover. None of which is technically untrue.

Margo picks up on his we need to talk glance immediately, of course, and joins him for a conversation in the hallway. She responds to a (consolidated) re-telling of earlier events with less surprise than Eliot would’ve predicted.

“El,” she says carefully in a very-non Margo like way, “I kind of have an idea of what might be going on, but I think we need to bring someone else in on this one.”

“What? Who? Why would we—”

She ignores him to shout down the hall. “Hey Alice, could you come here for a second?”

“No! What are you doing?” Eliot hisses at her. The last thing he wants is for Alice to get involved with whatever this is.

“I need a reliable second opinion,” Margo says. “Since your ass is absolutely worthless.”

Alice arrives a few moments later, with a raised eyebrow and wry expression, as always.

“What’s up?”

She glances between them and Eliot makes a shrugging gesture in Margo’s direction.

She clears her throat and crosses her arms.

“Yeah, so, random question. How much do you remember about magic sex ed?”

-

Alice, unsurprisingly, has a book on the subject.

They retreat to Margo’s room, because, well, Eliot’s room is occupied by a sleeping Quentin, and maybe Alice thinks having Eliot in her room to discuss sex and Quentin, which is apparently what they’re doing, although no one has bothered to slow down to explain exactly what they’re even talking about, to be too weird.

They’d gotten as far as Eliot confirming that yes, Quentin had been ill a few weeks ago, with a cold and a fever, but it hadn’t been anything major, and that’s where he’d lost the thread.

“What the actual fuck does first year sex ed with Professor Lipson have to do with Quentin having a perfectly normal cold?” he insists.

“Well,” Alice says. “Maybe nothing. That’s what we’re trying to find out. Has Quentin been around a baby recently?”

Eliot frowns. “Like, a human baby? No?”

At least in this life, they don’t have many reasons to have close contact with children.

“I mean…” Margo jumps in. “Believe me, I know how batshit this sounds but. There’s Baby Yoda.”

Alice frowns. “Baby what?”

Right, she hadn’t been here for that, and has been even more off the grid than the rest of them these last few months.

So now to add to the absurdity of the whole situation, Margo now has to explain what and who Baby Yoda is, how just the sight of him (it’s a he, right? Eliot isn’t sure if the show has made this distinction) had sent Quentin into an emotional spiral, and that he isn’t alone; the internet is full of people going absolutely batshit with the desire to somehow parent this thing.

Of course, to fully get the full picture of what they’re dealing with, Margo has to pull out her phone and bring up some gifs—still photos don’t do it justice, she insists. Alice dutifully looks at them and even cracks a smile, but no one explains what Baby Yoda has to do with Quentin having a cold, or magic sex ed.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but,” Alice asks, flipping through the large tome in her lap. “I’m assuming you and Q aren’t using any protection?”

This really doesn’t feel like the kind of conversation they should have about Quentin without Q himself being present, but the last thing he needs right now is another reason to get upset. And Eliot would prefer to find out exactly what the fuck is happening before risking that.

“I. I mean, we’re in a committed relationship,” Eliot ventures, and Margo groans.

“No, you idiot, not that kind of protection. This is worse than I thought. Jesus, you really didn’t pay attention at all in that class, did you?”

This isn’t completely true, although it’s not far off. Eliot paid attention in their magical sexual education course for just enough time to learn the tuts for magical condoms, lube, and cleanup before he lost interest. What else could he possibly need to know? He does remember taking some notes on birth control and the morning-after spell, not for himself per say, but he and Margo would occasionally fool around with a willing boy and while Eliot himself typically didn’t engage in the type of sexual activity that would result in a possible pregnancy, he had to make sure he knew the basics, just in case it ever slipped Margo’s mind—it never did, but that’s what best friends are for.

“Let’s just assume I didn’t and go from there,” Eliot finally says, and Margo shakes her head in disappointment.

“Unbelievable.”

Alice is pouring over the book in her lap and nodding.

“It does all seem to fit, but if we’re saying that this uh, Yoda baby is the cause here…I don’t think non-physical transmission is completely unheard of, but it is extremely rare.”

“I mean, you should see some of the shit I saw on twitter; it’s widespread. And even I feel the slightest twinge of maternal instinct when I look at this thing and its giant ears. Poor little Q didn’t stand a chance.”

“Stand a chance against what?” Eliot practically yells.

Margo and Alice exchange glances.

“Baby fever,” Alice says, after a moment. “A selectively contagious curse that is spread by contact with children under the age of two. Well. Normally.”

Eliot experiences what he thinks might be a very small stroke.

“Um. hm. So that thing straight people talk about when they say their biological clock is ticking—”

“It’s a real thing,” Alice nods. “Non-magicians experience it, but not as strongly, and for obvious reasons, they don’t know what’s happening, so they chalk it up to…that. They’re not completely wrong, though.”

Jesus.

“You said, ah,” Eliot takes a deep breath. “Selectively contagious?”

“Well, yes. You’re only susceptible to it if you’re already emotionally open to the concept of having a baby. So, some people are completely immune, and others may be immune at one point and then later be open to catching it, and then immune again. It all depends on your particular circumstance. There are protective spells you can do for prevention, but you have to be aware of the need for them, which…isn’t always the case. Obviously.”

Eliot doesn’t really have an excuse, but Quentin’s first year had been so eventful and unpredictable, it’s understandable that he missed some details from this one class; hard to feel like magic sex ed is a priority when a powerful magician-turned-monster is determine to murder you and all of your friends.

“Don’t forget the part where you get it extra bad when you’re regularly boning the same person and not uh, wrapping it up,” Margo says oh so casually.

So much for Eliot’s very noble and well-intentioned plan to be respectful of Quentin’s ex-girlfriend and not flaunt their happily coupled bliss.

To her credit, Alice barely blinks.

“That’s also true. And…one of the symptoms is an increased sex drive. It all starts to snowball on itself, in a sense,” she confirms, consulting her book for confirmation. “Have you…noticed that Quentin has been, um, sorry, but particularly…amorous…recently?”

Margo lets out a snort of laughter.

“Not more than usual,” Eliot says, feeling uncontrollably smug beneath his discomfort, which yes, he acknowledges, and no, he is not proud of. “I mean, yes, but. That’s just…normal. For us.”

Alice raises her eyebrows and shrugs, as if saying fair enough.

“Okay, congratulations, you’re dicking down your boyfriend on the regular and he’s absolutely gagging for it—sorry Alice.”

Alice shrugs again.

But El,” Margo insists, impatient, “ tell her what you told me earlier, about the crying and the mood swings.”

Alice seems mildly amused that the evening’s drama had kicked off because of Eliot’s attempt to not offend her with blatant PDA, and does not react in any particular way to the information that Quentin had gone from crying to ragingly horny to crying again in that very brief time span.

“That tracks,” is all she has to say. “Consistent with a fairly severe case.”

Apparently, symptoms of a fairly severe case of baby fever include: emotional flares triggered by children or babies followed by headache, fever, cough and congestion, drowsiness, general mood swings, and the aforementioned increased sex drive.

Alright. Well. This certainly isn’t ideal, and it sounds like the experience has been mildly miserable for Quentin, but if there’s a curse, there has to be a countercurse, right?

“Ah,” Alice says, looking truly uncomfortable for maybe the first time, “Well. Not exactly. Don’t panic. There is a cure. But—”

“Okay, Alice, just for reference, telling someone not to panic and then throwing a but in there isn’t exactly comforting.”

Alice clears her throat. “Sorry. It’s just—well, the most informative text on the subject is highly gendered and heteronormative, so the standard cure is just to…get pregnant.”

Eliot definitely does not have any thoughts or feelings on that. Nope. None at all.

“Obviously that can’t always happen,” Alice valiantly continues. “So if someone’s partner is able to uh, conceive, that works too. And, despite some uh, traditionalist views to the contrary—”

“Meaning bigoted,” Margo chimes in, and Alice gestures to her in agreement.

“It’s been proven that adoption or other methods like IVF or a surrogate work just as well. But of course being emotionally open to having a baby doesn’t mean you’re ready uh, in a practical sense. At the moment or ever. Some people get a pet, or just spend a lot of time around children, both of which can help relieve the symptoms; it's possible to live perfectly normally with the more mild flare ups.”

What she’s not saying, then, is that the less mild flare ups are not really the type of shit you’d want to deal with long term.

Eliot nods, at a loss for any other reaction.

Margo places a comforting hand on his arm. “You doing okay there, sweetie?”

He is. He’s fine. And anyway, he’s not even the one she should be asking.

“I have to talk to Q,” he says. “It’s probably better if he hears it from me. And then we can. I don’t know, figure out—I want to let him sleep though, he was really tired. I should probably get back, so I’m there if he wakes up—”

He’s rambling and he knows it, but he thinks this is one of those times it’s acceptable.

Alice catches him in the hallway.

“Hey, Eliot, I just want to say that…it’s nice of you, trying to um, not make things awkward, with you and Q? But it’s really okay. I’m fine with it.

Of course she would say that, but—

“And I’m not just saying that,” she says, reading his mind. “Of course it’s still a little strange, but I spent the last few months really thinking about my life and myself and everything, and. Everything worked out the way it should. I’m good.”

She’s looking up at him, her expression clear and steady. Despite all they’ve been through, or maybe because of it, she has no reason to lie and he has no reason to not believe her.

“Okay,” Eliot says, finally.

She smiles. “I really do appreciate it, though. I hope Q and I can be friends. And…you too, if you’re at all interested in that.”

He is, and he tells her so, and then they’re both just standing there in what feels like mutual relief.

And then Alice heads back to the living room to rejoin the gang, and Eliot goes back to his bedroom and and he lies down next to Quentin—still mercifully asleep—and thinks about how weird it is that this was the conversation that wound up getting him and Alice to sort of bond, and wonders how the fuck he’s going to break the whole baby fever news to Quentin.

But at least he has until the morning to sleep on it.

-

Eliot plans to wake up early in preparation for the conversation to come, but he finds himself coming to with a soft kiss against his lips. He opens his eyes to find that not only is Quentin already awake, but his hair is damp from a recent shower; and he’s carrying a tray bearing breakfast in bed.

It’s something he loves doing, and Quentin loves to pretend to be embarrassed about being fussed over. His protestations are contradicted by his flushed cheeks and wide smile he can’t quite contain, and he always thanks Eliot so earnestly, both with his words and the soft, sweet kisses he presses to his lips between bites.

“I wanted to be the one to surprise you, for once,” Quentin says. “Um. I hope it’s okay. I kept it simple and Josh helped, so you shouldn’t be at risk for food poisoning or anything.”

Eliot, ridiculously, feels a lump start to swell in his throat. It shouldn’t be such a shock, by this point, that Quentin enjoys taking care of him, too.

He settles on the bed and watches anxiously as Eliot takes a bite—blueberry pancakes and bacon. He knows he’s going to love it even if it’s technically awful.

It’s not.

“This is delicious, Q, thank you so much. You did great,” Eliot says and Quentin’s eyes light up.

“Really? You’re not just being nice?”

Eliot laughs. “I promise. Here, try for yourself.”

So, yes, occasionally they are that disgusting couple that feeds each other pancakes in bed and kiss in between bites. He can already predict the eye rolling and gagging noises he’ll be met with when he tells Bambi later.

He almost forgets about the talk they need to have, and if Quentin has his way, they won’t be talking much for awhile, judging by the increased fervor of his kisses and the way his hands are wandering beneath the covers.

Eliot is so, so tempted to go along with the chain of events that are clearly being laid out for him, but as much as it physically pains him to stop kissing Quentin and not let Quentin continue to grab at his dick through his pajama pants, he owes it to him to not put this discussion off any longer.

“Hey, Q, hold on, we need to talk,” he says, and heroically ignores Quentin’s devastating pout.

When he’s extricated himself from Quentin’s emminently kissable mouth and grabby hands, Eliot shifts a safe distance across the bed and clears his throat.

“So, you know how you…weren’t feeling so well last night?”

Quentin frowns. “I mean…I guess I was a little emotional, but…”

“A little? Baby, you scared the shit out of me. So after you fell asleep, I talked to Bambi about how worried I was, and she thought we should ask Alice about it—”

“Alice? Why?”

Here it comes. Now or never.

“Well,” Eliot says. “You know how you're so um. Emotionally affected by Baby Yoda?”

He lays out the entire case as presented by Alice and Margo last night and watches as Quentin’s eyes get wider and wider.

By the time he finishes, Quentin is clutching a pillow to his chest and is staring into the distance, understandably at a loss for words.

“Q?” Eliot asks after a few minutes. “Are you okay? I know it’s a lot…I’m sorry I talked to Margo and Alice without you, I was just worried and didn’t want to wake you up…then all of a sudden they were just bombarding me with information.”

He scoots back over into Quentin’s space and places a hand on his back.

His touch seems to bring Quentin back from wherever his mind had wandered to, and Eliot sighs in relief when Quentin shakes his head.

“No, god, I would have probably died of embarrassment if I’d been there, so it’s for the best.”

That’s the last thing Eliot wants him to feel, ever, but especially about this.

“Hey, come on. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It could happen to anyone.”

Quentin laughs, but he doesn’t sound amused. “I mean, according to what you just told me, that’s literally not true? It doesn’t happen to everyone.”

The simple truth is that Quentin isn’t like everyone else, and he never has been, and Eliot is grateful for it every day. But he’s not sure Quentin would receive that sentiment in the way it’s intended right now, so Eliot settles on something else.

“I guess you’re right. But that doesn’t mean you did anything wrong. There’s nothing to feel bad about here, Q, okay?”

“It’s funny,” Quentin says, his voice distant, as if Eliot hadn’t said anything at all, “But I do remember this from class. Like, vaguely. Professor Lipson was obviously grossed out by the whole concept and I just remember thinking…wow, that sucks, good thing I can’t ever imagine it happening to me.”

Quentin’s voice is full of self-derision, maybe for his younger self, so naive, or maybe his current self, for failing to uphold that certainty. Knowing Quentin, it’s probably both. But who could have imagined any of the things that have happened to Quentin, to all of them, since his first year at Brakebills?

