Quentin thought he’d heard some silly ideas in his time, but this one took the biscuit.

“You want us,” he said, choosing his words with care, “to dress up in cheap costumes and terrify the neighbors?”

“It’ll be fun!” Laurence had his doe-eyes in full effect, but the result was mitigated by both his proposal and by the huge raven on his shoulder.

Windsor clacked his beak and waved his head back and forth as though he found the whole thing hilarious.

Quentin tutted at them. “You are as bad as each other,” he said with nothing but fondness. “No. Besides, doesn’t Myriam have some sort of Pagan thing she’s invited you to?”

“But Halloween is fun.” Laurence’s voice reduced to a plaintive whine as he leaned into Quentin’s side. “Samhain’s not fun.”

“Mm.” He eased his arm around Laurence’s waist and turned to kiss his forehead softly. “Why not?”

“Eh.” Laurence gestured toward another chair, and Windsor took the hint. The bird hopped from Laurence’s shoulder and half-walked, half-flapped his way over to that chair, skirting the dogs to avoid them sniffing his backside. “It’s a good time of year to remember the dead, you know?” He wriggled against Quentin’s side and draped his arm over Quentin’s lap. “That’s what they’ll be doing tonight. Honoring the dead, sharing stories about them, celebrating their lives. It’s really beautiful,” he admitted. “But there’s no candy.”

“I see.”

He leaned back against the couch and idly ran his fingers through Laurence’s curls. Their soft-spun gold had lost their summertime gleam, but they weren’t yet as dark as they were when he had first met the florist back at the start of the year.

Goodness. Had it been so long already?

Laurence all but melted against him, and his eyes drifted closed. “We could go,” he mumbled against Quentin’s waistcoat. “If you wanna.”

“And talk about dead people?” Quentin frowned at the thought. “In front of strangers?”

“It’s a celebration of life,” Laurence said. “Not death.” He squeezed Quentin’s thigh. “Why don’t we do a little ceremony here instead? At home? We can see if the kids want to come along. Maybe do a cookout, too?”

“Would it make you happy?”

Laurence chuckled faintly. “I dunno, baby. But sometimes good and happy don’t line up the way we think. Sometimes we gotta get things off our chests before the happiness can come.”

“Ah.” Quentin inclined his head and allowed his fingers to drift down Laurence’s neck. “I can see how it would be cathartic, yes.”

It had been a hectic year. Perhaps a moment to reflect before they all moved forward would indeed be a good idea.

Laurence sat up slowly and eyed him in confusion. “Uh. Nobody’s gotta, like, pee into a tube or anything…”

Now it was Quentin’s turn to be confused, until his brain coughed up the answer. Then he laughed.

“Cathartic, darling, has nothing to do with catheterization. It means it can relieve tension through a strong outpouring of emotion.”

“Right…” Laurence squinted at him. “Man sometimes I think you eat dictionaries instead of real food.”

There was a dirty joke to be made in there somewhere, but Laurence stood before Quentin could figure it out.

“I’m gonna go to the store, get food for later. You want anything?”

“No. Thank you.”

“No,” Laurence agreed with a grin. He leaned over and stole a quick kiss. “Back soon, baby.”

It was only once Laurence was gone that the joke finally formed itself. Before he could utter it, Windsor began to waggle his tail up and down.

Quentin shot to his feet and opened a window. “Don’t you dare poop on the carpet! Come along. Outside!”

Windsor eyed him and stretched his wings, then clacked his beak a couple of times as though he were preparing to say something deep and meaningful.

“Poop!” the bird declared.

Quentin blinked.

Corvids could mimic all sorts of sounds, including human speech. The young were also especially playful and inquisitive. All in all, they were smart little buggers, and Windsor had already shown signs of a deplorable excess of personality.

So why on earth was Quentin at all surprised that Windsor’s first spoken word was poop, of all things?

He sighed and gestured to the window. “Outside,” he repeated.

Windsor cackled as he hopped and flapped his way toward the opening. He wasn’t yet able to fly fully, but he was perfectly capable of navigating his way up to the windowsill, then the ledge, until finally - with another cry of “Poop!” - he bounced out of the window to go relieve himself on the grass.

Quentin shook his head.

“Laurence is going to have my head on a platter,” he muttered.

* * *

“You want us to do what?” Soraya squinted at him with all the misgivings he already felt himself.

Quentin laughed gently. “It isn’t that I want you to. It’s something Laurence would like to offer, and you are welcome to attend if you wish. Nothing more.”

“Sounds dumb,” she sniffed.

Kimberly fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt and eyed the dogs. “I think it sounds good,” she said so quietly that Quentin could have imagined it.

Soraya shifted her weight onto her left hip and crossed her arms. Never had Quentin seen a teenager look so unimpressed, and that was even after she’d called him all sorts of names when Annis took Lisa.

There was a memory he could do without. How could it be that his brain was so unreliable on things he might wish to recall, yet quite happy to torment him with the horror of watching as a daemon stole two of his wards right out from under his protection? Bloody useless thing. Other people, it seemed, had brains which actually worked, but no. His was about as functional as a chocolate teapot.

He pursed his lips as his memories chased his good humor away. “Merely an offer,” he murmured. “No obligation.”

Soraya huffed and stalked around the kitchen table to plop herself down by Kimberly’s side. “I guess we could go.”

Quentin poured tea into cups. “Truth be told I’m hardly eager to talk about these sorts of things myself, but it is Laurence’s faith, and I think it could be…” He stirred the tea while he chose his next word. “Beneficial.”

“Next you’ll want us all to see therapists,” she muttered.

“Oh, I don’t think that would be wise.” He carried the cups over to the teens and set one down before each of them with a small smile. “After so much effort spent in maintaining our secrecy, I’m not certain that it would be feasible for any of us to truly open up to a therapist who lacked a certain perspective.”

Kimberly nodded as she reached for her cup. “You mean one who isn’t psychic.”

“Indeed.” He reached for his own cup and sat with the girls at the table.

It was a dilemma indeed. He had slowly come to accept that his mental health was less than ideal, but seeking treatment was utterly out of the question. What were his options here? He could speak with a therapist and risk revealing his gifts to a stranger if provoked into a conversation he felt threatened by, or deal with his illness as best as he could in the hope that he never harmed anyone he cared for.

Laurence’s proposal seemed a viable compromise. What if Quentin could find a safe outlet for his emotions? A way to get things off his chest without destroying anyone’s office or shredding those he loved? It couldn’t possibly heal him, but perhaps it might be a way forward until a better solution could be found. It went against all instincts, the stiff upper lip drilled into him since childhood, but at this juncture the worst that could happen was that it proved fruitless.

He was no coward.

He could and would do this, no matter how daft it seemed. There were other things which had sounded ridiculous or even frightening, yet once he had put his mind to it and tried them proved themselves quite the opposite.

Soraya cleared her throat. “Hey. Stop thinking about Laurence.”

Quentin blinked at her in alarm.

“Yeah, you’ve gone bright red. Every damn time.” She rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she added. “I’ll be there for this hippy love fest feelings bullshit.”

“Well when you put it like that,” he said dryly, “it sounds unmissable.”