Mind Blind Saucy Side: Bottled Up (Kent Version)

AU where Kent is a genie/djinn

Your first wish is made in a moment of desperation, clutching the antique locket that Sally gave you for your birthday as you huddle behind an overturned table to avoid gunfire.

I wish that this was over, you think.

Suddenly . . . it is. The roar of bullets quiets, and UCRT arrests the two-dozen confused Ments whom had, just moments before, been shooting at you.

“All’s well that ends well,” Nick says breezily, but a hint of unease lingers on the team. What’s the likelihood of twenty-four guns jamming simultaneously? It’s like magic.

(Spoiler alert: it’s magic.)

The djinn waits until you’re at home alone to appear. He informs you of his contract, brusquely indifferent to both your initial shock at his sudden appearance and your gratitude over having your life saved: you have one wish remaining, he tells you. The legends, it seems, were overgenerous. Perhaps natural-born genies, mystical beings composed of magic and stardust, might grant three wishes. But your djinn—Kent—was human once. Cursed into immortal servitude, he can grant two wishes to whomever owns his locket. No more and no less, and you’ve already squandered your first wish on self-preservation instead of a flying pony.

Which leaves you with only one wish remaining. Should you be selfless and wish for world peace? (Kent disabuses you of that notion, claiming that he would only be able to guarantee such a wonder for a nanosecond before mankind declared a new war.) Maybe it would be wise to save the wish for another emergency? (Kent points out there’s no guarantee you’d be able to make a wish in time of crisis.) Kent suggests that you wish for a talking pet.

There’s also the tantalizing possibility of wishing for a higher Pollard Score.

Sensing that you’re not going to decide on your second wish any time soon, Kent agrees to wait. The locket is cramped, however, so you tell him that he can sleep on your couch, if djinns sleep. (They do, Kent confirms.)

A week passes, and you become increasingly reluctant to decide upon a wish. Once you decide, Kent’s locket will be passed onto someone else . . . which means no more debating the pros and cons of wishing for a dragon (Kent in favor, you wary of the fire hazard), and no more shopping trips to buy Kent modern clothing (he was cursed in 1903). No more watching television together, or teaching Kent the concept of “memes,” and no more Kent telling you about what his life had been like before he became a djinn (his father had been a politician who double-crossed a witch).

Making a wish means losing Kent.

There’s only one answer: you’ll wish for his curse to end. You have no way of knowing what will happen to Kent once he’s freed, and part of you is terrified that he’ll be transported back to his own time. When you tell him that you’ve decided upon a wish, however, Kent’s face goes blank. Not that Kent is ever that expressive, but he’s slowly thawed over the past week. Now, his stony expression is reminiscent of when he first solidified in your bedroom.

“Call me when you’re ready,” he says in a dull tone and without giving you time to explain. He blinks away, leaving only smoke where he once stood.

* * * *

You selfishly postpone wishing until the next morning, wanting just one more night of Kent with you (even if he refuses to leave his locket). As sunlight breaks through your bedroom window, you realize that any more delay will only challenge your decision.

And it is the right decision.

The gold heart of the locket seems to pulsate as if with a heartbeat, the metal warming beneath your shaking fingertips as you open the hinge one last time. Inside is Kent’s picture from back when he was human, black and white and faded at the edges but more handsome than any man you’ve seen (Sally bought the locket as a gift, after all, because “the dead dude inside is so your type”). You have only a moment to gaze at the picture before the real thing appears.

Tendrils of smoke fill your room, then clear to reveal Kent. He’s wearing one of the outfits you bought him: jeans and a fitted black tee that make him look deceptively unmagical.

“Hello, Master,” he says. Despite his polite smile, there’s an audible acidity to the title that he gives you—a name he’s never called you before. “My presence must mean that you’re ready to make a wish.”

Your heart clenches. His voice is brittle and formal, in painful contrast to the teasing warmth with which you’ve become familiar.

“I wish for—”

‘—your freedom,’ you intend to finish, but Kent presses the pad of his thumb over your lips, cutting off your words. His hand is cold, the result of being constructed from magic instead of flesh.

“As soon as your wish is fulfilled, you’ll no longer be able to summon me,” he says in a low voice. His grey eyes meet yours, his lashes lowered.

Again, you attempt to explain that your wish will let him hopefully stay, should he so desire. But his thumb still presses against your mouth, pushing gently inwards until you can taste the salt of his skin.

“Before I grant your wish,” he murmurs, “grant mine.”

He holds you spellbound with his stare, his touch, his intensity—you’re captivated by the undivided force of his attention. Your pulse quickens, and he smirks as if he can hear it (and maybe he can). The walls of your bedroom seem to disappear: there is only you and Kent, frozen in anticipation.

His other hand goes to the small of your back, pulling you close. His lips dip to your neck, whispering your name. It’s almost but not quite a kiss, his mouth moving against your skin in words you can’t fully hear. He pushes you down onto the bed in a controlled fall, his thumb never leaving your lips.

You nip his finger.

Instead of becoming angry, he chuckles. Then he kisses you, truly and deeply, as if you’re his wish. Not the person capable of granting it as his words implied, but the actual wish itself. Intentions are lost in a tangle of tongues; you barely recall your own name, let alone what you’d planned to do. There’s only Kent, and his mouth, and his infinitely clever hands.

As you both pause to catch your breaths, reality forces its way through the blissful haze. You need to make your wish. Now more than ever, before desire completely strips your resolve.

Kent’s hand cusps your cheek. “You’re crying,” he says, sounding bewildered. “I thought you wanted this, too.”

“I wish for you to be human again.” You rush the words, afraid that delay would only cause you to turn back.

. . . Nothing happens.

Kent stares down at you, his body suspended over yours. The moment lingers, lengthens, and finally breaks as his head drops onto your shoulder.

“I didn’t return to the locket,” he whispers. “Am I still with you?”

You tilt his face up. His eyes squeeze tightly shut, as if afraid to reopen. His cheeks are warm now, and flushed. Magic doesn’t blush—only mortals.

You kiss his brow, his cheekbones, his chin, and finally his lips. All warm. All human.

“Can I get a third wish?” you ask.