When she was beautiful, she was beautiful. But to be fair, he thought she was beautiful when she was ugly, too, and beautiful when she was angry, sad, or hyper. She was even beautiful when she was being lazy around the house in those flimsy pajama bottoms, no make up, hair a mess. Before he followed, he turned to the third leg in their little party, "If you'll excuse me. I would like to look around alone. It's just..." he was trying to look sad, but he was never that great an actor, "...it's just, it was always dads wish, to own a magic shop! I'm... I'm feeling really..." fake emotional choke! "...excuse me. Please. Thank you." He took the steps up backwards, nodding his thanks to the agent and waggling his fingers. He'd almost cast a spell, you know, but it was bad luck to spell people whose names you hadn't even learned. Before the agent could mount a protest he kicked the door closed, pulled it's window shade down, and turned around to her.

Her fingers were pushed back through her hair, effortlessly ruffling it to give it that bedheaded look that she liked so much. Quinn knew little of what went on in Rick's mind. And you know, for an empath she was rather oblivious sometimes, so when he put on his act for the Realtor outside, she stared at him rather dumbfounded for the longest of moments while she tried to decide if he was for real or not. Then slam. There went the door and she sighed heavily. Tipping her head to one side, tousled strands fell over one shoulder and she quickly brushed them back over her ear. "Was that really necessary? You're a terrible actor you know..."

"Mm. I can't be perfect at everything, Tiger. Maybe you can get me lessons?" The height difference between them was simply comical. She was at least a head taller than him on bad days -- factor shoes, and his slouching, and sometimes she could tower over him. Even when he moved closer he had to step up on the tips of his toes to kiss her chin, right below lips. He was winking and walking past before she reacted, one hand stabbing her in the hips with a finger, the other fetching a pack of smokes. "So. What was it? King of Clubs. They have such... kitschy stuff here." He eyed the front room skeptically. There was a specific magic set on the front counter that he nodded at, "Fake rings. The kind with the gap in them. You see a magician using those on stage, you walk out and demand your money back."

"You're beyond help, m'dear. Trust me, I've tried." A fox like grin beamed down on him, growing wider when his lips brushed against her chin. She had bent her knees just slightly to make it easier for him to do so, the sky high stilettos proving quite the challenge otherwise. Before she could react further, he was already gone, leaving her in his wake to sigh softly and shake her head. "It's a terrible name." She agreed with a crinkle of her nose, though the expression was just as much for the pack in his hand, a source of ire for her for as long as she'd known him. "I don't watch magicians, Ricky," oh how she knew he just loved when she called him that, "And I'd never use them myself. Granted we'll need new merchandise, but it's a start right?" Seeking some sort of praise for a job well done.

He scrunched his nose. Rick liked to imagine that he could give the sort of looks that would peel paint from walls or unnerve even the steeliest of nerves, but the awful, horrible, terrible truth was simply that he was adorable and cute. The fact bothered him to no end. He always scrunched his nose when she called him Ricky. At least it was better than the other name, the forbidden off-limits one. He didn't even refer to it mentally; it was just "that name". A cigarette dangled between lips, though he took a moment to produce the zippo lighter. "We'll need all new merchandise. If what you've told me about this place is true," he was sure it was, because she had said it was true, "then we'll need some real stuff, too. Not this fake trash for kids. And we'll have to clean. And we'll have to work here. Is this really what you want?" With a turn, he looked at her, his eyes to hers. The sincerity in his question was obvious.

Her mouth quivered and trembled as she fought like hell to hold back the grin that threatened to blossom upon her lips. Pushing his buttons was a specialty of hers, one she took great pleasure in doing as often as possible. She knew there was little he could do about it. Not could, would. He wouldn't do anything and that's why she got away with it. She narrowed her eyes at the lighter, finding him out of reach to bat at the zippo, instead resigning herself to a soft huff of defeat. That was one battle she was sure she would never win. Tapping her fingertips together, she pressed her lips into a thin line and gave him a slow but sure nod. "Yes. I know it'll be work, but with what you've said about this place, I'm sure the side work will more than make up for it... right?" This was her hopeful face right here, the one that pleaded for reassurance that she wasn't on the verge of letting him down.

Still, he knew it bothered her, and not like the way her button pushing bothered him, so it was rare that he afforded himself a smoke like this -- rare moments of grave concern only, and perhaps after those long hours they spent together. Very rarely, he even tried to offer her one, too. As the flame caught the cigarette, he gave the front room a studied look and inhaled deeply, thinking. Half of his mind was already working out the spells he would have to cast, all the magic he would have to go through, runes carved, symbols painted, and other assorted bits taken care of before they could safely live here. The other half, the romantic helpless half, had already given in. There was another long drag before he put it out in a left over tin on the front counter, blowing a long trail of smoke. He turned and leaned back against the bar and... smiled at her. Murmuring, "Come here."

