Grilled Cheese and Goblins

by Nicole Kimberling

  “Why don’t you tell him, son?” Gerald said.

  “I said that I worked in the mage office as a researcher,” Gunther said.

  Keith felt his brow furrow in puzzlement. But before he could ask for clarification, Agnes said, “When really he’s in the strike force!”

  Again Keith paused, not sure what, if anything, to say. Then, inspired, he said, “How do you know Gunther’s on the strike force?”

  “Well,” Gerald said, “his team leader was wearing a jacket that had those very words stenciled on the back in big white letters. That was my first indication. Then he introduced himself as the leader of Strike Force Team A and said that Gunther was a valuable member of the team. So after that I had a notion that it might be the case.” The scorn in Gerald’s voice could have been used to peel paint from the wall if the hot pepper steam hadn’t already been hard at work there.

  “I suppose you knew, Keith,” Agnes said.

  “Well, yeah,” Keith replied.

  “Do you know how dangerous that is? Gunther could be deployed to battle anything! Monsters, even!” She spoke with conviction that subsumed the fundamental irony of goblins being worried about attacking monsters. “We absolutely forbade him to interview for strike force. Gunther has gone directly against our wishes.”

  “He is a big boy now,” Keith ventured into the conversation, though he worried where it might lead. Family arguments in his own childhood home often led to fistfights and rivers of tears. He didn’t think he could take Agnes, or shoulder the guilt of making her cry, for that matter.

  “Son, we want you to resign,” Gerald said. “Strike force is too dangerous.”

  “Dad!”

  “Absolutely not.” The words were out of Keith’s mouth before he could weigh the consequences—not that consequences would have mattered. Once he decided to say his piece nothing could stop him. “Gunther is exactly the agent strike force needs. He’s strong, he’s smart and he’s ethical. And he’s not afraid to bring a gun to a swordfight.”

  All three Heartmans stared at him in shock. Then Agnes said, “You’ve been in a swordfight? Oh, Gunther! How could you be so reckless?”

  “Hell, yeah, Gunther’s been in a swordfight,” Keith cut in before Gunther could reply. “More than one! And he’s also rescued baby centaurs from an illegal breeding farm and gone on a shitload of other operations that are too classified for any of us to know about. I’m proud of him. You should be too.”

  “We are proud of him, but we don’t want to see him in the hospital ever again,” Gerald said.

  “That had nothing to do with strike force,” Keith said. “That was a random attack that could have hit any agent. The one thing we do know, though, is that Gunther recovered three times as fast as a born human would have. Besides, the other guys on strike force would never let anything happen to Gunther. They all love him. It actually creeps me out how protective they are.”

  “Of course they love him. How could they not?” Indignation colored Agnes’s cheeks at the implication that anyone could fail to love her son. “And yes, they were very nice to us when they came to visit Gunther in the hospital.”

  Silence, punctuated by the muffled snapping of bones beneath goblin teeth, descended over the table. For reasons mystifying to Keith, Gerald, Agnes and Gunther seemed to have come to an accord. Did that mean Gunther could stay on Haakon’s team? For the sake of Gunther’s pride and dignity, he hoped so, though privately he would have been relieved if Gunther transferred to a less violent unit.

  “So, I don’t mean to tell you your business, Keith, but I couldn’t help but notice that we didn’t see you there,” Gerald said.

  “Keith had to work,” Gunther said. “His job is important.”

  “I’m sure his supervisor would have given him the day off if he’d asked,” Gerald said.

  It was the truth, and it stung. Sure, he could have been there holding Gunther’s hand. He probably should have been. But he’d never been that guy.

  “I thought my time could be better spent investigating the attack than hanging around the hospital hallway,” Keith said. His reply sounded terse and defensive, even to him.

  “And it was!” Gunther said. “Keith found out the probable source of the pixie dust used in the attack.”

  After a short silence, Gerald sighed and picked up a chicken foot.