Especially…

“A lot has changed since then,” Eliot starts, hesitant. “I mean, you…you’ve been a dad.”

It’s not that they’ve never talked about Teddy. They have. Mostly early on, when they’d just brought Quentin back and Eliot had finally, finally gotten the chance to say all the things he’d practiced while trapped in his own head. Late at night, when neither of them could sleep, too afraid to take their eyes off each other, they’d whispered about their memories of life at the mosaic, Arielle, and Teddy, their grandchildren, as if reassuring each other it all happened, they’d actually spent all those years creating a home and a family and loving each other, the whole time.

And they’ve talked about Eliot’s hangups, too—how his bullshit with his own dad made him hesitant of his own abilities to be a parent, how he’d worried sometimes that Teddy could never see him as more than just a fun uncle who happened to live with them. He made sure Quentin heard all of it.

So while it’s certainly not a taboo subject, or an unwelcome one, it’s still tender. Especially now.

Predictably, Quentin blinks back tears, but he reaches for Eliot’s hand, and squeezes, tight, and breathes through it.

“Yeah,” he says, after a moment, his voice tight. “And that’s why…I mean, I know that wasn’t exactly…it just sort of happened, and I never really asked if that’s what you wanted—And, I know, I know, we’ve talked about this, I know you loved—love Teddy and you were so happy to be his dad. But I…um. I really wanted, if you know, this is something we wanted to consider, this time, I’m not just assuming that you—”

His breaths are coming faster again, in quick little gasps, and Eliot pulls him closer, wraps an arm around his waist.

“Hey, Q, it’s okay, I know—”

Quentin shakes his head. “No, but. I really just, um. When this uh, topic came up I didn’t want it to be…this way. It’s not something that anyone should—feel forced into.”

“You’re not forcing me into anything,” Eliot says, and he presses a kiss to Quentin’s cheek in reassurance. “You know how much I love you, right?”

“I love you too,” Quentin sniffles. “And I don’t want anything to mess this up. Which is why I think…for now I think it’s best if we just. Focus on managing the symptoms and uh. Seeing how that goes. It hasn’t been anything too bad yet. I think our neighbors downstairs just adopted a dog? I could see if they’d let me take it out for walks and stuff? And I don’t know, maybe—”

This is of course the reasonable option, which is why the odd twinge of what feels suspiciously like disappointment is so strange. Maybe he’s picking up on something in Quentin, experiencing sympathetic fever symptoms. That’s a thing, right? He’ll have to remember to borrow Alice’s book on the subject. Later.

-

The downstairs neighbors—a nice middle-aged couple named Kristen and Joel—as it turns out, are thrilled to have someone volunteer to take their dog out for regular walks and to the little dog park around the corner while they’re at work.

Bailey the dog, a sweet, scrappy little mutt with an underbite, is even more thrilled, and Quentin always returns from his doggy play dates grinning and relaxed, his cheeks and ears pink from the cold.

Check in the column for effective fever remedies.

Even more effective, despite not providing any physical contact with a baby—human, canine, or otherwise—are repeated marathons of the Baby Yoda Show, which has conveniently just started a new season.

Effective according to Quentin, anyway.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Eliot ventures, earning himself a glare. “I’m just saying, from my perspective, it seems like a mostly stressful experience. You can’t get through an episode without crying because you’re so worried about the baby. Who is in constant danger.”

“Mando is doing the best he can. Stop being so judgmental. Space is just inherently dangerous, Eliot,” Quentin insists, arms crossed.

“Exactly my point.”

Ultimately, they require Alice to weigh in.

“It’s hard to say,” she shrugs. “It could go either way. But it seems like the benefits are outweighing the negatives, at least for now. And, within reason, stress as experienced through fiction can be cathartic.”

“Ha,” Quentin says; it’s obnoxious how cute he is when he’s being smug. “Two to one. You’re outvoted, El.”

Quentin certainly knows his own symptoms and how his body is reacting to the curse better than anyone else, and, as he repeatedly points out he is a grown adult who can make his own decisions. He’s been having some mild headaches and drowsiness, but nothing too terrible, according to his own reports.

But still. Eliot later expresses his continued concern to Margo, who shrugs. “I mean, it’s a Disney show. When you get right down to it, how bad could it be? Not that they haven’t gone dark in the past, but, in today’s economy? That little green baby is their money maker.”

She has a point there, right? If anyone knows the current state of nerd media, it’s Margo.

She also shares some of her research on the incredible effect Baby Yoda is having on the general population, in an attempt to show Quentin is not alone.

“Fuck, Margo, why the hell did you send me this article about all these people who want to um…breast feed Baby Yoda? I don’t—”

“Look, I’m not judging! I’m just saying, you shouldn’t feel bad. That adorable little bastard is a fuckin’ public health hazard.”

Quentin drops his phone like it’s burned him. “Hah. Wow. Well…thank you? I guess?”

Prior to heading back to Fillory, Margo also weighs in on another subject.

“The last thing we need around here is two of you causing trouble,” she says, nodding toward the living room where Quentin is sitting with Julia. “I’m insisting on a preventative baby curse spell.”

It takes Eliot a second to realize that she’s referring to him.

“Oh, Bambi, I appreciate your concern, but we’ve talked about it, and I don’t think that’s—”

“Listen, dumbass. I don’t want to hear it. From where I’m sitting, there’s just as much of a risk to you as there was to him.”

Eliot doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. She can read his face better than anyone.

“I don’t think this curse works on logic and rational conversations. It’s about your feelings. Which sometimes you can’t do shit about. Believe me, I’d give my left tit for those to be controllable,” Margo says, her eyes serious and determined.

Of course she’s right. She always is. And, just in case he’s not fully convinced, she has perhaps the most convincing argument saved for last.

“And at the very least, wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry? If you want to be able to take care of Q, you can’t be feeling sick, too. I know you’d be fucking pissed at yourself if you let that happen.”

Eliot sighs. “Alright, touche. Hit me. How do we do this?”

It’s a simple enough spell, and Margo, always prepared to win an argument, has it at the ready. She’s always been such a quick study, his clever Bambi.

“Shall I do the honors?” she says, flexing her perfectly manicured fingers.

“As if I’d let anyone else literally take my health and wellness into their literal hands.”

It’s all over in a minute or two, and Eliot’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he doesn’t feel any different afterwards. There’s a strand of flickering blue light, as if a string is being tightened around him, but other than that, nothing.

“That’s it?” he asks. “Are you sure it worked?”

She gives him a look. “Bitch, are you questioning my spellwork? When have I ever failed to perform?”

She never has and never will, at least not in Eliot’s eyes. She informs him that the spell should hold for awhile, though it's not permanent, and eventually he’ll need to re-up, like a magical booster shot.

Margo takes her leave with a firm kiss to Eliot’s cheek and then his mouth, followed by an order to keep their boy safe and to make sure he’s getting his rest and the proper fluids.

“And by fluids,” she adds. “I’m of course referring to—”

“Jesus, Bambi. Yes, I got it. Now you better get back to Fillory, I’m sure they’re desperately missing you.”

It goes without saying that Eliot will be desperately missing her the entire time she’s gone, but that’s just the reality of their very modern multi-world split housing arrangement. She was born to be High King of Fillory, in a different way than Eliot was. And Eliot…well, Fillory had been there for him when he’d needed it; now he’s needed here. And there’s nowhere he’d rather be, than wherever Quentin is.

-

Later that night, as they’re preparing for bed, Eliot realizes he hasn’t mentioned that Margo had performed the preventative spell on him. Not that it’s something to hide. It just hadn’t come up, that’s all.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and Quentin gives a frustrated sigh.

“I’m fine. Mostly just…tired for no reason. And one of those headaches that’s so lowkey you sort of forget it’s there because it starts to just feel normal?”

Eliot is all too familiar. That was pretty much his default state throughout his illustrious career at Brakebills. A constant stream of alcohol, drugs, and sleepless nights involving other bad choices with questionable people. In Fillory, as High King, there had been too much to worry about to pay attention to something as trivial as his health, physical or otherwise.

It wasn’t until the mosaic that he’d realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt good. Physical or otherwise.

“I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning after I take Bailey to the dog park. I think, you know, maybe if we can just get a dog? I’ll be okay?” Quentin says, and it’s clear he really wants it to be true. “Too bad Kady gave that puppy to her hedge friend. Bad timing, huh?”

Once they’ve gotten into bed, Eliot knows there’s not much time before Quentin becomes too tired to process any information—if anything, the baby fever has done wonders for his ability to fall asleep quickly, which has sometimes been a struggle.

“Hey, Q, I just…I wanted to tell you something..”

Quentin is on his side, his body curled towards Eliot’s.

“Okay,” he says, blinking sleepily.

Why is Eliot nervous? This isn’t bad news. It’s not good news either, it’s just. Neutral. There’s no reason to feel any particular way about it.

“Okay. I just wanted to let you know that. I had Margo do the preventative spell for me before she went back to Fillory.”

There’s no need to say preventative spell for what, and Quentin now looks wide awake.

“Oh.”

Eliot waits.

“I didn’t know that you um,” Quentin continues. “I mean, I guess I didn’t think about that.”

It seems like there’s more he wants to say, but he doesn’t, but maybe that’s just Eliot projecting.

“Bambi pointed out that it’s better to be safe, just in case. We have enough to worry about already.”

No, Eliot wasn’t just projecting. There’s definitely a lot more Quentin wants to say.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, that. It makes sense. Just you know, definitely the logical thing to do. It’s good,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like he actually thinks it’s good.

He lies there, jaw working and eyebrows drawn together, and he’s staring at some spot over Eliot’s shoulder.

“Honey, I’m not a mindreader and I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but you actually seem like you’re upset about it,” Eliot says, after a few minutes of Quentin refusing to look at him.

As if on cue, Quentin’s eyes fill with tears and he frantically rubs at his face.

“I am,” he sniffles. “I am upset about it, and it’s so stupid.”

“It’s not stupid—”

“Yes it is. I don’t want to be upset. I logically know that it was the best thing to do and there’s absolutely no fucking reason I should be mad at you. But—”

“But?”

Eliot reaches out to soothe him, but Quentin brushes him off.

“But my stupid—body or hormones or whatever the fuck, doesn’t seem to understand that. Even though I know it’s—I don’t want to feel this way, but the only thing I can think right now is that I…I wish you hadn’t done that spell so maybe you could…be here with me and I wouldn’t be going through this alone.”

Somewhat at a loss now that Quentin doesn’t want to be touched, Eliot just sits there and waits. He isn’t alone, he’s never alone, but he knows that alone means something different right now.

“And um. That honestly makes me feel like shit?” Quentin continues, letting the tears run freely down his cheeks now. “Because obviously I don’t want you to get sick. I would never—but I guess I do, in a way? So I’m mad at you, and mad at myself for being mad at you, and I just fucking hate it.”

It’s not easy to hear and Eliot would be lying if he tried to claim it didn’t hurt a little, in that same illogical place Quentin is coming from.

He can ignore it. Quentin, in his heightened emotional state, can’t. It’s actually a perfect example of what Margo was talking about earlier; he needs to be thinking clearly, to let Quentin feel whatever he needs to feel right now.

“Q, it’s okay—”

“No, it isn’t!” Quentin shouts. “God, it’s even pissing me off how nice you’re being about this. You should be annoyed! I’m being an absolute nightmare and you’re just like it’s okay? It’s like you don’t—like you don’t even care.”

It’s the literal opposite, but Eliot thinks Quentin knows that. The problem is he doesn’t feel it right now, and there’s nothing Eliot can do to change that.

Quentin hastily sits up and draws back the blankets.

“I can’t be here right now. It’s too hot. Why is it so fucking hot in here? I’m going to sit outside on the balcony. Don’t—I want to be alone.”

Eliot hadn’t realized that he’d even moved, but he’s halfway out of the bed already. He forces himself to sit back down.

“Just be sure to take a sweater, okay? It’s cold,” is all he says, for lack of anything better.

Quentin nods and grabs both a sweater—one of Eliot’s, oversized on Quentin and his favorite to wear around the house—and a book. He quietly shuts the bedroom door behind him.

He still isn’t back when Eliot finally falls asleep.

-

Quentin had eventually slept on the couch, which was fine, except that everyone else in the penthouse noticed when they got up and made their way out of their respective rooms, and now they all know that something is up.

They’re all careful not to mention it, and Eliot knows they think there was a fight, and there’s no way to explain that’s really true. Maybe that was the problem; Quentin had seemed like he wanted a fight.

For his part, Quentin is quiet and clearly embarrassed, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and still wearing Eliot’s sweater.

Eliot’s instinct is to greet him with a kiss, but stops himself when he remembers that last night Quentin hadn’t wanted that. It puts him off kilter; he and Quentin spend so much time touching each other in casual ways, on instinct, and it’s not something he even thinks about until they’re not doing it.

They’re also not exactly not talking, but Eliot has no idea what to say, or what Quentin even wants him to say, if anything. Their discussion topics are limited to smalltalk bullshit, as if they’re casual acquaintances who happen to be living in the same apartment.

It’s an awkward morning all around, and Quentin doesn’t seem to be feeling well, which is confirmed when he and Julia are in the kitchen grabbing breakfast. According to Julia, Quentin had become distressed at discovering a bag of baby carrots in the fridge, wondering why anyone thought that was a good name for a product and we eat them like it’s nothing, Jules, that’s so fucked up.

“So, I’m gonna accompany him on his doggy outing,” she tells Eliot. “I hope that’s okay. I don’t want to pry, but it kind of seems like you guys are having a little bit of a weird moment?”

“You could say that,” Eliot confirms.

Julia and Quentin head out to walk the dog. Alice retreats to her room after answering her phone with a roll of her eyes. Definitely her mom.

There’s plenty Eliot could do around the apartment, but sort-of-fighting-but-not-really with Quentin just makes him feel off kilter. Instead, he joins Penny and Kady, who are watching re-reruns of House Hunters and berating every young couple buying their first house with a small budget and laughably unrealistic expectations.

