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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 3 years

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that makes four.

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PART 1

Your feet dangled down from the stool, elbows on the granite counter when Jeff turned around. “Alright,” he said, lips in a thin smile when he revealed the plate of reheated lasagna that someone dropped off in the last few days. “Smells good.”

You looked up at him with an unimpressed stare. “It looks a little disgusting.”

“It’s vegan, I think.”

“Jesus,” you rolled your eyes. “You start one all natural skincare line and people think you only eat plant-based shit.”

He let out a small laugh, set the plate down and watched as you picked up the fork. One bite--mediocre. Not exactly hot enough, but after all Jeff had done for you the last few days, you didn’t have the heart to demand he put it in for another minute.

“So--do you think it went well?”

You laughed around the food in your mouth, picked up a paper napkin and let your head tilt to the side. “As good as a funeral could be.”

The lights in your kitchen were dim and the sun had already faded behind the trees, the house quiet after people finally filed out. Friends, extended family, strangers you’d never met had flocked to Los Angeles for the funeral of your famous father.

It’d been coming from a mile away. His health declined, an obvious result of the cocaine and the cigarettes and whatever else he’d ingested regularly in the 70s. A heart attack a year ago put him on a fast track to the afterlife, but he always joked that he’d probably end up in hell.

Being in the music industry ruined him, in a way--it ruined your parents’ marriage and it ruined a lot of the relationships your father had. Blow outs and big fights that left him exiled from a lot of social circles, sometimes never speaking to people again after one bad phone call. But it was never like that with Irv.

“Well, I’ve never seen my dad cry so hard,” Jeff smiled. “He really loved him.”

Another bite of the soggy noodles and fake cheese. “I know.”

A comfortable silence, the doors off the kitchen were open, a breeze from the backyard let the southern California warmth blow through the sheer curtains when you sipped at your left over wine.

Jeff was the closest thing you had to a sibling, his family was all you had left at this point. You were tossed in the bathtub with him and his siblings as a baby, shoved into family photos and tagged along for vacations.

Being closest in age to Jeff meant people always hoped it would be the two of you that would end up together. Happily ever after or having babies of your own. But when you saw Jeff wolf down a whole pizza at his bar mitzvah, any hope of a spark between the two of you had been permanently extinguished.

His older sister was the one who told you what it meant to have sex, and after your mom died, his mom helped you pick out a dress for your Sweet Sixteen.

She was the one who talked you off the ledge when you found out you were pregnant only a few years later, she was the one who threw you both baby showers and she was the one who helped you through your divorce only six months earlier.

So now that your dad was gone, too, you wondered where you fit into their family and what your definition of family even was.

Before the thought could cross your mind, the front door was pushed open and the sound of high pitched giggles floated in from the foyer.

CeCe’s tiny voice echoed down the hall. “Uncle Jeff?”

“Is that my CeCe?” He took a few steps forward and she ran straight into his legs, he hoisted her up onto his hip when Maeve rounded the corner with Tristan in tow.

“Hi honey,” you opened an arm so your ten-year-old could fit into the side of you. She leaned her head on her shoulder. “How was ice cream?”

The easiest ploy to get them out of the house while you hosted some kind of awkward afterparty.

“Fine,” she sighed. “But Tristan said that funerals are a selfish attempt by the living to hold on to someone after they’re dead.”

You blinked a few times and looked down at her, shocked by the words and apparently, her ability to understand them. You looked over at Tristan, arched eyebrows to communicate how displeased you were.

His eyes went wide when Jeff choked down a laugh. “I didn’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about Maeve.”

You kissed Maeve on the head. “Well, Tristan is wrong about a lot of things, trust me. But you two should go get ready for bed, it’s been a long day.”

You looked over at him again--younger by two years and easily one of the most important people in your life. You met him only a year after you started your business, he had a knack for brand management and eye for design that you couldn’t pass up. He was way too sarcastic and cynical to be your regular babysitter, but Jeff and his family were basically in the receiving line beside you.

Jeff let CeCe climb down and Maeve took her by the hand as they headed for the kitchen stairs to the second floor, leaving you alone at the island with two of your closest friends.

He waited until he heard the water turn on from their bathroom sink, then whispered in Tristan’s direction. “Great idea to say that to a ten-year-old and a six-year-old after their grandpa dies.”

Tristan rolled his eyes theatrically, “she asked why so many people came and why she’d never met any of them if they loved her grandpa so much.”

“Well, you can expect a bill for their therapy in a few years,” you laughed, forking more lasagna into your mouth.

Tristan made his way over to the fridge and pulled out the glass dish, helping himself to a piece when Jeff took a seat beside you. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” you glanced at him sideways, suspicious about any ulterior motive he might have.

“Okay, Y/N,” Jeff laughed, Tristan eyed you from over his shoulder like he didn’t believe you. “Let me try again. How are you feeling emotionally?”

You cleared your throat and swallowed the most recent bite of dinner. “Oh, you mean cause my husband left me six months ago and my dad just died and now I’m a single mom with two fiesty daughters who just inherited a giant house aaaaaand,” you drew out the word for dramatic effect. “I’m a business owner who barely gets any sleep?”

“That’s what I was getting at, yes,” Jeff nodded and fought a smirk.

“I’m alright,” you sighed. “Tired. Kind of freaked out about what the fuck is going on in my life, but, I’ll survive. I always survive."

You knew you would--in fact, you’d been waiting for this moment for the last few weeks. When Jeff’s mom called to tell you your dad needed to be put in hospice, you prepared. You talked to Maeve and CeCe and explained it all in a way they’d understand. His life on earth is over, but we can still talk to him and visit a pretty garden to remember him.

It was a lot to deal with only a few months after your high school sweetheart turned husband admitted he’d been having an affair and moved out, you saw on Facebook that he’d since bought a motorcycle and was spending most of his time at bars along the coast. That whole fiasco was harder to explain to your children.

And now suddenly everyone wanted to make sure you were okay. Frozen dinners, offers to drive your kids to and from their extracurriculars, a lot of attention was suddenly thrust onto you and your family, as if you hadn’t always hated that growing up.

But you knew the time would come when life would settle back down. Cousins and aunts and uncles would fly home, people would stop asking how you were doing post divorce. Dust would settle and the sun would set on this chapter and frankly, it couldn’t happen soon enough.

So here you were, the funeral was over, the dinner in his honor at Jeff’s parents, the media coverage was starting to die down and life could return to normal. Or, at least, a new normal.

Your dad had been a fixture in your life--weekly dinner dates with grandpa gave you a minute to yourself after working long days and answering endless phone calls. A glass of wine on the couch or even dinner with Tristan and Zoey was a nice escape from breaking up fights or figuring out how to reattach the head of a Barbie doll after someone shoved someone into a closet and tears and screaming ensued.

“You will definitely survive,” Jeff nodded.

Tristan came and sat, forked into the lasagna and made a face when he realized how bad it was. “Is this fake cheese?”

“Unfortunately,” you nodded.

Tristan made a face and then cleared his throat. “I, for one, think this is the start of a new chapter for you. New opportunities, new love,” he smirked.

A quick retort: “Yeah, that’s obviously the first priority right now.”

“He’s right, though,” Jeff said. “You have a fresh start, a totally new chapter.”

You nodded--they were right, but easing into a new chapter felt a lot better than trying to dive right in.

“Speaking of a fresh start, you know, changing things up,” Jeff forced a grin in your direction. “Can we actually talk for a second?”

You eyed him suspiciously, put your fork down to bow out from eating the world’s worst lasagna. “Yeah?”

“I have kind of a weird favor to ask. And--I know it’s kind of bad timing, with everything going on, but--just hear me out, okay?”

Instead of replying, you watched him, lifted your brows to encourage him to continue and tread carefully.

“So I have a client who isn’t from here, he bought a house but it’s in the middle of getting renovated. There’s kind of been a lot going on, it’s a long story.”

“Okay,” you nodded, unsure where he was going with it.

“He needs a place to stay, and I was wondering if maybe he could stay here for a little.”

“Here, like, here here?” You pointed to the floor of your kitchen, an elegant upgrade from the more modest house in Woodland Hills you’d occupied before the divorce.

Along with the death of your father came the inheritance of his Bel Air estate and all of the bedrooms, the four car garage, the manicured lawn and the pool out back. Some people thought you should sell it, use the cash to make trusts for the girls or save for college.

Selling it didn’t feel right, though. It was the house he worked so hard for, the house you called home for the later half of your teen years and the place you always came back to when things got hard. So instead of putting it on the market and closing that chapter, once again, you returned to the safe haven in the hills when you didn’t know where else to turn.

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but you have the room and it might be fun to have someone else around and--”

“I have two daughters, Jeff, I can’t just let a stranger live with us.”

“He’s not a stranger, Y/N, he’s my friend. We’re really close.”

“Who is he?” Tristan asked, waving his fork in the air to remind us that he was still present.

“Harry Styles.”

Tristan’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “The kid from the boyband?”

“No way,” you shook your head, dismissing it before you could even let his name register. “I’m not having a pop star boy band kid stay in my house.”

“Okay,” Jeff held up a hand to get Tristan to relax, then moved to point at you. “He’s 24, number one. He’s not a kid, he’s, like, only a few years younger than us.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “exactly. I don’t need a 24-year-old living with my daughters.”

“He’s not like that, though. He’s responsible and he’s a family friendly dude, and--”

“Then why can’t he live with you? Or with your parents?”

“I don’t have the room,” he said. “And my dad hates house guests.”

You rolled your eyes, it was obnoxious, but it was true. Irv hated having people stay over almost as much as he hated it when your dad beat him in golf.

Jeff took your silence as an opportunity to continue selling you on the idea. “He just finished his tour, he’s working on his second album. He’s probably going to be in the studio a lot, Y/N. Do you really think I would let some crazy party animal live with my nieces?”

Another eye roll from both you and Tristan.

“Is this like, just a few nights?” You asked.

“Like, two weeks. Tops.”

“Two weeks?!” You shook your head. “No--I can’t put them through that after all the shit that’s been going on this year. Why can’t he just stay in a hotel?”

“Cause that’s lonely and he’s a people person and--I don’t know, it might be good for you to have someone around.”

You rolled your eyes that, was it a jab at your new status as a single mom or new status as a fatherless daughter? Unsure.

Jeff stood from the counter and grabbed for his phone on the far end of the island. “Just think about it, okay? I’ve gotta run. A few weeks, built in babysitting, maybe--he’s great with kids.”

“I’ve already thought about it,” you told him, resting your chin in your hand and offering a sugary sweet smile. “No fucking way.”

“Mommy!” CeCe’s voice called from upstairs, you hoisted yourself up, ready to tuck them in and forget that Jeff had ever asked such a ludicrous question.

“I would owe you big time--it might be fun! You’ve got the room, he could be a positive male influence on the girls.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the end of his sentence--like that would really sway you.

“And I’m not that?” Tristan pulled his head back, offended.

“You’re the one who told them funerals are stupid,” Jeff said with a sarcastic smirk.

“And you’re the crazy one trying to let a stranger move in here like it’s an AirBnB,” you shot back at Jeff. “So maybe they do need a better male influence than both of you.”

“Mommy!” CeCe called again, more impatient this time.

“I’m coming!” You shouted. “You, let yourself out when you’re finished eating this terrible meal,” you pointed at Tristan and the lasagna. “And you,” you pointed at Jeff with a smirk. “Please never speak to me again.”

He was already heading for the door, keys in hand when he blew you a kiss. “Love you, see you soon!”

“Love you,” you called back, bounding up the stairs, mom mode activated.

A text message the next day when you were at work:

Jeff Azoff (1:43pm): 🙏😇🙏😇

You blew air from your lips, Zoey sat across from you at a conference table when you took a late lunch. She was the first friend you made when you started high school, your long time confidant aside from Tristan and Jeff and a sure bet to tell it like it is.

Now she regularly popped into the Luna offices and she loved nothing more than acting like she was a higher up at your business. She’d rather be doing that than admit she was a new mom with no clue what the next chapter of her life would look like. You had that in common.

Her two-month-old son, Benny, sat in a carrier on the ground, his eyelashes fluttered when Zoey put her feet up on the chair beside her.

“What’s the sigh for?”

“Jeff is being annoying.”

“What’d he do now?”

You looked over at her, nose deep in her phone when you took another bite of the burrito bowl she’d picked up for you. You didn’t know if it was worth it to explain it all. Zoey was excitable, never one to turn down an adventure and her aptly timed identity crisis that came with becoming a mom was sure to make her encourage bad decisions even more.

She looked up at you, suddenly aware of the wheels spinning in your mind.

“Spill it,” she instructed. She put her phone down and let out a breath, clasped her hands and waited for you to fill her in.

“He asked me to let a friend of his stay with us in my dad’s house.”

“Your house,” she corrected. “Deed’s in your name now.”

“My house,” you nodded. “And I feel weird about it.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Some client of his,” you tried to wave it off as if the name didn’t matter.

It didn’t, really. You’d long been exposed to the rich and famous just because of the nature of your father’s work. He was one of the biggest managers in the music industry in partnership with Jeff’s dad, so you were no stranger to beautiful people with beautiful cars and beautiful homes. When Jeff took on the family business, you only grew more accustomed to it.

“So a celebrity?” she shimmied her shoulders in excitement. “Which one?”

“Harry Styles,” you said the name slowly, quietly, even though it was just the two of you in the second floor conference room and even though this was your office that you bought and you owned and you ran.

“He’s hot,” she nodded casually, less impressed than you’d expected.

“He’s also like twenty-something, so it's disgusting for you to say that.”

“Oh relax,” she dismissed your concern. “He could be your pool boy.”

Zoey--who also grew up in Southern California and spent plenty of time at your house as a kid--hadn’t yet grown so accustomed to the coming and going of celebrities. Her parents owned a florist shop in Santa Monica and in high school you had to tell her she could only come to a Britney Spears concert if she didn’t cry when you inevitably met her in the green room thanks to your dad.

“I have children,” you reminded her. “A ten-year-old who might as well be fifteen and a six-year-old who would think I literally bought her a human playmate.”

“But if he’s friends with Jeff I highly doubt he’s a serial killer,” she reasoned.

“Wow, you are completely missing the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

“It’s weird--I can’t have a stranger move in with my kids.”

“Why not?”

“Because first their dad left us and now their grandpa died.”

“Sounds like they need a new man in their life.”

You ignored the similarity of her words with Jeff’s from the other night. “I just think it’s crazy.”

“Okay,” she sat up straight and suddenly looked like this was morphing into a business conversation. “How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh my god,” she turned her palms towards the sky. “Just do it.”

“What? No!”

“It’s two weeks--it’ll take your mind off of all the shit that’s been going on, it’ll be a fun distraction for the girls. You have so much space in that house you will never even know he’s there. And you’re helping a friend.”

She wasn’t wrong: Harry could likely stay in the bedroom all the way on the other end of the hall from where the girls slept. Maeve was thrilled to get her own room in the move and CeCe would occasionally run into your room after a nightmare, so the space was a plus.

He’d have his own room, his own bathroom. Hell, he could even park in the extra garage and enter from the back of the house. Maybe you wouldn’t even notice he existed.

You sighed, tugged at your necklace when you met her gaze. “I just feel really protective over them right now. I feel like Luke ruined their sense of family and now with my dad gone--”

She stuck her tongue out in disgust at the sound of your ex’s name. “I get that--but they have you. They have Jeff and his family and they have me and Shawn and now Benny.”

You offered a small smile at her reassurance. She was right in a lot of ways. The Azoffs were as much a family to your daughters as they had been to you. Shelli and Irv were like grandparents, they offered to babysit plenty of times and they always managed to get the girls the most amazing birthday presents.

But something in you knew it wasn’t the same. You’d dreamed of giving your daughters the sense of family you never had: a mom and a dad who loved each other. One house, not two that had two different beds and sets of books or toys.

Luckily and unluckily, your ex hadn’t made a huge deal about custody. Visits here and there were outlined in your divorce papers, but at this point in time he didn’t seem the most interested in maintaining a relationship with his daughters, even though he promised way back when that he’d never leave.

Getting pregnant with him during college wasn’t planned, but he swore you’d make it work and you tied the knot only a few months before Maeve was born. Things were good at first, you always knew you’d have more than one--if only to combat your own only-child loneliness--and then CeCe came five years later when you felt a little more prepared.

“I don’t think it’s going to traumatize them, Y/N. I mean, the least you could do is meet the guy.”

You watched her for a minute, blew air from your nose in a huff before you picked up your phone.

Y/N L/N (1:56pm): Fine. I’ll meet him.

Three days later you pulled up to a cafe in Brentwood and took a deep breath in the parking lot. If he was creepy, you wouldn’t go for it. If you got even the slightest weird vibe from him, you’d ex-communicate Jeff and only go over to visit his parents with the girls when he wasn’t around.

You’d already been leaning towards just doing it, especially once Tristan got a glass of wine in you and reminded you what your dad would have said: he who helps is one who prospers.

A few sleepless nights left you staring at the ceiling and wondering if you were crazy. You just now had the chance to let life settle down and here you were, mourning the loss of your biggest supporter, trying to piece yourself back together post divorce, and considering letting a stranger move in? Grief really did do strange things to people.

But when you walked in and found them sitting at a table in the back, something clicked.

Your dad was already fond of your possible houseguest, which you only knew from overhearing previous conversations between him and Irv about how proud they were of Jeff for picking up the family business, and now it all made sense.

A small part of you--probably the stupidest part of you--wondered if there was something cosmic about it. Your dad was always one to let his artists stay in the house, if they weren’t creepy, of course. You grew up with bands rehearsing in the backyard and going to shows at the Troubadour before you were old enough to drive, and you turned out fine.

“Hi,” Harry stood, offered a hand and introduced himself after Jeff gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Harry, pleasure to meet you.” Polite, maybe a bit of a kiss ass. Your dad must have loved him.

“Y/N,” you nodded, sat down when Jeff tugged out a chair for you. “Thanks for--uh--meeting with me, I guess.”