  “It’s nice to see you boys are so quick to defend each other, I suppose.” He bit off a long toe and chewed it.

  “Oh, I know! Isn’t it?” Agnes said, flashing a sudden smile. “Now you two finish your dinner.”

  Following the meal, Agnes started washing up, despite Keith’s protests that he should do that since she’d cooked. Finally she relented when Gerald called her into the conversation to help him relate all the gossip Gunther had been missing since he moved away from the West Coast trans-goblin community. Keith scrubbed the greasy pots while listening to tales of abject normalcy. So-and-so went to college, someone else had a nice vacation in Hawaii. Only once did the tone of the conversation falter—when Gerald revealed that one of Gunther’s distant cousins had been cited for violating the Secrecy Act and revealing that he was a goblin to a human reporter.

  The leak had been sealed and sufficient disinformation broadcast to discredit the cousin as well as the journalist, but he was now unable to return to the earthly realm, even though he’d been born here.

  Creatures with fae blood lived a precarious existence here, whether they were sprites, dark elves or goblins—facing deportation or exile for ever revealing their true nature. Keith didn’t know if it was right or not. But it was the way it was.

  Still, hearing of the sadness of Gunther’s aunt and uncle, he wondered if it always had to be.

  The conversation lightened after that and Gunther brought out the brand-new Scrabble game that he’d bought in anticipation of his parent’s first overnight visit. Being professional translators, Gerald and Agnes wiped the floor with Gunther and Keith, even when they gave them a handicap and allowed them extra tiles. But it was a pleasant way to pass the evening—certainly different from Keith’s own childhood home, where the television was a necessary guest at every meal.

  Just after nine, yawning and stinging with defeat, he and Gunther adjourned to their bedroom. As the door shut, he pulled Gunther close.

  “Do you think your parents are really mad at me for not being at the hospital?” he whispered.

  Gunther shrugged, then shook his head. “When they’re angry they don’t say anything at all. I think . . . they think they know how we should be acting, but we’re not them, you know? You’re not my mother. You don’t have to be standing around next to me ready to feed me your own leg to show me you love me. You can just text.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know, the story where the mother secretly cuts off parts of her body to feed to her starving husband and children?”

  “I’ve never heard of that—ever. I’m completely sure I would remember if I had ever heard that story,” Keith said. “It must be a goblin thing. Is it set on a craggy, snowy mountaintop under a blood-red sky?”

  “It is, but . . . are you sure you don’t know that story? There’s a children’s picture book and everything,” Gunther said.

  Keith just shook his head, partially to answer Gunther’s question and partially at the idea that he would have ever come across such a book. Though now that he thought of it, it did sort of resemble the plot of The Giving Tree.

  “Anyway, that’s not the point,” Gunther continued. “What I’m saying is that they don’t understand you, but they’re trying. And at the same time they’re trying to accept the fact that I’m grown up now and can make my own decisions. That’s probably harder for them.”

  He stripped down to his boxer briefs and climbed onto the bed, careful to shield his injured hand from harm. Keith followed suit, though he removed all his clothes, as was his habit.

  Nowhere did Gunther’s physical superio
rity become more apparent than when they were alone and naked. Accessories like clothes and jewelry and epic attitude gave Keith moderate visual impact. Once they were removed, he had only his tattoos and his imperfect body to represent him. Whereas Gunther—Gunther achieved male perfection to Keith’s eye. He could have been carved from marble and put on a pedestal in some Italian museum.

  For the first year that Keith and Gunther dated, Gunther still lived with his parents. For that reason, Keith had a lot of experience not only having quiet sex, but also having sex while knowing that his boyfriend’s parents lay sleeping only a floor away.

  It had been a year since then and Keith had to remind himself to be quiet—very quiet—when he slid into bed beside Gunther. The first thing he noticed was the red mark where the bolt from the stun gun had slammed into Gunther’s chest.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A little. It’s not too bad though. We all get mage-stunned during strike force training. It doesn’t hurt as much as being tasered, but it makes you super groggy.”

