Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The light of creation…

Lux had been everything, and yet nothing. It had lasted an eternity, yet had been over in a second. Eventually, he meets the fate that all immortal gods meet after achieving their machinations.

Boredom.

Boredom, boredom, boredom. The one true enemy of all immortals. Sure, sometimes they’ll play dead or sulk in some other realm for a time and let the mortals think they’ve won. Sometimes their power is so depleted it’s even necessary to do so, but those are temporary setbacks. In reality, the only real threat to those with infinite time is running out of things to fill it with.

So what to do?

He’ll have to start small, obviously. Nothing that would be worth recording in the storybooks, nothing that would become legend. Little more than a warm up--a simple dalliance.

He’ll start at the last place he’d been, in the only form he’s ever taken. The familiar is simple…and as good a starting point as any for his little excursion.

Slowly, he gathers himself, pulling himself back to a singular point in space and time--where and when the Palazzo next plays the Mr. Ring-a-Ding reel.

Back to Miami, back to the Palazzo…and back to being Mr. Ring-a-Ding.

*

Cleaning out the projection booth was never supposed to be your job. Yet here you are, sweeping the dirt and grime that’s piled up after 72 years of the theater being abandoned. At least it’s winter, and a fairly cool winter at that, making the inside of the unairconditioned theater “muggy” rather than “unbearably hot and stuffy”.

The power itself is on, so there’s some lighting, though the majority of the light bulbs have long since burned out, leaving the place fairly dark, especially now that the sun has set.

You’ve been told to try to salvage whatever old equipment or “antiques” you might find. Your boss has even offered to split any proceeds 70/30 in your favor--your his “magnanimous” way of compensating you for the extra responsibilities.

Never mind that hauling the equipment, restoring it, and finding a buyer would probably be a part-time job in and of itself…one which, like your current job, won’t pay much, especially after the split.

But you can’t turn up your nose at it, either. So you go through the old books, papers, and machinery that lay scattered on the floors and shelves. Whatever antiques may have been worth anything probably are too ruined to sell at this point. The massive hole in the side of the building from the film closet exploding all those years ago had never been repaired, so the theater hadn’t exactly been shielded from the elements. Even the door to the projection room had eventually rotted and fallen away, leaving the room open to critters and even more dirt and leaves and detritus carried in by the wind.

You guess the projectors themselves are the only thing in the room that may be worth the effort of hauling anywhere but the dumpster. But they’re so covered in dirt and grime you can’t imagine that any of the interior mechanisms could possibly work.

…Do collectors of antique projectors even care if said projectors actually work? You suppose you’ll have to research that later. In any case, you’re sure anything worth anything would have been stolen by looters long ago.

So far you’ve been more focused on clearing away the obvious trash to clear a path to the projectors. Sweeping dirt, mud, and leaves off the floor, then clearing the broken bits of wood from the rotted shelves and what you guess used to be some kind of desk. Finally, there’s space to stand alongside the projectors so you can look them over.

They’re covered in grime, of course, but as you begin to wipe that away, you see they actually look to be in decent shape beneath it all. No sign of rusting or warping on the metal casing, which is surprising. You’d half expected the old things to go to pieces as soon as you’d touched them, but it seems--like a lot of old tech--they’re built fairly sturdy.

Though that doesn’t mean their inner workings are still operational, you remind yourself.

As you move to the second projector, your brow knits as you notice something.

There’s still a roll of film loaded into it. That’s not so surprising on its own--from what you’ve heard this place had been abandoned pretty hastily back in the 50s--but what is odd is just how pristine the celluloid looks.

The bits you’d found scattered about while cleaning had been dirty, crumpled and curled from age, and trying to load it into a projector would have just made it fall apart.

But the roll in the projector now looks brand new. You adjust your glasses, leaning close and squinting. It looks like a cartoon, but the images are too small and the room too dim for you to tell much more than that.

An old reel like this might be worth something if it’s still playable. Maybe it’s even a piece of lost media? Though you doubt you’d be so lucky. You push your glasses back into place, trying to find the mechanism to unload the reel. Your hand brushes a switch on the back of the machine, and despite you barely touching it, the projector suddenly springs to life.

The light flickers on and you hear the familiar whirring and clicking of the old film projector starting up.

You glance to the theater below, where an odd image is displayed on the tattered remains of the movie screen.

Some kind of cartoon character, a blue-skinned bug with a pig-like nose and straw boater hat, grinning widely. The title card which follows reads: “Mr. Ring-a-Ding Goes to Town!”

Not a character or show you’re familiar with, and you like to think you’re pretty versed in old cartoons.

“Oh it’s such a beautiful day! I think I’ll go to town! Yes sirree!” the titular character says as he strolls down the road with the sort of jauntiness that can only be captured by old rubber hose animations.

You only watch for a moment before turning your gaze back to the projector. As much as you’re curious about this old cartoon you’ve found, you don’t want to risk potentially damaging the film. So you’d rather get the reel out and back into its case before something goes wrong.

You have no idea how you even turned the projector on. After a moment of searching, you find a labeled ON/OFF switch and press it.

Nothing happens. The film keeps rolling.

“...What did I just turn off, then?” you mumble to yourself. After a moment of searching, your eyes happen to drift back to the screen, and you do a double take.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding is gone. The camera’s just holding on an empty shot, showing only the pathway and the sign pointing to town. It looks like the show’s been paused, but the film’s still rolling.

Why had the cartoon hung on this long shot of the background? Some kind of joke you’d missed the setup for?

As you’re staring, the projector abruptly switches off…despite the reel not having ended. You glance sharply at it, wincing. It’d be just your luck if you find a working pre-1950’s projector and film reel only to immediately break it…

Before you can think too much on that, though, you hear a rustle of fabric from the theater, and peering through the darkness, you see the heavy curtains that cover the screen are being pulled shut.

“Hello?” you call out. No answer.

You quickly leave the projection room, jogging down the short hallway and entering the back of the theater. “Hello?” you call again. “Brent? Brent, is that you?” you ask, guessing--and hoping-- your boss had come by to check on your progress for some reason.

You keep your gaze on the closed curtain, slowly walking down the stairs of the center aisle. The few lights that are on are mostly towards the back, leaving the front of the theater fairly dark.

You’re just reaching the third row of seats and getting ready to call out again when the curtains suddenly fly open.

“TADAAAA!!!” shouts none other than Mr. Ring-a-Ding himself.

You scream, scrambling back, your heel catching on one of the steps and causing you to fall on hard on your rear.

Ring-a-Ding laughs, though it’s not a particularly mean-spirited laugh. “Whoopsie daisy! That’s why we don’t walk backwards on stairs!” he says with a teasing wink.

“W-W-Who are you?” you stammer out, your eyes wide.

He smirks. “Glad you asked, my dear!” A jaunty tune begins playing out of nowhere, and Mr. Ring-a-Ding begins a lively dance. “I’m Mr. Ring-a-Ding, I’ll make your heart bells sing!”

Your mouth hangs open even further as you simply stare at him, agape, as he sings. And sings. And sings. For well over a minute, which may not be that long as songs go but is certainly a long time for him to sing and dance unprompted while you can only stare on in shock.

“I’m Mr. Ring-a-Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!” he belts out the last line, taking off his hat and spreading his arms wide.

You can’t even begin to muster a response.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding chuckles, placing his hat back on his head. “Y’know, usually I get interrupted before I finish the song,” he says.

You make a vague, strangled noise that sounds like a distant, “Uh-huh…?”

He lets half a beat pass before shaking his head, his grin never leaving his face. “Yannow, this is usually the part where you’d introduce yourself. Buuuuut if you ain’t got a song prepared you can just say your name.”

After a brief hesitation, you manage to stammer out your name. Your eyes haven’t gotten any less wide, and you haven’t been able to stop staring at the cartoon man before you.

“Who…are you?” you ask again.

He quirks a brow, smirking playfully. “Oh come now! I just sang about that for a full minute and a full thirty-six seconds! Don’t tell me ya need all that repeated?” he teases.

“Erm--ah, no…” you say. You lean forward, managing to pull yourself to your feet and begin slowly walking towards him.

He seems unphased, grinning up at you innocently as you approach. You stop when you reach the bottom step, standing in front of the stage…barely an arm’s length from the odd creature atop it.

“You’re…a cartoon…”

“Yes indeedy-do!” he chirps.

“D-Did…you just…come out of that film?”

He smirks, waggling a finger at you. “Don’t make me laugh!”

You blink. “Is…that a funny question?” you ask blankly.

“Don’t make me laugh!” he repeats.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I must be going insane.” Not exactly a surprising result, given what Brent has been putting you through, but you hadn’t expected it to manifest quite like this.

“Naaah!” he says with a flick of his wrist. “You seem perfectly sane to me. I’m perfectly real, after all!” he says cheerfully.

You can’t help but let out a weak chuckle at that, shaking your head. “Yeah, that’s just what a hallucination would say…”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding snorts. “Well, alright, doll…ya got me there. Buuuut…is it not also what a real cartoon brought to life would say?”

One corner of your mouth ticks upward in the faintest hint of a smile. “You uh…you got me there,” you say, borrowing his phrasing.