“Thanks for maybe letting me stay at your house,” he offered a sheepish smile, held your gaze for a second when Jeff adjusted the sunglasses clipped to his shirt.

“I’m actually surprised you guys haven’t met before,” he said.

“I’ve been a little busy this year,” you reminded him with a nod. “But--nice to finally meet you.”

Harry nodded, a dimple in his left cheek ignited a tiny spark in your chest, but you pushed Zoey’s words out of your mind. Two weeks, it wasn’t a big deal. He’d be in and out and this would be a blip on the radar.

“We can order coffee or something, but Y/N, I’m assuming you have like, a whole interrogation mapped out?”

You pretended to laugh at Jeff’s joke, turned to Harry and offered a no-nonsense smile. “I have two children, I got divorced earlier this year and my dad just died. So I don’t need any drama or anything. This is temporary and I’m doing this to help out a friend. Jeff, that is, not you.”

He laughed at your clarification and nodded. “Right. This is just me living in your house. No drama. Short-term.”

“And obviously my children will be there, so no guests.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay I’m not that much older than you,” you said it quickly, offered a small smile when he looked a little scared.

“Sorry--no, I didn’t mean that in a rude way.”

“No ma’am,” you added a rule, pulling a laugh from both of them when you lifted another finger in the air to count them off. “No drugs or alcohol, unless it’s like a glass of wine at dinner or something,” you shrugged.

“Look,” Jeff leaned forward. “Y/N’s kids are great, she’s got a great skincare company and she’s a kickass human. And you need a place to stay, so don’t fuck this up.”

“You both have my word. No drugs, no alcohol, no guests, no ma’am,” he smirked in your direction. “I’ve lived alone for a while, so, it’ll be nice to have some roommates.”

You nodded slowly and watched him for a second. A hoodie with the name of the management firm your dad and Irv had started, a backwards baseball hat and simple Ray-Bans. You ignored the fluttering in your veins from just looking at him, your own words echoed against the walls of your skull: he’s also like twenty-something, so that’s disgusting.

This was his brand, you were sure. Something Jeff had worked hard on--the looks, the smile, the exact formula that management firms drooled over was playing out in front of you. You sipped your drink once the waiter delivered three cappuccinos. Two weeks, tops.

Los Angeles afternoons were meant for playing outside, which is what your daughters did best if they weren’t busy pulling each other’s hair. You had dinner on the stove--enough for five--and a knot of nerves in your stomach when the wheels of his fancy car crunched atop the gravel.

The girls ran to greet him and Jeff showed him around the house. Now, Harry sat across from you at the table, Maeve to his left with an unimpressed look on her face when you cleared your throat. “Okay, gratitude time.”

Jeff set his fork back down, a guilty look on his face to admit he’d forgotten about your pre-dinner ritual.

CeCe squirmed in her seat, let out a sigh when Maeve protested with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I don’t have anything to be thankful for,” she informed you.

“That feels a little hard to believe,” you nodded, losing patience for her attitude over the last few days. “CeCe, do you want to go?”

Your younger daughter looked up at you, scrunched her mouth and thought about it. “I don’t have anything either.”

You tried not to groan aloud. After the week you’d had and the sudden changes in your life, disciplining your daughters felt like the last thing you wanted to do, if only they’d just behave.

“I can go,” Harry lifted his hand sheepishly as if he was sitting in a classroom and not in your dining room, a dimple on his cheek when he smiled sheepishly.

“Take it away,” you motioned towards him.

“M’thankful for being here, having a place to stay--and what looks like it will be a delicious meal.” By now he had a bit of smug look on his face, maybe proud of the fact that he’d broken the ice and stepped up to the pre-dinner prompt.

“Mom’s cooking is a solid six out of ten on a good day,” Maeve looked over at him, her fork now in her hand as if she was ready to dig in.

“Okay,” you leaned in and caught her gaze. “Drop the attitude or go to your room.”

“I’m thankful for Emma,” she named her friend, her quick submission after she rolled her eyes told you she just wanted to eat and get this over with. “She warned me today that Hayley was wearing a shirt I wore last week so I think she’s copying me.”

“Okay,” you nodded, you’d accept anything at this point. “CeCe? Last chance.”

“I’m grateful for pudding.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh, you nodded and said: “Great. I’m thankful for you two,” you smiled at them, hopeful that this nightly tradition would hold some type of meaning, more than just eye rolls and pre-pubescent angst from Maeve.

Jeff looked over at the girls, “I’m thankful for my friend Harry getting to meet my other friends, CeCe and Maeve.”

“Aww,” Harry smiled, a hand clutched to his heart when he looked between them.

“Alright,” you were annoyed by how good your daughters were at turning on their charm for anyone but you. Jeff was often the fun uncle, just like your ex had been the fun dad, which left you forcing them to play this gratitude game every night after they finished their homework.

CeCe wasted no time digging into the spaghetti on her plate, leaving Jeff to ask Maeve: “so what are you going to do about Hayley?”

“I don’t know,” Maeve sighed. “She’ll die when she finds out that you’re sleeping over,” she pointed her fork at Harry.

“He’s not sleeping over,” you corrected. “He’s staying in one of the guest rooms, remember?” You’d already explained it a few times to them. A few weeks, he’s working on more music, he’ll be busy, he’s not here to play with you.

“Whatever,” Maeve said. “Maybe I’ll hold it over her.”

“Maeve,” you looked over, unsure what had gotten into her. “I thought we talked about this stuff with Hayley?”

“I know--but she just keeps annoying me,” Maeve explained.

“Dump pasta on her head,” CeCe suggested with a giggle.

“Don’t do that,” you looked at CeCe and poked her in the stomach.

“I personally am a big fan of that idea,” Jeff smiled over at CeCe. “But it’d probably be better to just forget about it. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Or the sincerest form of annoying,” she retorted.

Harry let out a laugh at that, caught your gaze when you wondered how soon it’d take him to get annoyed with your kids.

They were great--smart, funny, clever, definitely witty and sometimes dramatic. But they were good kids.

You remembered how tough it was to adapt to motherhood, even though they were your own. Something told you that Harry, no matter how short his stay would be, was not in the chapter of his life that entailed finding joy in playdates and pillow fights.

But he made it through dinner, quiet but friendly and as soon as Maeve was finished, she begged him to play squishball outside before sunset.

“Squishball?” his eyebrows dipped together. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s basically just baseball but with a softer bat and a foam ball cause mom doesn’t want us to break our skulls,” Maeve informed.

“I never said break your skulls,” you argued.

“But it’s what you meant,” she shrugged.

“I would love to play,” Harry laughed, unbelievably entertained by the back and forth he’d already witnessed. They yanked him outside and set up their tiny diamond, CeCe pulled on a tutu just for flair and you and Jeff were left to handle the aftermath of a family dinner.

Jeff put the final plate into the dishwasher after a little bit and offered a hesitant smile when he turned around. “So?”

“So what? It’s been like an hour and a half of him being here.”

Their laughter from outside was audible, CeCe shrieked when Maeve made contact with the bat and sent the ball soaring into the air. “The girls clearly love him.”

“Of course they do--they love anyone for the first two hours.”

“I think he’ll be good for you guys.”

You rolled your eyes, wiped the counter with the sponge when he continued.

“And you guys will be good for him.”

This got your attention. “How so?”

“He’s a people-person, never likes being on his own too much. Some structure and responsibility is good for him.”

“So I’m babysitting him?”

“Oh my god,” he laughed. “Relax, will you? This could be a mutually beneficial thing if you let it, that’s all I’m saying.”

You didn’t read too much into it, you figured Jeff was peppering you with reassurance only to calm your nerves or quell your concerns. When he was finished helping you clean, he hugged the girls goodbye and waved over his shoulder, leaving Harry alone in your house with you and your daughters and nothing but good intentions.

You left him downstairs at first, helped CeCe brush her hair and sat on the floor when Maeve picked out her clothes for the next day: hopefully Hayley doesn’t own this dress.

When you headed back downstairs an hour later, the girls were tucked in, the lights were off, and your usual plan would have been to check your work emails if it weren’t for the dimpled guy in your living room.

He stood at the bookcase, hands clasped behind his back when you found him.

“Hi, sorry--bedtime is always a--” you paused, not even knowing the right label. “A shit show. But thanks for playing with them earlier.”

He laughed, turned around and offered a smile. “No worries--they seem like great kids.”

“They are,” you assured. “Maeve’s been a bit snarky lately but I think that’s just the whole beginning of puberty thing.” You cringed a little when the words left your mouth, wondering if it was too much information for someone who likely had cooler things to do than talk about ten-year-olds and training bras.

But he smiled, shoved his hands in his pockets when you said: let me show you around.

He’d arrived at the worst time. Homework, dinner prep, CeCe crying because Maeve finished her homework first. You didn’t have the chance to give him a tour and you figured it would be better coming from you than from Jeff, that way you could remind him of all the rules.

You showed him the ground floor first. The library, the family room, the two offices and the three different remotes that all worked different TVs or speakers or lamps. He marveled at the pictures on the wall in your dad’s old office space, he was a legend, he told you.

He climbed the stairs behind you and whispered in response when you pointed out what was behind each door. Bathroom, Maeve’s room, CeCe’s room, guest room, another bathroom, master suite, guest room, his room.

You pushed the door open and stepped aside to let him in. Gray walls, a wooden four-post king-sized bed. Throw pillows you’d picked out when you moved in a few weeks ago, a dresser to the left. He looked around and nodded. “S’perfect.”

“Good,” you said, walking over to a small linen closet in his attached bath. “Towels are in here, should be soap and stuff in the shower--had our housekeeper stock it.”

“Thanks,” he nodded again.

“I don’t know where you parked, but there’s a garage in the back that my dad used to keep some of his sports cars in--there’s definitely room and that way you don’t have to leave yours out if it rains.”

Were you talking too much? You just wanted him to feel at home or at least welcomed.

“Amazing,” he said. “Thank you.”

A repetitive answer but it didn't stop you from rambling.

“Keurig’s on the counter--creamer in the fridge. Should be plenty of food but obviously feel free to stock what you like. Except like, weed.”

“Weed doesn’t go in the fridge...” he eyed you suspiciously, the same dimple appeared on his cheek and you rolled your eyes.

“I know--I know weed doesn’t go in the fridge.”

“Just the no drug policy,” he nodded.

“Right. Am I forgetting anything?”

He shifted his weight on his feet and shrugged his shoulders, a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” you nodded, one final look around the room to make sure he had what he needed. His duffle bag was already in the corner, you’d told Jeff to put it upstairs and out of the way so CeCe and Maeve didn’t get nosy.

“I just have a question actually, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah?”

“When did you move in here?”

“Uh, beginning of August, so like, almost a month ago.”

He nodded, his eyes curious despite the fact that he didn’t ask more.

“We had to put my dad in hospice, I was looking for a place anyway after,” a quick motion over your shoulder to gesture to the girls. “My divorce, so--a lot of change, but it’s been nice to be home.”

He nodded thoughtfully, the quiet of the bedroom suddenly felt heavy. “S’a beautiful house.”

“Thank you,” you looked around the room again, if only to put your eyes somewhere other than his face. “I felt shitty about redecorating it at first, but--it was a little too much of a 70s bachelor pad.”

“Leave it to Walt,” he joked.

That piqued your interest. “Did you know my dad? Like, did you spend any time with him?”

He pushed his lips out in thought but shook his head when he sat down on the bed. “Not really--met him a few times at events with Jeff, but I never spent any quality time with him.”

You nodded--he was a busy guy, popular and well respected in his industry. “He was a good person, good grandfather, too.”

Harry smiled at that. “Always heard that Irv was the balls but your dad was the heart.”

You laughed, scrunched your nose at the saying you’d heard a hundred times. The two of them were partners in crime, two peas in a pod, yet they couldn’t be more different. He spoke again before you could reply, voice soft in the sleepy house.

“I mean, if you're his daughter he obviously did something right.”

He held your gaze just long enough for you to feel something, something you pushed out of your mind so quickly that your hand was on the door knob before he could even say goodnight.

Two weeks, tops.

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milenadaniels · 3 years

Text

Actually, Truly, 14k - Buck/Eddie, Helena POV, post-s4 (AO3)

Isabel calls to tell them Eddie's been shot on a Thursday afternoon and by lunch on Friday Helena and Ramon are landing at LAX. When they land, they learn Eddie's already home recovering and has been for two weeks.

----

Or, Helena (and Ramon) tries to find a way back into Eddie's life and doesn't know what to make of finding Buck around every corner she turns.

Isabel calls on a Thursday afternoon and by lunch on Friday Helena and Ramon are landing at LAX. Their son’s been shot, again, in the line of duty. But this time, instead of being thousands of miles away and out of reach, he’s just a short plane ride away.

Isabel insists they come to her house before going to the hospital but she doesn’t blame COVID protocols for keeping them away from the hospital, so they spend the car ride over imagining the worst.

A complication with surgery.

Permanent damage.

A coma.

The news they receive is that Eddie’s fine, and he’s been home and recuperating for two weeks already.

Helena retreats to the living room while Ramon and his mother fight in the kitchen. They’re yelling in Spanish and for once she wishes she’d never learned.

“Escúchame, Ramon,” Isabel tries to interrupt. Listen to me.

The yelling continues because Ramon doesn’t listen. It’s not his strong suit. Nor is it Helena’s.

Helena paces the length of the living room and holds her phone in her hands, thumb over Eddie’s name in FaceTime, not pressing down.

Eddie’s been home for two weeks.

Isabel hadn’t told them for two weeks.

But Eddie hadn’t either.

They hadn’t seen him in person in nearly two years, and he hadn’t called them since their last fight over a month ago.

Still, Eddie was shot in the streets by a sniper and he didn’t call them.

Mom, listen...

The last time they spoke, it was a phone call, not a video chat, maybe because at that point just the sight of each others’ faces was enough to set them all off. In that phone call, Eddie spoke of a friend whose family was somehow worse off than their own, but who, miraculously, were finally making the effort to fix the broken ties between them in therapy.

“Mom, listen… I spent a long time being angry with Shannon instead of trying to reach out to her and now Christopher is never going to have her in his life again. I don’t want that with you,” Eddie said, his voice brusque but calm, measured. “I don’t want to grin and bear it when you call or when we visit. I want to be glad to pick up the phone, I want to be excited to see you all at Christmas, I want you to be part of our lives. But I can’t do that without you meeting me halfway.” He was resolute, but he was pleading too. “I don’t want to spend the next ten years of our lives like this.”

But the idea of therapy was anathema to the Diaz family and it took only Ramon’s dismissive scoff to reinforce her own distaste of the idea. They called Eddie back to say they had no intention of paying a stranger to tell them everything was their fault and he was blameless.

They didn’t get another call after that.

“— my son!” Ramon yells at Isabel in the kitchen.

“Because, mijo, when you come here, you don’t see your son! You don’t see him living here, growing, Christopher thriving! You don’t see how when you come up here you bring sadness and misery when you should bring joy and comfort.” The words are too close to what Eddie said for them not to have spoken about it together. “By the time I knew he was hurt, he was already out of surgery and doing well. If he wasn’t, I would have called immediately.”

“Oh bueno, so you’ll tell me my son is dying but not that he’s okay?”

“Ramon! Escúchame.” It’s not often that Helena gets to bear witness to the steel in Isabel’s voice, the one she passed down to both her kids. It’s in fine form today. “He was doing well, and had all the help he needed. As soon as things stabilized, I called you. Keep acting like a fool and see if I call you at all next time.”

“If you call? Are you —”

Mom, listen…

“Ramon!” Helena snaps, surprising them all.

“Ramon,” she repeats, more calmly this time. “Listen to her.”

The shock on Isabel’s face almost makes her smile, but her heart is too heavy to commit to it.

“Helena, two weeks she —”

“Our son was shot, and he didn’t tell us.” Helena says, her voice trembling. “Our son was shot, he could have died, and the last thing we would have told him is we weren’t willing to fight for him and Christopher. Weren’t willing to — what? — put our egos aside? Our pride? For one fucking minute to listen to him. To listen to what he needed.”

Ramon’s eyes widen and he hangs his head with a sigh.

Helena faces Isabel, her phone tucked in her palm against her stomach.

“What can we do? We’re listening.”

——————-

Ramon walks it off and Helena helps Isabel in the kitchen in exchange for a promise they’ll go over to Eddie’s for supper. She’s been making care packages for Eddie and Christopher since the shooting, and she’s working on a pasta sauce while Helena starts on her famous banana brown sugar bread — Eddie’s favourite.

“How is he, really?” she asks once her dish is tucked into the oven.

“As well as can be expected,” Isabel replies, throwing spices into the pot with an ease Helena never grew into. “He was tired for the first few days, but now it’s like a broken arm. Uncomfortable but not so painful.”

“How long is it supposed to take to heal?”

Isabel casts a suspicious eye her way as if she can anticipate the date of Helena’s return flight adjusting already, but answers, “they say 6 to 8 weeks. It’s for the bone to heal, mostly, in his back. The rest should be sooner.”

Helena broke her wrist years ago, when the kids were nearly teenagers, and it was three months of hell trying to manage a household one handed while Ramon spent most of that time travelling across Texas.

Who’s helping him? Is Carla back in the picture? Is she working overtime? How can he afford that on sick leave? Is Pepa or one of the cousins going over? Is his girlfriend there? Who’s helping with Christopher? How is he managing?

The questions — all genuine and well-meaning, all a shade too accusatory — are on her tongue, pressed to the back of her teeth to keep from escaping. She’s entitled to answers, even if she doesn’t like them. She knows she has the right to at least know how her son is caring for himself and her grandson while he’s injured. If he’d told them when it happened Helena could have been here in a heartbeat to help, but no, Eddie’s just as stubborn as they are, just as prideful. He’d rather suffer alone than accept their help. Fine. But she’s still his mother, and Christopher’s grandmother. She raised them both. She has a right to—

Mom, listen…

Helena takes a deep breath in, anchors herself in the mixed scents of the rich sauce and the sweet bread cooking, and breathes out. Isabel sends her another look but says nothing.