  “Too groggy for this?” Keith ran his hand down Gunther’s perfect abs to find the warm flesh beneath Gunther’s boxer briefs. Keith couldn’t actually believe that Gunther still wore anything to sleep with him, but he supposed that’s the kind of habit a guy developed after living with his parents into his thirties.

  And besides, if he was honest, Keith had to admit that he enjoyed the sense of transgression every time he slid his hand beneath the flat elastic band. It recalled the thrill of his first high school gropes.

  “I can fight through the fatigue.” Gunther began to roll toward him, then winced, rubbing the red mark on his chest where the mage bolt had hit him. “Maybe not on my side though.”

  “Don’t worry. I got this one.” Keith leaned in for a kiss and found Gunther shying away. “You really want me to stop?”

  “No, I’m just . . .” Gunther turned away. “I can’t believe my mom served raw onions.”

  “You’re worried about your breath?” Keith almost laughed but stopped himself. Gunther could be sensitive about his extra-human qualities. “You brushed your teeth for practically an hour. You’re fine.”

  “If you say so.” Gunther allowed himself to be coaxed into a kiss, which, when deepened, tasted mostly of cinnamon toothpaste.

  Keith luxuriated in the moment, careful not to put his weight on Gunther’s chest or jostle his bandaged right hand. He decided the best course of action would be to head south. Not only would that avoid the injury zones—it would keep Gunther from trying too hard to get Keith off. Because the fact was that Keith owed him one.

  He hadn’t come to the medical unit when Gunther needed him. Why? ’Cause he would have broken down. No matter what kind of man-of-action rationalization he gave himself or others, the fact was seeing Gunther hurt tore at him worse than he’d imagined it could. And he hadn’t wanted to break down in front of those people. So he’d been absent instead.

  He definitely owned Gunther a righteous pole-smoking.

  Gunther’s reaction when Keith closed his lips around the head of his cock was both charming and predictable. He nestled closer into the pillows, smiling down at Keith as though he’d never seen anything better in his life. He tucked his bandaged hand over his stomach and reached down to stroke Keith’s shoulder.

  Keith decided then to make a performance of it. Not just to give the best head he could but look good doing it. He tried to incorporate a sense of drama and flair to his long licks and tongue swirls. He tried to keep all the eye contact he could while working Gunther to a feverish tremble, quivering right on the edge of orgasm, then withholding it at the last moment, causing Gunther to writhe against the pillows and clench his fingers in the screwed-up sheets.

  Keith reckoned this must be the best job, blow or otherwise, that he’d ever done getting Gunther off. And the pride he took in that went straight to his dick, making it stand up to accept the honor, as if saying, “I’d like to thank Gunther’s smoking-hot cock and its two ball companions for giving me the inspiration to be fucking amazing.”

  He dropped one hand down to his own tool to give it a little pat on the head, to acknowledge its participation in this award-winning event. Then he dived back down for his closing move, bobbing, nuzzling, snuggling and sucking with the confidence of a man who knows his efforts are appreciated.

  He managed to time it so they came almost at the same time, with Gunther lagging a couple of seconds to watch Keith work himself before surrendering to Keith’s final deep kiss.

  He lay on Gunther’s thigh, panting to catch his breath while Gunther stroked the sticky hair back from his face. Finally, he urged Keith back up into place beside him. They kissed again, which made Keith’s already reddened lips tingle.

  Just as he started to slip from the edge of consciousness, Keith heard Gunther say, “Even if I could do better. I wouldn’t want to. Cause you’re the best to me.”

  Chapter Five

  The next morning brought news of another agent attacked—another member of the strike force. Keith found out about it from Nancy, who shook her head sadly as she related the information. “They now seem to be targeting Strike Force A directly. A lot of people are worried that it’s a specific retaliation.”

  The idea of a person or persons going after the strike force specifically twisted Keith’s gut and sent him rummaging around his desk for antacids before he even sat down.