Quinn didn't have the luxuries of life long youth on her side so the simple mortal couldn't help but worry. It was her subtle way of showing she cared. Between the snips and snipes and little teases, she mixed in the moments of concern for him and his health, even if it wasn't something he had to worry about. She could see the cogs turning behind those eyes of his and she gave him a few moments of quiet to puzzle out the details. And then there was that smile. An almost inaudible sigh passed her lips on her next breath, her resolve caving as practiced steps closed the distance between him. Drawn like a moth to a flame, though she'd never admit it. Coming to a stop before him, she kicked a foot back and tapped the toe against the floorboards, still wearing that anticipative expression like it might do some good toward her cause. "Yes?"

"You know, my dear, you're going to make me start wanting to wear lifts." Anytime he used the term 'my dear' she knew was getting what she wanted. Long mornings spent convincing him to go out that night and mingle with youth to see a show (which he invariably hated, except that she was there), or those trips she begged him to take to all those foreign places (which he invariably had been and knew someone, even the small villages during their trip to the U.K.), all the things she wanted -- if he ever said "my dear", it meant she had him. Of course, it was entirely unfair to say that this move, this shop, this change in life, was solely for her. It was an honestly great idea, and one he agreed with. His deft hands reached out for hers, winding fingers together. The smile directed at her was as warm as the sun. "Let's do it."

The words had barely even left his mouth when her face lit up in such a way it mattered little that the lights hadn't worked. Hook, line, and sinker, she had him. And this time, she didn't even feel bad about it. This was more than indulging a fit of whimsy, more than her trying to coerce him into some sort of normalcy, more than convincing him to move to a new place, strange and foreign and lax on the laws--that was a definitive upside though--, it was a good choice. A smart idea. Intertwining her fingers with his, she gave his hands a tight squeeze and bounced on her toes, an impressive feat given the height of the heels. "Really? You mean it?" Of course he'd meant it, she'd heard the magic words. Despite that, she still had to ask. "I could just kiss you right now!" But... she didn't. Releasing his fingers and dancing back to the door since, in her mind, the sooner the Realtor knew, the better. The sooner it would be theirs.

The diner was one of those small little dirty ones you only find on back roads through bad parts of town. It was perpetually unclean, smelled like rotting linoleum, and the key lime pie on sale in a glass display stand had probably been there since the beginning of last decade. In short, it suited Rick just fine. No better place to sit for hours and decompress.

The last few days had been nothing short of fantastic. The two partners woke early, worked all day, stayed up late. He cooked, she cleaned, the afternoons were for studying magic, anything past 8 at night was for them and them alone. Quinn was learning the craft at a prodigious rate -- she was already quickly on her way to mastering all the charms and illusions he knew, and they hadn't found much that she had trouble with. They had spent a day doing nothing but buying new furniture, filling out the expansive space they now lived in with things that would forever be "theirs", not "his" or "hers". So why was it that he so .. unhappy?

"Scratch that, Rick. You're not unhappy. Face it. You're bored. You're a bored old man." It was not the first time since arriving to Rhy'Din that he'd had this thought. Back home, back in his city, he was something of a hot commodity. The great wizardly detective! The boy who had cracked the Houdini Slasher case. Finder of lost treasure and the greatest lover this side of the river. But here?

Across the street, right now, there was a family of small dragons playing tag. He was fairly certain that the man behind the register was a vampire, or at least a zombie in the absolute earliest state of decay. Even their landlady was apparently a powerful wizard in her own right.. on the weekends. Here, Rick was just "one of the guys". In two weeks he hadn't found work yet and, if he was being frank with himself, it was down right depressing. Home life didn't suit him -- he needed a distraction. And a distraction meant work. That meant -- ADVERTISING.

It was somewhere in his second pot of coffee (which was, without a doubt, the worst coffee he'd ever had) that the text notification of his phone went off. It was a beat up old Nokia and the only phone that didn't futz out and die on him within a week of use. Even as he was digging it out of the front pocket of Quinn's Boston Bruins sweater he was wearing (the perfect size for her, comfortably over sized on him, and most importantly smelling like his partner), it went off again. Two messages in five seconds? It could only mean one thing.

BOB: MORTAL, I REQUIRE NETFLIX

BOB: OR I WILL ANNIHILATE YOU AND YOUR FLIMSY WORLD

Rick face palmed. Letting Bob out had been a mistake. "Owning" your own psychotic demigod from one of the deepest pocket of Eldritch space was a mistake to begin with, even if it was your best friend. He was dreading the time he would have to tell Quinn where Bob had come from. The detective set the phone down and started rubbing the bridge of nose. Where had he been? Ah, yes. ADVERTISING. He looked out the window and finished his coffee, considering the problem. His phone beeped again.

BOB: AND REDVINES

"Fff." If this wasn't sorted, Bob would turn to Quinn. It always went bad when he annoyed Quinn. Fires, earth quakes, cats and dogs living together level bad. Solving the problem of advertising would have to wait until tonight over dinner. Right now, Rick had to go save the universe.