————-

Helena cries when she sees Eddie, and cries a bit harder when she sees the apprehension in his eyes. Her baby boy looks a bit pale, but he’s standing on his own two feet and answering the door himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, wrapping him gently into her arms, mindful not to press into the sling or his back.

“Hi, mom,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to gentle the stiffness in his voice.

She releases him, but not before pressing three kisses into his temple, always three. One for each of her kids.

Ramon steps into the space she leaves when she continues into the house and from the corner of her eye, she sees him cup the back of Eddie’s head and take a good look at him. For Ramon, it’s the equivalent of collapsing to the floor in tears.

Helena quickly toes off her boots and makes room at the entrance for the others behind her, which also puts her first in line to catch a sight that nearly knocks her down.

“Who is this young man I see?” she cries, throwing her hands wide to gesture at her grandson. “Last I saw you, you were just a little tyke. Now look at you, you must have grown three feet!”

Christopher giggles and Helena smiles in return as she folds him into her arms, but it’s forced. She’s not lying — he’s grown so much more than she expected. She hasn’t seen him in person since Eddie’s graduation and while video chats are priceless, they didn’t capture this growth spurt.

She can’t believe she let this happen. That she went from spending most of everyday with this little boy and now she’s missed out on two years of his life. Can’t believe Eddie kept him fro—

Mom, listen...

Supper goes well enough. Eddie never truly shakes loose the tension in his shoulders; he trades many looks with Isabel, seemingly spooked by his parents’ behaviour. He talks a lot more than he usually does, probably out of nervousness. But overall, they let Christopher take the reigns; they’re all more comfortable with that. It’s been too long since they’ve last spoken and Christopher is full of stories about his school and his friends.

“Buck says we can go to the Griffin soon. It was closed because of COVID. But before, I went with my class and they made a comet right in front of us!”

Buck. It’s the third time his name has been dropped at the table since they sat down.

She first met him, briefly, at Eddie’s graduation, but didn’t really register him as someone in her son’s life until Eddie and his crew stopped off in El Paso for dinner on their way home from fighting Texas wildfires. Buck had been cropping up in Christopher’s and Eddie’s stories for months by then and she was curious to properly meet him in person. He had seemed...young, she remembers.

“The Griffith Observatory,” Eddie corrects fondly. With Christopher, at least, it’s impossible for him not to soften.

Eddie’s only eaten half the pasta on his plate but Isabel seems satisfied. Helena bites down on the impulse to encourage him to eat more. To remind him he needs his strength to heal quickly for his little boy. She does lift the basket of garlic bread in his direction, because she can’t help herself. He eyes the basket warily as though he expects her to do more, but when she doesn’t, he shakes his head with a small smile of thanks.

“Yeah,” Christopher agrees, “it was cool but we didn’t get to stay long enough to see everything. And if we go later, Buck says we can see real meteors in the sky.”

Fourth mention.

“Christopher is on an astronomy kick,” Eddie adds redundantly.

“Wait, I gotta show you —” Christopher is sliding out of his seat before anyone can stop him and racing down the hall to his bedroom.

“Oh, honey —” Helena grips the arms of her chair out of reflex to jump up and help him — he doesn’t have his crutches, he’s only using the wall for support and he’s wearing socks — but Eddie looks over when her chair creaks.

He can’t really expect her to just sit here while Christopher—

Mom, listen…

They can hear Christopher make it to his bedroom without injury, so Helena slowly settles back in her chair and Ramon clears his throat. “He seems...okay. More okay than I would have expected.”

Eddie keeps his eyes on his father for a beat too long, assessing the comment for any hidden messages.

“He’s a resilient kid. Buck stayed here with him while I was in the hospital, so his routine wouldn’t get messed up. I think that helped a lot.”

Fifth ment— wait.

“Buck stayed with him?” The words — the tone — are out of her mouth before Helena can stop them.

On the shortlist of people she expected to hear stayed with her grandson to watch him and care for him, alone, while his father was in the hospital — Isabel, Pepa, Carla, or even Ana — Buck’s isn’t a name she expected to hear. A coworker — an unrelated man with no children of his own, over Christopher’s family? Over Christopher’s own aide? Over a schoolteacher?

Eddie’s jaw squares up and he sits up in his chair. Like light gray rain clouds suddenly turning dark, weighty with an incoming storm, a heavy tension builds in the air between them.

“Look!” Christopher exclaims as he rounds the corner, nearly throwing a thin, blue hardcover book on the table. Eddie catches it before it can slam into Christopher’s leftover pasta and sets it down on the table for him. “It shows all the things we can see in the sky over the whole year!”

Christopher climbs back into his chair and opens the book up to a random page, describing everything he seems to have nearly memorized already. By the time he reaches the upcoming meteor shower, the tension at the table has dissipated enough for Helena to excuse herself to the bathroom and not have it come off like a passive aggressive storm-off.

She washes her hands with soap pumped out of a fish-shaped dispenser that wasn’t here the last time she visited and trains her eyes on the basket of gauze, scissors and tape tucked away on the shelf above the toilet. That wasn’t there last time either.

Her baby boy was shot by a sniper. In LA.

A bullet tore through the body she created and almost took her son from her forever.

Mom, listen...

But only after she’d almost pushed him so far away he might never come back.

The tears well up again and she sniffs through them, blinking up at the ceiling until she’s back under control.

As she pivots to turn the light off, she spies a purple toothbrush resting on the ledge just above the sink. The other two toothbrushes are electric — one adult-, one child-sized — and stand on the counter.

—————-

Helena and Ramon meet the infamous Ana by accident.

When they leave Eddie’s house on Friday, Helena sends a text message to say what she couldn’t manage to say to his face — that they’re here for him, in whatever capacity he needs, that they’ll take their cues from him, even if that means giving him some space.

To that, she receives a, Thank you.

When she asks for the contact information of the therapist he had scoped out for them, she gets a phone call.

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” her son says, “but are you just doing this because I got shot?”

“Honestly? Yeah,” she laughs mirthlessly. “I’m sorry to say it took our baby boy nearly dying to get our heads out of our ass.”

Eddie huffs a laugh on his end. “Well, I’ll take that silver lining.”

After that, Eddie invites them to a restaurant for brunch on Sunday, but when they reach his doorstep, they find it already occupied by a woman who’s just rung the doorbell, holding a casserole dish in her hands.

When the door opens, Eddie takes in the three of them, his eyes wide and apprehensive.

“Ana, I wasn’t expecting you,” he says, his eyes darting over her shoulder to his parents. He’s smiling, though there’s a clear strain in the corners of his eyes and mouth. They’ve been critical about Shannon for so long — and with good reason, nothing will change Helena’s mind on that — no doubt he’s expecting them to hate this new woman on sight.

“You’re Ana!” Helena exclaims with a wide smile, imbuing her voice with as much welcome as she’s capable. “Hi! It’s so good to finally meet you!”

When Eddie releases the breath he was holding, she knows she was on the mark. Ramon follows her lead and invites Ana to brunch with them on the spot and won’t hear her protests about intruding.

Eddie, of course, doesn’t protest at all but invites them in so Ana can store the casserole in the fridge — it takes both Ana and Helena’s organizational skills to find a spot for it among Isabel’s and Eddie’s tupperwares already invading all available space — and he can finish getting ready. He was already dressed in a nice polo and jeans but when he comes back from his bedroom it’s in a smart button-down he must have struggled with out of sheer stubbornness. Both his parents and his girlfriend are in the house and still he didn’t ask for help.

Eddie and Christopher decide to hop into Ana’s car and Helena asks loudly for directions to keep Ramon from insisting they should all ride together.

“So how long have you kids been seeing each other now?” Ramon asks when they’ve been seated at the restaurant.

“Nearly 7 months now, I think, isn’t it?” Ana replies, looking at Eddie with a dazzling smile — she truly is gorgeous. Eddie was still talking to them when he started dating her so they know she’s a schoolteacher turned vice principal but to meet her in person blows all their other expectations out of the water. She’s lively and sweet, patient and understanding, Latina — a big plus in Ramon’s books ironically. Eddie picked well this time.

Eddie hesitates a moment and nods. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

Every now and again, he squirms in his chair, like he can’t quite settle in and Helena wonders when his last painkiller was taken. But when he catches her face, she smoothes her worry out into a cheeky smile that says I like this one. He smiles back and there’s nothing she can pinpoint exactly but something about it makes her uneasy.

Eddie’s too quiet as they wait for their food, his face pinched, and just when Helena’s about to break, Ana does her the favour of asking gently, “Are you feeling okay? Do you need to take anything for your arm?”

But Eddie shrugs off her concern. “No, thank you. Next one isn’t until noon.” He taps his phone twice and she smiles.

“Sorry, I forgot. He’s got them all on timers with a special ringtone. He’s so organized,” she tells Helena and Ramon with a sunny smile, rubbing her hand down his good arm. “I have one multivitamin and I forget to take it half the time.”

“Buck set it up,” Eddie defers, and Helena schools her face not to react; even at brunch Buck is with them in spirit.

Ramon either takes no issue with the mention or doesn’t register it. He takes the opportunity to share how his new pharmacy pre-packages his heart and arthritis medications into AM and PM slots and Ana listens attentively. Eddie’s fingertip taps absently against the phone case until their food arrives.

Christopher ordered a waffle, and with Eddie indisposed, Helena is already moving to help him when Ana beats her to the punch again. Helena tucks a smile away as Ana leans over and starts cutting the waffle up into smaller pieces.

“He can do that,” Eddie says when he notices Christopher sitting back in his chair, realizing only when Ana startles that his tone is sharp. His voice is softer when he follows up with, “Right, buddy?”

“Yeah,” Chris agrees, picking up his own cutlery with enthusiasm despite his hands being nearly too small for them.

Eddie throws an apologetic grin Ana’s way and brunch continues peacefully, though the stiff line of Eddie’s shoulder never does quite soften.

Mom, listen…

————-

Their first therapy session takes place in Isabel’s kitchen at Eddie’s request. Isabel thinks it’s so he has the option of leaving when he needs to (in other words, when he gets fed up and runs) but Helena hasn’t missed how Eddie has been careful to keep them away from his home since the first day they saw him.

They’ve seen Eddie and Chris numerous times in the week and change they’ve been in LA — more than they’ve seen them since they left El Paso — but always outside of the house. Sometimes they pick Chris up from school, sometimes Eddie and Chris come to Isabel’s for supper, sometimes they go out to restaurants or other outings, but they haven’t been invited back to his home again. She wanted to believe it was because he was hiding the news that Ana had moved in but that’s been shot out of the water both by her ringing the doorbell and an errant comment at the end of brunch about how she hadn’t seen him since the welcome home party.

So it’s out of pettiness, then. Stubbornness. Out of pig-headed inability to accept that he needs help and willingness to believe that they’re making an effort to meet him on his own terms.

She tries not to let it rankle her, tries to find some of that resolute commitment to letting things be and not push. But the next thing she knows, she’s yelling about it to a stranger at Isabel’s island counter.

To be fair, the session with Dr. Jamieson wasn’t going great to begin with. It’s awkward as hell, the three of them balancing on stools, squished in next to each other to try to fit into the screen, but also trying to keep the laptop close enough to still hear her and not have to shout. It’s happening while Chris is at school so they don’t have to worry about keeping him distracted but they can’t exactly ask Isabel to go wait in the LA sun for an hour so she doesn’t overhear, so it’s basically a given that she’s the fourth person on this virtual couch from the next room over.

And beyond that, Helena has kept her mouth shut for over a week which is frankly more time than anyone would have bet on, including herself, and given the opportunity to express herself freely...well…

“You want space? We’ve given you nothing but space since we got here. How much more can we give you, Eddie? You’re hundreds of miles away from us already. Forgive us for feeling the need to check in on our only son who almost died last week,” she yells, her hand nearly colliding with her coffee mug as she gestures.

“Last week?” Ramon echoes with a bark of dark laughter.

“Oh, no, that’s right,” Helena picks up. “I’m sorry! Not a week ago! Nearly a month ago! Because apparently we don’t warrant even a text when our only son almost dies, but that’s not enough space?”

Eddie rakes his fingers aggressively through his hair, his lips pursed.

“We have to move to Mexico,” Ramon continues blithely. “Is that enough space? No, better yet! Sweden! Your family still lives out there, no? We can live on their farm. Completely different timezone, we won’t even be reachable.”

“Yeah,” Eddie bites back, a sour grin blooming on his face, “that’s what I want. I ask you to give me some breathing room — to respect me, my life — and you translate that into living in a fucking commune in Sweden. And you wonder why we’re in therapy. I can’t talk to you, you don’t listen!”

Mom, lis—

“Listen to what, Eddie?” Helena yells, getting out of her seat to pace. “Listen to the months of silence you’ve sent our way? Because we either get on board and blindly cheer on every mess you get yourself into or we don’t get to know you anymore? Don’t get to know our grandson?”

“I never kept him from you — you have our number, the phone didn’t ring. That’s not on me.”

“Because you would have picked up?” Ramon exclaims, pushing away from the island to better look back at their son. “Easy to claim when it’s after the fact in front of the doctor.”

“So now I’m a liar! You raised a liar?”

“I think we’ve gotten off-track,” Dr. Jamieson’s tinny voice interjects from the laptop.

In the bottom right hand corner of the screen, only Eddie remains in the frame.

————

Firehouse 118 was a lively crowd at Eddie’s graduation but it’s nothing compared to the party thrown at the Grant-Nash house in honour of a new probationary firefighter.

Dr. Jamieson pointed out the self-fulfilling prophecy that Eddie protecting himself from criticism and pressure by withholding details about his life in LA was leading to his parents’ growing insecurity over not knowing anything about their son and feeling the need to intervene more and more.

The solution? Let them in on his life and trust that they could hold themselves in check.

For that, even Ramon was in agreement that maybe therapy wasn’t a load of shit after all.

So here they find themselves welcomed into this beautiful and loud home nearly three weeks into their stay in LA. They were allowed to pick Eddie and Chris up so they arrive together but Christopher peels off immediately to find kids his own age.

It’s impossible not to feel the warmth of family radiating from every inch of the home so when Eddie’s shoulders seem to loosen a little as they walk in, Helena can’t find it in herself to begrudge him.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” a woman around Helena’s age drawls, crowding into Eddie’s space for a delicate hug he doesn’t hesitate to return. “Though I could have done without seeing another one of these for a few hundred more years,” she says, gesturing to the sling. “How much longer?”

“Another month if everything checks out,” Eddie says, releasing a sigh.

“It better,” she warns with a twinkle in her eye that says if she learns he’s been aggravating his injury there will be hell to pay.

The woman, they find out, is Athena Grant-Nash, wife of the 118’s captain and consummate host. While Eddie splits off “for a minute”, she leads them to the main area for drinks and introductions before leaving them to mingle. Captain Nash — Bobby — meets them with appetizers and introduces them to the Lees, the de-facto parental figures of the young man who just joined the team.

From the spot she claims at the edge of the dining room, Helena keeps an eye trained on Eddie outside. She feels an itch under her skin knowing it’s been nearly twenty minutes and Eddie hasn’t checked on Christopher, but she knows she shouldn’t go herself. Eddie can do everything on his own, right? He can look after his own kid at a party.

She can, however, go to the washroom and take a peek at what Christopher’s up to while she’s wandering, and that’s exactly what she intends to do.

But for now, she watches as Eddie criss-crosses through the crowds of the patio, prompting a localized burst of cheers at each stop as he reunites himself with teammates he hasn’t seen since the shooting. She recognizes the woman who was on the trip to Texas but the rest conjure only the vaguest memories of Eddie’s graduation and the occasional picture on Instagram — before he stopped posting that is. Just one more way they’ve been iced out.

But he seems happy, almost carefree in a way she realizes she hasn’t seen with her own eyes in...longer than this trip, actually.

Probably years, if she’s honest.

And it occurs to her, slowly, creepingly, that her son is outside, smiling freely and easily, surrounded by people he’s made his new family, while Helena stands inside watching his life through a glass window in a stranger’s house.

Mom, listen…

She swallows past the lump in her throat and sighs. Ramon’s arm comes around her waist and without looking at him, she knows he’s had a similar revelation.

Their next therapy session is in a few days, and they’re not going to fuck it up again.

There’s a late arrival to the party, one of the only people in Eddie’s life she can recognize — Buck. He’s as tall as she remembered but he looks a shade less young now maybe. He greets everyone with a hug or kiss on the cheek as he moves through the party, and bestows a cheer and an enthusiastic hug on Albert, the guest of honour.

When he moves on to the patio and approaches Eddie’s circle, however, the cheerful, long-awaited reunion of best friends she expects doesn’t happen. They catch each other’s eyes for a few beats and share a welcoming smile, then the conversation resumes as if nothing of consequence has happened. Buck doesn’t even linger long, heading back into the house after a few minutes.

When the cake starts being doled out, Eddie returns to meet them at the table and accepts the plate Helena offers him. Helena is scouting the yard for a chair he can sit on to eat when Buck reappears.

“He couldn’t be pulled away?” Eddie asks in surprise.

“Nope,” Buck replies with a grin before turning to them. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Diaz. Good to see you again!” Before they can return more than a smile, Buck continues, “he’s cheating at Unicorn Temple with Harry. Not even cake can pull him away.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and smiles. “My son is not a cheater.” To them, he says, “Buck thinks that whenever he’s losing at a video game, it’s because his opponent is cheating.”

“Not always! Just when they are,” he replies with exaggerated emphasis before scooping a piece of cake onto a plate. “I’m gonna go hide this in the fridge for him for later before it’s all gone.”

Eddie ducks his head and smiles down at his plate, and the questions are building up behind Helena’s teeth again.

Christopher’s been playing video games all this time? Is it an age-appropriate game? Why is Buck checking on your son? Why is Buck saving him cake when nobody asked him to? Why—

But Eddie looks up with an uncertain expression and says, “there’s a table out there if you guys want to join me.”