  He told himself Gunther would be fine. His parents were staying on a few days to help until his bandages came off so he wasn’t alone and would be taken care of if he had a relapse or there was a new attack.

  He forced himself to focus on his work.

  Keith shared his office with two other employees, Inspector Daisy and Inspector Sandborne. Together with Nancy they constituted NIAD’s Division of Magical and Extra-Human Drugs and Food, or “MED/Food” for short. Normally, Daisy and Sandborne carried out site inspections and recertifications while Keith investigated—investigated, despite what that tiara-wearing mage-puke King Douchebag Melchior thought—cases of criminal wrongdoing.

  Stripped of his weapon, Keith had very little to do. He finished his own paperwork just before lunch. Then both his coworkers donned their MED/Food jackets and headed out.

  Keith was left alone with the backlog.

  A better punishment could not possibly have been devised for his insubordination. He spent three hours shifting paper, checking stamps and dispensing stamps on up-to-date companies before getting to the “request delay in filing paperwork” pile. Here he found a wide variety of semiliterate and partially illegible forms wherein the owners of various magical businesses alternately pleaded for more time in filing or attempted to explain their circumstances.

  The forms ranged from weird, “primary stakeholders disappeared while dealing with trolls—request more time to acquire ransom,” to the lackluster, “flood in records room makes it impossible to submit appropriate documentation.” He gave the poor woman dealing with the troll kidnapping a ninety-day extension and flagged the flood for investigation.

  It just sounded too much like a “dog ate my homework” to him—especially in this digital age. Moreover, it was Taranis, the company that manufactured Primal Thunder Power Shake. That wouldn’t have, in itself, been a cause for punishment. But Keith happened to note that Mage Melchior served on the board of directors for that particular company. He figured as long as the mage was set on thinking of Keith as a mere functionary in the bureaucracy of the NIAD lunchroom, he should act the part. And in his experience, hell hath no fury like a health inspector scorned.

  He grabbed a MED/Food windbreaker prepared to be the most pedantic, unfeeling obstructionist dick imaginable.

  He paused only to stick his head into Nancy’s office to tell her where he would be.

  “You’re doing a site inspection?” She lifted a quizzical brow.

  “Primal Thunder has an exclusive on the exercise room vending machine. I’d hate for all those strike force g
uys to go thirsty because Taranis allowed their permit to lapse,” Keith replied.

  “I thought you didn’t want to investigate without your gun.”

  “I’m not investigating. I’m just helping out Daisy and Sandborne.” He brandished his new weapon for her to see. “Have clipboard—will travel.”

  “I find this suspicious, but I’m going to let you do it anyway, since this is the second time the company has missed their deadline for filing and it’s all the way out in North Dakota.” Nancy took a moment to write him the portal permit to the NIAD office in Bismarck, then said, “No expenses. I want you back here by five.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The portal to Bismarck deposited Keith in the closet-like toilet of a run-down filling station. There, a single, grizzled attendant sat behind a counter, reading the paper. He glanced up in mild surprise as Keith emerged from the out-of-order toilet. Keith thought he was human, but couldn’t be sure.

  “Didn’t know I would be expecting a traveler today,” the attendant remarked. “Especially not from MED/Food.”

  “That’s why it’s called a surprise inspection.” Keith flashed his badge. “But not for you,” he added when the old man began, very slowly, to become alarmed. “I’m on my way to the Taranis corporate office. My boss told me I’d have a car to use here?”

  “Let’s see.” The attendant grunted slightly as he bent to perform some unseen preparation that Keith sincerely hoped did not include retrieving a shotgun or hiding some half-eaten human body. He didn’t want to be suspicious of the guy, but since he’d entered law enforcement, he’d become cautious as a hypochondriac.

  To keep from staring at the man like a creep, he took stock of the refreshments on hand. The tidy rows of cigarette packs, candy bars and breath mints looked strange and antiquated next to the Primal Thunder Power Shake machine’s splashy blue facade.