“Fuckin’ morons,” Kady rolls her eyes “They’re gonna choose the one with the pool even though it’s ugly as shit and an hour commute from the guy’s job in the city.”

Obviously they aren’t going to live in this penthouse, which Eliot had no say in decorating, with their friends forever. Would Q ever want to move out of the city? Would they want to embark on the nightmare of New York real estate? Of course, Eliot wouldn’t be caught dead buying any of these basic cookie cuter places they show on House Hunters. Maybe they could get a nice townhouse, something he could really remodel an customize—they would definitely need somewhere with plenty of light and maybe a little breakfast nook, and a enough bedrooms for—

“I can’t take this shit anymore,” Penny groans. “I think Antiques Roadshow is on.”

“Oh hell yeah,” Kady says, reaching for the remote.

Their normie taste in tv is slightly amusing, given their, well, everything, but it makes sense. Both of their lives have been so unpredictable and full of the kind of shit they make sci-fi and fantasy shows about. The normality of vanilla reality shows is really the ultimate form of escapism.

He wonders if they’ve talked about having kids. He’s sure they’re all set up with protection against baby fever and any other preventable related curses. Kady has been around magic all her life and he knows she wouldn’t fuck around with this kind of thing.

He could ask them, but that would be weird. Surely some breach of friendship etiquette. Wouldn’t it? Or maybe it would be perfectly fine; Eliot isn’t exactly well versed in the types of conversations you have with your social circle when you’re all adults and in relationships and things like kids and the future are in play. Eliot never thought he’d be here, in a lot of ways.

Kady recognizes one of the items on Antiques Roadshow as a hedge artifact, which is apparently something that happens fairly often.

“I just take her word for it, for all I know she’s fucking with me,” Penny tells Eliot.

Kady shakes her head.

“Not fucking with you. They’re gonna blow up that whole convention center if they don’t stop fucking around with that music box,” she warns ominously.

“Gonna go ahead and assume that since the episode made it to air, nothing exploded while they were filming.”

The mysterious hedge music box is appraised at a mere $50.

“Idiots,” Kady mutters.

-

The afternoon passes by in a haze of endless episodes. Alice wanders in and out, and Julia sends a text to the group chat informing them that she and Q have made a day of it post-dog walk and they’re grabbing an early dinner. Which is fine. They should spend time together.

Eliot doesn’t feel like cooking. No one else except Josh ever feels like cooking, and Josh is back in Fillory, baking royal scones, or whatever exactly he does there. Margo claims he’s useful and Eliot supposes it must be true; she’s not one to give credit where it’s not due.

They order pizza.

Everyone else in the neighborhood seems to have the same idea, because the pizza has recently arrived and they’re just digging in, standing around the kitchen island, when Julia and Q—finally—walk in the door.

Eliot isn’t sure what to expect, but Quentin smiles at him, a little hesitant and shy, but so beautiful, as always, and all Eliot can think is I missed him so much. Which is…absurd. It has been less than twelve hours since they last saw each other.

But it’s been almost a whole day since Eliot has kissed him or touched him, and well, apparently he’s just the kind of person who misses their boyfriend after not seeing him for a perfectly reasonable amount of time. Nothing he can do about it now.

They definitely need to talk, but for now, it’s nice to just listen to Julia recount the day, and have Quentin stand across from him and know that it’s going to be fine.

Q and Julia had taken the dog for a long walk in the park, and then dropped him off at home and headed to lunch at their favorite ramen place before visiting the Met “for old times’ sake.”

Eliot knows all about Quentin’s nostalgic love for the Met, the sight of many school field trips and weekend trips into the city with his dad, where he and Julia would run through the galleries and pretend they were in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

Eliot only vaguely remembers the title as one that the socially regressive Parent Teacher Association in his town had tried to get banned from school. When Quentin fills him in, he wishes he’d read it as a kid. Running away to New York had always been a cherished dream of his. And Quentin’s, too.

“The Met?” Eliot remembers teasing him. “Like where they eat lunch on Gossip Girl?”

“Okay, that would play better if I didn’t already know very well that you and Margo religiously attend their costume exhibit every year. Ugh.”

He’s glad Quentin had a nice day out with his friend, and it seems like the weirdness of the morning has dissipated—that is, until Eliot reaches for another slice of pizza and takes a bite. He hears a strange noise from across the counter and looks up to see Quentin staring at him, looking pained.

Eliot is, once again, at a loss.

Julia notices too.

“Q? Are you feeling okay? Maybe I shouldn’t have let you eat that third hot dog just now.”

Quentin shakes his head. “No, um, it’s not that. I just feel, blah, you know, I think I just need to—take a shower. Yeah. I’m gonna go do that. Long day and uh, city grime and everything…”

With that, he very deliberately does not hurry out of the room and pads down the hallway.

There may be more going on, but he likely is low on energy after being out and about all day, they actually do hear the shower starting a minute later, so that’s something.

“It was a long day,” Julia comments quietly. “I could tell he was getting tired, but he was powering through. Lots of incredibly cute babies wearing adorable winter hats. We saw these identical triplets in the park, wearing matching outfits, and he had to go sit down on a bench for…awhile to recover.”

Quentin finishes his shower and does not come back out to join them.

“He was worried you were mad at him,” Julia says to Eliot, her voice low, when everyone else is talking about something else. “I think that was weighing on him.”

Eliot sighs.

“I’m not.”

She laughs. “I figured. But you know how he gets. Even without the added emotional complication of baby fever.”

“I don’t know whether to give him space or—”

“Been there. But, just for the record, I think he’d like it if you go check on him. I could tell he really missed you today.”

Noted. They’re both being stupid. He thanks Julia with a kiss to her forehead and heads to the bedroom.

-

The lights are on, but Quentin is in bed, curled on his side, his back to the door. He’s making breathy, gasping noises and shifting restlessly.

At first, Eliot thinks he’s crying. Then he realizes—

“Oh,” he says, the door clicking shut behind him, and Quentin turns to look at him. His face flushes with embarrassment and something else.

“Do you want me to stay?” Eliot asks, which isn’t something he’d ever assume Quentin didn’t want, in the past, but these are odd times.

There’s a brief moment where Quentin just stares and Eliot honestly has no idea what he’s thinking, but then he’s gasping, “Yes, yes, please, touch me—” and Eliot is across the room and on the bed, and Quentin is rolling onto his back to pull Eliot down to him.

“Why were you hiding in here?” Eliot asks between kisses. “Why didn’t you come get me, if you needed—”

Quentin moans and slides his hands under the back of Eliot’s shirt. “Because…I thought maybe you were mad at me, and... it’s embarrassing—”

“Q, I was never mad at you. And since when is jerking off embarrassing?”

Quentin nips at Eliot’s earlobe and nuzzles at his jaw.

“Because it’s…mm, you smell so good, I…um, it’s like, not normal to just be standing around and then get uncontrollably horny out of nowhere because of something that’s not—fuck, not sexy at all.”

“Which was?” Eliot asks, shifting so he’s kneeling fully between Quentin’s—unfortunately still clothed—thighs.

Quentin mutters something incomprehensible against Eliot’s lips.

“What was that? I’m trying to think—you came in and we were talking about your day and I was—Quentin.”

“Um—” Quentin squirms underneath him.

“Did you get a boner from watching me eat pizza?” Eliot asks, delighted.

Quentin looks absolutely mortified. “Well. Look. Now you know why I had to leave! It’s completely—pizza is like the least erotic food, I don’t even know why—”

Eliot is trying not to laugh, but it’s very difficult. He loves Quentin so much.

“Did you jerk off in the shower, baby? Hmm? Did you touch yourself and think about me?” he asks teasingly.

Quentin nods, eyes wide, and suddenly Eliot doesn’t feel like laughing.

“Oh,” he breathes out. “But…”

He snakes a hand down Quentin’s body, to where his dick is very obviously hard, straining against the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Hm. Seems like it didn’t help much.”

Quentin lets out a high-pitched noise as Eliot wraps his hand around him.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Eliot coos, relishing the way just this has made Q desperate for it, gasping and trying to thrust up into Eliot’s hand. “I’m here now.”

“Yeah—god, but um, wait. Don’t you think we should—like, talk? After last night—” Quentin babbles.

Eliot has no idea where he gets the presence of mind. It’s honestly impressive.

“We should talk, yes, but how about you let me take care of you first? You need to give your body what it needs. I’ll make you feel so good, and then later, when you’re feeling more relaxed, we can talk. Okay?”

Quentin nods again, breathing hard, and Eliot presses a kiss to his open mouth. “Good boy. What were you thinking about during that shower of yours, huh? You want my mouth?”

“Mm…yeah, I…want you to…”

Eliot loves when he’s like this, so turned on, and yet still so sweetly why about saying exactly what he wants Eliot to do to him, even though he’s not shy at all when it comes to the actual act.

“Want you—your mouth and then I want you to—fuck, El, please…”

Eliot smiles gently down at him and decides to have mercy. “You want me to open you up with my tongue and then let you come on my dick? Is that what you want, sweetheart?”

Quentin’s moan is answer enough.

“Good,” Eliot says, and pushes himself up and off of Quentin’s body. “Now hold that thought.”

“No,” Quentin pouts. “What? Why? Where are you going?”

“Well, as sexy as I know me eating pizza was to you—”

“God, shut up, I’m literally cursed right now, I can’t help it—”

Eliot leans down to press a quick kiss to Quentin’s forehead.

“I know, baby. But you’re lying there all nice and clean for me, and I need to return the favor and go brush my teeth.”

“You taste fine,” Quentin insists. Bless him.

“Well, I strive to do better than fine. Your body is a temple, and I must make myself worthy.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, but Eliot is only half joking. Maybe less than half.

“Well maybe when you get back I won’t even be in the mood anymore. Maybe I’ll be asleep,” Quentin grumbles, rolling onto his stomach and wrapping his arms around a pillow.

“Okay baby,” Eliot agrees. “See you in a minute. Why don’t you take your clothes off while I’m gone. Get ready for me?”

Quentin glares at him.

He’s playing it cool but it is a small torture to actually walk out of the room. But Quentin does deserve the best, and it’s Eliot’s cherished responsibility to make sure he gets it.

Quentin may be impatient right now, but he’s the one who had bought them each electric toothbrushes—which Margo hailed as “so disgustingly couple-y” and declared they were “nightmares.”

Anyway, he’s only obeying Quentin’s desire for them to take better care of themselves because “dental hygiene is important, Eliot, did you know that gum disease can kill you?” so be careful what you wish for. And really, he knows Quentin loves it, lying there, waiting impatiently for Eliot to come back and give him what he needs, knowing that the wait is only going to make it better.

A thorough two-minute brush and quick mouthwash rinse later and Eliot is satisfied that he no longer reeks of garlic and onion.

“Hey, is he okay?”

That’s Julia, popping out of nowhere as Eliot is making his way back to the bedroom.

He has come to adore Julia and her well-intentioned busybodying, but right now—

“Yeah, he’s good, nothing to worry about, he’s just…resting,” Eliot says in a rush. As much as he loves Julia, he's standing in the hallway with an obvious erection. Because he’s about to go thoroughly ravish her best friend.

“Are you sure?” she frowns. “I’ve been worrying that maybe we overdid it today.”

Eliot slowly starts to inch his way to the bedroom door. This is his punishment for teasing Quentin. He’s being karma-ed to death.

“Ah, no, all good here. We’re just. Going to call it an early night. Just, ah. Relax.”

Something about his tone causes Julia to tilt her head, and he watches as her expression changes from worry to amusement.

“Oh,” she says knowingly. “Got it. Okay. Well. I won’t keep you. Uh. Have fun.”

She gives him an incredibly awkward fist tap on the shoulder as if she’s a football coach saying go get ‘em, champ. Or at least that’s what Eliot imagines; his only experience with the intricacies of football are episodes of Friday Night Lights. Well. Not counting that time in high school where he’d blown the captain of the team behind the bleachers and been relentlessly bullied the rest of the school year for his efforts.

Julia half walks, half shimmies away, and Eliot shakes his head fondly.

Back in the bedroom, he finds Quentin still lying on his stomach, eyes closed, hair fanned out on the pillow.

He has, however, listened to Eliot’s instructions, and is gloriously naked. All Eliot’s Julia knows we’re in here fucking comments fly out of his head.

“Thought you were gonna go to sleep,” Eliot teases as he leans against the door to close it.

Quentin opens his eyes and gives a slow smile. Eliot’s heart skips a beat.

“Mm. Well, I figured it would be rude after you made such an effort.”

Helplessly drawn to him, Eliot makes his way to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes.

“Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re so generous.”

He hovers over Quentin, smooths a hand down his bare back, brushes the hair off the back of his neck so he can lean down to kiss it.

Quentin gasps and continues gasping as Eliot does it again, then moves his way down.

“You should get another tattoo,” he whispers against Quentin’s skin. “Same place. Right here.”

Quentin huffs out a laugh. “Why? It’s not like I could even see it.”

Eliot traces his tongue around the memory of the tattoo; it’s not there anymore, as Quentin’s new body had come without his old marks and scars, his skin somehow even smoother than it had been before.

“For me,” he says, breathless at just the thought. “It was so hot.”

Quentin’s body jerks a little and then stills. “Oh.”

Eliot makes a mm noise in agreement and continues kissing his way down Quentin’s spine, then even lower. His ass is so perfect. It’s impossibly perfect.

He’d love to keep teasing, draw it out, but they’ve both been waiting long enough, and Quentin’s health literally depends on it, after all.

Soon, Quentin is whimpering into the pillow and helplessly rubbing against the mattress as Eliot licks and works his tongue into him. He cries out in protest when Eliot pulls away, but he’ll appreciate it in a minute or two.

“How do you want me?” Eliot asks, and this time, Quentin doesn’t need any prompting to show him exactly.

He wants to be on his knees, tightly gripping the headboard for leverage, while Eliot thrusts into him from behind, holds him to his chest, and sucks a bruise into the curve of his neck.