His grin actually seems more genuine for a moment, a bit more warm than his somewhat teasing smirk.

“You’re…really real, then?” you ask. Slowly you reach out towards him with one hand.

He raises a brow, and for the first time his smile falters. Only for a moment, though. His grin returns as he lightly pushes your hand aside with one finger. “Not sure what I can say to that that ain’t already been said,” he chuckles.

“F-Fair…” you say, taking the hint and lowering your hand. Him moving your hand aside has already proven that he’s solid…or that your hallucination includes touch in addition to sight and sound.

He steps forward, hopping down from the stage. You take a step back, watching as he walks around you and up the stairs.

“Well this place has sure seen better days, huh?” he says, looking up at the deteriorating building. His gaze pauses on the hole in the ceiling. A blue tarp is pulled tightly over it, keeping out some of the elements until the construction crew arrives to patch it.

“Heh. Not in my lifetime,” you say wryly.

“Oh no?” he asks casually, turning to glance back at you.

“It’s been closed for over 70 years now,” you say.

“Oh?” he asks again, continuing to walk up the stairs, his gaze turned upwards as he takes in the state of the theater. “Don’t suppose you know why?”

If you weren’t so flustered, you may have noticed the lack of surprise in his tone…maybe even the underlying coyness. But as it is, you simply take the question at face value.

“A fire in the film closet caused an explosion. That’s why there’s that hole up there,” you say, nodding towards the tarp.

He follows your gaze, humming in thought. “Oh, is that all?” he asks, glancing at you sideways.

This time you do notice the coyness in his tone, but you think he’s simply trying to be funny.

“I think there was some other drama around it,” you say. “I did a bit of research before coming out here…but it’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s just urban legends these days. But it sounds like there was some kind of hostage situation, and that’s what led to the explosion. No casualties though, from the sounds of it.”

Mr. Ring-a-ding chuckles. “Well, that’s a relief!” he says, managing to sound genuine, though not particularly invested. “And where’s good ol’ Mr. Pye these days?”

“Who?” you ask blankly, following him up the stairs towards the projection booth.

“Reginald Pye. The projectionist,” he says simply, not bothering to glance back at you.

“The--?” You cut yourself off. “Uh, abandoned theaters don’t have projectionists,” you say, with a weak laugh…not thinking about why he may be asking after the former employee.

He stops, spinning on his heel to face you. “Well of course they don’t, you silly billy!” he says, waggling his finger at you. “That’s why I asked where he is, because he’s obviously not here!”

You open your mouth to speak, then quickly close it again, your brow knitting in sympathy. “I-It’s…been 70 years…”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding cants his head, grinning up at you. “So you’ve said,” he says blithely, clearly having no idea why the point bore repeating.

…Does he really have no idea?

“How…old was he? Mr. Pye?”

“Dunno. Kinda old I guess. Why?” he asks. He doesn’t seem to be understanding the significance of your questions.

You find yourself wondering if a living cartoon even knows what death is. You chew your lip, shifting uncomfortably.

“What’sa matter, sweetie pie? Cat got your tongue?” he asks playfully.

You sigh, rubbing your arm as you finally meet his gaze. “Seventy years is…a long time for humans. I-It’s…rare for humans to live past a hundred. A hundred-twenty at most.”

His smile freezes in place as he stares at you in silence for a moment before simply saying, “Ah.”

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say quietly. You crouch down in front of him and are about to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, when he steps back, waving a hand.

“Don’t make me laugh!” he says, a bit more forcefully than he’d said it before.

You pull back, your eyes widening at the seemingly heartless response. Mr. Ring-a-Ding turns on his heel and resumes his march up the stairs while you slowly get to your feet, stunned.

Is he really that callous, or does he just…not understand the situation? You have no idea what kind of show Mr. Ring-a-Ding had been. Many cartoons from that time never mentioned death, and the ones that did…well, they had a fairly…irreverent attitude about it. So it’s not much of a stretch to imagine a 1930’s cartoon brought to life would be wholly unequipped to deal with it.

…No more a stretch than “1930’s cartoon brought to life” is to begin with, anyway.

He’s nearly at the top of the stairs by the time you begin trotting after him.

*

Lux leaves you behind without a second thought, making his way into the projection booth. The two projectors are still there, a bit dirty but otherwise the same as he remembers them. Objects wielded by the gods tended to withstand the passage of time remarkably well, after all.

Objects…but not mortals. Not humans. The difference between a year and century is nothing to a god…but apparently it’s everything to a human.

Lux has no heart, but he feels an unpleasant sensation in a place very similar.

He doesn’t like it.

He wanders over to the pile of rubbish and broken wood that had once been Reginald’s desk. Of course, there’s nothing of significance there. Not anymore. Reginald would have taken any pictures of himself or Helen when he’d left. Lux knows that much.

Lux is aware of you entering the room behind him, but doesn’t pay you any mind as he moves to the projection window, hopping up onto the edge of one of the projectors to look out the small window into the theater. Where he’d spent so long watching Reginald and Helen dancing together.

There’d been something compelling about it. Almost more compelling than light itself. Lux had never understood his own fascination with it, but also hadn’t really cared to think too much on it.

As he’s staring down at the empty house, you finally speak.

“Was he…a friend of yours? Mr. Pye?” you ask gently.

Lux tears his gaze away from the window to look at you curiously. He’s not sure how to answer. Gods aren’t friends with mortals. They’re barely friends with each other most of the time. Pye had been a disciple, a minion, a servant.

Yet Lux doesn’t want to speak any of those words aloud. He tells himself it’s because you’d react poorly to them. While he’s not convinced he has any use for you, he’s not so unconvinced that he wants to drive you off over something trivial.

So, he dips his head in a nod, returning his gaze to the ruined theater. “Something like that,” he says, his voice flatter and more gravely than the upbeat, chipper tone he’d used before.

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say again. “D’you…have anywhere to go?”

“Don’t need to go anywhere,” he says shortly. Maybe he should have just endured the boredom for another millennium or two to recover his strength…then maybe he could muster the power to do something actually interesting. He assumes the conversation is over and is almost ready to simply return to light when you speak again.

“Well, you can’t stay here!”

Lux’s eyes flash yellow for the briefest of seconds and he turns sharply to face you, incredulous at your impudence. A human, a mere human, not even a particularly powerful one, telling a god where he can and can’t go?!

He’s about to banish you into celluloid for your insolence when he processes your expression.

Your brow is upturned, your eyes filled with worry as you clutch your hands together fretfully.

It hadn’t been an order. You’re not demanding he leave. You’re worried what’ll happen if he stays.

It occurs to Lux that his entrance hadn’t been as grand this time. A silly little fellow popping out from behind a curtain--not a giant creature emerging from the screen before banishing fifteen people to film.

You have no idea what he is. Well, that had been true of all the humans back then, too, but they had at least understood he was an immeasurably powerful being--something to be feared.

But you don’t think that. You clearly think he’s far more helpless than he is. Do you even realize he’s immortal? Surely not, if you’re fretting about him squatting in some old building. Do you imagine that he’s capable of being hungry? Sick? Cold? Like some feeble little mortal?

Most gods would be insulted at such a notion and would be quick to put you in your place…but Lux finds the idea…interesting. A mortal who doesn’t fear him. Who asks nothing of him. Who thinks he needs them.

That last part is particularly amusing to Lux…He supposes he had been in the mood for a bit of a dalliance, and it seems one has presented itself.

His irate expression softens, and turns his brow up in a tired, melancholy expression. “But…I got nowhere else to go.”

Lux makes sure not to lay it on too thick. He’d made that mistake with the Doctor, though he hadn’t really expected to be able to fool a Time Lord for all that long regardless. So he hadn’t exactly bothered to bring his A game to that bit of deception.

You move to stand beside him, leaning against the wall beside the window. “Well…maybe, you could stay with me?”

The surprise on his face isn’t entirely feigned. That had been easier than he’d thought…Not that he needs to stay with you, or anywhere in particular of course. The grin that spreads across his face is also mostly genuine.

“Oh, gee willikers! You’d let me do that?” he says, keeping his tone suitably modest as his smile turns ever so slightly shy.

“Well, I don’t want to leave you alone in an abandoned theater all night…” you say with a small smile. You frown, tapping your chin in thought. “Though I don’t know how I’m going to get you back to my apartment without anyone seeing you…”

Lux chuckles. “Mmm, I can draw quite a crowd,” he agrees with a wink.

“Yes, I’d imagine,” you laugh, glad he at least understands the potential consequences of just taking off down the street on his own. “Hm, what time is it, anyway? Maybe the streets won’t be too crowded…” you muse.

You pull some kind of electronic device out of your pocket, pushing a button on the side of it. Suddenly the room is lit up with a blinding white light.

“Gah!” you yelp, covering your eyes and touching something on the screen to dim the glow. “Sorry about that, didn’t mean to flashbang you,” you say to him with a sheepish chuckle.

Lux is hardly phased of course, but he can tell by your rapid blinking that you’ve utterly destroyed the night vision you’d been building up in the darkened theater. “Quite alright! Seems you got the worst of it,” he says good-naturedly. “But what is that, exactly?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Oh, it’s my--Well, it’s called a phone but it’s…probably much different than any phones you’d’ve seen in the fifties,” you say, holding it out for him to look at.