So Helena stows her questions and says, “that’d be great.”

They eat the overly-sweet cake in peaceful silence until Ramon casts an eye around and says, “you must be glad about the new firefighter. You won’t be the baby on the team anymore.”

Eddie snorts. “I’m 33 and my kid is nearly a teenager — and that’s totally not freaking me out at all,” he adds wryly. “Besides, I was never the baby of the team. Buck is younger than me and forever a kid at heart so I was never in any danger of it.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me that Christopher’s growing up,” Helena only half-jokes. “I can still barely believe he’s old enough to hold his own head up.”

Eddie huffs a laugh and Helena banks it as a win.

“Do any of your coworkers have teenagers?” Ramon asks. “Might have some words of wisdom to share.” Since you won’t ask us, is unspoken and politely ignored by all.

“Athena’s daughter May is just leaving the teen years now, but after her, Christopher’s the oldest. Harry, Athena’s son is 9 and Denny, Hen and Karen’s son just turned 8. It’s great for play dates but not for getting advice on what’s coming up unfortunately.”

“Karen,” Ramon echoes.

Eddie’s fork pauses on its way to scoop some excess icing off his cake and his back straightens.

“Hen’s wife,” he says curtly, daring.

Helena wants to roll her eyes at the posturing. It’s 2021, who cares who anybody loves. She knows Ramon doesn’t, not really, not anymore. It’s a 50-year-long reflex to make a comment, one they’ve been working, if only to have some semblance of a civil conversation with Sophia while she works through a degree in women and gender studies.

But she knows that excuse isn’t going to fly with Eddie.

It hasn’t flown since Eddie was 20 years old and realizing he’d lost a good friend to his father’s caustic words. And Helena can’t ever go back and examine the hurt in Eddie’s expression with fresh eyes. Shemanages to forget about it most of the time until something happens to dig it out of the cold, hard ground and shove it in her arms.

Mom, listen...

But she’s come to LA because she wants to be in her son’s life, in her grandson’s life and she can’t be a coward now.

“They’re a gorgeous couple,” she says, almost too loudly in her enthusiasm. “Are they thinking of having more kids?”

Eddie turns his assessing eyes to her and is mollified by her effort. “Yeah, they’re foster parents now. They’ve fostered three kids so far.”

“That’s great,” she says sincerely. Then, accidentally on purpose and only in part to bring Ramon back to a safe topic, she asks, “Does Ana want a large family?”

Eddie sees through her attempt, but nods. “Yeah, she loves kids.”

Helena doesn’t miss Ramon’s approving nod, or the dark look that passes over Eddie’s eyes when he catches it.

“Was Ana not able to come tonight?” Ramon asks.

“I didn’t ask her,” he answers, his voice a shade too casual. “This is more of a team thing.” As if they hadn’t just been discussing the other families all around them.

“That Ana—” Ramon begins but is interrupted by the arrival of Christopher with a hint of blue icing on his nose and Buck following behind him with two paper plates filled with cake.

Christopher sits backwards on the picnic table bench and uses his arms to lift his legs over while Eddie watches but doesn’t offer to help, and when Christopher is set, Buck places one of the plates in front of him with a plastic fork stuck in the top like a flag.

“Buck was finally able to pull you away, mijo?” Eddie asks as Christopher digs in.

“No, May took her room back so we can’t play on her tv anymore. Harry’s gonna ask his mom if we can play in her room.”

“Yeah...” Buck draws out, sharing a dubious expression with Eddie over Christopher’s head, “I wouldn’t hold out for that, bud.”

“Maybe you can teach the others how to play Scrabble!” Eddie suggests.

Christopher’s nose wrinkles, “Scrabble is boring.”

“Hey!” Buck protests and takes a forkful of Christopher’s cake in retaliation, which prompts Christopher to yell and attack Buck’s cake back, taking much more than a forkful.

The commotion draws attention to their table and Helena’s gearing up to tell Christopher to settle down when she catches Eddie’s eyes on her, waiting.

Helena looks back out to the backyard to say, People are staring.

Eddie looks back impassively as if to say, Let them.

Mom, listen...

Helena swallows her impatience, her anxiety, her embarrassment.

“Hey,” Buck calls, his mouth half full of icing, “did you take your 6?”

Eddie hesitates and that’s enough for Buck to swallow and look put out, already turning and lifting a leg out of the confines of the picnic table.

“Did you turn off your alarm again?”

“I didn’t turn it off the first time, I don’t know what happened.”

“What happened is it woke you up at 6am and you turned it off because sleepy Eddie makes bad life choices.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You don’t have —”

“Right pocket?” Buck interjects, already walking away.

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs.

Christopher looks at him and shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment.

“Don’t you start,” Eddie warns, scooping a fingertip of icing and dabbing it on his son’s nose too quickly for him to duck.

Christopher shrieks and reaches for his cake fingers-first.

“Oh no, no,” Eddie laughs, catching Christopher’s fingers with one hand. “Truce, truce.”

Christopher doesn’t look interested in a truce and Eddie’s other arm is in a sling, so Ramon quickly pulls the cake out of Christopher’s reach, and then Buck’s abandoned piece and Helena does the same with Eddie’s.

“Not fair!” Christopher cries, still reaching.

“Your dad’s hurt, mijo, you can’t attack him with icing while he’s healing,” Ramon says reasonably. “Wait till he’s all better.”

“He’s fine!” Christopher declares with the confidence of a trauma surgeon as he tries to climb up on the bench.

Eddie’s not in a position to pull him back down and Helena doesn’t know how far they can take their non-interference but she’s not about to let her grandson hop over a table to fall into three plates of cake. She’s half-decided she’s going to pick up the cake and walk it back inside when Buck returns, depositing a glass of water on the table and a small white pill into Eddie’s palm before swooping in and tickling Christopher’s sides.

He shrieks loudly, gaining looks from all around the backyard, but it gets his butt back down on the bench and Buck sits back down next to him, boxing him in between himself and Eddie.

“What happened to our cake? How’d it get all the way over there?” The plates are very easily within Buck’s reach; it’s a question for Christopher’s benefit.

“Dad got me like you did!” Christopher cries indignantly, pointing to his nose. “I’m getting him back!”

“Oh man,” Buck nods seriously before his finger darts forward, swipes the icing from his nose and brings it to his mouth. “Mmm, this is better than the one I got you with. You sure you don’t just wanna eat it?”

Christopher looks unconvinced.

“How about this?” Buck ducks down to whisper loudly. “You call a truce with your dad, and then I’ll steal all his icing and we’ll eat it.”

The icing on Eddie’s cake is mostly piled in a corner of his paper plate. He’s never been able to stomach the pure sugary sweetness of store bought icing.

“Okay,” Christopher nods back, reaching out again for his plate but without making grabby hands.

Ramon assesses him for a moment before taking the chance to push the plates back within reach.

“Hey, Eddie,” Buck calls deliberately. “You should take your medication now.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Eddie replies with a smile that conveys an eyeroll. “I’ll do that now.”

While Eddie pops the pill and takes a very long drink of water, Buck “sneakily” pulls his plate towards them and scoops all the piled icing onto his own plate before pushing the cake back to Eddie’s side of the table.

Christopher laughs and pushes Eddie’s plate an extra few inches away out of spite.

Eddie plays the disappointed victim passably well with a half-hearted gasp and a shake of his head. “You little thieves.”

As promised, Buck doles out some of Eddie’s icing to Christopher who immediately protests at the amount left on Buck’s plate.

“Hey, when you’re a big guy like me, you get more icing. Keep eating your proteins and you’ll get there in no time.”

Christopher accepts that easily enough. “I’m gonna be tall like dad.”

Buck scoffs, “Aim higher, kid. Literally.”

“I am barely two inches shorter than you,” Eddie laments, not for the first time, it sounds like.

“It’s practically three. Are you really going to lie in front of your parents?”

Wouldn’t be the first time, is on Helena’s tongue because it’s been hours since she could speak her mind, but she holds it in.

“How was the trip from Texas?” Buck asks them suddenly, bringing them back into the fold of a scene they'd never left but somehow stopped being a part of. “Flights have new restrictions on them now, don’t they?”

Mom, listen...

When the party is winding down and they walk outside to the driveway, Eddie surprises them by offering them both a hug.

“Thank you for coming,” he says sincerely, though Helena hears the underlying “and behaving” and can’t help but bristle.

“Thank you for inviting us, mijo,” Ramon says; his turn to save Helena from herself.

And when Eddie lets them know he and Chris will be getting their ride back from Buck, Ramon takes Helena’s hand and they smile almost sincerely as they say their goodnights.

—————-

The next week happens to be Isabel’s 80th birthday and Helena and Ramon keep themselves busy by helping to throw a party that will reunite every vaccinated member of the family in the area (they’re not about to take a chance on Isabel’s health).

Things have been getting better with Eddie. They had a second therapy session, again at Isabel’s island counter, where they lasted a good 25 minutes before devolving into yelling. The next day, Eddie asked Ramon for a ride to physical therapy, and easily accepted his father’s offer of lunch after the appointment.

Then, when Helena asked if she could pick up some groceries for him and Christopher, she was refused — in no small part, she thinks, because he still won’t let them in his house — but instead of going off on him, she channeled that anger and resentment into nearly buying out Costco for Isabel’s party. It felt like progress Dr. Jamieson would be proud of.

That’s why, despite the party officially kicking off around 11am, they’re just past supper time and all tables and counters are still nearly buckling under the weight of the food. They’ll have to send everyone home with leftovers if the flow of people stops. Isabel’s front door has been a turnstile since this morning and Helena knows from experience it’ll likely stay that way until the late hours of the night. Most recently, Helena’s daughters made their appearance, and it’s not at all the reason Helena is back in the kitchen.

Despite coming from opposite ends with different travel distances, Adriana and Sophia arrived within a half hour of each other, a move Helena saw through instantly. The idea that her children coordinated to arrive together instead of risking the possibility of facing their parents alone sets a fire raging in her heart, and she realizes suddenly that she isn’t prepared to be hypervigilant of her every word with all three of her kids here now to push her buttons.

So, she retreats to the kitchen.

She doesn’t expect one of them to follow her in.

“I heard you guys were doing therapy,” Adriana volleys as she approaches.

Helena cracks open the tray of chocolate chip cookies and starts plating them, her face angled down so any kneejerk expression of distaste isn’t as visible. “Apparently, that’s what the cool kids do nowadays.”

“It is,” Adriana agrees, the bangles on her wrists clinking on the countertop as she reaches for the box of oatmeal cookies to plate. She’s a year into her Master’s in communication. What she intends to do with that is a mystery to them. So much of their kids’ lives are a mystery now. Helena closes the lid of the cookie tray hard and relishes in the snap of the plastic groove into the tongue.

“Paying a stranger to tell us when and how to talk to each other is cool,” she bites. It’s not posed as a question, just a bitter acknowledgement.

Adriana is quiet and Helena starts plating mini quiches onto the cookie platter just to stay occupied while her daughter walks away. Sophia is a yeller, she stands her ground and gives as good as she gets. Adriana, however, is a runner, just like Eddie.

But Adriana doesn’t leave in a huff. She turns to the counter and grabs a second platter, moving the mini quiches onto that one.

“It’s cool that you’re open to trying,” she says. “I think that, in any family where there’s love, there’s going to be hurt. And the longer we stay stuck in that hurt, the harder it becomes to talk about it without causing more. We get stuck in patterns that we can’t break out of, and people on the outside can be the best ones to point out those patterns and help you break out of them to get to what you actually, truly want to say.”

Helena knows what she actually, truly wants to say. That’s not the problem. The problem is that none of her kids want to hear it.

“I see a therapist,” Adriana continues. Helena stills and looks at her daughter, calmly arranging the mini quiches into concentric circles. “Since my last year of undergrad. When things got really hard and I couldn’t understand why. They helped me. A lot. Helped me figure out what was wrong and how to get myself through it.”

“You didn’t tell us,” Helena says, her voice thick.

“I know,” her daughter replies simply. “I didn’t know how. I’m telling you now because what I actually, truly want to say is that I’m proud of you and dad for doing this. And maybe if you don’t hate it...maybe we could try a session later too.”

There’s an offer in her daughter’s words, an open hand reaching out. But in that hand, Helena sees her failures as a parent, the judgement of the world for failing her kids, and she doesn’t want to reach her own hand out.

Mom, listen…

Helena looks at her eldest daughter, almost a stranger to her, with an entire life Helena is only starting to realize she has no part in. It hurts — it always hurts when the kids pull away but to realize she didn’t even know the extent of it...she wants to hurt back.

Mom, listen…

But she’s trying so hard to break those patterns Adriana speaks of. So instead, Helena thinks of the therapist’s advice leading them into a piece of Eddie’s life they wouldn’t have otherwise gotten to see and swallows past the indignation in her throat to reach down and find the words she actually, truly wants to say.

“You say when, and I’ll be there.”

———-

The sun is setting when Helena finally agrees to get off her feet and just enjoy the party outside while the cousins take over the serving and cleaning. There are four generations of Diazes gathered around but for the first time ever, most of the cousins are young adults, not teenagers, and it’s nice to be able to pass on the hosting responsibilities to them for a bit.

The sky is clear, the sunset resplendent from Isabel’s backyard, and the conversation is flowing easily. It’s a beautiful evening, warm with a gentle breeze cool enough to let her lean back against Ramon in his lounge chair, one of his arms wrapped loosely around her hip.

For the first time since getting Isabel’s text, Helena feels something like peace wash over her and she almost feels bad for the thrum of vindication in her stomach when she spots Eddie slumped comfortably in an armchair, his legs propped up on another chair.

He’s at home here.

Yes, he was at ease at his captain’s house but this is family, this is where he can really sink into the love and comfort and rest. With his aunts and uncles, cousins and sisters around to take care of him. And Christopher, who spent the afternoon running around and chomping down on all the sugar he could get his hands on, slumped against him, nearly asleep. This is family.

She knows he could find that peace back in El Paso, they both could. Eddie had friends there, and his parents, who knew his son better than he did for most of his life. And there are fires in El Paso same as there are in LA, but less smog, less general insanity.

But Eddie’s a lot like his parents, too much like them maybe, and once he’s decided on a course of action he can’t be swayed. So Helena has made peace with it. Rather, she’s made peace with pretending to be okay with it while she waits for him to come to the realization that he should move back.

And in the meantime, if they can mend this thorniness between them, then maybe she and Ramon can make more of these impromptu trips. Maybe even convince Eddie to come home for Christmas this year. At the very least, go back to regular video chats.

But all that ruminating feels far away right now. She’s moving gently with the rise and fall of Ramon’s chest, and she’s so close to slipping away to the feeling of contentment when a new arrival makes her open eyes she didn’t realize she’d closed.

“Feliz cumpleanos,” she hears someone say in half-decent Spanish from the front door on the other side of the side yard fence.

She doesn’t recognize the voice as yet another cousin or uncle, but Eddie shakes Christopher’s shoulder gently, and says, “hey, guess who’s here.”

It takes a moment, but the words penetrate Christopher’s sleepiness. His eyes pop open and he shimmies out of Eddie’s lap and into his crutches to power walk over to the gate just in time for it to open, admitting Isabel, holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers, and a sheepish looking Buck behind her.

“Buck!” Christopher yells.

Buck’s smile widens and he immediately opens his arms. “Hey, superman!”

Buck crouches down and Christopher throws his arms around his neck, crutches and all. When it’s time to break apart, Christopher’s still hanging on and Helena feels a stab of dark vindication at what’s about to happen, and the look Ramon sends her way tells her she’s not alone. Because Christopher is now officially in the double digits, and while he’s always been an independent kid, becoming 10 years old was a big deal for him and his perceived level of maturity, and apparently the year he decided no one was allowed to carry him anymore.

And now Christopher’s tired and in the grip of a powerful sugar crash. He’s not going to suffer any indignities, and Helena knows she should feel bad about not trying to stop Buck. About just watching this play out to see him be rejected. But she wasn’t expecting to see him here, in this safe haven of Isabel’s backyard, in this space for family and loved ones, and it rankles her. It feels like everywhere she turns in LA, she finds him there. And his being here is just another nail in the coffin of Eddie stubbornly refusing to let his parents back into his home. That he would call his friend to this party just to avoid letting them give him a ride…

So she’s a little bitter, a little resentful of the persistent, low-key rejection. Sue her. Eddie has made it clear he doesn’t want them interfering anyway so this is on him.

“Christopher,” Eddie calls, a warning to not make a scene.

Buck looks over Christopher’s shoulder and smiles. “He’s fine,” he says.

Then he’s heaving Christopher’s body up into his arms and onto his hip and Christopher…

...Christopher slumps down over Buck’s shoulder like a baby koala. No sound of protest leaves his lips. His face, if it shows any displeasure, is hidden behind Buck’s neck.

And when Eddie gets up, it’s not to intercede, it’s only to grab the errant crutches before they hit something, and to pull his own armless chair out for Buck to sit on because apparently Buck is staying, and apparently Christopher is staying with him.

“He’s a bit old to be carried around, no?” Ramon says with a bite, because he can’t help himself.

Eddie, who’s been watching his son fondly, barely bats an eye. “He gets cuddly when he’s tired, and Buck’s nearly the only one left who’s big enough to carry him.”

“Ah, that’s why you spend so much time developing these,” Pepa says with a sly smile as she pinches at Buck’s bicep. The same familiar pinch she gave her own grandkids’ cheeks.

“Gracias a Dios,” Isabel adds meaningfully.

“That was adrenaline,” Eddie dismisses with a teasing grin.

“That was 100 squats and 50 pushups a day,” Buck returns blithely. “...and maybe a little adrenaline.”

“What’s this?” Ramon asks before she can.

Instead of prompting more teasing, the mood falls slightly and everyone looks to each other.

Finally, Eddie sighs. “When I got shot, Buck army crawled under a ladder truck to get me out and lifted me into the truck to get to the hospital.”

