PhD Candidate Faustus

13: we'll be bold with his good cheer

Mephistopheles
The flight is fairly long, and there's a lot of turbulence so I'm sick for most of it. Faustus is a surprisingly helpful person when one is ill, spending so much time being dramatic and ill himself, and requests ice for me and pats my back lightly. Helen comes back to check on us, not in a nice way, but in a, there was so little bickering and so few explosions I was afraid you'd finally killed each other, kind of way. No, that's not presumptuous, she literally says that. It's fine I would have thought the same thing.
Anyway, the plane finally touches down and I'm more than happy to disembark. We bid the flight attendants farewell, asking them to tell us if they ever find out how that random fire started, and then we're out in a breezy, surprisingly warm concourse.
"I cannot BELIEVE you started a fire," Helen says, the minute we're clear.
"He was cold!" Faustus points at me.
"So you set the plane on fire???"
"No, just a jar of my most recent formula."
I'm unhelpfully singing 'Fausty started the fire' to the tune of 'we didn't start the fire', both my friends prioritize hitting me over finding our way out of the airport.
"How often do you start fires?" Helen asks, punching me but glaring at him.
"Oh, like daily—,"
"Yeah, it's daily—,"
"Well, more nightly—,"
"Yeah, we do it more at night—,"
"And Father Thomas hasn't given up on you yet?" She asks.
"No, but we hear him praying more."
"Anyway, we're on vacation, break, slothfullness, no work on any projects, I'll double check his bag, I promise," I say, the last part really quickly to Helen.
"God, please do."
We make our way out the exits to baggage claim. Helen has checked bags, we don't, I'm carrying all our bags because someone is disabled. I know. He's an ass, just forget it.
Helen's foster parents are waiting, both of them. She introduces them as Mr. and Mrs. W, and introduces me by my current fake name, which is remarkable considering neither she nor Fausty call me that.
Mr. and Mrs. W are an older couple, probably late sixties, dressed nicely if conservatively. They hug her hello and smile warmly at Fausty and I. Neither of them smell like smoke so it looks like it's me and the two boxes of nicotine patches that Father Thomas gave me. Oh well.
We collect the bags and they lead us out to sleek SUV that's parked in the terminal one hour parking. Fausty and I climb in the back with Helen. I climb in the very back with the bags and them in the middle row of bench seats. I'm fine not being near a door anyway. I'm not a massive fan of cars if I'm not the one driving them.
Mr. and Mrs. W ask us politely about the flight and our classes. I'm surprised at how easily I make small talk with them. Polite, refined, rich person small talk about the flight and the weather and our class schedules. I've been at Rose and Swan for months now and somehow some of it has rubbed off on me. I can play the student because after all this time I am one, or the start of one. Mostly I'm surprised of how much of our conversation turns out being true. I have to lie once, maybe twice in the entire car ride and that is all, and not even by design, it's mostly to gloss over why family won't miss me for the holiday.
"My grandmother passed years ago now, I've been staying with Fausty's family," I say. It's not even technically a lie as my grandmother did pass years ago it just skips over a massive illegal portion of my life.
"Oh, I'm sorry, well, we're glad to have you," either the Williams suspect I'm keeping it brief or they're born polite and don't pry, mostly quizzing Helen on how she's been, but including Fausty and I as well. He's unusually quiet. I forget that when he's not around me or Robin or Wagner or Helen or anyone else tolerant of his ramblings then he tends to shut down. Not that I don't like the ramblings, I really do. They're honestly sort of cute. But he knows most people don't have the mental energy to listen so he's awfully quiet.
We drive all the way into the dark sky, and even though I can't see the ocean I can hear the crash of waves and smell the salt air. I've only been to the beach a few times in my life, with my grandmother obviously when I was little, and then once later with a client, I'm saying John yeah I'm trying to be more classy, yeah, client, anyway we drove the few hours to the coast and I went with 'cause I was bored. It was fun I suppose, that was a crappy public beach nobody cares if you have sex underneath peers at.
This is a lovely private beach with white sand owned by rich people. The beach house we park outside of is big, two story and painted a pretty blue. It's got decks top and bottom, all around it, and grey wicker furniture overflowing with cushions graces it. They park in the drive, though there's a three car garage attached, and let us pile out. I was more than a little car sick so I'm glad of the salty air and just standing on my own two feet. Mr. W goes to the front door and unlocks it, letting two huge dogs out. Actually, 'huge' does not encompass how big these dogs are, like if I said that's a bus, oh no wait maybe it's a dog, there, that better describes how fucking huge these animals are. They belong in a zoo among the elephants not in a house. My head could easily fit in just one of their mouths.
"Peter, and Wendy," Helen says, kneeling to hug the massive drooling dogs. One is black and white the other brown and white, and they are dripping drool. Dogs don't usually like me so I stand behind Fausty.
"There's a reference there I know it," Fausty says, rubbing his leg and wincing as I stay behind him in case the dogs attack.
"They're friendly, I promise," Helen says, seeing me using my disabled best friend as a shield. Don't look at me like that. Recall the brick incident. Anyway.
"Just hold out your hand," Helen says. She and I both recall being bitten by police dogs. Well, okay, to be fair it probably wouldn't have bitten me if I hadn't tried to run like a perpetrator and not a victim, but you know I was twelve and technically a criminal. Anyway, I've since not been fond of dogs.
"Why, so they can eat it first? As a snack?" I ask her.