Rick was fond of lists. LIttle mental compilations that organized people, places, and things. He had lists for everything and everything was on a list somewhere in his head. It was not a very wizardly thing to do -- most of his contemporaries disliked the idea of codifying the universe at large, strange and mysterious and quite unexplainable as it was, but lists suited Rick. It was the detective in him. It fit his clean, catlike nature.

But he was having real difficulties with one particular list. It had started the moment Quinn had brought up Rhy'Din. Immediately a list had been drafted up for "Weird Things About Rhy'Din", first bullet point being the name. What was Rhy'Din? Where did the name come from? He saw no Latin roots in it. It didn't sound French or Italian or any of the other languages he spoke. Was it a word of Power? He felt no magic move when he used it. But Quinn had been so excited to see it, so off they went. The list had only grown from there, and he was starting to have trouble keeping track of where he was on it.

Somewhere in the corner store nearest their two story brownstone shop and apartment, Rick added bullet point 835. On a mission to procure a few missing items for his world famous (his words), he'd wandered into the dairy section to find a good parmigiano-reggiano, but nestled between the double worcester and dubliner, there it was; dragon's milk feta. It was almost like someone was playing a joke. The entire idea boggled him, discombobulated him, and confused him deeply. Did dragon's even produce milk? Did freshly born dragon's suckle? And why was there a warning label? What kind of cheese needs a warning label? Standing there and thinking about it was starting to give him a headache. Where did the milk even come form?

It was only later that Rick remembered that he'd forgotten the carrots and celery. Leave it to him to have a list that comprised all the oddities of an extraplanar country but none for shopping.

It'd been a while since Rick had spare time. Between the twin cases they worked, which seemed to take more time and energy to solve in a city set on it's strange edge than anything would have at home, the once important and now awkward hobby of dueling, the long hours of relearning everything he knew of magic, and spending as many of his remaining hours in his otherwise packed days laying around with Quinn, free moments were a luxury he didn't indulge in often. There were always things to do, places to go, people to see, or songs to sing at Quinn while they sampled new wines and tried old Italian dishes.

So when he found himself with a spare afternoon and nothing to do, it seemed entirely appropriate that he spaz and clean their apartment above the shop and offices. The many cats were ushered out, the windows opened, music played, and furniture pulled out for proper dusting. Since no vacuum would survive more than a few minutes operation around the wizard, Rick was left to do everything the old fashioned way, which suited him fine but made for slow work. If the damned enchanted broom would obey him, maybe he could get it done a little faster, but that was a bit of a lost cause. Thing had a mind of it's own since Ellen started working in the shop. If he didn't know better, he'd almost think the thing had a crush.

As the day dragged on, the living room went from a mess of dust and misplaced objects to something far cleaner if only slightly more organized. The deep scrubbing of the kitchen followed, until the house smelled slightly of soap and bleach. Eventually, lost in a groove and bopping away to his favorite Miles Davis record, Rick cancelled the rest of his engagements of the day so he could finish cleaning the bathroom (which would, later, give him the perfect excuse to dirty that tub up), sort through the ten thousand and one books settled around the modest library they called 'a study', and finally tackle the true horror of his life:

Their bedroom.

Technically, it was his bedroom, and Quinn had her own down the hall, but it was such a small technicality that he'd stopped thinking of them as his and hers and more of theirs and the other one they sometimes used when the first one needed clean sheets.

For every hour he'd spent cleaning up until now, in the whole of the rest of the apartment, the bedroom required two. Clothes sat in piles, both clean and unclean, hiding more books and discarded relics and more than one pair of handcuffs or wine bottle. Nothing in the room was straight and almost everything was either knock on it's side, on it's face, or upside down. Even the antique wind up clock they used to wake themselves, the only thing that could work with not one, but two, sleeping wizards next to it, had fallen to the floor before being buried by news papers and pajama pants. Scorch marks on the ceiling needed to be rubbed out before anyone noticed and he had to explain, calmly, that sometimes wizards get 'excited'. More than once he found a half finished drink, left to sit like an alchemical experiment. And the ties. So many ties. Almost 70 years of them, and they seemed to have gotten into almost every crack or crevice or occluded section of the room, laying like silken vipers ready to bite.

And that was just his side of the room. If you asked him, Quinn's was worse. Not that he'd ever tell her that. Oh no. He liked his head where it was.

All in all, by the time he was finished, he'd managed to turn a few free hours into almost a full day of cleaning, gone through almost a dozen records, and had more than cursing battle with an inanimate object. The apartment almost didn't look like it belonged to them, except for the fact that, as soon as they were allowed back in, the fat lazy beasts they called 'their cats' sprawled every where, and even though he'd used enough cleaning agents to kill a small country, it quickly started to smell more like books and wine and Italian food than a freshly dusted, extremely clean apartment.

Now if only he could remember when Quinn was coming home, so he could show off all his hard work.