It strikes Helena suddenly, shamefully, that in the shock of finding out they’d missed the event itself, the hospital stay, and two entire weeks of healing, that they’d never circled back around for details on what actually went down the day it happened.

She never thought to wonder how he got off that street. How he got to the hospital. Who might have saved his life.

And she wishes she were a better person then. Wishes that learning Buck saved her son’s life overpowered her irritation at having him sitting here in Isabel’s backyard like he belonged here when Helena herself barely felt like she did herself. It does help, though.

“They released the street footage of the shooting,” Pepa continues quietly. “It’s on YouTube. Before I even knew it happened, Marguerita from church just sent me a link saying ‘they said it’s a Diaz, do you know him?’ and I saw.”

The idea of her son’s shooting being passed around like a cat video makes Helena sick, but Pepa lamenting how she hadn’t known when she learned about it in a matter of hours and sat on it for weeks…

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Pepa says decisively. “But they have an angle where you can see our Buck here go and get Eddie, pick him up like he doesn’t weigh a thing and get him into the truck to get to the hospital. Probably why he’s alive today. So gracias a Dios for those squats.”

Eddie and Buck are both looking away, both looking safely at Christopher while the table digests the news.

“If you were looking for a story of something really dumb, I can point you in the direction of another video of Buck,” Eddie says, his tone jovial but his eyes strained.

“You need to let that go,” Buck says in a definite whine.

“Do I?” Eddie asks. “Abuela did you see the video of the firefighter who went up the crane all alone?”

“Dios mío, Buck,” Pepa laments.

“Did you send it to me?” Abuela asks her, pulling out her phone and her glasses to check.

“No, mamá, it was an idiot firefighter but I didn’t realize it was the one we knew.”

“In the middle of an all-out declaration of war on firefighters,” Eddie begins, quietly for Christopher’s sake, but impassioned, sitting up in his chair, “this idiota and his squat count climbed up a crane ladder, completely exposed and defenseless—”

Buck looks pained. “I was wearing a bulletproof vest and a helmet. And that’s the job sometimes—”

“The paramedics’ job, actually, which you aren’t. So, no, that wasn’t the job.” Eddie’s tone edges into something darker without his meaning to. He takes a drink of his lemonade looking for all the world like he wished it was a beer. “And you know that or I wouldn’t have found out about it from Chim a month after the fact.”

Helena clenches her jaw tight and squeezes Ramon’s hand even tighter so neither of them can say, So you have a problem being left in the dark too?

“Buck,” Isabel sighs with disappointment.

Buck winces. “It was before— ” He cuts himself off, his wide eyes darting towards Helena and Ramon of all people.

“Hmm,” Isabel answers noncommittally, as if to end the conversation.

Just then, Sophia brings out a platter of bite-sized desserts, making the rounds of the whole circle for people to pick at before leaving it on the table. The opportunity to move on is there. That doesn’t mean they’re interested in taking it.

“Before what?” Ramon asks, his tone is forcibly casual.

The silence that greets Ramon’s question is heavy. Guilty. When Helena casts her eyes around, she’s greeted by stiff shoulders and a mix of apprehension shared between her son, her mother- and sister-in-law, and Buck.

Mom, listen...

“Before what?” Helena repeats, her voice uncompromising.

———-

The fight they have in Isabel’s guest bedroom is a Hall of Famer. It’s a screaming match, no doubt about it. The doors from the bedroom to the yard are all closed but there’s no question every member of the family — and Buck — can hear every word.

“Do you really hate us that much?” Helena demands. She’s crying but she doesn’t know if it’s heartbreak or fury, she just wishes it’d stop so she could lean into her anger. “Genuinely, honestly, Eddie.”

“I don’t hate you,” he protests, keeping his own voice down, making it seem like they’re irrational for their anger.

“Bullshit,” she spits.

“You must!” Ramon adds. “You hate us so much that you have to hate your sisters too? Your cousins? You would rather leave your only son to a stranger, some gringo coworker, than with family? That’s how much you hate us? Hate our name?”

“Our name?” Eddie shoots back incredulously. “What are you talking about, our name? We’re not royalty, papi, and Chris’ name would never change.”

“You would leave him to your coworker,” Helena stresses, disgust dripping from her tongue.

“To my best friend,” Eddie retorts, “who Christopher adores, if you haven’t noticed. And who adores Christopher right back.”

“That’s not normal, mijo,” Ramon warns.

“Jesus christ,” Eddie seethes. “Please do not star—”

“What kind of single adult man bonds with another man’s child like that?”

“You’re describing a tío, you understand that right? What, you think it’s weird that Pepa loves me like her own? You think Sophia should stay away from Chris too?”

“That’s family,” Helena argues.

“And they’re women!”

“Ramon, shut up,” Helena snaps.

“Buck is our family, and he’s a man, and he’s got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. If anything happened to me, Christopher would be taken care of like if I was still here.”

“Buck, the one who nearly got him killed in the tsunami? That’s the same guy right?” Ramon throws out, his eyes a little wild as he paces.

“The one who saved his life in that tsunami, despite being injured and then some. And the one who’s saved my life more times than I can count, including from being gunned down on the street. We’d both probably be dead if not f— ”

“Isn’t he the one who’s family is worse off than ours?” Helena recalls. “So he has no family, no support, no girlfriend even! So a worse position than you’re in now. That’s what you want to leave him with.”

“He doesn’t need a girlfriend to raise Christopher right, I don’t! And he has a great sister, he has the 118, he has Carla, and he has our family. You think Abuela and Pepa would shut the door on him? He’d be here every Sunday, with Christopher, just like I am.”

“And what does your girlfriend think of this?” Ramon presses. “The vice principal, she thinks this is normal?”

“Ana doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Eddie says, frowning.

Helena balks. “You think the woman you’ve been seeing seriously for nearly a year has nothing to do with long-term decisions about your son? You think maybe she wouldn’t want the option of taking Christopher in if something happened to you?”

“That’s not happening, he’s going to Buck and that’s final.”

“What’s going on with you and this gringo?” Ramon asks suspiciously. “Are you even going out with Ana or was that another lie?”

“Ramon, don’t go there,” Helena sighs, her heart clenching. That’s all they need in this clusterfuck, that layer of pain.

“No, let’s go there because you know what?” Eddie asks darkly. “There is no one on this planet I trust with my son more than Buck and yeah, if we need to lay it all out there, that includes the two of you. I know you love Christopher, just like I know Shannon loved him, but that’s not always going to be enough. Buck isn’t going to fill my son’s head with ideas about the wrong kind of way to love someone. He’s not going to tell him he’s not good enough for his family to love him or support him. Buck’s going to make sure Christopher grows up to follow his heart and find whatever makes him happiest in the world, no matter what that looks like.”

“How could you think—”

“What if he grows up to be gay?” Eddie asks pointedly, staring his father down. “You’re telling me you’re going to be the one to help him pick out a suit to go to prom with his boyfriend?”

Ramon purses his lips but tries, “it’s a different world now,” as if he hadn’t just tried to make crass insinuations just to hurt his son.

“Okay,” Eddie says, not believing him for a moment, “what if he’s trans? Tells you at 15 that he’s a girl and he wants to transition. You’re going to get him on hormone therapy?”

“Eddie that’s not—”

“What if he’s 20 and he tells you he got a girl pregnant by accident and he doesn’t know her enough to love her, and he’s not ready to be a father let alone a husband?”

Helena tries to speak but her throat is suddenly too tight for words to get out.

“You gonna tell him he’s not a man if he doesn’t marry her anyway?”

Ramon says nothing.

“Christopher is going to Buck, and that’s final.”

——————-

Helena and Ramon don’t show up for the third therapy session.

Their plane tickets were only for three weeks, originally, and as the days run out, they don’t talk about extensions.

———-

Helena is sitting out in Isabel’s backyard, trying to conjure up that feeling of serenity she got to bask in for all of two minutes the night of the birthday party.

It’s not working.

They’re going back to El Paso tomorrow, leaving their relationship with Eddie in worse straits than when they arrived.

There’s always been a tension between them and Eddie, but there’s also always been love and respect, and that love and respect formed a polite barrier around the things they couldn’t talk about. It kept their relationship safe. Kept them from getting too close to real honesty where things hurt in ways that couldn’t be walked back.

It feels now like that barrier has fallen. That Eddie’s finally reached the limit of what he could hold back and now there’s nothing to help them pretend everything is okay. Nothing to help Helena believe this is all something that could blow over.

That’s to say nothing of Christopher, who’s never felt as far away as he does now, even while they linger in the same city, only a couple dozen blocks away.

Helena scrolls listlessly through her phone’s camera roll for the last few weeks. There are pictures of Christopher mostly, but Eddie and the rest of the family are there too. It hurts to notice how Eddie is markedly happier in the shots where he’s looking away from the camera. Away from her.

Mom, listen…

Helena opens up Instagram and lets herself forget for a moment that anything is wrong. On Instagram, there is only joy and fun. And Buck.

Eddie hasn’t posted anything to his account in months but starting from the end and working backwards, Buck features heavily. He’s in at least a third of the pictures, usually with Christopher. One of the posts includes a short video that she watches. It’s of the day they unveiled the adapted skateboard, and it nourishes her soul. There’s no sadness here, or tension, only pure radiating happiness and excitement. It’s magical.

And it’s meaningful.

Mom, listen…

Helena is out of her chair and pocketing Isabel’s car keys before she can talk herself out of it. The drive to Eddie’s house is made with a carefully blank mind. She knows if she lets herself think about what she’s going to say, she’s going to spiral and get to a place where all this fear and sadness turn dark and ugly, and she can’t afford to risk it.

Finally, she’s knocking gently on a front door she’s only seen three times in the weeks she’s been here.

Buck answers the door.

————-

The house is quiet when Helena steps in.

She doesn’t bother taking her shoes off this time, she’s not sure how long she’ll be allowed to stay. But she notices that the space where her shoes would have gone is taken up by a pair of large boots she imagines fit perfectly on Buck’s feet.

Buck disappears into the living room and she follows quietly after him. The lights are off but the muted tv glows brightly enough for her to see Eddie reclined on his back on the couch, sleeping, and Buck sitting down on the edge of the coffee table to shake his arm.

Eddie’s always been a light sleeper, especially after the army and Christopher. He doesn’t wake easily now.

He’s wearing the sling, but it’s the only indication that anything is amiss with him. There’s no sign of pain or worry on his face, no tension in his shoulders. He’s practically melted into the recesses of the couch. He’s a picture of comfort. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s in his home, away from family, from expectations, and judgements. Just him and Christopher. And Buck.

Eddie finally takes a deep breath that shows his body is coming around but his eyes stay closed. Buck is murmuring something but she only catches, “ — mom — here.”

Then, at last, Eddie’s eyelids part, and the deep laxness of his body disappears almost in the blink of an eye.

“What?” he croaks, already trying to sit up.

Buck’s hands are already moving to support his back.

“ — says she wants to apologize.”

Eddie scoffs and sits upright, feet firmly planted on the floor as he blinks himself awake.

“Mom?”

“I’m here,” she says, stepping closer into the light of the tv.

Buck catches Eddie’s eye and they have an entire conversation in five silent seconds that ends with Buck nodding and getting up from the table, watching Helena warily as she approaches further.

“Watch your eyes,” Buck says quietly to Eddie before flipping the wall switch and illuminating the room. He lingers for a moment, clearly undecided about leaving, before saying, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Finally, Helena is alone with her son in his home. The quiet is almost peaceful, she doesn’t want to break it. Eddie does instead.

“Buck said you wanted to apologize, so I’m assuming he misheard,” Eddie says wryly.

There are pillow creases on the side of his face and Helena can’t remember the last time she saw him look so disheveled, so at home. It makes her heart ache for the days when she’d have to force him out of bed at noon on weekends, drive him to wrestling practice early in the morning, watch over him as he slept sometimes, just to make sure he was okay.

“Shockingly, no,” she smiles sadly.

Eddie blinks up at her for a moment before shifting down on the couch, leaving her some room to sit. She takes the invitation, but once she’s sitting down with Eddie’s full attention on her, she realizes not preparing what she wanted to say might have been a mistake. She has no idea where to begin. What scab to pick at that won’t cause more bleeding.

Then she remembers Adriana’s words.

What is it, under all the posturing, all the hurt feelings, all the history and baggage...what is it she actually, truly wants to say?

“I’m sorry I missed therapy.”

Eddie huffs a surprised laugh. “Of all the things…”

“I know, I know,” she rolls her eyes. “But I am. I…” She forces herself to slow down and consider her words. “I realize that therapy was an olive branch for you. One we took way too late and I’m...I’m just so fucking grateful we were able to take it at all, in the end.”

The tears are coming and there’s nothing she can do to stop them. They gather in the corner of her eyes and she tries to blink them away but has to settle for wiping away the ones that fall anyway.

“You were right,” she says. “You said — and your sister said, and the therapist said — that there’s a lot of hurt, and it’s become too hard to...to connect with each other because of it. And therapy is probably the only bridge through that. So even though I was pissed at you, I should have showed up.”

She hazards a look up at Eddie to find his brown eyes wide and cautiously wondering.

“Therapy is what’s going to help us and the only way to fail at it is to not show up.” It’s what the therapist had said in their first session. It had sounded like an easy thing to do then. “And that’s not okay. I’m not going to do that again.”

Eddie nods and looks away. His fingernails are flicking nervously against each other — a habit he picked up from her. “Is dad on the same page as you?”

Helena takes a deep breath, and blows out, “No, your dad is looking for a match to light the page on fire.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but there’s heavy hurt behind the indifference.

“I hid all of them,” Helena offers, “and left Abuela with the fire extinguisher.”

That gets a small smile.

“I really expected you to be more pissed about it than him,” Eddie says, he reclines against the arm of the sofa but no part of him looks comfortable with this conversation.

“Oh, I am—” The rage swells up in her. The outrage and indignation. But again, Adriana’s voice comes to her. “I...am...really, truly hurt, Eddie. I feel...I feel like you told me I’m not good enough to love Christopher how he needs.”

Eddie’s face collapses with disbelief. “You mean the way you’ve been making me feel since he was born? Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“Since the moment Shannon got pregnant, you’ve both been hammering it in on us that we’d never be enough, we’d never be good enough for him. Why do you think I joined the army? Why do you think Shannon ran?”

The accusation makes her breathless, it makes that familiar rage bubble up closer to the surface. “Shannon made her own choices, you’re not going to pin that on us. And so did you.”

“No, I can’t pin that on you. She did choose to leave,” he concedes, his voice hardening. “But you spent five years telling her over and over that nothing she ever did was good enough, and when I got back you did the same to me! ‘Don’t drag him down with you.’ Does that ring any bells?”

“I spent five years helping her, being a second parent to Christopher when she was in over her head. She needed help. She wasn’t cut out—”

“No, she wasn’t,” Eddie agrees. “Neither of us were. We were stupid fucking kids who barely knew each other. She was supposed to get back on a plane to California when the semester was done and instead we got married in the backyard because you told us that’s what we had to do.”

“Jesus Christ, Eddie. You want to blame me for Christopher being born? For raising him in a family with two parents?”

“You’re not listening,” Eddie spits.

“I’m listening to you say over and over how I ruined your life because I didn’t let Shannon get an abortion. And that’s somehow the reason to keep us out of Christopher’s life now?”

“No, you’re not—” Eddie closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. “I love Christopher with everything I am. If I had the chance to go back and do everything differently, I wouldn’t. I would never. Being his father is the most important thing I’ve ever done.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I was a kid in over my head and my parents didn’t know what was best for me. Didn’t know how to help me. And I figured that out on my own, I grew up and became the man I am now on my own.” She wants to argue but he’s on a roll. “And that’s fine, no parent is perfect. I know I’m going to make mistakes and I hope to god Christopher can forgive me, so I need to forgive you yours. But I need you to see me, now. I need you to look at me and realize I’m not that kid you put in a suit in the backyard. I’m not the kid that signed up to get shot at instead of facing his life. I’m not that kid anymore, mom. I’m not.”

“I see that, Eddie.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t constantly be telling me I need to move back to El Paso to take proper care of Christopher. You’d see that our lives are here now. I have a job I love and pays what we need. Christopher loves his school, his friends. He’s a popular, genius kid. He’s happy. I’m happy. And we’re doing good. But you don’t see that. You see that dumbass, scared kid making his next mistakes. And I’m sorry but I’m not going to let you drag me back into that spiral. If you need to be the parent to that kid, I can’t be the kid you’re parenting. I’ve grown up, mom.”

“So,” Helena clears her throat, hoping the waver in it will clear too. “That’s what the guardianship is? We...lost sight of you growing up. We didn’t give you what you needed. So you’re punishing us?”

Eddie sighs as if she didn’t understand.

“No, you know what? No, I’m sorry,” she switches tracks, her voice hard, “how are we supposed to see this new person you’ve become, Eddie? You left El Paso, left us behind, you won’t come home for holidays, you even stopped posting on Instagram, and when we come here to see you’re alive you won’t even let us into your home. So how? How are we supposed to see this magical transformation when you won’t let us in?”

Eddie watches her for a moment, weighing his words. “You show up for therapy.”

And that takes the wind out of her sails.

That’s what she came here for.

To apologize.

Not keep yelling.

Mom, listen…

Helena takes two deep breaths and crooks a smile. “Yeah.”

“You yell a lot.”

Christopher’s voice startles them both, pulling a short grunt of pain from Eddie as his shoulder jerks back. Christopher is leaning against the wall into the living room, wearing the disgruntled pout of someone who was woken up for no good reason.

“Christopher…” Eddie begins, trying to leverage himself off the couch.

Helena pushes him back down, and turns to Christopher, opening her arms.

“I do,” Helena admits softly, as Christopher comes over and leans into her side. “I do yell a lot. I’m...trying to yell less.”

“Dad never yells.”

Eddie smiles tiredly.

“Hmm,” Helena agrees, “I think there’s a lot of things I need to learn from your daddy.”