It’s so good like this, with Quentin pushing back onto his dick, matching his every thrust. Taking what he wants. Eliot hasn’t even touched his dick yet.

“Is this what you needed, baby?” Eliot gasps out, his mouth against Quentin’s ear. “You feel so good—you’re—”

“Yeah,” Quentin groans. “It’s so—can you…mm, hold me, like this—”

He reaches back and grasps for Eliot’s hand and brings it up to the base of his throat.

Oh. Slowly, gently, Eliot curls his hand around the gorgeous column of his neck. For a moment, he just holds it there, feeling Quentin’s heart beating wildly against his palm, even as Quentin’s body is so, so still.

Eliot squeezes, not hard, but enough.

“Like that?” he asks, his voice low and strained.

In response, Quentin’s eyes roll. He groans, nods, moves his hand back to the headboard, and starts to move again.

“Holy—fuck, Q, I’m—”

Eliot keeps one hand at his throat, steady pressure, and grips Quentin’s hip with the other, so hard he’ll probably leave bruises there as well as on the pale skin of Quentin’s neck. Everyone will know, they’ll all see that he gave Q what he needed. He thrusts, hard, and he feels it in his fucking cheekbones and teeth.

The headboard rattles as they move, as Quentin holds on for dear life, his knuckles turning whte with the effort.

“El,” he gasps. “I’m…like that, right there, please, I’m—”

And Eliot does, and he squeezes his hand around Quentin’s throat, hard this time, and then Quentin is coming, and Eliot moves his hand to his dick and works him through it.

But Quentin doesn’t stop moving, and in fact seems more determined than ever as he arches his back and moves his hips.

“I want to feel it, I want—inside me, El, come on—”

He wants to give Quentin what he wants; and what Quentin wants, is for Eliot to fill him up, his body needs it, because Quentin loves it anyway, but especially now, Eliot thinks wildly, blood rushing to his ears, he needs it, because his body wants Eliot to give him a baby—

Eliot comes, so unexpectedly that he has to wrap both arms around Quentin’s waist to steady himself, and Quentin tilts his head back and brings one hand up to the side of Eliot’s face and draws him down for a messy kiss.

They collapse on the bed and Eliot’s mind is carefully blank.

Quentin is smiling dreamily, and he tucks himself against Eliot’s chest and sighs contentedly.

“Love you,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to anywhere he can reach. “So good to me. No one else has ever—”

Eliot wraps his arms around him and when Quentin leans up for a kiss, his eyes are bright and shiny with tears, but it’s not the uncontrollable sobbing of a few weeks before. That has to be a good sign, Eliot thinks, and relishes the way Quentin makes the sweetest, happiest noises every time Eliot strokes his hair or the soft skin of his lower back.

There might be a crash later, after he comes down from the emotional and physical high, but for now, the fever is placated.

It’s normal to get turned on at the theoretical idea of knocking up your boyfriend. Right? It has to be. It’s a separate thing from actually wanting to have said theoretical child. Eliot is sure if he googles it, he’ll find a bunch of people who will back him up.

Either way, that’s a problem for future-him. After a nap. He and Quentin both deserve it.

-

When Eliot wakes up, Quentin is staring at him.

“Hi,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“I’m sorry I thought you were mad at me,” Quentin replies. “And, well. Being upset that you weren’t mad at me before that. I’ve been such a pain in the ass lately. Even more than usual, I mean. I know putting up with me is—”

Eliot reaches out and places a finger against his lips.

“Hey. I’m not putting up with you. I’m not going anywhere You’d have to force me away. White Fang style.”

Quentin snorts out a laugh into his pillow. “Wow, romantic.”

Eliot makes a humming noise in agreement and leans over to kiss him.

“But really,” he says. “I love you and I love taking care of you.”

“I know you do. I just. I think it bothered me so much that you weren't more upset is, like…I feel like I’m always the one freaking out and you have to calm me down. I just. Want to take care of you sometimes too,” Quentin shrugs.

“Baby,” Eliot reaches out to draw Quentin closer. “You do. Every day. You don’t even know you’re doing it, it’s just…how you are.”

Quentin looks on the verge of tears again. He sniffles.

“Um. Okay. That’s good then.”

They just lie there for a minute, looking at each other and Eliot is about to suggest they go see if there’s any pizza left from earlier, because he really didn’t get a chance to eat all that much before Q became too horny to live, when Quentin clears his throat.

“You know that if you had been upset with me—I know, I know you weren’t, but even if you had. About this or. Anything. You know it’s okay, right? You’re allowed.”

Eliot isn’t sure where this is headed.

“Okay?”

“Because you, um. It’s kind of been a thing, with you. Back at the mosaic,” Quentin continues.

“I’m gonna need a little more than that, Q. What’s been a thing exactly.”

Quentin sighs and rubs at his eyes. “You’d um. Like, I knew you were mad about something, but you’d act like you weren’t, like everything was fine, even if I was absolutely furious with you. And sometimes you’d eventually snap and we’d have a real fight, but sometimes you just. Didn’t. And it was really tense and awkward until we both just decided to forget about it.”

His automatic instinct is to argue, but thinking back, Eliot knows Quentin is right.

“It’s like…you were afraid to get mad at me because you were. I don’t know, scared that you’d say something so bad I would leave you or something. Which is so stupid.”

Well. Shit. They’re just putting everything out on the table now, huh.

“To be fair,” Eliot says mildly, reaching out to brush Quentin’s hair back from his face. “That was only because I was absolutely terrified you were going to leave me.”

Eliot had been wildly happy there, with Quentin and Teddy, and though his feelings about Arielle were complicated, ultimately, he’d cared deeply for her too. But it had all felt so fragile, especially in the early years, like there was no way Eliot could ever be this lucky and he was one fuck-up away from ruining it all.

They’ve talked about this, of course, Eliot’s disbelief that Quentin would actually choose to be with him when he had a world of options. But this specific part of it, maybe, is something Quentin had never really understood. Until now.

His eyes wide, Quentin cups Eliot’s face in his hands.

“El. That’s…I wouldn’t have. I loved you—we had a son—”

“I know that now,” Eliot assures him, turning his head to press a kiss to his palm. “And I think I knew it then, too. It’s just. You’re too good to be true, Q.”

Quentin kisses him. “You’re so stupid,” he mutters against Eliot’s mouth.

When they run out of breath, Quentin pulls back and stares meaningfully into his eyes.

“But, I mean it, El. I really…I want to make sure we’re doing this right. Not that it was wrong before, but you know what I—”

Eliot kisses him again, briefly this time.

“I do. And you’re right. Look at us, communicating like mature adults.”

Quentin giggles and they kiss some more, soft and sweet, and Eliot doesn’t really think it’s leading anywhere, but—

“Q,” he murmurs. “Are you hard again? Just from this?”

“Um,” Quentin says, squirming in his grasp. “I guess? God, this curse is so embarrassing—”

Eliot flips him onto his back and relishes the way it makes Q gasp in shock and pleasure.

“I feel like I made this pretty clear before, but. Just to be sure. You wanting me is never embarrassing. Got it?”

Quentin nods as he stares intently at Eliot’s mouth and bites his lip.

“Good. Now,” Eliot says, already making his way down the bed. “Let me show you exactly how not embarrassing I think it is.”

They don’t end up sleeping again until dawn.

-

The long awaited second season of the Baby Yoda show finally arrives. “Long awaited” meaning like, a month when it comes to their household, but what a month it’s been. Quentin’s had to make do with repeatedly watching the existing episodes, desperate for any boost fever-fighting adorable baby content.

As expected, the baby is just as cute as ever. However, they now have to wait a week between episodes, which makes sustaining the indirect contact high difficult.

“I can’t fucking believe this is my life,” Quentin moans, and sneezes into a tissue. The literal fever symptoms have returned, and even daily walks with his borrowed dog Bailey aren’t enough to dispel them.

The downstairs neighbors have been nice enough about the whole thing, so Eliot figures it wouldn’t hurt to ask if the dog can also uh, hang out with them upstairs occasionally.

“We’re thinking about—Quenin is really wanting—a dog, so, you know, trying to figure out if it works for us,” he explains.

This doesn’t seem to sound weird at all to Kristen and Joel, who enthusiastically agree, insist it will change their lives and offer to send him the information on adoption centers in the area. Dog people.

“You two are so sweet,” Kristen says, handing him a basket full of supplies—a water bowl, treats, toys, a little dog-sized pillow. “Bailey just loves spending time with Quentin. He has such a caring personality.”

This makes Eliot weirdly emotional and he has to grab the dog leash and head upstairs.

Quentin and Bailey are both thrilled with the situation and spend most of their time curled up together on the couch. Eliot is similarly thrilled, even though he spends a not inconsequential time cleaning dog fur off every imaginable surface. While magic is wonderful and brings untold convenience to the world, there are some things that just need to be done by hand, and apparently getting white dog hair off fabric is one of those things.

The extra dog snuggles and simple routine of making sure that Bailey has enough water in his bowl and is suitably spoiled with treats does seem to help with the fever symptoms as well—Quentin is no longer sneezing, although Eliot is. He might be mildly allergic to whatever type of mutt-fur Bailey is sporting, but it’s not a huge problem.

Or at least it isn’t until Quentin finds out.

“Why didn’t you say anything,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “I feel awful. I’m so fucking selfish.”

“Baby, it’s fine,” Eliot insists. “We could still get a dog. Lots of them are hypoallergenic.”

For some reason this makes Quentin cry harder.

Anyway, this ends up being all for naught, as Kady explains that there’s a simple anti-allergy spell that can take care of it. Brakebills really didn’t teach them shit.

“Yeah, you classically trained magicians,” Kady says, despite having attended Brakebills with them, but he’ll let her have it, “think you’re so fancy, but the hedges kick your ass when it comes to practical magic.”

It’s all going swimmingly, except Bailey’s real owners do occasionally want to have him at their home, especially on the weekends when they’re not working. This also corresponds with the latest Baby Yoda offering of the day before, so Quentin is mopey and feverish from being denied time with his new best friend, and now having to wait another week for an episode.

They’re having one of those days, when a message comes from Fillory.

A black and white bunny drops into view, with a note attached to its neck.

HOLD ME. IT HELPS. the bunny intones.

Eliot checks the note. It’s an envelope with the following address in a familiar elegant script:

To: Quentin

From: Fen

He hands the bunny and the letter over to Quentin, who eagerly takes both.

He holds the bunny in his lap, stroking its soft ears, as he reads the letter. Eliot watches as he smiles at the opening lines. By the end of it, he’s clutching the bunny to his chest and wiping tears off his cheeks, all while still smiling.

“Everything okay?” Eliot asks. It’s not that Fen and Quentin don’t get along, but Eliot can’t remember the last time they spoke one-on-one for anything longer than casual pleasantries. She certainly isn’t in the habit of sending him personal mail.

“Yeah. Just um. She’s being supportive. It’s nice,” Quentin says, smiling down at the animal in his arms.

Eliot suddenly is hit with a memory of Fen, clutching a bunny and crying, after…after their daughter was taken from her. It’s not that he’d forgotten about it. It’s just not something he likes to think about—unable to console her in any meaningful way, he’d also been overwhelmed with guilt at how he had never wanted this baby, had even wished for it to go away. And then she was gone.

And of course there was Fray. And even though she’s not Fen’s—their—biological daughter, Eliot knows she and Fen have remained close and they truly care for each other. Fen is just as much a mother to her as if they were related by blood.

But Eliot knows that their first daughter will always be a loss Fen will mourn. He understands better now. Since…Teddy.

Not that it’s the same. He’d raised Teddy, watched him grow from a sweet, round cheeked baby into a determined young boy with Quentin’s eyes and penchant for getting Eliot to do whatever he wanted just by pouting, to a handsome, kind man.

He’d lived a full life with Teddy. But he was gone just the same.

What Quentin is going through now isn’t the same either. But Fen, always too nice for her own good, and certainly too nice for Eliot, understands how it feels.

“We’ll have to visit Fillory soon,” Eliot says. He reaches out to gently touch a finger to the bunny’s cheek. “Thank her in person.”

Quentin wipes a tear from his own cheek and nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

-

Margo comes back for another visit, and in the time it takes Eliot to run to the stores for supplies for dinner—she’d rolled in with a list of demands for meals she was expecting him to prepare, which Eliot pretended to be annoyed by but absolutely loved—there is absolute chaos in the penthouse.

Well. They’re watching Baby Yoda and Quentin is crying, which is to be expected. But he’s like. Really crying this time.

“I’m so happy for them,” Quentin is sobbing, as Margo pats his back.

“I know, Q, it’s very sweet,” she says, and for all her hardshell bluster, she really is very nice to Quentin when she thinks no one is looking.

“What’s going on?” Eliot ventures to ask.

Margo explains that some frogs on the show were having frog babies, after a long struggle to conceive. For obvious reasons, this had hit Quentin hard.

“Frogs,” Eliot says.

“Yes, El,” Margo rolls her eyes. “They’re a nice married couple who now have a cute little baby frog, and more on the way.”

“The frogs are married,” Eliot repeats.

Margo gives him a withering look. “Don’t try to act like it’s so fucking weird. It’s a fantasy show. Also, you’ve literally been the king of a world where there are talking animals. Your own adopted daughter is dating a bear.”

Eliot loves when Margo goes off about fantasy fiction.

Quentin lets out another sob.

“They’re so happy with their tadpole,” he wails.

Eliot moves to sit on his other side, and Quentin eagerly turns to him for a hug.

“I’m happy the frog couple successfully uh, conceived,” Eliot says, and Quentin nods frantically.

“It was quite a journey. What with Baby Yoda almost destroying their entire family by eating the eggs—”

Quentin whips his head around to glare at Margo.

“It’s not his fault! He’s just a baby. He didn’t know.”

This is obviously a sore subject, and Eliot isn’t sure he wants it explained.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry—”

“Babies just put things in their mouths!” Quentin says, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation. He looks to Eliot as if for confirmation. “It’s how they explore the world.”

