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Violence Against Toasters

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Langley’s a quiet kid. He’s always been, since the day Miguel left him in his arms before he left for his beloved suicide mission. He never cried, never whined, never threw a tantrum. Dimitri appreciates him for that – mostly because he wouldn’t know what to do with a noisy child. He has no experience whatsoever with children and being an angel doesn’t make him any more patient than the next guy – winged and haloed or otherwise.

That is why, when Langley comes to him, looking at the tip of his sneakers and uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Dimitri realizes two things. First: the kid wants something. Second: he’s gonna get it for him, whatever it is. The boy literally never asked for one thing in his life. It’s about time he did, and since he’s such a good kid Dimitri’s ready to deliver.

But then the kid says the most unexpected thing. “All my schoolmates bring toast to school for lunch… can I have them too?”

Now, up to that moment, Dimitri’s fed the kid with mostly fruit. That is because he can’t cook for his fucking life. Downsides of being an angel, he supposes, and needing no food whatsoever to sustain himself. “Um,” he says, sweating profusely. He told himself he was ready to deliver, but as it turns out, he isn’t. “Okay. I don’t have a toaster, though.”

Langley looks up at him, those amber eyes pleading and a little watery. “Can’t you get one, please…?” he asks in that little mousy voice of his, “Everybody mocks me ‘cause I keep bringing apples. Can’t I have toast, just once?”

And Goddamnit, Dimitri’s gonna get him toast.

So he walks out. He throws himself into the first household goods store and ask the employee for a toaster. The employee shows him ten different ones, in ten different colors, with ten thousand different setting possibility. He blinks as he looks at them in complete disbelief – he had no idea the world of toasters was so complex. “Just give me one that works,” he says, “I need to make toasts for my son.”

The employee gives him a last generation red toaster that toasts the bread at different levels depending on how much heat you want applied to them, preserves the content of the toast, keeping it fresh, warns you when the toast is ready by singing old country songs and probably brews coffee too, if he can set it just the right way. “Are you sure it’s gonna be easy to use?” Dimitri asks warily, “I only need to make toasts.” The employee assures him that it’s gonna be a walk in the park, and Dimitri goes back home.

He burns the first toast. And the second. And the following fifteen.

When Langley comes back home, he finds his uncle slamming a new sparkling red toaster against the wall. Repeatedly. Behind him, on the table, a pile of burnt bread so stinky it’s practically impossible to step foot into the kitchen without wanting to throw up.

“Welcome back, honey,” Dimitri greets him cheerfully, never for a second stopping to slam the toaster into the wall.

“… thanks,” Langley swallows, his eyes fixed on the winged man. “You know what, I can keep having fruit for lunch,” he says then, nodding.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Dimitri says, offering him an angelic smile.

Langley nods again. “I’ll be in my room. Doing my homework,” he adds.

“That’s perfectly fine, baby,” Dimitri nods too, “I will come give you a hand in half an hour. Just need to finish up here.”

Langley wisely chooses not to say anything else.

He truly is a quiet kid.