Christopher nods, his eyes drooping. “He’s the best,” he says, snuggling into her shoulder. She’s getting on a plane tomorrow so she takes the opportunity to relish in this hug, and press a long kiss on his curls.

“Ah, I thought I heard an escape artist on the prowl,” Buck says as he turns the corner.

“We woke him up,” Eddie says redundantly. “We’ll keep it quiet now, buddy.”

“K,” Christopher mumbles.

“Okay, buddy, let’s get you back to bed” Buck says quietly as he leans over to carefully scoop him into his arms. Christopher’s arms loop around his neck like he’s done it a million times, and his head falls to Buck’s shoulder.

“Buck’s the best too,” Christopher mumbles.

Buck’s ducks his face away.

“That’s what I hear,” Helena allows in a tone she hopes is gracious.

As they leave, they can hear Christopher say, “they stole your bed.”

Buck responds but it’s too quiet for them to follow the rest of the conversation.

Eddie ducks his head and sighs.

“That’s why you were keeping us away?” Helena asks, her voice more gentle than she thought she could muster at this point. “Because Buck’s crashing on your couch?”

Now that she’s looking, she spots the folded duvet stacked on the chair in the corner, the pillows tucked neatly below. It only makes her more aware that she found Eddie sleeping soundly on the very same couch.

“I didn’t — I didn’t want questions. I didn’t want dad’s look, the same look he has every time Buck comes up. The same look—” Eddie sighs harshly. “I didn’t feel like fielding questions. He was here for Christopher when I was in the hospital and when I came home… He helps. A lot.”

Helena nods pensively, and surprises herself by finding a kernel of gratitude towards Buck burgeoning in her chest.

“So, speaking of fucking up as parents,” she begins with a crooked smile that fades by the end of the phrase. She doesn’t know how to finish that sentence so she starts a new one. “The...hurt that piles up, that makes it hard to talk through...does some of it come from Matty?”

She can see an instinct flare up in her son to shake his head and dismiss the topic, but he doesn’t let it take hold. It’s time to face this.

“It didn’t help,” he admits.

Eddie and Matty met in sixth grade and became best friends almost instantly. They spent weekends in sleepovers, fought off other classmates to be each others’ group project partners, and spent every summer going to the same camps. Matty was an honorary Diaz before they even hit their teens.

Five years later, Matty came out to his family, and then to theirs. His parents took it well, Eddie’s parents didn’t.

The sleepovers stopped, the summer camps stopped, and if Ramon could have sent Eddie to another class he would have.

The day he came out to them was the last day he stepped foot in the Diaz home, a natural consequence of Ramon having run him out with caustic, angry words.

“We…” Helena licks her lips and looks away to gather her thoughts. “There’s a lot of reasons we reacted the way we did. Ignorance, more than anything. It really was a different world back then. But...the world has kept turning, things have kept changing and we can’t pretend to be ignorant anymore.” She looks Eddie in the eye to say, “we were wrong. We were wrong to chase him away. And if the day comes that Christopher is gay or trans or any of the other words we haven’t learned yet, we’re going to love him just as much as we do now.”

Eddie keeps her gaze for a moment before nodding. “I’m glad to hear it.” The way his shoulders gather near his ears says he doesn’t believe her though he’s trying.

Because when Eddie and Matty stood shoulder to shoulder to tell Ramon and Helena the news, Matty wasn’t the only one crushed. And they know, somewhere deep down, that their reaction was as extreme as it was because they were never fully sure if the hurt in Eddie’s eyes was on behalf of his best friend, or if they exploded before more news could be told.

And it still scares Helena to this day, to this very moment sitting on her son’s couch. It’s why they welcomed Shannon at first, the first girl Eddie really brought home, even though they didn’t approve of her overall.

But she knows now that there’s nothing anymore, not her pride, not her ignorance, that will stop her from trying to bridge the gap between them. So she continues deliberately, “and if this new, grown up version of you comes with any of those words, we’re not going to love you any less either.”

His eyes widen and for a moment she’s looking at her 17 year old son in the living room, eyes wide as Matty runs out of the house. She wishes this moment could replace that one, stamp out that mistake forever. But it can’t, so she has to make this one count even more.

“I’ll still be here, and I’m listening. I...I see you,” she says. “You and Christopher. I see you settled in so well here, even now with your injury.”

Eddie remains quiet, but apprehension creeps across his face and his eyes dart behind her where Buck and Christopher disappeared.

“I see the boots at the entrance,” she continues, her voice pitched low, “the extra toothbrush you forgot to hide away. The tupperwares full of food Isabel and Ana didn’t make. But more than anything, I see Buck. Everywhere.” A smile creeps up her lips. “The only place I didn’t see him was at brunch with Ana and call me crazy but I feel like you would have preferred he was there too.”

Eddie’s lip is being chewed to within an inch of its life, and his eyes are trained on the couch cushion.

“Hey,” she taps his knee. “You...grew up to be a good man, and a good father.” The words are so many years too late but she’s grateful to see them land as Eddie’s eyes begin to shimmer. “And you deserve everything you want for Christopher. Happiness, whatever that looks like.”

Eddie swallows thickly and clears his throat. “And dad?”

“Dad...has his head too far up his own ass to see or hear anything,” Helena admits. “But he’s due for a colonoscopy soon so I’ll work on it.”

Eddie chokes on a laugh that catches him off-guard and suddenly they’re both laughing, quietly so they don’t wake Christopher up again.

When they recover, Eddie invites her to the kitchen for a drink, where Buck is packing Christopher’s lunch for school tomorrow.

When she leaves, her stomach is in knots she imagines won’t smooth out for a few weeks yet, but a weight’s been lifted off her chest and her heart is full in a way it hasn’t been in years.

When she lands in El Paso, her phone pings with a message from Eddie: Hope you had a good flight. Free Friday for a call?

———-

When Friday comes, after catching up with Christopher, Eddie tells them he broke it off with Ana.

Helena digs her nails into Ramon’s knee instinctively, but she prepared him well and despite his continued reservations, all he says is, “That’s too bad, mijo.”

———-

Two months of virtual therapy and video chats later, Eddie tells them he’s bisexual. They react the way they should have all those years ago, and Helena tries to be grateful they got to have this moment at all instead of mourn for the years Eddie lost because of them.

There’s no mention of Buck, but Eddie’s eyes flit fondly over the laptop screen every once in a while at Christopher and someone else off-screen.

The call takes place at 8am LA time, and the sling has been gone for nearly three weeks.

———

At Christmas, Eddie and Christopher are waiting for them with smiles on their faces at LAX’s baggage claim. When they get home, Buck is there opening the door and helping them with their luggage.

Isabel isn’t there to mediate but supper that evening goes smoothly. The tension that lurks is anticipatory on all sides, a feeling of this being too good to last. But by dessert, everyone is sitting back in their chairs and smiling. And when Buck rounds the table to start the clean up, he places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, his thumb brushing the back of Eddie’s neck, and Helena watches as the last bit of strain melts out of his body.

The basket of gauze is nowhere to be found in the bathroom, nor is the purple toothbrush. Instead, there’s a third electric toothbrush standing in line with the rest.

Helena’s been keeping an eye out for opportunities to follow Adriana’s advice. To find the words she actually, truly means, and say them before she runs out of time. So before turning in, she takes Eddie aside and tells him, “I’m really happy you found your home here in LA. I’m really proud of the family you’ve made.”

And when she closes her arms around him, she can feel him fold into her like he used to as a kid, no polite distance or anxiety. Just comfort.

#buddie #buddie fic #helena diaz #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #my fics #my posts #y'all I struggled so hard to get this up before the premiere #please understand I woke up at 7am on a Sunday to get it done #my soul is weary #i hope you like them #omg I'm so sorry I forgot the readmore originally #it's up now

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manonblaqkbeak · 3 years

Text

Friendship Rekindled

Hello, back for Day 10--single parents. This is the second part of a mini series during canon week. this is continuing off from Day 1--desperately in love. there’s going to be two more parts and i cant wait to get them out there!

i think this could be considered a little angsty, given some of the conversation topics that happen.

cw: brief mention of death and blood loss. mention of an abusive parent. (if i miss any, pls dont hesitate to let me know!)

enjoy! :)

2.9k words (my longest fic yet i believe)

It was nice to be finally out of the house, Aelin decided as she walked up to the nursery, her five month old daughter, Olive, strapped to her chest. After being cooped up for what felt like the last five months, Aelin had decided to liven up her apartment with some plants.

Hardy, un-killable plants, that is. Being a single mother didn't leave her much time to look after other things, so she needed some plants that required minimal water, but also had to be pretty to look at.

It was also a plus that there was a cafe attached to the nursery, and she heard that they served the best scones with homemade strawberry jam and cream in Orynth. All her life she had never come here, but she needed somewhere new to visit. And to reacquaint herself with her home town. Not long after Rowan and Lyria's wedding, Aelin had transferred to Rifthold for work, and had used the miles apart to quietly disappear from their lives.

That was four years ago now, and come back home to be closer to her parents. Aelin had never known her grandparents, and Aelin didn't want to deny her parents the privilege of knowing Olive, so she had transferred back just before she went on maternity leave. Aelin was happy to be back, especially since she hadn't seen Rowan or Lyria. The last she heard was from Elide, who got it from Lorcan, that a year after marriage, they were expecting. She was happy for them, she truly was, but that didn't stop the stab of pain she felt when she heard the news. She had dreamt of her being in Lyria's position for a few weeks after she heard the news, but forced herself to stop. To move on.

Aelin had, in a way. She would always love Rowan, but she needed to move on. It was wrong to consider her daughter a distraction, but she did provide the perfect one. Aelin briefly removed her lemon printed bucket-hat (Aelin wore a matching one) to kiss her head, her golden hair sparse, laughing her perfect baby laugh.

Aelin finally entered the nursery, tugging her nappy bag higher on her shoulder as she took in the hundreds of plants. She had no idea where to start, but started her browse. She slowly walked through the fern section, stopping every now and then to let Olive touch one, making the cute hand grabbing motion when she saw one she liked.

Aelin heard the laughter of a young child behind her, and then a deep and familiar one accompany it.

Aelin froze. It couldn't be. Surely the Gods weren't that cruel. Months she had been here, for the first time in ages she had decided to do something for herself, only to be met by that damned laughter.

Slowly she turned, her sandals making the gravel underneath crunch. She saw a flash of silver and a broad body.

Turning around had been a mistake, because when she did, so did the silver-haired man.

And for the first time in four years, turquoise eyes landed on pine-green ones.

Rowan blinked, and then blinked again as he took her in. His eyes widened as he noticed Olive strapped to her body, her face on display as she took in her surroundings. Her baby had the chocolate brown eyes of her father, but it was clear to anyone that knew Aelin that Olive was hers. Her daughter had Aelin's nose and hair colour, and would likely grow to have more of Aelin's features as the years went by.

Behind Rowan, his cousin Enda was holding the hand of a brown-haired boy. It was difficult to tell his exact age, but he looked to be about three. If Rowan was here with his son, then it was a good chance that Lyria would be here, too. The woman was a flower enthusiast, and was practically a walking encyclopedia when it came to flowers. Any questions anyone had, they went to Lyria.

Aelin really did not want to be here. Did not want to have that conversation of why the hell she had left and dropped all communication with them after the wedding.

Aelin hated it, but she adverted her gaze and started to leave. She would have to come here another day—maybe after she called the office to make sure that there was no silver-haired man in attendance.

“Aelin,” Rowan said, his voice raspy from surprise. Gods, she missed his deep voice and the rolling purr of his accent.

Aelin pretended that she didn't hear and made a beeline for the exit. Rowan called her again, and then a third time. Just as she reached the gate, his warm hand landed on her shoulder gently. His hands were still calloused, his hands always doing some type of manual labour work. She wondered briefly if he was still an auto mechanic.

Turning around, Aelin noted the shock in his dark eyes. She gave him a weak smile, not sure what to say.

“What are you—I mean, how are you? Where have you been?”

“I'm good,” Aelin answered after a moment, not really sure how else to respond. “I've been around. What about you?” Somehow, these questions didn't feel like the right ones to ask. Before Rowan could say anything, Olive made herself known, making grunting sounds that meant she wanted attention, so Aelin kissed her hand and said to Rowan, “This is Olive.”

Rowan's eyes dropped down to Olive. “Is she yours?”

Aelin snorted, a sound she hadn't made in so long. It was something she often did around Rowan—or used to, that is. “No, I bought her from the store. Yes, she's mine.”

Rowan's eyes dropped lower, to her ring finger—her empty ring finger. There had never been a ring there. Aelin's traitorous eyes drifted to Rowan's and her heart stopped when she noticed that his ring finger was bare as well—that there was no tan line to suggest that he had only recently removed it.

“I'm doing this on my own,” Aelin found herself saying after a moment.

“As am I,” Rowan said. Aelin cocked her head to the side, annoyed at herself for being curious. “Lyria...Lyria passed away three years ago.”

Aelin's heart shot up to her throat, choking her. Years ago, Aelin had horribly wished that the ring Rowan had purchased was secretly for her and was heartbroken when it wasn't. In her loneliest moments, she had wished that Rowan and Lyria would break up and somehow find his way to her in Rifthold; but never, never-ever in a million years would she ever have wanted this to happen.

Why the hell hadn't Elide told her? Or anyone else for that matter?

Aelin found her voice after long minutes of just staring at him, processing his words. “Rowan, I am so rutting sorry. I had no idea. Are you...are you okay?”

“I have my good and bad days”. He pointed to the brown-haired boy with Enda, who were both busy inspecting each leaf and flower petal in front of them. “That's Egan, he's a plant lover like his mother.”

Aelin couldn't really see him, but she still said, “He's adorable.”

“He is, and a little terror,” Rowan said, a small smile on his tanned face. After a moment, he turned back to her, and asked, “Are you...doing anything? I'd like to talk, it's been a long time since we have.”

She should say no, but she ended up saying yes.

Taking a deep breath, she followed Rowan back inside the nursery and to the cafe.

X X X X X X

It was turning out to be an ordinary Saturday when Rowan had needed to get out of the house, so he asked Egan if he wanted to go to the nursery and his son had enthusiastically agreed, asking if Uncle Enda could join them. Thankfully, his cousin was free and more than happy to spend time with his nephew.

Never in a million years did he think he would run into Aelin. He had heard the rumours that she transferred back to the publishing house and that was it; there was no mention of her being pregnant. But when Rowan looked up and spotted Aelin, and his eyes immediately dropped to the baby strapped to her chest, his heart had stopped.

He had once wished to have that life with Aelin, exploring the world with their child, one that had Aelin's hair and his eyes; but Rowan never told Aelin how he felt because he knew how badly her last relationship ended, and he didn't want to put any unnecessary stress on her if she didn't feel the same way. Didn't want there to be any chance to ruin their friendship.

And so, he had moved on. Had started dating Lyria and came to love her, but not the same way as he loved Aelin. And when Rowan proposed, he had only done it because his parents were getting older and wanted him to get married, wanted him to have a grandchild.

It was cruel irony that they had both died before Lyria had even given birth.

He was bastard, and he hated himself. Lyria was kind, sweet and gentle—and deserved someone better than him, should have been with a man that truly wanted to marry her for her and not because of family pressures. But he never stopped himself from their relationship moving forward.

But he was doing better, thanks to therapy, because while he may have been a bastard, he didn't want his son to know that. Maybe it made him a bastard to hide this part of himself to his son, but his son was gentle like his mother and Rowan loathed the idea of Egan growing up to hate him.

And as Rowan asked Enda to take Egan home, Rowan could see that Enda thought that this lunch was a bad idea—Rowan had confessed his secrets to his cousin long ago, how he loved Aelin even when he was married to Lyria. How he had wanted that life with her instead.

Rowan knew that he was going to be on the end of a scolding conversation when he got back to his house, but he told Enda that it was going to be okay and that he was fine and could handle this.

Enda sighed heavily through his nose and muttered a 'good luck' under his breath. Rowan planted a kiss of Egan's head and told him that he would be home soon. His son was too excited to spend time with his Uncle to really notice.

When Rowan returned to Aelin's side, they soon found a nice spot in the cafe that was away from others.

It was...painfully awkward for a good while. They only spoke to order their food—scones with jam and cream with a side dish of seasonal fruits for Aelin, and a steak sandwich with fries for Rowan—and then lapsed back into silence.

They ate in silence, too, and Rowan wondered if maybe this was a tremendously bad idea when Aelin said, softly but not weakly, “What happened to Lyria?”

Taking a deep breath, Rowan swirled his fries in the mustard on his plate. He hated this part. “She passed away not long after giving birth. She hemorrhaged and bleed out too quickly for anything to be done. Egan never really got to meet her.”

“I'm sorry,” Aelin said, doing her best to speak over the lump in her throat, “that's horrible. I'm so sorry.”

Years later and Rowan still never really knew what to say to that. Needing to distract himself, he asked, “So, what's your story?”

Before she could say anything, Olive started crying, and without a seconds hesitation, Aelin started feeding her. Some people stared in disapproval and Aelin stared right back, unflinching. He knew that if someone said something, she would spit back. It never made sense to Rowan how people frowned upon breastfeeding. A small smile made its way to Rowan's mouth at the steely look in her stunning eyes. That was the Aelin he knew and loved.

When the strangers turned back around, Aelin looked back at him, the steel in her eyes softening. “I briefly dated my high school boyfriend, Sam, for a while back in Rifthold, and well...the condom broke and Olive made her appearance.” Not the most elegant way to describe the situation, but Aelin figured she had years to think of a better way to explain Olive's appearance if her daughter ever asked.

“And he wants no part of it?” He had no right to ask, but the question left his mouth before he could stop it.