Eliot can certainly remember this being true, from his days spent trying to stop baby Teddy from shoving everything he could find into his tiny mouth.

“Wow, you and babies have so much in common—”

“Not now, Margo!” Quentin sniffles.

Eliot sighs.

-

The show content keeps getting worse and worse, in terms of triggering the baby fever.

A few weeks later, Quentin is again brought to tears by the baby almost being separated from the hot guy in the helmet, who still won’t take the helmet off, for religious reasons or something. But in the end, that hadn’t happened.

“So Baby Yoda is staying with his dad, huh?” Julia comments in an effort to be supportive. She’d gamely listened to Quentin recap the episode through his tears.

Quentin is huddled on the couch with Bailey the dog curled protectively next to him and the bunny Fen had sent—according to her letter, his name is Frederick—on his lap. Not even his cadre of animals can stop him from crying, or his temperature raising several degrees.

“Jules. He has a name,” Quentin says, impatient, as though Baby Yoda’s name is something that they’ve all known all along and not something that was just revealed less than an hour ago.

“Oh. Right. I keep forgetting. Grigio? Groogo?”

Quentin glares at her. “It’s Grogu.”

Eliot thinks it’s a stupid name, but heaven help him if he’s going to say this to Q.

Things are getting desperate though, and their usual methods don’t seem to be helping as much as before. Again, Eliot considers whether Quentin should be watching this emotionally terrorizing show, but any time he dares broach the subject, he’s roundly ignored.

Desperate, Eliot approaches Penny with a request.

“Penny, would you do me a huge favor and travel to uh, Star Wars headquarters or home base, or wherever they keep the stuff for the show, and steal the Baby Yoda puppet. I need to enchant it to become real.”

Penny just stares at him.

“What? No fucking way, man.”

He’s literally kidnapped a senator and robbed a bank in the past, Eliot points out.

“That was different. Small time shit. I’m not stealing from Disney. I know what’s good for me. I grew up in Florida, remember? You don’t even want to know all the horror stories I’ve heard. They will hunt me down and kill us all.”

“Quentin is suffering, Penny,” Eliot pleads, and Penny just rolls his eyes.

A few hours later though, he appears in the penthouse with a bag from Target.

“Here,” he says, shoving the bag at Quentin unceremoniously. “I hope this helps.”

Inside the bag is a giant Baby Yoda plushie; he’s even clutching a frog, which Eliot knows is his snack of choice—not to be confused with the more humanoid frogs who are married. This seems to be an inconsistency in the universe that hasn’t been addressed, but who is Eliot to say, really. Maybe he’ll bring it up to Bambi later, for a laugh. That’ll be sure to annoy her.

Quentin’s surprised laugh turns into tears—of course—as he wraps his arms around the soft toy.

“Thank you, Penny. I love it,” he says, voice wavering, and Penny waves him off, uncomfortable with the earnestness of it all.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Don’t make it weird.”

Eliot is going to have to buy him a drink sometime soon. Or some more low-cut shirts to add to his collection. Whatever Penny is into.

-

Alice approaches them a few days later, looking uncertain. She clears her throat.

“Um. I don’t know if you’d be interested in this, but. Poppy called me and said she’ll be in town for a few days, doing some research, interviewing the dragons in the rivers here. She wanted to know if I was interested in helping her out again. But also I thought I’d mention—she has a baby.”

Oh. That’s right. Huh. Eliot had honestly forgotten that; but then, he wasn’t around for the whole thing with the dragon egg and Poppy’s pregnancy and the few hours where they’d all thought that Quentin might be the father. Honestly, Eliot is glad he hadn’t been there.

“What does she do with the baby when she’s working?” Quentin asks. “Field research must be tough with a baby.”

Alice gives him a look like you’re telling me.

“Well, she couldn’t at first. Once he got big enough, she started taking him around in a carrier. If it’s not dangerous. When it’s not safe for babies, which is uh—often, there were other members of the team who would hang back and watch him for the day.”

It sounds…insane, to Eliot, but good for Poppy for being a hands-on working mom. Quentin looks downright jealous.

“So. If you want, Q, I’m sure she’d appreciate having a baby sitter for a few days while she’s here,” Alice continues.

Quentin’s mouth opens in surprise. “Um. I mean…I think I’d like that, if—”

He looks to Eliot, eyes questioning. As if he would say no.

“That sounds great,” Eliot says. “We’ll have to do some baby-proofing around here first, though.”

The next day is a whirlwind of preparation. Julia, Kady, and Penny are fine with it, provided that the actual baby caretaking won’t be on their shoulders. Eliot doesn’t think that will be a problem.

“You guys are all uh—protected, right?” he makes sure to ask, to a round of eyerolls and headshaking.

“Of course,” Kady says. “We all re-upped on that shit immediately.”

Quentin is so on edge, he’s practically vibrating.

“Do you think he’ll like me? What if I forgot everything I know about how to take care of a baby and it’s an absolute disaster?”

Eliot pulls him in for a kiss.

“Of course he’ll like you. And I think it’s like riding a bike. It’ll all come back to us when we’re doing it.”

Poppy arrives with an armful of bags, a backpack, and the baby in a carrier on her chest, just as Alice had said.

“Hey, guys. Thanks so much for doing this,” she says, handing over what seems like an endless amount of bags. “All his shit is in there. Food, and some formula; he still drinks milk sometimes. But thank fuck I’m not breastfeeding anymore. Oh, and there’s like, his daily schedule and all that in a little notebook. I know, right? Look at me, being all organized.”

Last, she unstraps the baby, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and holds him out. Quentin eagerly reaches out and then his arms are full with a squirming child with strawberry blond hair and dark eyes. He looks just like his mom.

He also, Eliot realizes with a pang, looks strikingly similar to Teddy at that age.

“Okay, bye Noah,” Poppy waves at him. “Be good, okay? Mommy loves you. I won’t lie, it’ll be nice to get a break for a few days, but—hey, Blondie, you ready to go?”

This last comment is directed at Alice, who has appeared in the entryway with a backpack and a duffel bag.

Blondie? Eliot mouths to Quentin, who shrugs.

“Yep,” Alice says. “You guys all settled here?”

They all agree that things are indeed settled, and Poppy and Alice head off.

“Thanks again!” Poppy shouts as the door closes behind them.

And then it’s just him, Quentin, and the baby. Everyone else has cleared out to the movies.

Noah doesn’t seem too upset by his mom leaving him with strangers. He’s pretty distracted by Quentin’s hair, which he has already grabbed and attempted to stuff in his mouth.

Eliot can’t say he blames the kid. Quentin’s hair is abnormally soft and irresistible to touch.

“Do you think something’s going on with Poppy and Alice?”

Quentin shrugs. “Who knows. I mean, Poppy is uh—unpredictable and a little wild, but Alice deserves to have some fun for a change, so, good for her, I guess. Theoretically.”

They get Noah set up on the living room floor with his toys, and he’s having a blast, crawling around and exploring his new space. He also is enthralled with Frederick the bunny, who is camped out in a cage they’d gotten when it became clear that he was going to be a long-term fixture in the penthouse.

“Okay, gentle, gentle, like this,” Quentin says, as he guides Noah’s tiny hand in a petting motion over the bunny’s back.

Noah lets out an excited squeal.

Eliot knows how he feels.

“Poppy seems—I don’t really know her that well, but she seems different?” he says, afraid of what he might say otherwise. “She brought all this stuff for him, and has a whole schedule and list of do’s and don’ts and favorite foods…shit, it’s dedication to take your kid with you while you’re working in the field like that.”

Quentin nods thoughtfully as he watches Noah hold out his stuffed dog toy to Frederick the rabbit for inspection.

“I mean, when she told me she was keeping the baby, I was ah…skeptical. But I can tell she’s doing a good job with him—oh, no, sweetie, the rabbit pellets aren’t for you.”

Noah has somehow in the last few seconds crawled over to Frederick’s cage and crawled inside and is enthusiastically inspecting its contents.

They let Noah tire himself out exploring, and after awhile, it’s time to put him down for his nap. They’d acquired a crib in preparation and placed it in their room; thank god for express shipping.

Quentin gently places Noah in the crib on his back and stares down at him.

“Don’t you think he kind of looks a little bit like Teddy?” he asks, his voice low.

Eliot feels his whole body startle for a second.

“I actually was thinking that earlier,” he admits. “Sure he’s not yours after all?”

It’s intended as a joke, and it mostly is. But Quentin still gives him a look.

“Alice confirmed I’m definitely not—Poppy told her all about it one night when they were doing shots. Can you imagine Alice doing shots? Anyway…yeah. Definitely not mine.”

They head out into the living room to let the baby sleep.

“Did you ever wish he was? Yours I mean.”

Quentin is putting Frederick back in his cage, and he turns around sharply. He takes a breath.

“I guess…kind of? At first. The whole dragon egg thing made it really confusing. Emotionally. But um.”

He sighs and settles next to Eliot on the couch, tucks himself against his side.

“I was disappointed but also. Relieved at the same time? Which I kind of felt guilty about? But. It wasn’t what I—really wanted."

“Which was?” Eliot asks, placing a gentle hand at the back of Quentin’s neck.

Quentin smiles up at him.

“You,” he shrugs.

Eliot has to kiss him.

They keep kissing. Eliot loses track of the time and is startled when baby Noah alerts them with a cry that he is awake and hungry.

Meal time with a baby is always a special challenge, but Quentin is delighted by it all—the mess and the spit up and jars and cups knocked over by flailing baby hands.

He even looks excited about changing diapers. He smiles the entire time.

“We could’ve made it work, you know,” Eliot says later, when they’re on the floor playing with Noah’s favorite toy, some pop-up ball contraption that sends him into peals of laughter.

“What?” Quentin asks, distracted.

“If he had been yours. You and Poppy could’ve shared custody and I would be like. The effortlessly cool stepdad the kid likes best. If that’s what you wanted, anyway.”

Quentin is staring at him now instead of the baby.

“El. Of—of course that’s what I would want. If that had been the situation.”

They watch as Noah shoves as much of a blue plastic ball as he can into his mouth; it isn’t much.

“It’s weird to think about,” Quentin says, frowning in thought. “What could have been. Like um. If your daughter. Yours and Fen’s. If she’d—if she’d lived. I guess I’d be the stepdad in that situation. Though no one would ever call me effortlessly cool.”

Eliot has to take a moment before responding.

“Yeah. I actually…I’ve been thinking about her recently. It’s…not the same thing as what happened with you and Poppy, but. I was sad, of course, you’d have to be even more fucked up than I am to not be sad. But I was relieved, too. And I felt—still feel like shit about that.”

One of the many reasons Eliot loves Quentin is that he doesn’t try to brush it off, tell Eliot he’s being silly, of course he shouldn’t feel bad. It’s obviously not something that’s going to be fixed by one soothing comment. He just lets the moment sit and watches him, his eyes serious and dark.

“Well,” Eliot says after a few moments. “I think maybe Noah would enjoy a walk around the park.”

Quentin smiles, eyes bright.

“Yeah. That would be fun.”

-

As predicted, Noah loves the park, especially the petting zoo.

“Your son is adorable,” an older woman comments to Eliot as he watches Quentin squat down with Noah in his arms so he can get a better look at the goats.

“Oh, he’s not—” Eliot says. “We’re just. Babysitting.”

She pats him on the arm and smiles.

“You’ll have one of your own soon enough. I just have a sense about these things.”

Okay, weird and presumptuous to say to a total stranger, but she’s got that whole kindly grandmother thing going on, so she can get away with it.

Noah lets out a happy shriek as a goat nibbles on the string of his little baby hoodie.

They walk around a little more, looking at the animals and, in Noah’s case, carefully patting them with Quentin’s guidance.

“Baba,” Noah says, pointing to the sheep and looking to Quentin for confirmation.

“That’s right,” he agrees. “Sheep. Wow, El, did you hear that? I mean, I know he’s probably just babbling, but they’re so amazing at this age.”

Eliot remembers Teddy as a baby, and how quick he’d picked things up, and how every time it had been a marvel to them. Even though it’s normal baby development, it is quite something to see.

Noah tires after not too long, as babies his age tend to do, and he falls asleep in Quentin’s arms as they’re walking back to the penthouse.

“He’s heavy,” Quentin says, but his smile is so bright and he’s absolutely glowing.

Back at the penthouse, the rest of the gang has returned. Noah wakes up and is confused by the new people, clinging shyly to Quentin at first, but is soon happy to be passed around the room.

Another round of feeding and diaper change, and soon it’s baby bedtime.

Noah falls asleep easily, worn out after an exciting day.

Quentin is the same; he happily crawls into bed not long after, and murmurs that he’ll definitely wake up if the baby does, and Eliot shouldn’t worry about it. Eliot has some doubts about this, but tells Quentin he agrees.

They all end up sleeping through the night.

-

In contrast to the day before, Noah is not in a good mood the next morning. He cries and fusses through his morning diaper change and meal time. He quickly becomes bored with his toys, and has to be pulled away from Frederick when he pulls, with all his not-inconsiderable baby strength, at the bunny’s ears.

And even through this, Quentin looks thrilled. Eliot finds he doesn’t mind it either; he’s done this before, after all. The whims of a baby’s mood are no surprise, and there’s even something oddly soothing about it all. The familiar rituals ingrained in his mind, no matter how long ago or in what universe he learned them.

Everyone else in the penthouse disagrees.

“This is definitely reinforcing my opinion,” Julia shouts over Noah’s unhappy shrieks over nothing in particular, “that babies are cute but I like them best when they’re being cute and I can hand them back over when they’re not cute anymore.”

She gives Eliot an angelic smile. He knows her well enough by now to determine that smile is trouble.

“I’ll be a great cool aunt. The coolest.”

Noah blessedly goes down for a nap after a morning of doing his best impression of a grumpy old man, and when he wakes up, Quentin is in the shower. Eliot makes his way to the crib, where the baby gazes up at him somewhat suspiciously, but he does stop fussing.

“Now, I know we all like Quentin best, but you’ll have to make due with me for a little while,” Eliot says gently, lifting him up.