“Hmm…” he hums. He places his hands on either side of the phone, turning the screen towards himself slightly to examine it. He knows more or less what it is, of course. While he’s not familiar with this exact bit of tech, many, many civilizations have similar devices. Glowing, lit up screens or holograms, connecting everyone to everywhere, millenia’s worth of information at the push of a button.

Well, maybe not millenia on this one. Not yet. It’s still fairly primitive as far as most displays go, and he doubts the signal could even reach the Earth’s moon, much less another galaxy.

Though he’s glad for your unintentional reminder that someone who only knows the Earth of 70 years ago ought to be impressed by this clunky old tech.

“Oh goodness!” he gasps eagerly, doing a suitable job of pretending this is by far the most advanced piece of tech he’d ever seen. “My my my, what a tiny little screen!” he says. He pokes part of the screen, pretending to be startled when one of your apps opens.

“It even plays videos,” you say, tapping the YouTube app and letting a random video from the recommended list autoplay.

“Golly, how clever!” he pretends to marvel. “Say, that gives me an idea…”

It doesn’t, really, but it presents a good segue to the idea he’d had the moment you pulled out the device.

While you hold the phone, he presses one of his hands against the screen. Even at his small size, his hand is still bigger than the screen, but as he pushes his hand flattens and shrinks, becoming an image on the screen.

Your eyes widen in surprise as he leans forward, and soon all of him has disappeared into the phone.

He grins at your sputtering noise of shock. Humans are always so stunned at the most innocuous things.

You turn the phone around, and see him standing in front of your app icons and desktop background, which is a stylized picture of a starry night sky, complete with blue and purple nebula-clouds.

“Mind clearing a bit of space, honey?” he asks, leaning against the edge of the screen and pointing behind him with his thumb.

“Oh, s-sure, hang on,” you say. You swipe the screen slowly, making sure moving the desktop icons doesn’t fling him offscreen as well. Once you’re sure it won’t, you swipe past a few screens until you’re at a blank page on your desktop.

“Much obliged!” he says, tipping his hat. He turns around, whistling appreciatively at the background. “Shame to be blocking this lovely view!”

“Heh…right…” you say. “A-Are you um…sure you’re okay in there?”

“Of course!”

“My apartment’s about a half hour walk away, is that alright?”

“Certainly! Take all the time ya need!” he says, sitting down at the bottom of the screen, turning away to look up at the stars.

“Right,” you say, carefully setting the phone down so you can sling your backpack over your shoulders. You carefully pick up the phone, moving it carefully as if you’re balancing something delicate atop the screen. “I’m not gonna jostle you too much moving around, am I?”

Lux has to resist the urge to scoff and roll his eyes. Just how fragile do you think he is? Though at the same time…it’s not exactly difficult to pretend he’s moved by your concern as he turns around, flashing a brash grin.

“Aw shucks, sweetie pie!” he says, waving a hand. “I’m tougher than I look! I can handle myself just fine, even on a little screen like this!” he declares, puffing out his chest proudly.

You laugh, and he’s a bit surprised at the warmth in it. “Alright then. Just uh…let me know if it’s too bumpy, alright?”

“Sure thing!” he says, turning back to face the starry background, ending the conversation for now.

*

You don’t mind the quiet walk. It gives you time to process.

A living cartoon. He just came out of the theater screen, then put himself into your phone, and now he’s crashing at your place for a yet-to-be-determined amount of time.

Your curiosity at how he can even exist and how he works has been quickly overshadowed by worries about his mental state. You suspect he’s grieving his friend, even if he’s reluctant to show it. He’s from the 50’s after all--not exactly a time rife with emotional vulnerability, especially in men.

From what you’ve pieced together, he’s a living cartoon who had been friends with the theater’s projectionist in the 50’s. Somehow after the theater was abandoned he’d…gone dormant? Or something? You’re not sure how that works yet but what you are sure of is that the poor guy has been essentially flung forward 70 years into a world he likely no longer recognizes.

You reach your apartment building and climb up the stairs to your studio apartment. “It’s a bit cramped…” you warn him.

“I’m sure I can make do,” he says easily. “Two-dimensional characters don’t take up much space, after all,” he winks.

“I suppose,” you say, locking the door behind you. “You can come out--”

You’ve barely finished the sentence when he pushes against the screen, his whole upper half emerging almost instantly, bringing his face so close that your noses almost touch as he grins widely at you.

You squeak in surprise, your cheeks burning as you drop the phone. To your relief, he hops out the rest of the way before it hits the ground, gracefully floating to the floor while your phone thuds on the rug next to him.

“A-Are you alright?” you say in alarm, kneeling in front of him.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding steps back with a sheepish chuckle, picking up your phone for you. “Oh, perfectly fine! Didn’t mean ta startle ya!” he says playfully. He checks over your phone, whistling in surprise at the weight of your heavy phone case. “This thing’s got some heft! Why’s it armored up like it’s going to war?” he asks as he passes it back to you.

You grin wryly at him. “In case someone jumps out at me.”

He raises his brows, his smirk showing some appreciation for the quip.

You get to your feet, flipping on the main light. As promised, it is indeed cramped. An unmade twin bed is shoved into one corner, and across from it is a small flatscreen TV atop a stand, positioned in a way that one would either have to lay on their side to watch TV or sit atop the bed with their back against the wall.

The kitchen takes up half of another wall, being little more than a fridge, sink, some cabinets, and less than a foot of actual counter space. A microwave sits on a small, rickety shelf next to the fridge.

A decent chunk of the floor is covered in old newspapers, atop which sit an easel splotched with paint. A small table holds some paints and brushes, but the easel itself is empty.

“You a painter?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

“Trying to be,” you say as you set your backpack down beside the bed.

“Trying?” he repeats with a quirked brow.

“Well, I mean, I paint, so I am a painter I suppose, but…not…really making money off it yet.”

“Ah. ‘Fraid I can’t help you there,” Mr. Ring-a-Ding says, turning out his empty pockets. A moth flies out of one of them and disappears behind him and he grins sheepishly up at you.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself over it,” you say easily, waving a hand. “I…do sort of have a job lined up. At the theater. I’ll be painting a few murals in the lobby.”

“Yeah?” he asks, intrigued. “If ya don’t mind me saying so, honey, it’s gonna take more than a fresh coat of paint to get that place back in shape.”

Your laugh is a bit cynical as you shake your head. “Oh, trust me, Ring-a-Ding, I’m well aware. The builders and cleaning crews are running behind, so the boss--my dad’s friend’s son--is giving me some money to do what I can to get things moving while we wait. And I kinda need the money, so…” you trail off, shrugging.

“I see,” he says, stroking his chin in thought.

“A-Anyway, do you…need anything? D’you eat, or…or need me to set up a bed for you somewhere?”

He chuckles sheepishly. “Well…the truth is, I don’t need food. Or sleep,” he admits.

That possibility had occurred to you on the walk home. That perhaps staying in the theater wouldn’t be as detrimental to him as you’d initially feared…though it doesn’t make you regret your invitation. Surely he’d still be lonely? Maybe even scared…at the very least you’d like to think your apartment is still an improvement over a busted up old theater.

…Though perhaps you’re just flattering yourself.

“So what do you do all night, if not sleep?” you ask.

“Watch movies. What else would ya do in a theater all night?”

“True…” you say with a weak chuckle.

“But I think my first night back, I’ll be just fine hanging out at the window.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. You’d been about to try to set him up with your laptop, but maybe that’ll be an endeavor for another time, when you have more time to explain it to him. “In that case…I think I’ll get ready for bed, if that’s alright?”

“Certainly, sweetheart!” he says easily.

*

As you go to get changed, Lux perches on the console table below the small window, looking out it. The stars are barely visible--humans have apparently entered the phase of their development where they haven’t a clue how to manage light pollution.

Though that doesn’t bother Lux all that much. The glow of the neon signs and street lamps is light too, and at the moment he’s not overly picky.

He smiles softly to himself, replaying your words in his mind. If that’s alright. Why wouldn’t it be? As far as you’re aware, he’s harmless. Maybe even fragile. Yet you still ask his permission for something as innocuous as getting ready for bed.

You’re certainly interesting. Though perhaps not very sharp. Your boss is clearly taking you for some kind of ride. Lux isn’t a trickster god, but he doesn’t have to be to see that you’re being duped.

Maybe he can help you out with that. Not out of any sense of justice or loyalty to you, of course. Gods don’t need food but they can rarely turn down a hearty serving of comeuppance.

As far as idle dalliances go, you just might be a good one.

Chapter Text

You’re awoken the next morning by someone shaking your shoulder.

You make a vague sound of protest, your tired mind not even questioning the notion that there’s someone in the room with you when you live alone.

“Wakey wakey, sweetie pie!” Mr. Ring-a-Ding chirps in a chipper, sing-song voice.

Your eyes shoot open and you lift your head from your pillow. Even without your glasses, there’s no mistaking the blue and purple blur perched on the edge of your bed. You stare at him in stunned silence for a moment. Between his closeness and his expressive face with its distinct cartoon lines, even your blurred vision can pick up his huge grin.