"They're Newfoundlands, for Christ's sake Phist, they're search and rescue dogs, they save drowning people, the only way you'll get hurt is if one of them sits on you. The dog in Peter Pan, Nana, is based off of the author, J.M. Barrie's Newfoundland. Honestly, don't you ever play with the hell hounds?" Fausty, of course.
"No! Dogs don't like me, also why do you just know that?"
"I don't know!" Miserably.
"They're fine—boys, come on, the dogs shan't eat you, I promise," Helen says.
"You'd better, nice doggy, nice doggy. I'm not a criminal please don't bite—," I say, shifting past the dogs as best I can while holding my bags well above the drool.
"Wendy, here let them get in. I'm sorry, they do love children," Mrs. W says, taking hold of the massive thing and ineffectively tugging it back.
"Not to eat though?" I ask.
Mr. W laughs, "No, not a bit."
Inside the beach house looks like a hallmark movie. There's pretty candles and brightly colored rugs, and pictures of the Ws with looks like past foster kids, several pictures of them with Helen over the last four years. The furniture is all light airy, and the entire place speaks of no fear. Lights glow. Expensive laptops sit out on countertops charging. Mrs. W offers us snacks, getting plates of veggies and dip out of the fridge.
I am not conditioned to refusing food so I overcome my fear of dogs to accept.
"You guys didn't have to do this; we're ready to crash," Helen says, as Mrs. W gets offers us various Healthy sodas. Again, I'm not conditioned to refusing food.
"Don't be silly, you've had a long flight, and we're so glad you're here," she says, hugging Helen. I smile, leaning on the marble counter top. She really is in a good place now. And for once so am I.
"Nice dogs," Fausty actually means that, patting the dog's heads as they sniff him interestedly, probably smelling the usual amount of explosives he has on his person.
"Not used as bomb sniffing dogs are they—oww, this relationship is getting abusive," I say, as Faustus just hits me.
"No, mostly search and rescue that type of thing—oh be aware, if you do go swimming in the morning don't let them out with you unless you want to be rescued from the water," Mr. W cautions.
"I can't swim; I'm disabled," Faustus says, immediately.
"You're not disabled," Helen and I groan, in unison, which sounds super mean so we then have to explain to her parents that him having one leg doesn't stop him doing half these things he secretly doesn't want to do.
"He doesn't—,"
"He's fine—,"
"He's just missing half a leg—,"
"The most important half!" Faustus cries.
"Um, arguably no the most important half connect it to your body—,"
"But it's got nothing to do with swimming," Helen finishes.
"Well, wade in then," Mrs. W says, "It's only the bay so it's nice and gentle waves most of the time."
"I can't swim. I'm disabled," Faustus says, pleasantly.
"He uses it as an excuse—you use that as an excuse have you ever tried to swim?" I ask, frowning.
"Do I—look like I've done anything other than read books for the past sixteen years?"
"Okay, no, you have me there, fine, I'll teach you to swim it isn't hard," I say, stuffing carrots and humus in my mouth.
"You can swim?" He asks, suspicious, "You won't melt?"
"I'm not the fu—freaking wicked witch of the west! Yes I can f-damn well well swim and no I won't f—melt," I say, personally proud of how much I avoid swearing despite being antagonized by a one legged alchemist.
"Oh, that reference you get?" Faustus raises his eyebrows.
"Yeah, that reference I get, Fausty, I've seen the god—godly Wizard of Oz," I say, continuing to eat.
"Well, I didn't know, you've not seen anything else—he's not seen anything else," Faustus says.
"You still haven't seen Star Wars, you can't talk," Helen informs him, laughing.
"I have to be emotionally ready. I'm disabled."
"Oh hell," I nearly choke I laugh so suddenly.
We finish our snack without actually choking, and make plans to go down to the beach in the morning. Then Mrs. W shows us to our rooms, she gets very concerned at first, as she's put me and Fausty in the guest rooms on the second floor, as he's said he's disabled about eighty nine times. Helen and I both say in a very loud tone of voice "HE'S FINE," when she starts to bring up the stairs. Just because we did that, Fausty acts like he can't walk up stairs. To be abundantly clear we live on the SECOND floor of our dorm and there is no elevator. There's a chair lift, but we do not use it.
"Both of you ignoring my disability, criticizing and mocking the disabled which is me, I'll not go up the stairs—-PUT ME DOWN MEPHISTOPHELES," the last bit comes as I just pick him up bridal style and carry him up the stairs. I think Mrs. W is laughing at us at this point, but trying not to.
"Happy?" I ask, setting him down.
"No, never, not at all, why?" He asks, fixing his clothes.
"The bathroom is here, and your rooms are there and there, do kick the dogs out if they get in your way," she says, moving a dog as best she can to show me my room. A pleasant little twin bed sits against one wall, with shells dangling from the ceiling. The window overlooks the beach side of the house, and it's open a crack so I can hear the ocean.
"I'll get our bags, as he's disabled."
"Should push you down the damn stairs," Faustus mutters, as I pat the top of his head before following her back down to fetch our things.
"Night," Helen says, unexpectedly burying herself in my arms.
"Night now, get your rest I'm gonna throw Fausty in the ocean in the morning," I say.
"YOU HAD BETTER FUCKING NOT," from the top of the stairs.
"He has very good hearing," Helen and I both say, making ourselves laugh.
"Well, get settled, let me know if you need anything all right dear?" Mrs. W says.
"I'm pretty sure I've got everything I need," I say, smiling.