Noah babbles in agreement.

So far, Eliot has let Quentin take the lead with baby duty, considering that it’s literally necessary for his health. But he’s certainly not going to do an impression of one of those straight guys who sit around doing nothing and wait for their wives to come home to change a diaper.

His first attempt at this glorious task in decades—or hundreds of years, if you’re looking at it that way—is a success.

Next, it’s time for an exciting snack of plain Cheerios, and then play time. Which at the moment involves Noah hurling his little plastic balls as far as his chubby baby arms will let him, and then laughing as Eliot crawls around to retrieve them.

“Whatever floats your boat, kid,” Eliot tells him. “Hey, look at you. The world’s strongest baby.”

This is what Quentin walks in on when he emerges from his shower, damp hair tied back in one of those cute little buns that Eliot loves. Not that Quentin isn’t devastatingly attractive with any hairstyle, but Eliot is partial to it like this. And he thinks Quentin is too; at least when it comes to Eliot’s ability to gently tug on his hair when Quentin has his mouth—alright, probably not appropriate to be thinking about this at the moment.

Quentin is staring at him and the baby, his eyes bright, not quite smiling. He has that look on his face that he gets when he’s so overwhelmed by his own feelings he doesn’t quite know how to react. Eliot knows and loves that look so well.

Then he smiles.

Eliot always wants to make Quentin look at him that way.

Noah lets out a happy coo when he sees Quentin. He holds up a ball like See? This is what we’re doing right now.

Quentin laughs and joins them on the floor.

They both tire of the game long before Noah does, but that’s just how it goes with kids. Eliot has so many memories of endless games of hide and seek, collecting rocks, reading the same book about dragons (like father like son) over and over again.

In the end, it’s worth it.

They do manage to make it out of the penthouse for a walk around the neighborhood. They end up at an overpriced hipster coffee shop that Quentin loves.

Something else Eliot had almost forgotten: how being attractive and holding a cute baby makes you an absolute magnet for a certain type of horny women—and a few men.

Quentin seems to have forgotten about it completely, based on his stunned reaction to the attention he’s getting.

One particularly brash woman, a MILF-type if Eliot ever saw one, is using the term “pick-up counter” literally and openly propositioning Quentin for a hookup.

“Oh. Ah. I have a boyfriend,” Quentin says, gesturing to Eliot to indicate that he is the boyfriend in question.

The woman turns a sly smile to Eliot and looks him up and down.

“Oh, that’s no problem. He’s welcome to join. I could really spice up your lives, if you catch my meaning.”

Quentin’s eyes go wide with bewilderment.

“Um. I’m holding a baby?”

He’s so cute, completely oblivious to the fact that holding a baby is indeed what is causing all the attention.

Thankfully, their drinks come out right then, and Eliot manages to steer Quentin away without bursting into laughter.

They find a table in the corner and settle down, Noah in a high chair next to Quentin with some Cheerios to munch on.

“I mean, why would I even be interested in her?” Quentin says, unable to move on. “No offense, she’s very um, objectively attractive. But—I already have the best. No additional…spice required.”

This causes a completely normal reaction in Eliot, and he think it makes perfect sense that when they get back to the penthouse, he has to leave the baby in Penny and Kady’s care and take Quentin to the shower—I already did this earlier, Quentin protests, so slow to catch on sometimes—and spend some time blowing him.

Later, both Quentin and Noah fall asleep on the couch, the baby curled up on his chest. They both look so content, Eliot can’t bear to disturb them. He gets a blanket and arranges it around all three of them, and lays his head on Quentin’s shoulder.

His back won’t thank him in the morning, but some things are worth it.

-

When Poppy and Alice return, it almost comes as a shock. Not that Eliot had forgotten the baby didn’t always live at the penthouse, but. It just doesn't take long to fall into a routine, is all.

“How were the dragons?” Quentin asks as he packs up all of Noah’s things.

“Same as ever. Self-important and bitchy. But so cool, damn them,” Poppy says. “East River says hey.”

Quentin shudders in embarrassment. “God. I was—not at my best when I met her. She probably thinks I’m a complete moron.”

Poppy nods. “Yeah. But don’t sweat it too much, they think that about all humans, more or less.”

Eventually, everything is packed up and Noah is freshly changed and dressed for the weather and it’s time to hand him off.

Eliot says a goodbye and gets a smile for his efforts. He passes the baby back to Quentin for one last cuddle.

“Hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.”

Quentin is quite obviously blinking back tears. If Poppy notices, she doesn’t comment. Alice definitely notices; she’s looking at him, brow furrowed in concern.

“No, he was great. We had fun,” Quentin says as he holds the baby out for Poppy to take.

“Yeah, he’s a good kid,” Poppy agrees. “Who knows how the fuck that happened. Aw, look, he’s gonna miss you.”

Noah is whining and holding his arms out to Quentin, begging to be taken back.

“Geez, you’re gonna give me an inferiority complex,” Poppy jokes.

Quentin doesn’t laugh.

“Yeah, um. I’m going to miss him, too. Bye, Noah. Thanks for hanging out with us.”

Noah’s whining intensifies.

“Okay, I better go before he starts crying. Thanks again. Blondie, I’ll be calling you when we get our next trip scheduled.”

She winks and with that, takes her leave.

Quentin doesn’t move. Eliot wraps an arm around his waist.

“Q, are you—”

“It’s fine,” Quentin interrupts, his voice shaking. “I’m fine. He wasn’t supposed to stay here forever. He’s where he should be, with his mom. It’s good.”

He willingly allows himself to be pulled into a hug, but he doesn’t cry.

He continues not to cry for the rest of the day. When Eliot joins him in bed later that evening, Quentin kisses him goodnight and then snuggles against him, the perfect little spoon as always. But Eliot lies awake a long time, listening for the sound of Quentin’s breath to deepen and even out.

It never does.

-

Quentin’s fever is back the next morning, along with the cold symptoms.

“I’m okay,” he insists after a sneeze. “I feel fine.”

He clearly doesn’t, but Eliot isn’t going to push it. God knows he’s familiar with the need to just not talk about it.

Quentin feels well enough to take Bailey out for their usual walks and that’s got to count for something, right?

The thing is, Eliot himself is feeling kind of not-fine himself.

It’s nothing major. He just feels off. He finds himself walking into a room and forgetting why he was going there in the first place. Dinner burns one night because he got distracted; which is actually fine, because he doesn’t have much of an appetite anyway.

All of this can likely be explained by the fact that he’s not getting much sleep, either. He’s so obsessed with whether Quentin is sleeping well, he lies awake most of the night and only manages to catch a few hours right before it’s time to get up.

And when he does manage to sleep, he finds himself having the most strangely vivid dreams. Quentin, holding Teddy as a baby, except then suddenly, in that way that makes sense only in dreams, suddenly it’s Noah. Quentin smiles and holds the baby out, and when Eliot takes him, suddenly it’s not Teddy or Noah. It’s a wholly different baby, one Eliot’s sure he’s never seen before, but is deeply familiar somehow. It has Quentin’s eyes, and tufts of curly dark hair.

Eliot in the dream smiles at this unknown baby, and—then he jolts awake.

Mind and heart racing, he opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. The room is a dim blue-grey, the pre-dawn light peeking in through the blinds.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

He has to go see Margo.

-

Of course, he’s not going to rush over to Fillory first thing in the morning. That would just cause suspicion and alarm. He manages to wait until a reasonable hour, and announces that he’s going to pop over to Fillory for a visit.

Quentin doesn’t seem to think there’s anything off about this. Because there’s not. It’s not weird at all to decide on an impromptu hang with your best friend.

“Josh is actually coming here,” Quentin says, his voice still clearly congested, “to watch the finale.”

Oh, right the last episode of the Baby Yoda show. Well, that will keep Quentin occupied while he’s gone. And he’ll have plenty of emotional support in Julia and…Josh, he supposes, who is actually a pretty good sport and down for pretty much whatever.

Great. So he and Josh will swap places for the day—not in a weird way, but thankfully Josh is terminally straight—and he’ll get this all sorted out.

Eliot takes his leave with a kiss and soon he’s headed through the clock and making an entrance into the corridor outside Margo’s chambers, where they’ve arranged the passage to come out.

Margo’s rooms are empty and he doesn’t locate her in the usual places around Whitespire. Fuck. Should he have written ahead? He understands she’s busy, and this isn’t quite an emergency, but it’s certainly urgent, or at least urgent-adjacent—

“Eliot?”

Fen is walking towards him, clearly concerned.

“Is everything well? I didn’t know we were expecting you—”

She reaches out to grasp Eliot’s hands in her own.

“No, you weren’t. Expecting me, I mean. I just ah. Thought I’d drop in and surprise Margo.”

Fen’s face clears. “Oh! How sweet. Well, she should be back before long. She’s currently out giving a tour of the land to the delegation from Loria—we have a trade agreement with them for a new crop of—oh, but I won’t bore you with that. Here, let’s move somewhere more comfortable.”

She guides him to one of the many sitting rooms around the castle and calls for drinks and a tray of Josh’s pastries.

They make small talk about this and that, what’s new in Fillory and the latest on whatever thing Tick was outraged about this week. It’s all pleasant enough, but Eliot’s nerves are fried, and he notices he’s been anxiously jiggling his leg during the entire conversation.

“How are you, though?” Fen asks as she takes a sip of her drink. “How’s Quentin?”

Eliot’s first instinct is to say that Quentin is fine, but something about Fen’s open, honest face makes him want to tell the truth.

“He’s not feeling great at the moment. But he really appreciated your letter and he loves Frederick. It’s really helped. Thank you.”

Fen smiles and shrugs.

“Of course. After all, I know what it’s like—ahem. I’m happy to help any way I can. In fact, I’m sure our healers have some herbal remedies that—”

“Fen,” Eliot says, surprised to find himself interrupting her, but unable to hold back. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Fen asks.

She sounds so genuinely perplexed, Eliot almost laughs.

“Well, first of all, I was a terrible husband.” Fen opens her mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. “Look, I’m not saying everything that uh…happened with our marriage was entirely my fault, but you deserved better.”

At that, Fen sighs.

“We both did,” she admits.

They’re not technically married anymore, after he’d been legally declared dead here in Fillory. Though he is obviously very much alive, according to the law, the pronouncement of the former-High King’s death and Fen’s completion of the mourning rituals meant that any marriage contract between them was rendered null and void.

For obvious reasons, Eliot hadn’t protested. Fen hadn’t either.

“I’m sorry too,” Fen says. “I—expected more from you than you were able to give. You were very open with me about that and I…well, I suppose I just didn’t listen.”

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it.

“I certainly hope you can forgive me and we can move on, as friends.”

Eliot has always liked Fen, even when he felt like he wanted to hate her. Being friends sounds great. But—

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when our baby died,” he says, and Fen’s grip on his hand tightens.

“No, you. You were very kind,” she answers, her voice soft.

“Well. I tried, but I know it wasn’t much of a comfort. Because I didn’t feel it. In the same way.”

Fen nods. “I know that. I know you never wanted—no, I understand. I won’t lie and say it didn’t hurt. But I do understand.”

Eliot swallows, his throat tight.

“You weren’t ready,” Fen continues. “I know you would have been a great father. You will be. But it should be with the right person. For both of us.”

Eliot’s chest feels lighter, even as his eyes sting with tears.

“I would have liked to meet her though,” he says, and Fen smiles.

“Me too.”

-

That’s how Margo finds them, holding hands and wiping away tears.

“What the fuck is going on,” she says loudly. “Did someone get killed? Again? Already?”

Her presence reminds Eliot of the original purpose of his visit, and his nerves return.

“No, everything’s, you know, relatively fine, but I need to talk to you,” he says. “Fen, is it okay—”

She waves them off and Eliot drags Margo by the hand towards her chambers.

“El, you’re freaking me out—”

When they’re safely ensconced in her room with the door closed, Margo crosses her arms and stares him down.

“Okay, please explain to me what was so important that you showed up here without sending so much as an FYI-bunny. What if I’d been away for a few days on the Muntjac or something?”

Eliot hadn’t actually considered that. But she’s not, so oh well.

“Bambi, I don’t think that anti-baby fever curse spell worked,” he blurts out.

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “What? I told you, I double and triple-checked that shit. There’s no way—”

“What if I had been exposed. Before you did the spell,” Eliot interjects.

Margo stares at him blankly.

“Uh huh. And when, pray tell, might this have happened, and why, pray the fuck tell, did you not mention it before?”

“It’s not like I was keeping it from you,” Eliot insists. “I just. Forgot. It wasn’t a big deal. I held some lady’s baby for her, very briefly, at the grocery store—”

“Jesus fucking shitballs,” Margo mutters. “Okay, I can check it out, again. But there’s no way the spell would’ve taken hold if you had already been infected. Hold still.”

Eliot holds his breath while Margo goes through the complicated string of tuts. When she finishes, there’s that same flashing strand of light, only this time it’s green.

“Well?” he asks.

“Nope,” Margo shrugs. “Still perfectly intact. No baby fever in sight.”

What?

“Okay, that’s just. Not possible.”

“It’s not only possible, it’s the fucking truth. What symptoms exactly are you experiencing that made you think it didn’t work?”

“Uh,” Eliot says.

“Low-grade fever?” Margo asks.

Eliot shakes his head.

“Cough and congestion?”

“No,” Eliot says, “But—”

“Headache? Drowsiness? The sudden urge to fuck your boyfriend more than usual?” Margo continues. She’s ticking items off on her fingers one by one as she goes.

Eliot has nothing.

“Well then what?” Margo practically yells in frustration.

So Eliot explains how they’d watched Poppy’s baby for a few days, and it had been really great, and then he’d gone home and Quentin had been upset but was trying to pretend like he wasn’t. And Eliot would walk around and think the penthouse was weirdly quiet and empty, even though it was full of people. And how he’d lie awake at night to see if Quentin was sleeping, but also maybe his body was still on alert for baby noises, in case he needed to get up and check in, or soothe the baby to sleep.