“M-Morning…” you say, your voice still thick with sleepiness. You roll over slightly to fumble for your glasses on your nightstand. You’re a bit surprised he’d climbed up on the bed, but it’s probably just because he’s too short to reach you properly from the floor.

Once you put your glasses on, you glance over at him. He’s still perched on the edge of your bed, his legs crossed and one foot kicking idly as he grins at you. “Your phone was going off, by the way,” he says, passing it to you.

“Oh, shit!” you yelp, pulling yourself into a sitting position, careful not to knock Mr. Ring-a-Ding over in the process. You take the phone, seeing you’d apparently woken up long enough to turn off your alarm, your backup alarm, and your backup-backup alarm. “I’m gonna be late…” you mumble.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding takes the hint and hops down from the bed, and you toss the blanket aside and quickly grab an outfit from your closet, going into the bathroom to get dressed. You do so quickly, and you’re still buttoning the last two buttons on your shirt when you re-emerge.

“S-Sorry about the phone going off…” you say, grabbing the brush from your dresser and quickly brushing out your hair before tying it back.

“Seems it’s more a problem for you than it is for me,” he says, hands on his hips as he looks up at you with a raised brow.

You give a short, distracted hum of acknowledgement as you grab a couple cereal bars and a bottle of soda to serve as your lunch, stuffing them unceremoniously in your backpack. “I just have to hope today isn’t one of the days Brent is actually at the theater,” you say.

“Brent? That your boss?” Mr. Ring-a-Ding asks. “The uh…dad’s friend’s son?”

“Mm-hm,” you say with a nod, patting your pockets to make sure you have your keys and your wallet. When you look up, Mr. Ring-a-Ding is gone, causing you to glance around in confusion.

“Over here, honey!” he calls from near your nightstand, where you see his hand emerge from your phone’s screen to beckon you over.

“Are you coming with me?” you ask, more amused than concerned as you cross the room to gather up your phone.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding is standing against the starry background again, on the empty desktop page. “Well, sure!” he says, leaning against the side of the screen. “It is my theater, after all!”

You blink. “Uh…” You can’t tell if he’s joking. “Is…Is it?” you ask helplessly.

He chuckles. “Of course!” He grins at you, letting you wallow in uncertainty a moment longer before saying, “Well, maybe not on paper, but I’m fond of the place.”

You let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh of relief. “I see…and here I was getting worried I’d have to explain property law to a cartoon character!”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding smirks, adjusting his position in the frame so his arms are folded over the bottom of the screen as if he’s leaning against a countertop. “You still can if you wanna, sweetpea.”

You lock the door behind you. “I think I’ll pass. Not exactly my area of expertise,” you say dryly. You’re not particularly worried about anyone hearing your conversation or seeing him on the screen. You doubt anyone’s paying that much attention to you or your phone, and even if they are they’d probably just assume it’s some toon filter over a normal video call.

As you’re walking down the stairs, something else occurs to you. “Hey, it won’t…hurt you or anything if my phone goes into sleep mode? Or turns off?”

He shakes his head. “Ain’t gonna happen while I’m in here,” he says.

You frown skeptically. “Not even if the battery--”

You don’t even have time to finish the question before he flashes a smug smirk, pointing up to the battery indicator in the top corner of the screen.

100%

“Oh…I guess I…did remember to plug it in before bed…?” You forget so frequently, and you were understandably quite distracted last night.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nupe. It was just about dead when your alarms started up. So I topped it off for ya.”

You gape. “You--?”

He leans back against the side of the screen, polishing his nails against the front of his waistcoat. “Consider it my cab fare, sweetie pie.”

“Heh…I…wouldn’t’ve guessed a cartoon would be able to charge my phone,” you continue. You exit the building and squint a moment as you step into the bright Miami sunlight. The morning humidity presses in around you and you find yourself really hoping the AC situation in the theater will be addressed sooner rather than later.

“Oh?” he leans forward again, propping his elbows on the bottom of the screen and resting his chin on his hands. “And just what would you have guessed a living cartoon can do?”

You pause a moment, then shrug. “I suppose I hadn’t really thought about it…” you admit.

“Well, I’m made of light. So I can do whatever light can,” he explains.

“But you’re also solid,” you point out. “At least sometimes…”

He nods. “Solid light, yes,” he agrees, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You suppose it probably is to him, if it’s literally what he’s made of. “But lemme give ya nickel’s worth of free advice--don’t think about it too much. I’m a cartoon. It’s not that deep.”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “I dunno, upending everything I thought I knew about physics and biology seems kinda deep to me,” you say wryly.

“Well, I’m not biological, so you can keep that,” he says, making a shooing motion with one hand. “And just how much did you know about physics to begin with?” he asks with feigned innocence.

You give him a deadpan look. “...Okay not much, but I’m sure you’d upend everything an actual physicist knows about physics.”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding grins smugly at you. “Then let’s hope we don’t meet any physicists!”

The cackle you let out isn’t particularly flattering, but it does cause his smug grin to soften into something more warm.

The conversation lapses as you pass through a slightly more crowded part of town. You keep a tight grip on your phone, holding it close to your body as you weave through the crowds. You occasionally glance down to make sure Mr. Ring-a-Ding is doing alright, and each time he’s faced away, looking at the stars again. Apparently he’s content to let the conversation rest until you reach the theater.

*

Lux had wondered how the trip to the Palazzo--during the day--would go. He had suspected being inside the phone would shield him from much of the sunlight, and to his relief, it does indeed do so. Not all the sunlight, of course, but enough that he’s not taking in more energy than he can handle. Maybe he can think of a way to use this to visit areas besides the theater and your apartment during the daytime, but for now such a plan would require more explanation than he wants to give you just yet.

As you approach the theater, he glances through the screen as best he can, taking in the surrounding area, though he’d only ever caught glimpses of the area outside the theater before.

The area around the Palazzo has changed surprisingly little. The diner across the way is still a diner, no new buildings have gone up on the adjacent lots, and the taller skyscrapers have remained relatively far away, leaving only the small handful of apartment towers nearby.

Lux isn’t particularly surprised. There’ll be a pall over the place for years to come, even if a lot of the truth of what happened 72 years ago stays lost to time. Something bad had happened at that theater, and humans would feel that in the air even if they don’t want to admit it to themselves.

The diner’s apparently managed to eke by as an established place of business, and has been kept up decently well, at least from the brief glance Lux catches of it as you pass. He supposes the shadow of the old theater had never gotten bad enough that relocating had seemed worthwhile.

You step under the awning, which still displays the name “PALAZZO” in tall red letters. Well, “PALAZ O”, actually, as one of the Z’s seems to have gone missing in action some years ago.

With your free hand, you fish out the keys from your pocket and unlock the door, stepping into the lobby.

Once the door closes, you take a few steps into the darkened lobby. “Brent’s car isn’t outside and the lights are still off…so I think we’re in the clear,” you say, holding your phone away from yourself, the screen facing upwards.

Lux emerges from it, climbing out like he’s climbing out of a box. He stands weightlessly atop the phone for only a brief second before hopping down to the floor.

“Well if he’s out I don’t mind filling in!” He smirks up at you. “I take he mostly ‘supervised’?”

You snort. “He did indeed,” you say, tucking your phone into your backpack. “You’re welcome to ‘supervise’ in his stead, though.”

“Uh huh,” he says, walking ahead of you and looking over the place over again. “What exactly am I supervising, then? You already said it’s not the painting.”

“Right,” you nod. “Well, the sooner the place gets cleaned up and the wall rebuilt, the sooner I can paint the murals. But right now the cleaning crew and the building crew are behind…so Brent figures if…if we can get a bit of a head start it’ll make things go faster when they finally do get here.”

Lux regards you in silence for only half a moment before you let out a small huff.

“I know it’s probably bullshit,” you confess. “It’ll save him money if the cleaning crew bills him for less hours, and he’s not paying me as much as he’d pay them for the same work. But I can’t really say no to any paying gig right now.”

“I see,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. So you realize you’re being taken for a ride but don’t have the luxury of being picky. You may be a bit sharper than Lux initially thought.

You laugh awkwardly, waving a hand. “But ah, you don’t need to worry about all that,” you reassure him quickly. “It’ll…It’ll all be sorted out one way or another, I suppose…Anyway!” you say quickly, waving a hand. “He also said I can sell off anything I find that’s still in good shape…I mean, he’d take a cut of it but it could be a bit of extra cash before I get to the mural. So that’s why I’ve been starting with the projection room.”

He falls into step beside you as you make your way there.

“The projectors seem to be in good shape,” you say conversationally as you head up the stairs. “And the film reel you were on is pristine.” You pause a moment, frowning. “Hey, do you uh…need that, or anything?”

“What, the film reel?” he asks. “Nah. You can keep it, if ya want. Or sell it.”

The film is of no real importance to him, especially now that he’s manifested again. He does rather like this form…but he doubts he’ll need to recreate it anytime soon. He still needs a few centuries’ rest before he does anything noteworthy enough to attract the attention of the powers that be.

