Chapter 12: The Unexpected Client
The morning sun sliced through the dusty workshop windows, illuminating galaxies of sawdust floating in the air. Willum was sanding the edge of an oak tabletop, the rhythmic shush-shush of the paper a calming mantra. The lingering chill from his nightmare had been burned away by the physical work and the familiar, comforting presence of his friends.
Malcolm was perched on the high shelf near the blueprint rolls, legs dangling over the edge as he typed on a miniature laptop, managing Josh’s climbing gym schedule. Tyler sat cross-legged on the workbench itself, a tiny canvas propped against a tin of screws, adding minute details to a landscape with a single-hair brush. The scent of pine resin and Tyler’s linseed oil hung in the air.
Josh was, predictably, on Willum. He was scaling the back of Willum’s worn cotton t-shirt, using seams and folds as footholds, his tail a constant, balancing third limb. Patrick was riding in the front pocket, peering over the edge now and then to comment on Willum’s technique.
“You’re going too heavy on that left corner,” Patrick called up. “It’s gonna be uneven.”
“I’ve got it, Pat,” Willum said, a soft smile touching his lips. The casual critique was a language of its own. It meant normalcy.
The doorbell chimed, a rare sound that echoed through the workshop. The contract client. Willum wiped his hands on his jeans. “Alright. Showtime.”
He walked through the connecting door into the house’s main hallway, the others taking their positions. Malcolm slipped the laptop into a niche and scurried down a cord to the floor, adopting a professional stance. Tyler quietly moved his canvas behind a coffee mug. Josh swung down from Willum’s collar to settle, half-hidden, in the front pocket with Patrick, who straightened his posture.
Willum opened the door.
The pipkin on the welcome mat stood at a proud 3 inches. He was dressed in a tailored pinstripe suit, his tail neatly coiled beside polished leather shoes. His grey hair was swept back, and he held a monogrammed briefcase. He looked past Willum’s legs into the house with an appraising, cool gaze.
“Mister Clark. Reginald Thorne. We have a ten o’clock.”
“Come on in,” Willum said, stepping back. He bent slightly, a habitual courtesy, but Reginald didn’t wait for a hand-up. He marched inside, his tiny shoes tapping on the hardwood.
Reginald’s eyes swept the room, pausing on Malcolm, then Tyler on the table, his lip giving a faint twitch. “I see you keep… staff. Efficient.”
The word landed like a lead weight. Willum felt Patrick go rigid in his pocket.
“They’re my friends,” Willum said, his tone easy but the correction clear.
“Of course,” Reginald said, not meaning it. He placed his briefcase on the floor, snapping it open. “My requirements are specific. A display cabinet. Climate-controlled, LED lighting, adjustable shelving. Moroccan mahogany. It must be a statement piece.”
Malcolm stepped forward, his tail giving one slow, controlled swish. “Mister Thorne. I’ve reviewed your preliminary emails. The climate system you’re asking for would require external venting. In a piece of furniture, that presents a condensation risk to the wood.”
Reginald looked down at Malcolm as if he’d just heard a dog recite poetry. He didn’t address him. He looked back up at Willum. “You’ll solve it. The drawings are here.” He produced a rolled parchment.
Josh had seen enough. In a fluid motion, he vaulted from Willum’s pocket, using his tail to hook the belt loop of Willum’s jeans, and ascended the t-shirt again in a swift, practiced scramble. He didn’t stop until he was planted squarely on Willum’s left shoulder, one hand resting casually on the giant’s neck. A silent, unmistakable claim.
Reginald’s eyes tracked the movement, his nostrils flaring slightly. He didn’t like it. The dynamic was wrong. The help was out of place.
Willum felt the shift. The protective surge he’d felt in the dark hours of the morning crystallized into something solid and sharp in the daylight. He didn’t shrug Josh off. He lifted a single finger and absently brushed a wood speck from Josh’s leg, a gesture of pure, unconscious intimacy.
“Malcolm’s point is correct,” Willum said, his voice losing its workshop softness. It was low, firm. The voice he used when a joint wasn’t square. “If you want my work, you work with my team. They’re my consultants. Malcolm handles the technical negotiations. If you have a problem addressing him directly, then you have a problem with me.”
The workshop was silent except for the faint, dusty hum of the refrigerator. Tyler had stopped painting, his grey eyes wide.
Reginald blinked, his composure cracking for a second. He was used to humans who either patronized pipkins or ignored them, not ones who delegated authority to them. He cleared his throat, a tiny, dry sound. “I… see. My apologies.” The words were strained. He turned his head, a full quarter-turn, to look at Malcolm. “The condensation. What is your proposed solution?”