And last, Eliot explains his weird dream about Quentin holding the various babies, and how he would wake up when he was holding the baby that didn’t exist in real life and was completely the invention of his dream.

When he finishes, Margo appears speechless.

Then she laughs. And keeps laughing.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “That’s it?”

That’s it? Eliot is affronted.

“Okay, fuck me for thinking my best friend would be sympathetic and have some advice for me,” he grumbles.

Margo wipes at her eyes. “I’m sorry, El. It’s just.”

“Just what?”

“Well, it just sounds like. You kind of want to have a baby with your boyfriend. Again.” Margo says, patting his hand. “Wow, two kids before the age of thirty. You’re a normie now. Official diagnosis from Dr. Margo.”

She’s obviously completely missing the point.

“We just got together less than a year ago,” Eliot protests. “We’re trying to make sure it works before we—

“Before what?” Margo stretches out on the bed, propping herself up on her elbow. “Are you guys ever going to break up?”

Eliot frowns. “Well, not if I have anything to say about it, but. We talked about it and decided it was for the best not to rush into anything.”

Margo gets an annoying knowing look on her face.

“So Quentin said, ‘Eliot, I don’t want to have kids right now,’ and when he asked you what you thought, you said, ‘Yes, Quentin, I agree, I also think we shouldn't have kids right now’?”

“Basically,” Eliot says. “Well.”

Margo makes a go on motion with her hand.

“He said…he didn’t want to mess anything up. And that he just thought we should focus on managing the symptoms for now. And I said okay.”

“Hmm. So, nowhere in there am I hearing anything about either of you actually saying you don’t want to have a kid right now,” Margo adds in an annoying thoughtful therapist voice.

“I wasn’t really thinking about what I—Quentin’s health was the most important thing—”

“Well, think about it now. Do you? Want to have a kid right now, I mean.”

Margo just stares at him and he knows she will continue to do so until he responds.

Before Eliot gets a chance, though, a messenger bunny drops into view in front of them.

It’s Frederick.

COME QUICK. EMERGENCY.

-

Eliot and Margo, with Frederick in tow, are through the clock and back in the penthouse in no time.

Josh rushes to meet them.

“Oh man, guys, this shit is so fucked up,” he blabbers. “I can’t believe—”

“Josh!” Margo yells. “Calm down and tell us what happened.”

What happened is that Josh, Quentin, and everyone else had settled in to watch the Baby Yoda show. Things were going fine, everything culminated in a thrilling reunion between the hot guy with the helmet and the baby, and then.

“Absolute disaster,” Josh says.

The season had ended with the baby being taken away by that Luke guy from the original Star Wars movies. Everyone had stared at the tv in disbelief. Even Penny had uttered a “what the fuck.” And Quentin—

He’s sitting on the couch, with Julia holding his hand.

“It’s fine,” he says, as tears run down his cheeks. “It’s just a stupid tv show. I don’t even know why I’m—”

“Because it’s complete bullshit,” Margo spits out. She whips out her phone and starts furiously typing.

Eliot sits on Quentin’s other side and Quentin turns to him immediately.

“El,” he whispers. “They—they took the baby. They took his baby away. I can’t—I know it’s not real, but I can’t help it—I feel—”

“Shh,” Eliot says as he gathers Quentin into his arms. “I know.”

Margo continues tapping at the keys of her phone with such force Eliot’s afraid she’ll break the screen.

“I mean, even ignoring what this has done to Q,” she says, “It’s just really bad plotting and complete betrayal of the themes they—god, I should’ve fuckin’ known, I can’t believe I thought they actually gave a shit about real storytelling.”

“What are you doing?” Eliot finally asks.

“I’m bullying the producers and the writers of the show on twitter. Let’s see if I get banned again.”

They leave her to maybe get banned from twitter—again?—and deal with the more pressing matter at hand, which is that in addition to feeling like shit emotionally, Quentin’s fever is spiking and he has a splitting headache, so much so that even the natural light coming through the windows is enough to bother him.

Eliot gets him set up in the bedroom with the shades drawn and a cold compress on his head.

Things only get worse as the day goes on, and his nausea gets so bad that he actually has to run to the bathroom to throw up. He just barely makes it to the toilet.

Eliot holds his hair back while he hurls first the contents of his breakfast from earlier that morning, and then just water, and finally, nothing at all, as he dry heaves into the bowl.

When it seems like he’s finally, finally done, Eliot practically carries him back to bed. He tucks Quentin in and then goes to get him a bowl to keep by the bedside, just in case.

Alice is standing outside the bedroom door.

“I think this is a combination of uh, what happened today, and withdrawal symptoms from Noah,” she tells Eliot. “Especially because I think we could all see he was trying to hold it in. That’s sure to have made things worse.”

She states that things will most likely level out at some point, but of course it’s likely to happen again at any time.

Fen had mentioned those herbal remedies from Fillory earlier. He can look into those.

He asks Alice about pain-relieving spells.

She sighs. “They exist, obviously. But not surprisingly, they’re highly addictive and can end up causing more damage than help in the long run.”

Fuck.

Later that night, Eliot carefully lowers himself into bed next to Quentin. He doesn’t want to disturb him, but he wants to be close in case Quentin needs anything.

He’d thrown up twice more that day, and seemed so delirious from the pain and nausea, Eliot isn’t even sure he remembers.

Despite his best efforts, as soon as he lies down, Quentin jerks away.

“El,” he murmurs. “That you?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”

The next thing Eliot knows, Quentin is plastered to his side. He’s sweaty and hot, but Eliot gladly opens his arms to hold him.

“‘M cold,” Quentin shivers. “Feels bad.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Quentin burrows against his chest and sighs.

“Embarrassed,” he murmurs, after a few minutes.

“I told you before, you shouldn’t feel embarrassed. It’s not your fault.”

“Mm, but,” Quentin insists drowsily. “It’s just. Not real. And…Noah. He’s...not mine. Stupid to be…so upset.”

Eliot rubs his back. “It’s okay, Q. Try to sleep, hm?”

Quentin nods, and Eliot thinks maybe has fallen asleep when he doesn’t hear anything after a few minutes.

The soft, hitching breaths start slowly, like water leaking from a pipe, and then, suddenly, in a rush.

Quentin’s sobs sound painful, like they’re being ripped from against his will.

Eliot has no idea what to say or do, so he just holds on as tight as he can.

“El,” Quentin gasps out. “I miss Teddy.”

Eliot’s heart breaks.

“I know, Q. I miss him too. So much.”

Then he’s also crying, and he doesn’t want to cry, this shouldn’t be about him. It’s about Quentin and Quentin being sick and Quentin needing him.

But he can’t bring himself to stop, and he’s still holding Quentin, but, he realizes, Quentin is holding him too.

They’re holding each other and he’s not sure who is comforting who anymore. But it doesn’t matter. They’re together.

-

Eliot wakes in the middle of the night.

Quentin is still asleep, thank god. His forehead feels cooler than it did before, and he’s sweating less.

Something had woken Eliot up, though.

He thinks back to earlier that day, or maybe it was yesterday at this point. When he’d gone to Fillory to talk to Margo. Something about that.

The baby, he remembers suddenly. The one in the grocery store. He’d told Margo about it, briefly, but he hadn’t gone into detail. In all honesty, he’d barely thought about it. But now it’s in his mind, crystal clear.

He and Quentin sometimes went grocery shopping together, one of those disgustingly sappy couple activities that Eliot would never have imagined going along with, let alone enjoying.

Eliot would come up with the shopping list, of course, but Quentin was an eager helper, and also enjoyed slipping items into the cart, like frozen pizza and chocolate chip cookies, that Eliot told him to put back, because he would make the same thing at home but much better.

They would pleasantly bicker in the checkout line about whether Eliot could successfully replicate a Taco Bell crunchwrap supreme with homemade ingredients and then they’d go home and unload the groceries and head to their room for an afternoon quickie.

So, sometimes that’s how it went. But this time, Quentin hadn’t been there. He was out with Julia, or maybe he just hadn’t felt like tagging along this particular time. Eliot can’t quite remember.

He does remember standing in line by himself.

A young woman was attempting to pull her wallet out of her purse to pay for her groceries while also holding onto a squirming baby, who seemed determined to escape her grasp, with one arm.

“I’m so sorry, I don't know what’s wrong with her today,” the woman was saying to the cashier. She sounded exasperated and slightly embarrassed.

The next thing Eliot knew, he was stepping forward and saying, I can hold her for you, if you want.”

This was the kind of thing that happened back in Indiana all the time, but in New York, you never knew how someone would respond to a stranger offering to hold your baby. Could go either way.

This time though, the woman had said, “Oh god, would you? You’re a lifesaver,” and suddenly Eliot had his arms full with a chubby blue-eyed baby girl.

“Hi,” Eliot smiled down at her. “Are you giving your mom trouble?”

The baby had stared at him, wide-eyed, immediately interested in an unfamiliar face.

“Wow, you’re in luck,” the baby’s mom commented. “Normally she doesn’t react so well to strangers. Her name is Wendy, by the way.”

Eliot reached out to brush a finger against the baby’s cheek. “That’s a beautiful name. Nice to meet you, Wendy. I’m Eliot.”

Wendy smiled at him for the first time and he smiled helplessly back.

Wendy’s mom finished up paying for her items and thanked him profusely.

“Really, it was nothing,” Eliot insisted, as he handed the baby over. “She’s sweet. How old is she, around 6 months?”

“Wow, you’re spot on; 6 months next week. Do you have kids?”

Eliot visibly swallowed and took a breath. “Um, no, not yet.”

“Well, I can tell you’re a natural,” she said. “You’re obviously going to be a great dad.”

And in that moment, Eliot had briefly, but clearly thought I hope so.

Then both the baby and her mom were gone and it was his turn to check out.

Fuck, he’s been a grade-A idiot. A real fucklehead, as Margo might say.

“I’m going to fix this, Q,” Eliot whispers. “I promise.”

Quentin doesn’t wake up, but he lets out a relieved sigh, as if he heard it anyway.

-

Eliot doesn’t go to Alice. He uses the books she’d given him, back when all this had started, of course. But this isn’t something he wants to discuss with her. He’s already included her in more of his personal business than he ever would have predicted.

And anyway, this is something he needs to do himself.

The books reference other books, as they annoyingly tended to do. This is why Eliot has always hated doing research. There was just no end to it.

Quentin is feeling better, in the sense that he’s no longer puking up anything that he tries to eat or drink, and his fever and headache are, if not completely gone, at least bearable.

“Will you watch him for me?” Eliot asks Julia. “I need to go out. It’s important.”

“Of course,” Julia agrees. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be. I just have to go to Brakebills.”

He’s unsurprised by Julia’s surprise.

“Brakebills? Okay, but are you sure—”

“I’m fine. And now I’m realizing that asking you to not tell Quentin where I’m going doesn’t really sell my case that things are fine, but. Could you please not mention it? I don’t want to worry him.”

Julia still looks dubious.

“Trust me?” Eliot asks, and at that, she finally nods.

-

Brakebills looks exactly the same, but then, why wouldn’t it. This place is stuck in the past in so many ways.

He bypasses Dean Fogg’s office and heads straight for the library. He never graduated, which means he’s still technically a student here. He has just as much right to be here as anybody. If someone wants to report him, well, he’ll deal with that when the time comes.

He finds the books referenced in the other books. They prove to be somewhat illuminating, but ultimately refer to some other texts that he doesn’t find on the shelf.

The stereotypically severe-looking librarian is at first unwilling to provide any help, saying only that those texts are “highly restricted” and for “authorized personnel only.”

Fucking librarians.

“Listen, ma’am…” he says, going for the Midwestern charm.

“Professor Jamison,” she snaps. “Librarians have just as many degrees as every other faculty member here.”

“Oh, you’re Professor Jamison? My friend Alice has told me about you. She said you’re the most helpful and informed person in this joint.”

With the mention of Alice’s name, the grumpy woman’s demeanor completely changes.

“Oh you know Miss Quinn? Yes, she’s here quite a lot. What a gem of a young woman.”

Bingo. Looks like Alice is helping on this mission after all.

“Yes, isn’t she just? I’m actually here on her behalf. She’s ever so busy, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“These texts are for Miss Quinn? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place. Of course, of course, let me just take down the titles so I can be sure to locate them all.”

And with that, Professor Jamison hurries away to the restricted area, where they must keep really fucked up shit. Eliot feels a sudden interest in research he’s never had before.

She sends him off with a heavy stack of books and stern comment to please have them returned on time, lest Miss Quinn’s account be charged. Apparently not even Alice is immune from library fines.

Eliot takes his highly restricted books to a study carrel with a lined spiral pad so he can take notes, like a real nerd. But he wants to make sure he has what he needs before leaving.

The books are old, with tiny-ass font, and written in the most obtuse and inaccessible language imaginable. So, typical Brakebills shit.

Eliot won’t claim to be a brilliant intellectual like Alice, or a natural genius like Julia, or even a doggedly hard worker like Quentin, but he’s not stupid, and he can read, despite his many jokes to the contrary—Quentin had never laughed at those, always frowning and imploring “stop putting yourself down, El, you’re so smart, I wish I could be as smart as you are.”

He’d gotten into Brakebills, hadn’t he? Something only a small percentage of the world’s population could say. The chosen few. And well, Todd. But there’s always a random outlier in every group.

It takes a few hours, alright many hours, and afternoon turns to dusk turns to darkness. But finally, late into the night, Eliot finds what he needs.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, pouring over the relevant page, then his notes, to double check.

This is it. He’s sure of it.

And so Eliot Waugh walks out of the Brakebills library, with a stack of questionably obtained books, a notepad full of meticulous bullet points, and a plan.

-

He decides to wait until the morning to talk to Quentin. As much as he’d wanted to shake him awake and tell him now now now, Quentin needs his rest. He’s curled up on the bed with Julia at his side.

Eliot carefully deposits the library books on the bedside table, shrugs and tucks himself in on the side of the mattress that’s empty, as if they’d purposefully left space for him. Perks of a king size bed.