Aelin sighed, and finished feeding Olive and cleaning themselves up before responding. “It's complicated...Sam's father, Arobynn, is a cruel man. He's manipulative and sadistic, but knows how to turn on the charm when it suits him. Sam has been scared of him his entire life, and didn't want Olive to know the fear that he did. So, every month Sam sends money, but he's not on the birth certificate—he doesn't want there to be any paper trails leading to Olive's existence. I had to convince him that it was safer to transfer me the money than to send it through the mail. I send him pictures from time to time, but whether he saves them, I have no idea.” Not to mention the miserable length of the conversation of sending money electronically. Sam was so damned paranoid that Arobynn checked his accounts that Aelin had almost told him not to bother to send anything when he relented. Aelin could provide Olive well enough on her own, but it was helpful to have that extra bit of cash—baby things were expensive as hell.

Aelin bit her lip. She hadn't meant to divulge that much, no one knew that, not even her best friends, but she didn't regret it. It felt...like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

“That's awful, Aelin, I'm sorry to hear that.”

��I just...” She probably shouldn't ask, but out of everyone she knew, none of them were single parents. “Has Egan ever asked about his mother? What do you say to that?”

“He's asked a few times, and I've told him that she passed away when he was little, but I don't think he fully understands what I'm talking about.” Those conversations were the hardest that he ever had to go through, and he knew it would be worst when Egan grew and fully understood what death meant.

“I have no idea what I'll tell Olive when she's older and asks about her dad,” Aelin admitted. “It's not like he's gone, but he is absent and I just...what if she grows up to think he hates her? I think that would kill me if she ever thought that.”

Without thinking, Rowan reached over and too her hand in his. Her hand was soft in his, and he swiped his thumb against her knuckles. “You have a good few years to worry about that. Who knows,” he added, “maybe Sam will be able to get out from his father's shadows and you three can be a family.”

A small smile made its way to Aelin's face. She was more beautiful then he remembered, and he wasn't sure if he should feel guilty for thinking that.

“I like the sound of that, but I'm not going to get my hopes up. I'd like to think that I can do this on my own.”

“You can, but if you'd like...if you ever need help with something, if you need someone to look after Olive, I could do that for you.”

Silver lined Aelin's eyes as she watched him. “Are you sure? I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“That's what friends are for, aren't they? To help?” And as a single parent himself, he knew how hard it could be raising a child in this hectic world.

Aelin's smile grew. “Okay, I'll keep that in mind. And if we're friends, could you help me find some plants? I'm sick of looking at my boring walls.”

“Okay, I know the perfect ones for you to get—ones that are practically impossible to kill.”

“I'm going to ignore that implication that I can't look after a plant.” Although it was true.

Rowan snorted. “Because you can't. I remember that poor aloe Vera plant that you slaughtered.”

Aelin narrowed her eyes, but he could see just a hint of mirth behind the glare. “I did not slaughter that plant, it just didn't like me!”

Rowan laughed and it was the most freeing sound he made in a long time. After he calmed down, he said, “Come on, let's finish here and I'll help you to liven up your place.”

“Fine, but I better not hear anything about my poor gardening skills or I'll let down your tires.” And she would, he knew, but Rowan just smiled even more.

“It's a deal.”

The conversation moved much more smoothly and Rowan realised how much he missed her. And Aelin realised how much she missed him, too.

Maybe things wouldn't be too bad after-all. It would be nice to have Rowan in her life again, even as a friend, even if she still loved him and knew it could never be, not after everything.

#rowaelin #rowaelinmonth #my work

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milliethekitty27-writing · 3 years

Text

The Ladder

In a hole in the ground, there lived a lonely hobbit. It all started when Bilbo grew tired of his empty kitchen.

He hadn’t been fond of eating alone since the dwarves destroyed his pantry, but he hadn’t after Frodo joined him in Bag End. He’d eaten with the elves in Rivendell, which had been full of lovely music and pleasant conversation, and then he’d eaten with the elves, Frodo, and Gandalf when they’d traveled to the Undying Lands.

Now he was here, in Yavanna’s Garden, living in what was basically Bag End. (the actual Bag End was right next door for his parents) He had his beautiful garden back, which only mattered really because he’d been brought back to his youthful self with working hands. The house was always clean (and he’d never really liked cleaning, so that didn’t matter much to him) so he had all the time in the world to work on his maps and his stories. He got the occasional social call from neighbors or family. He ate dinner with his parents on Thursdays and went over to their home on Sundays for family nights with many cousins and aunts and uncles, but he spent the rest of his time alone. He got the same whispers he had in the Shire, but he was satisfied with his cooking and working in the garden. Except… on the days there were no social calls, no family dinners, Bilbo Baggins sat in a very quiet house and talked to nothing.

“You know-” Bilbo said to no one in particular as he weeded a particularly stubborn patch of grass out from underneath his rose bush. There was a basket of tomatoes ready to be made into a sauce, or maybe used the fish tonight, but he’d seen the weeds and wanted to deal with it before it spread. “-I would have expected the garden to take care of itself when I died. Not to be doing the same tasks as before. But here we are, fighting with weeds, aren’t we Tho-” Bilbo stopped, shook his head, and pushed that thought aside.

He made dinner for fourteen but only ate for one. The rest got put away for the multitudes of meals of the next day, but almost five years after he’d died he found himself looking at the empty table with a frown.

The next morning he perused his bookshelf until he found a collection of stories. From there, he found tales of the dwarves. He sat in his armchair until a collection of cousins knocked on the door and pulled him away, but he found what he was looking for when he was waiting for a peach pie to bake.

Dwarves belief that they return to the halls of Mahal upon their deaths. From there, they await the Final Battle. Upon the arrival of that day, they will be sent back to rebuild Arda, but until then the dwarves rest in their creator’s halls.

Bilbo hemmed over that. He wandered down to where most of the Tooks lived, asking if they had any maps or had heard of the Halls before. It was a bit of a long shot, and he wasn’t surprised when they all said no. He returned to his smial and examined his garden.

“Well-” he said to the same problematic patch of clover that refused to leave. “-I know that dwarves do like their underground tunnels and their mines. And if the Green Lady is married to the Smith, then it stands to reason that they might go underground nearby. I don’t think there’s any harm in looking, I’ll just get a bit dirty and ruin my garden, and I do that on the regular. Or I’ll fall into a great underground river and run back into Gollum.” Bilbo sighed, then went to see if he could borrow Hamfast’s good shovel.

There was a patch of yard in the back Bilbo had been planning on planting carrots in, but he had a better idea now. He wiggled his toes in the cool earth, nodded, and stretched out his shoulders. Then Bilbo Baggins put his shovel into the soil and started to dig.

It took quite a bit of time, but he didn’t get as tired as he had in his old age and he didn’t have to take as many breaks. Death might mean you didn’t have to eat, or sleep, but it was routine, and he had dinner with his parents that were tradition. One day, maybe, he’d be able to bring more than just himself and whatever his mother wanted him to bring for dessert, but he pushed the idea of muddy boots and braids out of his mind in favor of helping his mother finish up the roast.

“What are you doing, Bilbo?” his father asked during one dinner. “Gorbadoc says he hasn’t seen you at the Green Dragon in some time.”

“I’m digging a tunnel.” Bilbo said matter of factly. “I’m going to try to find the halls of Mahal.” His parents looked at each other for a minute.

“What for?”

“I… suppose it’s just because I can.”

“Have you considered asking the faunts?” Belladonna suggested as she took a second helping of mashed potatoes. “I’m sure they’d be more than thrilled to be asked to ruin a garden.” Bilbo considered that.

“I think this something I want to do myself.”

Bilbo digged and digged. The hole was big enough for him to stand in rather comfortably, though he had to dig some stair-like notches into the side so he could get in and out. It took almost a week of non-stop digging to reach literal rock bottom, and then he was left with a conundrum. He’d dented Hamfast’s good shovel, so he returned it with an apology and a promise to pay him back, but would Hamfast please lend him a good pickaxe?

Bilbo woke up that next morning with arms that were incredibly sore and demanded he take a day, if not more, off. He agreed. The dwarves had waited this long, they could wait a bit longer. Bilbo went to market, got a drink, avoided questions about what he was up to, dodged a few nosy grandparents, and returned home with arms full of goods. The next day he baked an apology pie for the Gamgees and sent his mother and father cookies, lounging for the rest of the afternoon with a good book. On the third day his arms didn’t yell at him for raising them above his head, so Bilbo hoisted his pickaxe.

“How’s your hole going?” Belladonna asked as she took out a tart to cool. It was nearly time for the harvest festivals. Hobbits loved to work in their fields and grow their goods, and that meant the harvest festivals of the Shire still went on. That meant competitions (his mother was entering a lovely pumpkin she’d been growing all year, while his father was entering in a poetry competition) and baking, canning for the winter, and family time.

“Rather well, I like to think!” Bilbo gave the bread he was kneading one last good push. “I think I’ve nearly reached it, the rocks started to change to the next type of rock underground that I read about in the book that Adamantius lent me last week. It’s supposed to mean you’ve gotten to the next layer or… something. The book was rather complicated. I suppose I’ll just have to see what happens.”

“Maybe you’ll have it fixed in time for the summer planting competitions.” His father brushed his hands off on an apron as he came in from the garden with a basket of potatoes, placing them on the counter and taking a moment to kiss Belladonna’s cheek. For a moment Bilbo wondered if soon he’d be seeing his dwarves, be able to kiss one particular cheek, but he pushed those thoughts aside. It was possible he was nowhere near being able to see his dwarves, but that was a thought he’d deal with when he came to it. He was nothing if not practical, as a Baggins (no, Baggins weren’t actually practical, he knew that now, but don’t bother telling the Baggins side that) and he didn’t want to consider that what if.

“Maybe.” he ceded. “But I’m hoping that I’ll be able to make it a permanent feature.”

Bilbo returned to his hole the day after the festivals had finally finished. His larder was filled to bursting, along with all his storage rooms, and he was just planning on doing a little bit of work before settling in with a nice book.

That plan fell a bit short, though. He drove his pickaxe in rather deeply and the earth suddenly crumbled all around him. Bilbo let out a yell as he fell through a suddenly rather large hole, landing with a rather sharp thwack on something… surprisingly soft.

When he looked around, he found that he was surrounded by an incredible amount of short, bearded people wearing multiple colors and gems.

Dwarves.

He looked up and found an incredible amount of sunlight falling on him, along with a decent amount of dirt.

It seemed he’d found the Halls of Mahal. Now the question was how to get back to Yavanna’s Gardens.

...he’d cross that road when he got to it. For now, he had dwarves to find, and, uh, oh dear. The dwarf he was sitting on didn’t look very happy. He jumped off of the poor dwarf’s back.

“I’m so terribly sorry-” Bilbo offered the dwarf a hand. They were covered in braids, with long black hair, and Bilbo tried to dust them off once they were up. “-I had no idea I’d almost broken through like that, I would’ve given some warning.”

“You’re what’s been making all that noise?” a dwarf behind him said. Bilbo turned on his heel. This dwarf was dressed like a miner.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The noise-” the dwarf gestured at the ceiling. “-for the past month, we’ve been getting this awful banging- that’s coming from you? But you’re a halfling!” There was a great deal of yelling at that as the crowd of dwarves surrounding Bilbo all realized what he was. Bilbo felt his cheeks heated up with rage.

“What do you mean a halfling fell through the ceiling?!” someone bellowed after several minutes where Bilbo couldn’t get his voice loud enough. There was a great deal of pushing through the crowd and Bilbo offered another apology to the poor dwarf he’d probably concussed in his fall.

“I’ll have you know I’m not half of anything!” He said loudly into the suddenly silent hall, but there was a further commotion.

“That’s not just a halfling that our halfling!” Bofur, that was Bofur, he knew that voice. A bald dwarf covered in tattoos practically rammed his way through the crowd and there were all his dwarves, looking alive and well and whole, no blood or funeral garb, no sorrowful letters or tearful tales from Frodo about bodies and ancient stone walls. He was hugging them, pinching cheeks and smiling as wide as he had in some time. He did a quick head count - twelve. Where was thirteen, where was-

Oh.

There he was.

Thorin was standing at the other end of the mass of dwarves in the hall, firelight glinting off the silver in his hair and around his neck. There was no sign of gold or bronze, just silver. He practically blended into the cave wall in his nearly black clothes but Bilbo met those beautiful blue eyes and something just clicked. He was covered in dirt, and in his gardening clothes. He looked a mess, he was sure of it, but Thorin was looking at him in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.

“Master Burglar.” Thorin’s voice rumbled across the nearly silent crowd.

A moment later he and Bilbo met in the center of the path, both having run as fast as their feet could carry them. Bilbo’s fingers curled into the thick, wiry hair and he inhaled the smell that was undeniably Thorin.

“I thought I told you to call me Bilbo.” he said in a thick voice after a moment. “Or should I be calling you your majesty?”

“No.” Thorin said instantly. He shook his head and Bilbo felt the gentle thuds as beads connected with his skull. “No. Never you.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Thorin didn’t have the wrinkles around his face anymore, the silver in his hair was less than it had been, but there was still that shadowed look in his eyes. Bilbo took a quick breath, then leaned up and kissed his cheek like his father kissed his mother’s, like he’d been thinking about for ages and ages.

“Hello.” he whispered. “Hello, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Hello, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” Thorin’s face was flushed now, but he reached up and brushed his thumb along Bilbo’s jaw.

“That counts as a kiss!” someone bellowed. There was a loud thud and the dwarf, definitely Nori, yelped. “That hurt!”

“Bilbo can we get a boat through your hole?” Fili called. A moment later there was a thud and both Fili and Kili were there, smushing Bilbo into the center of a Durin family hug.

“A bo- what do you need a boat for?”

“I want to find Tauriel.” Kili sounded elated. “If you could get through, then she-”

“Boys, I have to get back up myself, I can’t just pull up a boat-”

“What about cheese?” Bofur piped up. Bilbo realized that the entire company had encircled him. He was surrounded in a mass of dwarves. Stinky, hugging-too-tight, wonderful dwarves that he’d missed. “Bombur’s been talking about that recipe you sent him-”

“He sent me dozens of recipes, you’ll have to be more specific-” Bombur started.

“I told you he could break in, I don’t know why you’re still not giving me money!” that was Nori again, directed at Balin.

“These are the Halls-” Balin began.

“Bullshit, this is Bilbo, he stole from a dragon! This is all in a day’s work for him!”

“Have you seen my Gimli up there?” That was Gloin. “You know, my beautiful laddy, with the curly red hair and the most beautiful eyes, I haven’t been able to find him and we haven’t heard anything about him in a long time for a while, I’m starting to get worried-”

“He just got here, Gloin, don’t start yelling about your kid again-” that was a voice he didn’t totally recognize but he saw Bifur without an axe and grinning widely as he spoke.

Bilbo looked back up at Thorin, who was smiling at him in a way that made him come into focus and drown everything else out.

“I’m glad to see you, Bilbo.”

“I’m glad to see you too.” Bilbo smiled back at him. His dwarf reached up as if to touch his face again, but faltered.

“We’ve… we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“We do.” Bilbo agreed. “Bu-”

“Bilbo?” Someone shouted down the hole. He recognized his mother after a moment. He struggled out of the throng of dwarves much like a whale breaching for air. There was a shadow over the patch of sunlight from above, bits of dirt trickling in.

“I’m fine!” he yelled back. “Be careful, it’s a pretty hard landing at the bottom, I don’t want you to slip!”

“Wait that’s the burglar?” someone in the crowd said. There was a loud shushing noise, a thwap, and an ow.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, Mum, I’m alright!”

“Wait is that your mother?!” Kili and Fili said together.

“Did you find your dwarves?”

“I’m going to regret this-” Bilbo sighed, then he pitched his voice back up high. “I fell but I’m alright, I just didn’t realize how far down I was!” He paused for a moment, then shouted back. “Do we still have the apple picking ladders?”

“I’m sure we can dig one up-” there was his father. Poor Bungo was probably tearing his hair out. “-are you hurt?”

“No, he’s not, he said he’s alright-” his mother’s voice was muffled. “-we’ll go check, darling, stay out of trouble!”

“Can you throw down some cheese?” Bofur shouted.

“Bofur!”

“Oh some apples would be lovely.” Dori sighed.

“And some apples!” Bofur yelled a bit louder.

“Just send down his whole larder!” Kili yelled. “And a boat! I need the hole to be big enough for a boat!”

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. This hole was comfortable, and warm, and cozy. It was also full of Bilbo Baggins’ things. This hobbit had lived a remarkable life and thus his home was quite remarkable in many ways, but the most intriguing bit about this hole was the larger hole in the backyard. It was surrounded by stones, with a lovely set of carved steps going up to the house. It led to a sturdy but worn wooden ladder that had been used for apple picking but now served to connect the Halls of Mahal to Gardens of Yavanna. This ladder fell in the center of a massive stone hall, which was filled with flowers that hobbits would come down to tend to. The two races regularly wandered through Bilbo Baggins’ garden to meet - dwarves would come up for market day bearing gifts and coins, eyeing steaming bread and crisp red apples, while some of the more adventurous hobbits would slide down the ladder to inquire about repairs for their tools.

For Bilbo, though, this hole meant so much more. It meant thirteen dwarves crashing into his house ridiculously early in the morning to nag him into making them breakfast. It meant having his family, blood and not, over for dinner. It meant listening to his mother talk with Dori and Balin about tea, to his father engage Fili and Ori into long tales of age-old tales. It eventually meant Kili tugging a tall, red-haired elf into Bag End no. 2, covered in water while a tired Fili collapsing into a chair complaining that Kili and Tauriel hadn’t stopped making doe-eyes at each other.

It meant that, after a long conversation with tears and laughter and shy touches, Bilbo made dinner with a dwarf that made him laugh as he stole pie filling and got flour on his nose and in his beard. It meant that Bilbo would come back to market to find someone frowning on his porch with little metal bits twisted in his lap as he worked on making ornaments for Bilbo’s garden. It meant that Bilbo Baggins woke up next to Thorin Oakenshield, one hand tangled in that beautiful dark hair. It meant that they sat on the bench under the oak tree and blew smoke rings into the setting sun, holding hands.