Malcolm pushed his glasses up, a flash of triumph in his green eyes. “We integrate a passive dehumidifier system using silica gel cartridges hidden in the plinth. Accessible, rechargeable, and no external vents. It will add to the cost and the timeline.”
A negotiation began, real this time. Willum half-listened, his focus internal. He felt Patrick in his pocket, slowly unclenching. He felt the steady, warm pressure of Josh on his shoulder. He saw Tyler give him a look, so small and full of quiet pride it made his chest ache.
The contract was revised, signed on the workbench with Malcolm overseeing every clause. Reginald left with far less pomposity than he’d arrived with, the door closing on a quiet that felt earned.
The second the latch clicked, the tension burst.
“Pompous windbag,” Patrick exploded, climbing out of the pocket and shaking a tiny fist at the door.
“Moroccan mahogany,” Malcolm scoffed, gathering the papers. “He wanted a museum case for his vintage thimble collection. The gel system will cost him triple.”
Josh launched from Willum’s shoulder in a gleeful arc, tail spinning, landing in a roll on the sofa back. “Did you see his face when you backed Malcolm up? Priceless!”
Willum leaned back against the workbench, watching them, a slow smile spreading. Tyler appeared at his wrist, having climbed down from the table. He didn’t say anything. He just pressed both hands and his forehead against Willum’s skin.
Then, they converged. Not with words, but with touch. Malcolm reached Willum’s hand first, his long tail wrapping firmly around Willum’s ring finger. Patrick scrambled up to join Tyler at his wrist, his own tail curling around Willum’s thumb. Josh bounded over and attached himself to Willum’s pinky. Four points of contact, four tight, anchoring coils of pressure and warmth.
The silent gratitude was louder than any celebration. It spoke of belonging, of defense, of a line drawn in the sand together.
Willum lifted his hand, bringing them all up to his face. He looked at each of them—Patrick’s proud smirk, Malcolm’s satisfied gleam, Josh’s exhilarated grin, Tyler’s profound relief.
“No one talks to my family like that,” Willum said quietly, the words a vow.
“Damn right,” Patrick murmured.
“So,” Josh said, breaking the moment with his boundless energy. “Since we just secured the overpriced thimble cabinet contract, do we get a celebration lunch? I’m thinking you make those massive grilled cheeses. And I get to ride on the spatula.”
Willum laughed, the sound rich and full in the sunlit room. The last ghost of the nightmare was gone, chased away not just by their words in the dark, but by their united front in the light. “Yeah,” he said, carrying them toward the kitchen, their tails still holding on. “Grilled cheese it is. But you ride the spatula at your own risk.”
As he pulled butter from the fridge, he felt a gentle tug on a lock of his hair. Tyler, from his perch, had begun to quietly, meticulously braid a tiny section behind his ear, weaving in a few threads of bright embroidery floss from his own stash. A permanent, colorful mark of the day. Willum stood very still, letting him work, the simple, deliberate touch sealing the promise tighter than any contract ever could.
Willum stood very still, letting him work, the simple, deliberate touch sealing the promise tighter than any contract ever could.
Tyler’s fingers, deft and sure, wove a slim braid behind Willum’s ear with threads of emerald green floss. The gentle tug was rhythmic, almost meditative, syncing with the slow bubble of butter in the pan.
Patrick watched from the counter, his expression shifting from amusement to something softer. He moved then, climbing the terrain of Willum’s shirt without a sound, his tail coiling for balance. He selected a lock of hair above the right temple, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they began their own intricate plait.
“Call it territorial,” Patrick muttered, but his tone was fond, private.
Malcolm joined next, scaling the familiar path to the nape of Willum’s neck. He exhaled softly, his glasses catching the light as he parted the black strands with scholarly care. His braid was tighter, neater, an embodiment of his meticulous mind.
Josh, seeing the others, grinned and scrambled up to the crown of Willum’s head. His braid was looser, exuberant, woven with a scrap of blue yarn he produced from his pocket.
Seeing Willum’s response to Tyler, the others quietly followed suit, each finding their own section and making tiny braids in the soft black hair.
The sensation was a cascade of pinpoint touches, a map of affection being drawn across his scalp. Willum could distinguish each friend’s work—Tyler’s artistic flow, Patrick’s assertive weave, Malcolm’s precise pattern, Josh’s joyful chaos. It was a silent, collective utterance, louder than any declaration.
The continuous, preening touches had Willum almost buckling at the knees from the physical tenderness.
A low, shaky breath escaped him. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening. This wasn’t just touch; it was a claiming, a gentle bombardment of proof against every buried fear. The world narrowed to the pull of threads, the warmth of small hands, the solid reality of them here, now, irrevocably his.
“Just breathe,” Malcolm murmured against his skin.
Willum did, his eyes closed, letting the moment hold him.