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Usually Fakir berated himself for staying up late writing, but today he was thankful that he had done so. Really, if he hadn't turned right at that moment he wouldn't have seen the flash of red light just over his bed; only heard the high-pitched squawk of surprise and the "kya!", along with the thump of the mattress. He stared, jaw slack, as the redhead groaned and mumbled, rubbing her back. She seemed to freeze suddenly, then slowly, very slowly, look up, blue meeting green in joint shock.
"Hh!" She scurried backwards on the bed, the sheets bunching under her palms. She almost lost her balance and tumbled right off, reddening so that her face was bright even in the dim light. She stuttered pitifully. "I-I-I-I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I-I really- That is- I mean- I didn't mean to- Oh dear, this is terrible- I just- Ahh-!"
Fakir cleared his throat and swallowed. "You're…?" he gestured towards the staff in her hand. She only yelped and muttered further. He sighed. Best to start with something we both know… "You… live across the street."
She looked up at that, eyes wide, nodding slowly. "Y-Yes…" She seemed to start before shrieking, "You can't tell anyone!"
He recoiled at the high pitch, wanting to look affronted but failing pitifully because, honestly, the look on her face. "I won't…" he started, pausing for thought. Where could you possibly go with such a conversation? "It's not any of my business."
"Well, it kind of is now, isn't it…" She gripped the staff with both hands, squeezing it, her knuckles turning white. "I'm so sorry, I was trying to- Well, clearly- or not? Maybe it's not clear at all, it's not everyday a witch appears in your room at two in the morning, on your bed- Your bed!" she shrieked, leaping off and landing gracelessly on the rug. Her pointy hat toppled off; she plucked it out of the air with surprising dexterity and popped it right back on. He stared at it; there was a large, blue and yellow bow tied around it, lacy and dainty. It made the large patches in her dress almost fade away.
Fakir sighed, closing his notebook and shoving it and the pen into a drawer. The longer she stayed the more fidgety she seemed to get, and adorable as her nervousness was he didn't want her to faint. "I'll walk you home."
She jumped at the statement, waving her hands with a shaky smile. "No, that's really not necessary-"
"After you," he interrupted, gesturing towards the open door. Her mouth snapped shut and she scurried past him, waiting in the corridor for him to walk ahead of her.
The chill made them both shiver as they hurried across the deserted street, the girl trotting to keep up with his longer strides (he'd known she was short, but this was ridiculous). Her house looked much like his own, as did all the others on their street, but it had touches that were undeniably hers; the wind chime hanging from the window, the flowerpots littering the porch, the flowery vines wrapped around the balustrades. The pretty doormat with "Welcome Home" written on it colourfully, little boats sewn around the lettering. The spare key pulled out from under said doormat, a duck keychain attached.
The door swung open and she hopped over the threshold, turning back towards him. She seemed to pause in thought, before blurting out, "Do you want to come in?"
He blinked. She twiddled her fingers. "W-Well, I have to explain myself, don't I… a-and I thought…" she trailed off, glancing up at him, before looking away and biting her lip.
Fakir looked away quickly, willing himself to reply as nicely as possible. "Fine." He mentally kicked himself; that was the farthest thing from nice I could have said other than insults.
Her face seemed to brighten up as she ushered him in, babbling, all awkwardness apparently evaporated. "I'm Ahiru, by the way. Everyone always finds it weird, because it means 'duck', but it's not as weird as my sister; her name is Tutu. Tutu! Our parents must have hated us, or maybe they were weird too. At least they had the foresight to call me Ahiru instead of just Duck, though some people call me that as a nickname, Lilie says it sometimes when she teases me, but it's not in a mean way, and…" she rambled on, pottering into the kitchen, dropping the staff into what looked like an umbrella stand and hanging her hat on a hook, exchanging it for a polka-dotted apron, cowlick bobbing as she did so. She fumbled with the strings, turning back to him, looking sheepish. "Sorry. I talk a lot when I'm nervous. Please sit."
"I don't mind," he said quickly, pulling out a stool at the island in the middle of the room. And he didn't, not really; other people's chatter always felt idle and annoyed him, but Ahiru's wasn't as bad. A sister named Tutu. Strange. He watched as she opened cupboards filled with pretty glass jars, the kinds found in the home decor sections at the nearby shops, in which there seemed to be ingredients of every kind - some looked like herbs, others strange liquids, and others like grains or even small precious stones. She pulled some out, pulling a tablespoon out of a drawer as she did and hazardously throwing spoons of the ingredients into the bubbling cauldron on the stove. The smoke changed from a brown into a pleasant greenish hue. He cocked his head as he watched. "I'm Fakir. You seem very… stereotypical."
"What?" She turned slightly as she rummaged through another drawer, pulling out several dish towels. She bunched them together into makeshift oven gloves and lifted the cauldron off the heat, putting it instead onto a chopping board. She poked at the wood. "I had to put a charm on these, I kept setting them on fire, took me ages… And yeah, if you mean the pointy hat and cauldron, I am very stereotypical. It helps me focus because I relate these things to witchcraft. Not that it helps a lot…" She crouched, pulling open another cupboard and throwing the dish towels over her shoulder so that they landed on the island. There were several clatters and mutters before she pulled out a plastic container. Dropping the tupperware into the sink, she rummaged around the cutlery drawer again before pulling out a ladle and a permanent marker. "The ladle shouldn't be in here, stupid…" Fakir watched her progress. There was nothing ominous or wise about her at all; she must have been the oddest, sweetest, most domestic little witch he'd ever seen. And the only real one, movies don't count for much. She held the container over the sink, ladling the potion into it and observing it before filling it to the brim and putting the lid on. "Good thing the plastic didn't melt like last time…" She turned as she scrawled on the lid with the marker. "I don't have any nice jars or bottles left, need to buy more… This is a gift for a friend, actually; she has a nice flower shop but lately they haven't been growing very well. I'll sprinkle some of this onto them without her noticing and it'll be fixed up in a jiffy." She pushed the dish towels to one side with the container, throwing the pen onto them and pulling up a stool of her own. "I actually wanted to practise teleporting while the potion brewed, but as you know that didn't go so well…" She threw the apron onto the pile of dish towels.
"So are there… more of you?" Fakir asked carefully.
Ahiru waved her hand. "Way more, we're everywhere, you just don't know it. There are probably a couple in the neighbourhood, but we hide it so well that we never really know. It's a miracle I haven't been discovered yet. Although…" she looked at him pointedley, "I technically have."
"I won't tell anyone." He shifted on the stool.
"Thank you. And I'm really sorry about-"
"It's fine. I was awake anyway."
"Yes, I saw… You write?"
"Don't ask too many questions."
"Sorry." They fell into silence, Ahiru tracing circles in the wood with her finger. "So… do you want pancakes?"
He stared incredulously. "At two in the morning?"
"Yes," she quipped, pushing off the chair, "You're here anyway, might as well."
He paused, eyeing her - her mussed braid and her freckles and her patchy dress - before heaving a sigh and propping an elbow on the island. "Okay. Pancakes sound great."
She beamed. There was a gap between her front teeth. "Yay! Pancakes are one of the few things I don't mess up at two in the morning."
"You cook regularly at two?"
"No, just- hh!" She gasped as the flour spilled onto the counter, a white cloud billowing into the air. She waved a hand at it, coughing. Some of the flour settled on her head, making her ginger hair look almost peach-coloured. She flashed him an embarrassed grin.
He shook his head at her. "Idiot."
She threw some flour at his face in response.