You step into the projection booth. It doesn’t look like much progress has been made--the room is still cluttered and filthy, with bits of broken wood from the collapsed furniture as well as random papers and reels strewn about the floor. But it is better than it had been yesterday--you’d at least cleared a path to the projectors so you could check them over without tripping over random junk.

You approach the camera with Mr. Ring-a-Ding’s film still inside. “I’m not even sure how to get film out of a projector…” you admit, adjusting your glasses as you peer at the various switches.

“I can help ya there, honey,” Lux says, snapping his fingers. The reels start spinning and the film is wound onto a single reel, which then ejects itself--in a way that shouldn’t’ve been possible without you pulling some lever or switch.

You make a wordless noise of protest, fumbling to catch it. “H-How’d you do that?” you ask, surprised.

“It’s my film!” he says simply.

“So…you can just…control it?” you ask blankly, turning the reel over in your hands and examining it.

“I can rewind it,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t want to reveal the true extent of his powers. Even in his weakened state he’s probably the most powerful entity you’ve ever been in the presence of, but he’s finding he quite enjoys you not knowing that.

But he can’t resist a little bit of showing off. What god ever could?

“Hm,” you let out a quiet hum of acknowledgement as you unspool a bit of the film and look at the frames. “You know, I’ve never heard of this cartoon…wonder if anyone online knows about it?” you muse.

“Doubt it. That was the only short ever made, and it wasn’t exactly a smash hit,” he says.

You frown. “Oh…I’m sorry to hear that…”

He scoffs, waving a hand. “Don’t sweat it, sweetheart! Not like any of the money woulda gone to me,” he winks.

You chuckle weakly, rewinding the bit of film reel. “How does that work anyway? Were you…alive when they were making this?”

“Don’t make me laugh!”

You glance up at him, frowning slightly…but you take the hint and move on. “Well…anyway, if you want, I might be able to record this and upload it online. If you want it to be preserved or…something,” you say. “Sounds like it’s probably lost media at this point…”

“Lost media?” he repeats, arching a brow bemusedly.

“Yeah, it’s…it’s a term for shows and movies and art and…well, media, that have been lost to time,” you explain, finding a clean spot atop one of the metal shelves to set the reel while you get to work.

“That’s all media eventually, doll,” he says.

“I know. But…I think it’s nice to save what we can. And who knows, maybe your cartoon was just too ahead of its time!” you grin.

He chuckles quietly. He’s not overly invested in the cartoon. He never had been, really. The character made for a fine manifestation but he has no more emotional attachment than a human would have for the factory that made their favorite pair of shoes.

But he understands why you would think he would, given what you think the situation is. And to be honest, he finds it a bit endearing.

He’s about to answer when he hears the sound of footsteps, noticing them before you do. “Sounds like we got company!” he whispers. He hops onto the table you’d set your phone on, plugs his nose, and hops into your phone as he’s jumping into a pool.

You don’t have time to ask what he’d heard before you too hear the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, followed closely by Brent calling your name.

“I’m in the projection booth,” you call back to him.

In a moment, he peeks in the door, glancing around. “Wow, looks good. You can actually walk in here.”

“Thanks,” you say cordially.

His smile fades and he gives you a somewhat stern look. “There’s nobody else here, right?”

You’re surprised by the question, but do a decent job of feigning innocence as you shake your head. “No, why?”

“Thought I heard another voice.”

“Oh, I just had my friend on speakerphone is all,” you say, waving a hand.

Lux pauses, feeling an odd sensation in the bits of light that could be called his heart. Friend?

Nobody’s called him that before…at least not genuinely. His rivals have used the term sarcastically, and some mortals have tried to use it to placate him. But it had always been spoken with a quivery of uncertainty or a pleading note or hope for some sort of favor or blessing.

He scoffs, not letting the sound leave the confines of the phone as he shakes his head. You’d said it because it’s a simple explanation. That’s all. Nothing worth reading into.

The thought of it being a mere platitude causes a different, less pleasant sensation in his would-be heart…one he angrily casts aside rather than attempting to read into.

Brent gives a brief hum of acknowledgement, his gaze shifting to the projectors. “Those…actually look like they’re in good shape,” he comments thoughtfully.

“Yeah…” you say, and Lux is relieved to hear a twinge of apprehension in your tone. You smell the rat too. “Well, older tech’s built differently.”

“Mm-hm,” Brent says, a bit distractedly, wiping some dirt off one of the projectors. “Well, anyway, I have more meetings with the vendors today, so I’m really just stopping in.”

“Alright,” you say, nodding.

He claps you on the shoulder and takes his leave as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Once Brent’s gone, Lux pokes his head out of your phone. You hold out a hand to help him, but he ignores it and simply lifts himself out of the screen, hopping down to the floor.

“He seemed awfully interested in the girls…” he says, standing between the two projectors and lightly resting a hand on each.

“The girls?” you ask blankly. “Oh, the projectors?”

“Yes indeedie!” he grins proudly. “My lovely ladies of the light!”

“...Ah,” you say. “They’re um…important to you?”

“Projectors in general are, yes,” he says, deciding not to yank you around by pretending he couldn’t bear to part with these two in specific. Tempting as it is.

“Ah. Well, Brent will get a new one…a modern one.”

“One?” he repeats.

You nod. “Yeah! We only need one. No need to switch the film reels anymore,” you say. You may not know how to operate these old projectors, but you do at least understand why old theaters needed two.

Lux cups his cheeks in his hands. “Fascinating!” he enthuses, even though he’d already known. Well, he hadn’t known specifically whether or not humans had gotten to that point yet, but he’s familiar with how other civilizations have streamlined their movie-viewing experiences.

You grab one of the trash bags from the box you’d left in here yesterday, shaking it out a few times to open it. You begin gathering up things from the room, mostly bits of broken wood, half-crushed film canisters, and other bits of detritus that clearly aren’t anything of value--and probably never were.

A beat of silence passes between you two, and when you open your mouth so speak, Lux is sure you’re going to ask him to pitch in and help. Instead, you ask:

“Seen any good movies lately?”

He’s slightly caught off guard by the question, but quickly recovers, smirking. “Define ‘lately’.”

You laugh. “Ever,” you amend.

“Well, I did live in a movie theater for three months…”

“So yes?”

Lux hums in thought. “Hrm…Depends. Would I sound like a silly ol’ old timer if I liked movies from that far back?”

You laugh warmly, shaking your head. “Oh hardly!” you say.

He likes your laugh. It’s…so different from any other laugh he’s heard. Warm and gentle and…earnest. Heartfelt. Not the timid, placating laugh Reginald would sometimes make at Lux’s jokes. Nor the cruel, mocking laugh of the other gods.

What a laugh is supposed to be.

Lux manages to keep a smile plastered on his face even as he wants to grimace in disgust at the notion. What a laugh is supposed to be? It’s supposed to be a laugh. That’s it. No need to be so sentimental over it.

“W-Well ah…” He straightens his waistcoat, trying to refocus on the conversation. He laughs, waving a hand. “Oh, where to begin? Singing in the Rain, Cinderella, Harvest Bringer, Let’s Dance, Annie Get Your Gun, Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island…”

*

Mr. Ring-a-Ding continues listing several more movies while you bag up the random bits of rubbish. Finally, when it seems he has no intent of slowing down, you laugh. “Silly me for expecting a short list when you lived in a movie theater,” you say wryly.

He grins, dipping his head in a curt nod. “Yes, quite silly!” he agrees, waggling a finger at you as if scolding you.

“I wish some of the old reels were still around…it’d be fun to put on some movies while I clean,” you say.

He arches a brow at your phrasing. While I clean…So you really aren’t waiting for him to step up and pitch in.

Just as well, it’s not a particularly interesting activity anyway.

“Well!” he chirps, clapping his hands together. “Have I got good news for you!”

You’d grabbed a broom to sweep up some of the smaller bits on the floor. You pause in your sweeping, glancing at him. “Yeah?”

“Not all the reels were in the film closet. There was a storage area upstairs for a bunch of other old films!”

You hum thoughtfully. “Well…I suppose we can check it out, but…I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Ring.”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding had been holding one hand aloft, pointing upwards as if preparing to make some great declaration when he pauses, belatedly registering the nickname. He quirks a brow. “Ring?” he repeats. He chuckles, smirking up at you. “Yannow, dear, my name’s Mr. Ring-a-Ding, not Mr. Ring A. Ding.”

Despite his teasing, even playful tone, you still worry the nickname may have been overstepping. You open your mouth to apologize, but before you can get the words out, he continues.

“Although, I’ll admit it’s a bit of a mouthful. And Ring has a nice…ring to it?” he grins.

Normally you’d try not to laugh at such a pun, but you’re too relieved that he’s going along with the impromptu nickname, so a warm laugh escapes you as you give a slight shake of your head. “A bit on the nose, huh?” you say wryly.

Ring goes slightly cross eyed a moment, scrunching up his face and wiggling his nose before grinning up at you again. “Nope, don’t think so!”

You can’t help but giggle. You hadn’t thought much of his appearance one way or another when you’d first seen him--you’d been too distracted by the mere fact that he’s a living cartoon to give too much thought to his design--but you’re finding his playful grins and eyebrow wiggles and flicks of his antennae increasingly charming…and that goes double for the little nose wiggle he’d just done.