When he wakes up, Julia is gone, but Quentin is there. Not only is he awake, he’s sitting up, propped against a pillow, flipping through one of the books Eliot had brought back from Brakebills.

“Oh hi,” Quentin says, when he notices Eliot is up. “What is this stuff? Is this why you were gone all day? Julia said you were in Fillory, but—”

He holds out the book in his hands for Eliot’s inspection.

“—if I’m not mistaken this is a ‘property of Brakebills University’ stamp.”

Eliot ignores this question to inquire how Quentin is feeling.

“Okay. A lot better, actually. Fen stopped by with some brew concocted by the centaur healers. I think it helped.”

Now that the time has come, Eliot is nervous. Maybe it can wait until after breakfast?

“Good,” he says.

No. Enough waiting. He’s made Quentin wait long enough.

“So I actually,” he clears his throat. “I think I found something that will provide more. Permanent relief from your symptoms.”

Jesus fuck, Waugh. Get it together.

Quentin frowns down at the book in his hands.

“In here? Really? Seems like incomprehensible gibberish.”

Eliot nods. “It is. Mostly. However.”

He sits up and reaches for his notepad and hands it to Quentin.

“I think I managed to pull out the relevant tidbits.”

Quentin takes the notepad and starts to read it over. Eliot watches as his expression changes from interest, to confusion, to that overwhelmed expression, so dear and familiar.

“What—El, what is this?” he asks, as though he doesn’t trust his own eyes or reading comprehension skills, which Eliot knows for a fact are excellent. He knows this from experience, and also because one time their first year, when Quentin had too much wine, he’d told Eliot, “you know when I was in fifth grade we took some standardized test and my results said I was reading at a high school level. Which was like, you know, a huge deal for me back then. Isn’t that dumb?”

Eliot thinks he maybe loved Quentin even then, just a little.

“I was wondering,” Eliot says, “if you wanted to have a baby with me.”

Quentin just stares at him, so hesitant.

“Don’t—don’t joke about that,” he breathes.

“I’d never joke about something like this, Q. You know that.”

He reaches out and takes Quentin’s hand in his. Laces their fingers together.

Quentin lets him, but he shakes his head.

“El, I love you so much for—for finding this, for offering, but I told you before. I'm not going to force you to have a baby with me before you’re ready just because I’m—”

“Just because you’re what, Q? Just because you’re feeling like shit and crying all the time and going through something that hurts to watch?”

And maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, because Quentin is smiling sadly, like it’s what he expected to hear.

“It isn’t fun, I know. For me, but. For you, either.. I understand. Of course you don’t like seeing me in pain—”

“Of course I don’t, Q, but that’s not—”

Quentin is so certain now, that he knows what’s going on, and he’s so determined to be selfless that he won’t let himself see it any other way. Just as he has been this entire time. Eliot feels so stupid for not seeing it clearly until now.

“This tea drink that Fen had the centaurs make, it really helped. And I think that combined with the other stuff I’ve been doing…and you know, I think a dog would be good for us. And I’m going to tell Poppy she can leave Noah with us whenever she needs—if that’s okay with you, I mean.”

Quentin’s ferocity, his determination, his sheer refusal to back down when he thinks he’s right, these are all things Eliot loves about him, but sometimes, like right now, they cause him to get in his own way.

“And you were right about—that show, I’m going to stop watching it. Anyway, it’s going to be fine.”

He leans over to press a kiss to Eliot’s mouth.

“You’re so sweet, El. I don’t know how I got so lucky. But I’m not going to let you do this out of—of pity. Maybe in a few years—when we’re ready…like we talked about. Like we agreed.”

“You never asked me,” Eliot says, and Quentin tilts his head in confusion.

“What?”

“You said, like we agreed. And you know what, I thought we had, too. But then I talked to Margo—”

Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Oh great, and what did Margo have to say? I love her, but you know she—”

“She said,” Eliot speaks over him. “When I told her about our discussion, that it didn’t sound like you ever said you didn’t want to have a baby right now.”

The guilty look on Quentin’s face says it all.

“Well, of course I—but it’s, the curse, the fever. That doesn’t mean that um, logistically, we’re ready for. Um. All of that.”

Eliot was expecting this part.

“Mmhm. That’s true. But you know what she also said? That it didn’t sound like you ever actually asked me,” he says, bringing Quentin’s fist to his mouth so he can press a kiss there.

“Asked you what?” Quentin whispers, as if he’s too afraid to believe what might be coming.

“If I want to have a baby right now.”

Quentin’s eyes are so wide, and that look is back, the overwhelmed, hopeful one.

“And that’s partially my fault,” Eliot continues. “I didn’t push it. I just let you take the lead, because you were—you know. And honestly, I don’t know how I felt about it then. But I do now.”

“El, are you—I mean, maybe you contracted the fever somehow—”

Eliot presses another kiss to the back of his hand, then each of his knuckles.

“Nope. Thought of that. I already had Margo do a check. My anti-fever protective spell is solid. Try again, Coldwater.”

Quentin is crying now, but still continues to argue. Classic Q. He’s perfect.

“But—we’re not ready. I want this to, to be good. We should wait,” he protests, but the longing way he’s angling his body towards Eliot’s tells another story.

“Wait for what?” Eliot asks, just as Margo had. He should always listen to Bambi. She will always be smarter than he is.

Quentin opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“I don’t know,” he laughs, giddy. “I don’t—”

“I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Again.” Eliot says, and Quentin’s laughter turns to a startled sob. “And I think you feel the same.”

Quentin leans forward to press their foreheads together.

“Of course I do, El. You know that.”

“So,” Eliot says, close. “We did it before and it was great. What exactly do you think is going to change between now and next year or the year after? We can still get a dog if you want, too—”

Quentin cuts him off with a kiss.

“You still haven’t asked me,” Eliot whispers against his jaw, afterwards.

Another kiss, and then Quentin is pulling back to look him in the eye.

“El,” he says. “Do you want to have a baby with me?”

Then they’re both laughing again, and they’re still laughing when their mouths meet for another kiss.

“Yes,” Eliot mumbles against his lips. “I do.”

Quentin’s tongue is in his mouth and he pushes Eliot back against the pillows so he can straddle his lap.

“Okay. Okay,” he gasps. “”Um. Should we do it like. Now?”

“We can. If you want.” Eliot says.

Quentin’s eyes are hot and he looks like he wants to scream yes, but then he self-consciously pats at his own hair.

“Oh. We could but. I look disgusting.”

He’s spent the last few days sweating through his clothes, his face is swollen with tears, and he hasn’t washed his hair.

“You’re beautiful,” Eliot says.

Quentin blushes, as Eliot knew he would.

“Shut up,” he mutters, and leans down for another kiss.

Holy shit, Eliot thinks, they really are doing this. Now.

But after a few minutes, Quentin pulls away, gasping.

“Wait. I just think. Isn’t there a lot of stuff we’re going to want to have ready? We have the crib Noah used, but. That’s it. What about—clothes, and formula, and diapers and. Like, shouldn’t we um. Warn everyone?”

He has a point.

“My Q,” he murmurs, leaning up to press a kiss to his throat. “Always so logical.”

Quentin makes a pleased humming noise and then a gasp when Eliot follows that up with a gentle bite.

“It would be nice to have some privacy, though. We could kick everyone out, send them on a mandatory field trip to Fillory or something.”

Quentin lets out a laugh. “Um. Yeah. That sounds good. So should we say—a week?”

Eliot thinks it over.

“Do we need to wait that long? We can get a lot of stuff at the stores ourselves, and with express shipping I think we could—oh, fuck. I just realized. Christmas is in a few days.”

Quentin blinks in surprise.

“Oh. Wow. What with everything going on—”

“I know. I forgot, too.”

Kady and Josh obviously don’t celebrate it, and he’s not sure everyone else cares much, although no one will say no to a nice little party; with the last few years they’ve had, it’s best not to waste any moment for celebration.

It’s going to fuck with delivery times though. For their items. For the baby they’re going to have.

Holy shit.

“How about this,” Eliot says. “We can have a non-denominational uh, end of the year dinner. I’ll cook. And we’ll tell them, hey, thanks for all your support these last few months, here’s a lovely meal to honor you and the general holiday spirit. And then we’ll tell them we’re kicking them out for a few days.”

Quentin grins down at him. “I love it. Of course, you’ll have to arrange it all with Margo—”

“Logistically, yes, and also she’d kill me if I didn’t tell her before I told everyone else. And you know Julia will be the same.”

“God, yes. We’ll tell them tomorrow.”

Quentin is still very much in his lap and they’re both very much hard, so Eliot smirks and grabs Quentin’s ass with both hands, just to hear him gasp.

“Wow,” he says, voice falsely casual. “Look at us. So organized. We’re definitely ready to be parents. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Uh huh,” Quentin agrees, nodding frantically.

“So, even though we’re not ah, performing the actual act right now…I think we would benefit from some practice. Since we’re being so responsible.”

Quentin’s hands have drifted to Eliot’s shoulders and under the collar to touch his skin.

“Right. Responsible. Yep. So um. What’s the first, uh, step.”

“Oh,” Eliot says, toying with the drawstring of Quentin’s pajama pants. “It’s easy. Something you like.”

Quentin gulps.

“I like a lot of things,” he whispers.

“Maybe I should be more descriptive. I spent like a whole day in the library yesterday. I’m a scholar now. I know all about this subject and have so much wisdom to impart.”

He shifts Quentin his lap so he can sit up more and they’re pressed together. He leans down to speak directly into Quentin's ear.

“The first thing that needs to happen,” he says, and Quentin shivers. “I need to make love to you. And I’m going to make you feel so good. And then I’m going to fill you up—”

Quentin moans and turns his head, tilts his chin up so that he can get his mouth on Eliot’s.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a moment. “I really. Um, I’m definitely onboard. But I feel so gross, can we—”

They head for the shower. Eliot washes Quentin’s hair, relishing the sounds it draws out of him.

“Love your hands,” Quentin sighs. “Mm. So nice.”

“You feel better now, baby?”

He nuzzles against the back of Quentin’s neck and Quentin nods.

One of the many benefits of having the Baba Yaga as a landlady is that they seemingly never run out of hot water; at least not in Eliot’s experience, and they’ve had some marathon shower sessions. So they could stand there and kiss under the spray forever, and maybe they would, except Quentin starts begging for Eliot to fuck him.

“Please,” he gasps, pressing their bodies together. “Please.”

So, of course, Eliot has no choice but to acquiesce. He’s magnanimous that way.

They wrap themselves in fluffy towels and make a beeline for the bedroom; if someone tries to waylay them, Eliot is literally pushing Quentin inside and slamming the door in their faces.

Thankfully, this doesn’t turn out to be necessary. But he would have done it.

“So, did your research say, if, um. There’s a particular position that works best?”

Eliot stops to think.

“Huh. You know what, I don’t think so. Not that I remember, anyway.”

“Well,” Quentin says, as he reaches up to remove the towel from Eliot’s waist. “Maybe we should ask Alice.”

Eliot thinks he stops breathing for a second.

Quentin’s face is so innocent and earnest, but eventually, his mouth twitches and then he’s bursting out laughing.

“Oh my god, Q,” Eliot sighs. “You are such a brat.”

“The look on your face—fuck. You were actually thinking about doing it, weren’t you?” Quentin laughs as he gasps for air.

Eliot lets the towel fall, then lowers himself so that his body covers Quentin’s.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says, and Quentin isn’t laughing anymore.

He shifts his legs so that they’re pressed together everywhere.

“Well. If it doesn’t specify, then. I want it like this. I want to see you.”

Eliot opens him up with his fingers slowly, until Quentin is shaking and begging and Eliot can’t refuse him anymore.

“I love you,” he murmurs against Quentin’s lips when he’s finally inside him.

They barely stop kissing the entire time, and Quentin has tears in his eyes, and Eliot thinks he does too. This would have been embarrassing, before. With anyone else. But not with Quentin.

When Quentin comes, he gasps and he doesn’t close his eyes, so Eliot sees it all play across his face. He’s gorgeous. Eliot will never understand how he ever managed to deserve this, in not one lifetime but two.

But Quentin wants him. Quentin chose him.

“We’re going to have a baby, Q,” he says, fervent, his moments frantic now. “I’m going to give you—everything, I’m—”

He feels like it goes on forever, and Quentin holds him through it and whispers sweet nothings into his ear.

When he can finally move again, he reluctantly pulls himself from Quentin’s warm, perfect body, but it’s okay because a moment later, he’s on his back and Quentin’s warm, perfect body is curled in his arms.

“So,” Quentin yawns. “I think that was a pretty good test run. We should probably try it a few more times, though. Just to be sure.”

He’s such a nerd.

“Absolutely. Practice makes perfect.”

They’ll go to sleep and then wake up and do this all over again and then have breakfast in bed, or maybe they’ll have breakfast first. They can do whatever they want. And then Eliot will get up and go tell Margo the good news, and she’ll be so excited for him. And they’ll have to start shopping ASAP.

There’s so much to do.

But for now, he’s content to hold Quentin until he falls asleep, knowing that he’s giving him—they’re giving each other everything they want.

“I wonder what our baby will look like,” Quentin says, his voice heavy with sleep.

Eliot smiles. “Like you. I hope.”

“Mm,” Quentin pouts, because he can't help but be contrary, even on the verge of unconsciousness. “Like you. And I want to name him Grogu.”

Eliot kisses his forehead and breathes in the soft, sweet scent of his hair.

“Either way, any child of ours will be perfect. And absolutely not.”

He doesn’t see Quentin’s smile, but he can feel it against his skin.

“You ready?” Quentin mumbles.

In that moment, Eliot remembers Margo, his first year at Brakebills, when they’d been Trials partners. He honestly might have quit right then. Except Margo had taken his hand, so fierce and determined, and she’d turned to him and said “you ready?”

He’d nodded, even though he hadn’t been ready. And with her by his side, suddenly he was.

He feels absolutely no hesitation now. He has Quentin and they have forever.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can’t wait.”