“Anyway, sweetie pie, what was that about me not getting my hopes up?” he asks.

It takes you a brief moment to remember what he’s referencing. “Oh, right! Well, this building hasn’t been air conditioned for 70-some years now, so I doubt any film stored here is going to be in good shape.”

Ring pouts, cupping his face in one hand. “Well golly, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” He gives you a hopeful grin, his eyes becoming big and round as he clasps his hands in front of his chest. “But…could we just check? Just in case?”

“Oh of course!” you say quickly. You can tell he’s just being silly, and he’s not really trying to hide that either. “No need to break out the puppy dog eyes,” you assure him with a small laugh. You set the broom aside, letting him lead the way upstairs. You know the layout of the theater only roughly. Brent had only given you a brief tour, and besides, there was more than enough work to keep you busy in just the house and the lobby--you hardly need to learn the back corridors of the whole building.

He takes you down a hall and up a narrow staircase. The light at the top of the stairs has gone out, so you use your phone as a flashlight. At the top of the steps is a door marked “STAFF ONLY”.

“I’d say we both count as Staff,” Ring quips, nodding at the sign.

You try the door, frowning when it’s locked. “Be that as it may, I only have a key to the main door. Sorry, Ring, I guess--”

“Ah bup bup bup!” he quickly shushes you, holding up one finger. “Don’t give up so quickly, my dear!”

Before you can ask what he means, he crouches down, flattening himself like a piece of paper and sliding under the door. You hear a soft “pop!” on the other side as he pops back into shape, followed by the sound of the door unlocking.

The door swings inward and Mr. Ring-a-Ding removes his hat for a sweeping bow. “Tadaaa!”

“Heh…I suppose after you hopping into my phone I shoulda guessed you could do something like that…”

“Mmmmmaybe,” he concedes. “But I won’t hold it against ya, honey!” he winks.

“How magnanimous of you,” you say with a good-natured eye roll as you step into the room. You shine your phone’s flashlight around the rows of shelves. The room looks a bit like a larger version of what the old film closet would have looked like--stacks of canisters atop metallic shelves.

“Wow…did old theaters always have this much film stored away? I always thought they sent the movies back to the studios after their runs. Or just pitched ‘em?” you wonder aloud.

Ring shrugs. “Well, this is the only theater I’ve ever been in, buuuut…Mr. Pye was something of a collector. He’d rewatch a lot of these at night, after the paid shows were over,” he explains, picking up a canister to check the label on it.

You give a brief hum of acknowledgement, picking up a canister and opening it. You set your phone on the shelf, the flashlight shining downwards, and hunch forward to examine the film. It looks dried and brittle, so you don’t unspool too much of it.

“Unfortunately I don’t think his collection survived…” you say.

“Oh no?” he asks casually. “Lemme see!” he says, reaching upwards and making grabby hands at the reel in your hands.

You pass it to him obligingly, and he turns it over in his hands, examining it. “Hmmm…” he hums to himself before tapping the metallic reel experimentally. He grins up at you, holding up the reel. “Seems fine to me!” he chips.

“I dunno, just look--” You start to unspool the reel again to show him the damage, only to frown, squinting at it. It looks pristine. Just as pristine as the Mr. Ring-a-Ding reel. “What the…” you murmur, unrolling a bit more.

It’s in excellent shape.

You frown, glancing down at Ring. “Did…you do something to it?”

“Don’t make me laugh!” he scoffs playfully, flicking his wrist.

You’ve figured out by now that’s his response for questions he either can’t or won’t answer…though you suspect it’s mostly the latter. You sigh, more resigned than frustrated. “Alright then, keep your secrets,” you quote wryly.

He simply chuckles knowingly, taking the reel from you and placing it back in the canister. “Well, since this one seems to be in good shape, why don’t we put it on?”

“Sure,” you agree easily, despite not even knowing what movie it is.

Part of you wonders if you should be pressing him more for answers…though you’re also well aware of the possibility that he wouldn’t have all the answers either. Maybe he can’t explain the nuances of his inner workings to you any better than you could explain yours to him.

Perhaps you should be questioning it more, but…you also don’t want him to get annoyed and leave, which you assume he’s capable of doing. Still, you suspect whatever he is, the situation is slightly more complex than “cartoon come to life for no reason in particular”.

You’re not even close to guessing just how right you are about that.

Chapter Text

The next few days look more or less the same for you and Mr. Ring-a-Ding. You head to the theater shortly after getting up, then work on cleaning until well after dark, go home, and go to sleep.

You don’t feel much closer to understanding just what he is than you had after your second day. He’s a living cartoon made of light, can ride along in your phone (charging it in the process), and has some sort of influence or control over film.

But…he’s fun. His quips make you laugh and it’s nice to have company while you clean out the lonely, dingy theater by yourself. Especially at night. Not that you’d been scared to be alone in the theater at night, but there are occasional moments of unease that are certainly mitigated with a bit of company.

And you can’t say you dislike the little nicknames he sometimes gives you. Living in Florida, you’re no stranger to being called “hun” or “baby”, though it’s usually by women. Obviously, Mr. Ring-a-Ding is an old-fashioned sort, so you don’t think he means anything when he calls you “sweetie pie” or “darling”, but…well, it has a certain charm regardless.

In any case, the two of you apparently have no shortage of films to watch while you clean. Ring insists the storage room was simply very well built and the film canisters well-sealed, but…you’re skeptical. For one thing, the shelves themselves are horribly rusted and one of the bottommost shelves has collapsed onto the floor below, so you’re not particularly convinced the construction of the room itself is doing much for the preservation of those films. You have a feeling that if you were here alone none of those reels would play as well as they currently do. It’s also not lost on you that after the first canister you checked, Ring is now always the first one to open them and check over the film…and of course, they’re always in perfect condition.

Film restoration seems an odd ability for a living cartoon to have, but then again, what is Mr. Ring-a-Ding himself but a collection of odd abilities?

You do sense he has some kind of reluctance to open up to you about the nature of his existence. You suppose he isn’t obligated to explain such things but you can’t help but be incredibly curious.

Another thing that’s not lost on you, though, is that he’d spent over seventy years sealed in a film reel inside an abandoned theater, presumably unexpectedly. He’d then awoken to see his old theater, abandoned, and been informed that everyone he would have known is likely dead.

Aside from that first night, he hasn’t shown much reaction to this, but…surely he has some kind of feelings about it?

So, you don’t push. Besides, you’re quite sure that the quickest way to end a whimsical situation like this is to question it too deeply.

You’re presently in the process of pulling up the carpet on the aisle stairs in the center of the house while some black and white movie plays in the background. It’s a musical, but not one you’d ever heard of. From what you can tell it’s not bad or anything, it’s just faded into obscurity over the decades. Its only crime seems to be not standing out quite as much as the other musicals of that year. The plot is pretty standard--boy meets girl, but the girl is engaged to some richer, meaner man. A few power ballads and one very bombastic dance number later, true love wins the day.

You pause in your work, watching as the pair dances together in the center of the town, the chorus of all the other characters singing about how wonderful it is. Even the villain’s henchman (who had never seemed particularly invested in his boss’s machinations anyway) has joined the town in their song, content to let his boss sulk in the mud pit he’d been dumped into during the climactic showdown.

Sensing that the movie is probably pretty much over and they’re just going to show a few more minutes of singing and dancing before the credits roll, you glance over at Mr. Ring-a-Ding, and are surprised at the expression on his face.

He’s standing on his seat, leaning forward, his arms resting atop the backrest of the seat in front of him. His face is cupped in both hands, and his smile is more serene than you’ve ever seen him look, and just a bit dopey. As you watch, he sighs wistfully, his eyelashes appearing as he blinks a slow, contented blink. And--you almost miss it at first--but his antennae are curled into a heart shape as well.

You pause in your work, watching him more than the movie. There’s a warmth and gentleness in his eyes you haven’t seen in him before. Not that he’d been cold, per se. “Aloof” might be closer, but even that seems oddly harsh to you. In any case, he generally hadn’t come across as overly sincere. Funny and charming, sure, but sincere? Putting that word on him would be a bit of a stretch.

As the credits start to roll, you get up and sit down in a seat near him, leaving a one seat gap between the two of you. He keeps watching the screen, lowering himself into a sitting position as he listens to the song playing over the credits. You’re not even sure if he notices you’re there.

“You seemed to like that one,” you comment as the credits music finally fades.

He blinks rapidly, seeming almost startled that you’re there. But it quickly fades, his normal silly smile returning as he waves a hand. “Oh sure. Who doesn’t love a good romance?” he says, flopping back in his seat.

You scoff good-naturedly, rolling your eyes. “Plenty,” you say.

Ring smirks sideways at you. “Don’t tell me you’re one of them?”

“I like it well enough,” you say. “I just don’t consider myself much of a romantic, I guess.”

“So, not married, then?” he asks slyly.

If you’d been drinking, you’d’ve done the spittake to end all spittakes, but even without a drink you somehow manage to replicate the sound perfectly in your reaction before laughing.

“That a no?” he teases, leaning back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.

“I’m not married, no!” you laugh, shaking your head. You give him a playfully dubious look. “You’ve been to my apartment, you know there’s no room for a spouse! There’s barely room for you.”

“There’s more than one apartment in this town, honey!” he returns.

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “Right…well, in any case, romance is well and good but I’m not the marrying type.”

“No?” he asks, seeming surprised. He hops to his feet, standing on the seat of the chair. “You don’t want a grand celebration of your love? To swear your eternal devotion, through day or night or rain or shine? To promise to never be parted, no matter who tries to stop you or whatever the hands of fate throw your way?” he asks, clutching his hands over his heart, a flicker of his earlier dreamy look passing over his face.

You can’t pretend his impassioned description didn’t bring a bit of warmth to your cheeks. “Well…it…does sound nice…” you admit. “And I guess I’m not opposed to a wedding or…some sort of ceremony like it. But a wedding’s only one day, you know?” you say.

Ring laughs, and it’s surprisingly warm. “Just how many days do you need, sweetpea?”

“All of them,” you say with a soft smile.

He blinks, canting his head, caught off guard by your answer.

You chuckle weakly, scratching your cheek. “Well, not for the wedding, but…I…I don’t want to make one decision on one day that this’ll be the person I wake up beside for the rest of my life. I want to wake up beside them every day and choose them…every single day. And I want them to be choosing me every day too.”

Ring blinks several times, staring at you in awe as his antennae once again twist into a heart shape. Before you can respond, he laughs, shaking his head. “My dear, you really are a romantic, aren’t you?” he says fondly.

“O-Oh, m-maybe by some definitions I suppose,” you say modestly, waving a hand.

“Mmm…and, most importantly, by my definition,” he says with a wink.

“What about you?” you ask curiously, even though you’re sure he’ll just give his avoidant “Don’t make me laugh!” answer he gives for most personal questions you’ve directed his way.

“Me? I’m one of the ones in the chorus,” he says, nodding towards the screen. “I’m at the wedding. But it ain’t my wedding,” he says, grinning sideways at you.

He’s clearly not being self-deprecating. He just likes weddings but clearly doesn’t have much interest in actually getting married. Hardly the strangest thing about him. Barely strange at all, in fact. You’re well aware that an interest in romance as a concept doesn’t always go hand in hand with an interest in pursuing a romantic relationship.

You hum in thought, letting the conversation sit for a moment before asking, “Well, d’you want me to put something else on?”

“Isn’t your shift about over?” he asks, clearly thinking you’ve just lost track of time. In his defense, it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done so.

“Yeah, but…I thought maybe I could…actually join you for one. Y’know, actually sit here and watch the whole movie,” you say, giving a small shrug.

“Oho, well then…let’s see what we have!” he says, hopping off the seat only to immediately pause. “Oh!” He spins to face you, snapping his fingers. “Y’know, if you like romance and musicals I can think of something you’d like…” he says, moving past you and breaking into a trot as he runs up the aisle stairs.

Once in the storage room, Mr. Ring-a-Ding sets about going through the shelves and shelves of film canisters--which is a bit easier of a task now that you’d replaced the overhead lightbulb.

“Where is it, where is it, where is it…” he mumbles to himself.

You watch as he pulls canister after canister off the shelves with one hand, stacking them in his other hand like pizza boxes. Soon the stack is taller than him, yet he balances it just as expertly as you’d expect a cartoon to balance a comedically tall stack of anything. He tosses a couple more onto the stack, which is now nearly at the ceiling.

“Aha! Heeeeeere we are!” he says, finding what he’s looking for near the back of the shelf. He tosses the tall stack over his shoulder and you quickly step forward, letting out a wordless cry of protest.

But apparently his cartoon physics can apply to “real” objects to some extent, for the stack arcs gracefully, splitting into thirds and sorting itself into three neat stacks on the shelf behind Ring with a satisfying tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk.

You let out a weak chuckle, and he smirks playfully at you. He’d clearly tossed them like that to get a reaction out of you. Little showoff.

You open your mouth to make some quip about it, but the words die in your throat.

The shelf the canisters had landed on shudders, and you realize whatever cartoon physics he’d placed on the canisters momentarily don’t apply to the shelf they’ve landed on. The rusted metal can’t hold the weight of the additional canisters and one of the rusted legs snaps with a metallic twang. The whole shelf, now unstable, begins to pitch forward. Slowly at first, but rapidly picking up speed.

And Ring is standing right where the tall metal shelf was about to land.

Your body is in motion before your brain has fully even processed the situation. You lunge forward, trying to grab Ring and pull him out of the way, but you’re not quite fast enough.

You crouch to wrap one arm around Ring’s torso, hugging him against yourself. You’d intended to pull him out of the path of the shelf, but you’re not quick enough. The metal shelf crashes down onto your back, the frame hitting you hard across your shoulderblades.

You cry out in pain, your knees buckling as the weight of the shelf forces you to the floor, pinning Mr. Ring-a-Ding under you.

You’re dazed for a moment, but are pulled out of it by your own coughing as you accidentally inhale some of the dust that was kicked up from the crash.

“Ring!” you cry in alarm once the reality of the situation hits you. You’re not at a good angle to actually see him, but you can feel him beneath you. “A-Are you alright?” you ask.

The halfsecond it takes him to answer feels so much longer.

“Y-Yeah. I’m fine,” he says, his voice sounding shaky and rattled.

You shift position slightly, propping your forearms against the floor on either side of you. “I’m gonna try to lift the shelf a bit…see if you can wriggle out,” you say. You don’t wait for his response before arching your back, pushing the shelf up another couple inches.

Ring quickly scrambles out, but you’re too focused on holding up the shelf that you don’t catch his expression. Once he’s clear, you slump in relief. You don’t think it’ll be that difficult to get yourself out from under the shelf now that you don’t have to worry about kicking or shoving Ring in the process. All you need to do is--

The shelf raises off you abruptly and your eyes shoot open in surprise.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding has lifted it from you--seemingly effortlessly at that--and sets it on its side next to you. You slowly pull yourself up, causing the few remaining canisters and debris from the shelf to slide off your back and clatter to the floor. You’re kneeling on the cold tile floor, staring at him in stunned silence.

His expression is hard to read. His brows are lowered, his mouth twisted in a frown…Yet you can’t quite tell what’s in his eyes. Mostly confusion, you think, but…a bit of shock as well.

“...Why did you do that?” he finally asks, his tone oddly flat and distant.

You pull back slightly at the question, blinking rapidly. “Um--” Why does he seem upset that you’d intervened?

“It wasn’t going to hurt me! You’ve seen me flatten myself!” he cries in sudden frustration. “And now you’re--!” he gestures vaguely to you with one hand.

You frown, feeling yourself bristling at the hostility in his tone. You resist the urge to snap back in return. “W-Well, I’m fine!” It takes effort to not match his irritated tone, but you manage to sound only a bit short rather than actually angry.

You shift your weight, trying to stand up, only to wince and hiss in pain when your knee twinges. You’d hit it pretty hard on your way down.

Ring turns sharply towards you at the sound, holding his hands up as if to grab you despite still being a couple feet away. He quickly catches himself, lowering his hands and resuming his somewhat terse expression…but not before you catch a faint glimpse of worry in his eyes.

“J-Just…sit a minute,” he says, his voice strained and gruff.

Your expression softens slightly. “Ring, I’m…okay, really,” you say.

He glances at you tersely for a moment before his shoulders slump and he lets out a soft sigh, his expression softening as well. “Good,” he says. He says shortly, but…not insincerely. “Wait there, I’m going to see if any of the first aid stuff is still around.”

“I don’t want to wait in here,” you protest weakly, gesturing to the debris you’re sitting in. “I don’t exactly trust these shelves anymore…” you add.

“...Right,” he says. He seems to debate with himself a moment before stepping towards you.

You assume he’s going to help you to your feet so you can hobble out of the room mostly on your own, but to your surprise he slips one arm under your knees and the other around your shoulders and lifts you up as effortlessly as he’d lifted the shelf.

You squeak in surprise, instinctively putting your arms around his shoulders…despite the fact that you’re only a couple feet off the ground.

Ring chuckles weakly at your reaction, some of his usual levity finally returning to his expression. “Don’t worry, doll, I’m stronger than I look!”

“C-Clearly…” you say, a bit flustered as he carries you from the room.

He sets you down in the carpeted hall just outside the storage room, and you’re relieved to be out of the cloud of dust the falling shelf had kicked up.

“Now, wait there,” he says, his tone bordering on stern…but at least he doesn’t seem upset anymore.

You nod. “Sure, Ring,” you say quietly, staring after him as he walks off.

*

Once Lux is out of your sight, he allows himself to pause a moment, taking a breath to steady himself. Despite not needing to breathe, he’s found taking a deep breath to be a good way to center himself in this body.

…Why had you done that? What had made you take such a risk to protect him? He knows how fragile mortals are. Surely you do too?? Granted, it’s unlikely you’d’ve been killed by that shelf, but not impossible.

Not impossible.

The words are like an icy claw tearing at his very core. So much so he physically shivers. He shakes his head, trying to focus.

Why would you even risk a minor injury for him? There’s no reason for you to do that. As far as you know, he has no power over you, and nothing you could possibly want, other than his company.

That…can’t be enough? The fact that he keeps you company while you work and makes you laugh…is that all it takes to have a human risk themselves for another?

He makes his way to the old Lost and Found. He’d found it while wandering the theater back in the 50s, though had never expected to have much use for it. To his relief, it’s still there. More importantly, the cane he recalls seeing all those decades ago is still there.

Well. Sort of. The varnish has faded and the wood itself is rotted, but he can touch that up as easily as he touches up the film reels the two of you have been watching. He picks it up, and with a flick of his wrist, the old wooden cane is like new again.

Shame he can’t use that ability to restore your injured knee…but healing is sadly absent from his extensive list of skills.

Some other unpleasant sensation swirls in him as he makes his way back to you. A pain he’s only felt the briefest flickers of in the past now gnaws at him so urgently he’s forced to finally name it.

Guilt.

He grimaces, shaking his head so abruptly he actually stops walking for a moment. Guilt. An emotion entirely unfit for a god to feel.

Yet he can’t push it away. Not entirely. He could have prevented this, after all. He could have paid a bit more attention to how much weight the shelf could hold, for one thing.

For another…

Well…suffice to say there are apparently downsides to letting you think he’s more helpless than he is. The idea that he would ever need a mortal’s protection is comically absurd, yet…it’s the reality he’d allowed you to live in. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected you to take it so seriously. He hadn’t guessed that you would assume the falling shelf was any particular danger to him, and he could have never predicted you risking yourself to intervene.

Even the rest of the Pantheon wouldn’t have done that for him. A god risking themselves even for a fellow god has a steep price. Even just asking for their time comes with a cost.

You have so much less…yet you had been willing to give him so much so quickly. Impulsively even.

Perhaps, he admits with some reluctance, you have earned a bit of honesty from him. At least enough to keep you from acting so rashly ever again.

*

By the time Ring returns, it seems he’s back to his usual chipper mood. He hands you the cane and steps back so you can get to your feet.

“Where’d you find this?” you ask, taking a few steps with the cane. It does help, though your knee is still a bit sore. At least you won’t be in severe pain at the end of your walk home.

“Lost and found,” he says simply.

You hum thoughtfully, leaning against the wall slightly so you can hold the cane up and take a look at it. “It’s in good shape.” You glance at him. “Almost like new.”

His grin seems a bit more forced as he watches you silently.

“Kinda like how the film reels all seem to be brand new?” you say, your tone a bit more pointed.

When he opens his mouth to speak you’re so sure he’s about to just say “Don’t make me laugh!” and end the conversation. Instead, you’re surprised at the soft, almost sheepish chuckle he lets out. “Alright, I’ll…I’ll admit it, I’m…a bit more talented than I let on.”

“How much more talented?” you press.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding pauses a moment, then nods for you to walk along beside him as the two of you head to the entrance. “A bit,” he repeats, still smiling as he shrugs. “I’ve got a knack for restoring old things, is all.”

“And you’re incredibly strong,” you say bluntly.

Ring giggles, flicking his wrist at you. “Oh, you flatterer, you!”

You cheeks warm a bit and you roll your eyes. “Oh come on, Ring. Plenty of humans can’t lift a fully grown adult as easily as you just did!” you protest.

“Well, it’s no big deal for a cartoon,” he says with another shrug. He hesitates, and you catch a flash of guilt in his eyes as he adds, “...Nor is getting flattened by a shelf.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I uh. Didn’t…realize you didn’t know that.”

You blink, giving him a dubious look. “Uh, why exactly would I know that?”

“We’ve watched cartoons together, doll. You’ve seen ‘em get smashed by pianos, cut to ribbons, burnt to a crisp…Only to pop right back.”

“And it usually looks painful,” you point out.

“It’s called acting, my dear,” he smirks.

“What about…more realistic cartoons? Y’know where…characters actually die or bleed or…things like that?” you ask.

Ring places his hands on his hips, raising a brow with a particularly smug grin on his face. “Sweetheart, just what about me says ‘realistic cartoon’ to you?”

You snort, rolling your eyes good-naturedly. “Alright, alright, I get it,” you say, holding up your free hand as you lean on the cane. “So…nothing really…hurts you? You’re…basically invincible, then?” you ask.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding pauses a moment, then says, “Weell…truth be told, I’m not much for sunlight. But other than that, I’d say I’m pretty unflappable!”

“Not much for sunlight?” you repeat curiously.

“Oh, pshah!” he says, waving a hand. He waggles his finger at you. “Nothin’ for you to worry your pretty lil’ head over! Juuuust don’t hold your breath for any trips to the beach.”

You laugh. “So no beach episode?”

“No beach episode!” he agrees with a nod.

You doubt he’s familiar with the “beach episode” trope, but then again, the term itself probably tells him all he needs to know.

You are curious about what exactly he means by “not much for sunlight”, but it’s also clear he doesn’t want to get into specifics. You’ll just have to trust him that it’s not something you need to worry about. Besides, you’re not sure interrogating his every remark will encourage him to open up to you more.

“I’m glad my fretting’s been for nothing, then,” you say.

Ring seems caught off-guard at the remark, his gaze snapping to you, his brow lowered in a perplexed expression. “Fretting?”

Your cheeks warm slightly and you let out an awkward laugh. “W-Well, just…I uh…I thought you were…a bit more uhm…out of your element…than what you…actually are…”

He smirks up at you. “A piddly lil’ weakling, eh?” he teases.

“N-No, that’s not--!” you yelp, worried you’d offended him despite his grin.

He laughs…and it’s a warmer, more earnest laugh than you’ve heard from him so far. “Oh don’t worry, sweetie pie. There’s worse things than knowing someone twice my size is looking out for me,” he winks. He faces forward again, his smile softening as he adds, “...Even if I don’t actually need it.”

Your cheeks are warm and your smile full of unabashed fondness as you stop just inside the theater entrance, glancing down at him.

As you pull out your phone for him to get in, he shifts awkwardly, scratching the back of his head and giving you a sheepish smile. “Not very gentlemanly of me to hitch a ride when your knee’s hurtin’,” he says. “But I guess there’s not much choice, huh?”

You laugh weakly. “I don’t think being mobbed by people wondering why I’m being carried off by a cartoon character is going to help anything.”

“Mm, not likely,” he agrees with an apologetic shrug.

You’re about to hold out your phone when you pause. “Oh, and…sorry we didn’t get to watch the movie today. Raincheck for tomorrow?”

Mr. Ring-a-Ding blinks in surprise, and you suspect he’d forgotten about the movie in all the chaos. But his grin widens and he nods. “Raincheck for tomorrow,” he agrees.

You hold out your phone and he slips through the screen. When you turn the phone back towards yourself, he gives you a smile and a wave to let you know he’s situated, and together, the two of you head home.

*

Once you’re asleep, Lux sits beside you on the bed, keeping himself weightless so as not to wake you. The comforter is pushed down, covering your legs but leaving most of your upper body uncovered. You’re laying on your side, a spare pillow hugged tightly to your chest.

Why does he find himself wishing it was him in your arms, not some pillow? Your warm embrace wrapped tightly around him, his head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat, just as he had been in that oh so devastatingly brief moment this afternoon.

He had been more distracted by your injury and the task of seeing you home safely. Despite his quip about not being much of a gentleman, he would have done something if you’d started struggling on the walk back. Even if it had meant tipping his hand more than he already had.

But as you showered and changed, then crawled into bed with only a tiredly mumbled goodnight to him, Lux had been left alone without distraction…and his mind had wandered.

He’d felt your racing heart against the back of his head. How quickly your heart had beaten with your genuine concern for him, how tightly you’d held him to keep him safe. Even though none of it had been necessary, it had felt…safe. Warm…and not just from your body heat--though that in itself was a heady experience too. He’d always known how warm humans are, but to have his body and feel your warmth against him…

He’s gained a new understanding of both the literal and metaphorical definition of the word.

But of course, he knows you hadn’t done it to be affectionate. Not really. Not that Lux doubts that you are indeed fond of him--or rather, for Mr. Ring-a-Ding--but he’s pretty sure you’d’ve leapt into action no matter who had been in the path of that shelf.

He could compel you. Strike a deal. Make a threat. Even in his weakened state there’s a myriad of ways he could overpower you both mentally and physically.

It would only cost him the warmth of your laughter.

Since when has that been too high a price?

Lux…wants you to like him. To care about him. Of your own free will. He wants to come by your approval--and your affection--honestly.

Utterly disgusting. No god should ever want anything from a mortal that can’t be taken by force.

What’s worse…that want is bordering on a need. No god should ever need anything from a mortal, period.

He should leave. Dissipate into light for another few centuries. This form isn’t mortal, but it’s apparently close enough to it that it’s messing with his mind. If he were free of it, he’d be free of these…impulses.

Would you miss him…?

Lux runs a hand over his face in exasperation. He’s in a fight with himself and he can already tell he’s going to lose. Something’s started and it’s too late for him to stop it.

He glances at your sleeping face once more. Despite himself, the tension in him eases and he slumps forward slightly, his expression softening.

Maybe…it’s not terrible.