When Frodo Baggins finally entered Yavanna’s Gardens, he found his uncle beaming like he hadn’t in years, with a braid in his curls and a ring on his finger. There were thirteen dwarves in the living room, and Frodo was just in time for tea.

---

Thanks for reading!

This is based off of a post made by @wheeloffortune-design about Bilbo digging his way into Halls of Mahal, which has literally been living in my brain since I read it. (and @gallusrostromegalus put down some delightfully funny comments that also made my day) So… here we are. You can find the post here, assuming the link works!

The AO3 link is here!

man i love bagginshield.

#writing #writers #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #the hobbit #bagginshield #thorin x bilbo #bilbo x thorin #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #my otp honestly #i started shipping this and never stopped

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creativeashproductions · 3 years

Text

If I Stay Part Two (Final) // Luke Patterson

Summary: Life as you knew it shattered and now you’re left picking up the pieces with memories of a boy with hazel eyes in your dreams. A handsome guitarist who easily becomes your unseen number one supporter. If only you could see him again.

Warning: Swearing, mention of injuries, mention of car accident and talk of death.

Words: 2.5k (excluding the song lyrics of “I Won’t Let Go” by Rascal Flatts)

A/N: Second and last part to If I Stay! I really enjoyed this story because I adored Charlie St. Cloud and I really enjoyed If I Stay. The second part to Lost Time will be up soon when I feel confident in the storyline of it.

If I Stay Part One

Masterlist

In a split second for the first time, you felt yourself, poof, away to a sterile white room staring down at the person in the bed. Covered in cuts and bruises of all colours, was you. A broken version of you that made you sick to your stomach. You desperately yearned to go back to being unaware.

“I’m…a ghost?” You breathed looking at your blemish-free hands, a juxtaposition to the arm in a cast. Then in a nauseating thought, the grief faded for fear on your family. Had they survived? You ran out of the room straight to a nurse, “Where are my parents! Where’s my cousin Lou?”

Of course, the nurse was unaware of an upset, emotional teenage girl, a victim of a car crash and in a battle for her life. Realizing no one would answer you spent hours running around the hospital searching for your parents or Lou.

“Lou!” You shouted through the halls unfazed as you ran literally through gurneys and medical equipment even the odd doctor.

At the very last room, you found Lou sitting up in a bed staring silently at the white wall with an official man seated by the side of her bed. He held a clipboard in his hand.

“Lou, how are you feeling?” The man spoke, his white coat embroidered with his profession and labelling him a psychiatrist.

“Fine.”

“You’ve suffered a trau-“

“I’m aware. I was there. I saw a paramedic violently hitting my cousin’s chest, I saw so much blood. I didn’t know there could be that much blood!” Lou snapped glaring the man down, “I saw the brains of the idiot that caused the accident! You don’t know shit! Oh, your little degree magically has you able to understand what I’m going through?!”

“Lou-“

“You wanted me to talk! So, let me talk!” Lou screamed at the man startling you with the anger, “My cousin! My best friend, my SISTER is up in a bed in a coma! A coma because I wanted to go to a stupid resort to ski! It’s my fault! And no one will tell me anything about my aunt and uncle!”

You stumbled back at the pain Lou displayed, it broke your heart, and you couldn’t listen to it anymore.

“Lou, let’s talk about survivor’s gu-“

You fell through the closed door before you could hear anything more from the psychiatrist. You ambled around the floor aimlessly feeling the worst you ever had and to think for two weeks you hadn’t been aware of anything.

“Did you hear?” A nurse spoke from just outside your hospital room. You jogged over reading her name tag of Melissa.

“Heard what?”

“The father of the mountain accident he flatlined in surgery. Doctors got him back, but they’re concerned about brain damage.” Nurse Melissa told her fellow nurse with concern pinching her expression.

“That’s the father of the Y/L/N patient, right?” Nurse Lucy spoke glancing at your hospital door, “I hope they’ll be alright.”

“That poor girl has quite the decision to make. To live or to die. It’s all on her now.” Nurse Melissa replied, “Her mother died-“

“Little unprofessional to gossip about patients in earshot of everyone. Did you know that coma patients can often hear things while unconscious? Or my favourite tip…did you learn about HIPAA?” The doctor on duty asked, staring the two nurses down with a glared. Each nurse shifted on their feet, “Stop gossiping and do your job. I’m sure you can change bedpans or give sponge baths.”

The nurses scattered, leaving you standing in shock at the information given to you. Your mother was dead, your father could be brain dead, and Lou wasn’t coping well. Leaving you in a state of wondering what to do. Should you stay in a world without your parents or let go to join them in heaven. The thought had you collapsing into screams on the floor as everyone went about their work; walking through the hysterical teenager.

A warm hand slid into your own with a comforting squeeze, but all you wanted was to feel your father wrap you in a bear hug. To listen to your mother’s laugh, move in the air with that beautiful musical sound. You want Lou to be okay.

Luke was quiet as he sat the floor, squeezing your hand every once in a while. You slumped into his arms, staring unfeeling at the door that separated your ghostly form from your physical one. Luke poofed you to the Molina garage right on the couch where he held you tight for god knows how long.

“She’s dead.” Your voice cracked tears rolling down your cheeks once more, “My mom is dead.”

“Sh.” Luke cooed pressing his lips against your temple as you curled further into his body. His heart broke for you as the gravity of the situation became crystal clear.

“Hi.” Luke’s eyes met the concerned ones of Julie Molina, a girl that would undoubtedly know how you felt. The thing that connected you being the loss of a mother figure, “I’m Julie.”

Your blank expression lifted to see a girl you had often seen in the halls of Los Feliz High School and vaguely remembered her. She had been performing during the Spirit Rally months ago.

“I’m a friend of Luke, Reggie and Alex. I’m sorry you’re going through this, but you are more than welcome to stay here. You can be in my room or here if you’re more comfortable.” Julie offered knowing exactly how you felt when a year ago, she had been grieving the loss of her mom.

“Thank you.” You replied hoarsely. Exhaustion from sobbing closed your eyes, something that was different to Luke as a ghost was your ability to sleep.

Alex theorized that you could sleep because your body was still alive, whereas the boys had no physical body. They were just ghosts. He and Reggie were in the studio sadly watching as you slipped in a deep unsettled sleep. Luke’s broken eyes met his best friends before he had Alex come over.

“Please stay with her.” Luke whispered, leaving the tall blonde to switch places. Luke disappeared without another word.

“Where’s-“Julie began, but Reggie interrupted her with a sad smile.

“Remember when we took you to Luke’s house? He’ll do the same but with her.” Reggie supplied coming to sit on the floor in front of the couch; his hand grabbing yours in support.

In a medium-sized house with a backyard kept tidy by the neighbours, Luke found his way to your room. His grabbed a few items of clothing and sneakers into a discarded bag before he dropped the bag off in Julie’s bedroom. His next stop was your hospital room. Luke settled himself in the chair beside you watching your chest go up and down from the breathing tube.

“Hi. I don’t know you in this form, but I know your spirit. I’m not good with my words, but I’m going to try. Two weeks ago I met you in a record store, and I fell in love faster than I can tune my guitar and believe me I have the record in the band. I never believed in love at first sight, but I also didn’t believe in ghosts, but here we are!” Luke chortled leaning to place his hand on yours, but it slipped through.

His smile saddened, “As much as I love holding you and kissing your head… I’d much prefer feeling that aching and yearning feel in my gut. If I felt that then it meant you would be alive and well. I’d rather be sad that I can’t feel you than have you die so young.”

Luke saw your eyelids flicker and he hoped it was because you could hear him.

“You have so much to live for. It’s gonna be hard. I can’t deny that, but I need you to stay. Stay alive and fight for me. For Lou.” Luke choked, squeezing his eyes shut grateful when a hand rested on his shoulder. He knew it was Alex.

“Whatever you’re saying. Continue.” Alex whispered, “It’s working, her body is slowly becoming transparent.”

Alex’s words were further proven as Nurse Melissa jogged in surprised as she took vitals, “Well I’ll be damned. You decided to fight.”

Alex and Luke shared a relieved expression as you got even more strong. Together they returned to the garage. Luke was able to press one kiss to your forehead before you flickered once, twice, thrice before you dissipated.

In that hospital room, a beautiful thing occurred. Your eyes opened. Luke swore the birds sang better at the moment.

Recovery was hard. Relearning the little things, you took for granted was frustrating. Lou would hover as if you would disappear and you thought you were going insane. If you were waking up screaming by nightmares of the crash than it was waking confused on dreams that felt like memories.

The small victories helped like when you walked the entire hospital or when you were able to use the toilet and not the bedpan. The best win was being discharged to Lou’s parents and only needing outpatient physical therapy. Six months later, your father was awake and getting better; the loss of your mother still burnt hot and red.

It was on the sixth month anniversary when you walked down an oddly familiar street. Merritt happily trotting on his afternoon walk; Merritt had been an immense help. In your first month of recovery post coma, you met Merritt who would become your service dog.

A sense of déjà vu nudged you as you took in a vintage styled record store you swore you knew before. Continuing on you stop again at a toy story with a dollhouse.

“My cousin had one…for her unborn niece.” The sentence floated in your mind, but you couldn’t put a conversation.

“Caspar?” A male voice recalled in a distant memory of a dream a few days ago. You couldn’t think of anyone who had that voice, and absolutely no way had you ever seen that dollhouse before.

“Just coincidence.” You mumbled scratching Merritt’s head as his wet nose nudged your head before you could worry more. You watched people roaming thankful that you could do that, that you survived.

It was the building on the very end that confused you the most. Your eyes scanned the name proudly announcing itself as a tattoo parlour. A gasp left your lips as a vivid memory popped into your head with a boy that matched that voice you had thought of earlier.

“Luke. My name is Luke. Hey! I know this shop!” Luke beamed, stepping back to take in the storefront. In the twenty-five years since he last saw it, the blue faded into a teal, but the door was still the same as it always was.

“You have a tattoo?” You asked, scanning his arms bare in the cut off shirt he wore.You couldn’t see any ink on his skin. Luke couldn’t help the smirk on his faceat the blatant heated gaze.

“No.It was 1994. We just played our biggest gig at the time, and Bobby decided we should get tattoos.” Luke’s mouth twisted at the mention of his former friend, “Of course we were sixteen and Alex just about fainted in the shop. The guy took one look at Reggie and laughed at our fake IDs. Told us to come back in a few years.”

“So, you’re a ’90s kid.” You raised an eyebrow coming to a stop on the edge of the street, pressing the button to cross.

“Technically a ’70s kid. We died in ’95 a few hours before a life-changing gig.” The mood turned sombre as Luke thought back on that one night that life decided to raise both middle fingers at his dreams, “Death by a hot dog.”

You were so thankful for Merritt as he nestled up into a dog version of a hug as you felt the crippling anxiety. He was always there and knew about to help, support dogs don’t get enough credit.

When your eyes opened, it is like a dam broke and suddenly you remembered walking this street with three guys. The conversations and even the garage where one had held you in an incredibly vulnerable moment. Three ghosts that helped you when you needed it but didn’t know.

“Luke.” You breathed seeing a form shimmer in the sun as it flickered into a hazy form. Similar to how you did in the garage before going back to your body, he flashed three times. He solidified on the fourth with a great big grin.

“You can see me.” Luke cried, walking closer as he felt on top of the world when your eyes focused on him. He finally felt that yearning to meet your gaze fade away, “I missed you.”

You followed him to the Molina garage.

“I thought we’d never be able to talk again.” Luke sighed, reaching over, and he physically grabbed your hand, “I don’t know if I can touch you because of your former state or because of Julie.”

“Hm?” You questioned sitting cross legged on the bed.

“When I wasn’t watching over you, I was with Julie and the guys.” Luke went into detail about Caleb and the jolts, “We didn’t cross over because it’s not our unfinished business, but the stamps were destroyed when Julie hugged us. We’re sure that just like our instruments are connected to our souls that Julie did as well.”

Your hand brushed Luke’s cheek taking in the silky feeling of his skin, “I thought I was going crazy. I had these dreams of things I didn’t do in reality. My mind just wasn’t ready to remember the beauty of our connection.”

“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have.” Luke chuckled, thinking on how lucky he was to even know you, “You’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you.” You whispered gratefully to intertwine your fingers with Luke’s hand as well. It was like they were made for each regardless of the circumstances that brought you together, “I’m not ready for anything more than friendship, but I do strong feelings for you.”

“Being dead has an advantage. I can wait for eternity, and for you, I would. Just so you know, I have strong feelings for you as well.” Luke beamed scanning your face, taking in the blemishes from the crash. In the time you hadn’t been aware of him following coming out of the coma, he had become acquainted with your injuries.

When those little victories of weight-bearing, walking one step then two and finally that entire hallway Luke had been there unseen cheering you on. When you ‘graduated’ from the inpatient therapy Alex, Reggie and Luke had been there in silent support.

“Do what you need to do, and I’ll be right here for you.” Luke smiled gently, removing his guitar from the case, “Can I play something?”

You nodded in response as started strumming to a new song he had created in the last handful of months.

“It’s like a storm

That cuts a path

��It’s breaks your will

It feels like that

You think you’re lost

But your not lost on your own

You’re not alone

I will stand by you

I will help you through

When you’ve done all you can do

If you can’t cope

I will dry your eyes

I will fight your fight

I will hold you tight

And I won’t let go

It hurts my heart

To see you cry

I know it’s dark

This part of life

Oh it finds us all (finds us all)

And we’re too small

To stop the rain

Oh but when it rains

The song touched you so intimately as he sang the last few lines softly keeping eye contact with you.

“…Oh I’m gonna hold you

And I won’t let go

Won’t let you go

No I won’t”

You pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek that flushed at the feel of your lips against his skin. His heart fluttered and knew that you were his soulmate and he truly hoped Julie could find someone that could love her like she deserves. Luke’s heart belonged to yours and yours alone and vice versa for you as well.

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hushedhands · 3 years

Text

Challenge 83

@cecilia02 @everbeenminee Astra watching Andrew's coronation.

Astra Orders set an alarm for three o’clock in the morning, but she didn't need it. She didn't sleep at all.

Her mom had invited her to watch the once-in-a-generation event with her little cousins in Illéa Palace, but Astra had refused. Kile had offered to stay the night and keep her company, but that hadn't felt right either. Her dad had suggested not watching at all, which was cute but not really a solution. It would be weeks before footage of this faded from the news, and even then there would be anniversary specials forever. Astra might as well bite the bullet and watch the coronation that had almost been hers.

She wished her parents and her boyfriend weren’t making such a fuss about this. History was full of women who'd almost married princes and then gone home to watch them become kings. Her Uncle Maxon had left dozens of such women in his wake when he’d chosen to marry Aunt Ames, though Astra didn't have the telephone numbers of any of them. She wished Andrew had enough ex-girlfriends to make a proper club like the former Selected. It might have been nice to have someone who could understand this indescribable feeling without the need for words to name it.

It wasn't that she wanted to be married to Andy. She had no doubt at all that she'd made the right decision in calling off their relationship, and that was totally separate from the fact that she was now wildly in love with Kile.

But there was something aching in her chest as she watched the aerial shots of the city of London on the little television in her apartment in Angeles, curled up in her warmest fuzzy pajamas, hair in a messy version of her ballet bun, hands clinging to her mug of tea for dear life. Today was the day that standing by Andrew's side for his coronation went from something she wouldn’t do to something she couldn't do. She'd chosen to walk away, but this was the day that the door locked behind her.

Never was a hard word to give to Andrew, even if Kile had her Always.

The camera above the crowd panned past the palace Astra had stayed in that summer, and her chest squeezed hard. Whatever else had happened there, it had been a refuge for her at a time in her life when she’d needed it most.

It all started when she had been offered an incredible opportunity to dance for the Waverly ballet company in the summer, and an opportunity to attend an elite seminar with London’s royal ballet company in the spring, and Kile, realizing that he and Astra wouldn’t see each other for over six months, had broken up with her very suddenly.

Well, technically it had been a mutual decision. She hadn’t seen him much during his first year at school, and now she was off on her own adventures, and it seemed like a terrible time to try to make a relationship work. What if he met someone amazing at university? What if she met someone in Waverly or London? Was it fair to deny themselves new relationships and experiences just because they’d always been together? Weren’t they technically together by default, anyway?

It was a reasonable question. If you married someone you’d had playdates with for as long as you could remember, and you never even tried to date someone else, it was probably a relationship by default… right?

As she got on the plane for London, it had hit her hard that she wouldn’t have a hope of seeing Kile again, maybe for an entire year. The earliest she’d be back in Angeles was the next fall, and that’s exactly when he’d be leaving to go back to school again. And this time they wouldn’t talk to each other on the telephone almost every single day, and she wouldn’t slip secret notes in the care packages his parents sent him from home, and he wouldn’t surprise her by sitting in the audience during a matinee performance after sneaking back into town without telling her...

And maybe he never would again.

It was possible she’d cried the whole flight overseas, it was hard to remember. She must have rehydrated somehow, or she’d have shriveled up and died of the heartbreak. That time was all a blur now.

But what Astra remembered clearly, sitting on her sofa four years later, was the way she’d felt walking into that little old palace on the north side of the city and realizing that it was essentially hers for the season. It really paid to have a paranoid king for an uncle sometimes, because Maxon had pulled a dozen favors with the English royal family to get Astra somewhere safe and comfortable to live for a few months. She was technically an Illéan princess by title, so he wouldn’t hear of letting her rent a crumby apartment somewhere in the city, and besides, wherever she stayed needed to have enough room for a security detail. Still, even for a small palace, it was a palace and it was hers.

The old place had plenty of full-time staff that kept it in good shape as an estate of historical significance to the English monarchy, but Astra herself didn’t have maids or butlers, or a chef to keep her fed. At night, everyone who worked to keep the palace maintained went home, so it was only her and the security detail.

But she was allowed to order takeout from restaurants around town, so on her very first night alone she ordered enough food to live off of for a while, until she could get to a grocery store. She sprawled on a sofa in the downstairs sitting room, doodling in the notebook her Aunt May had given her for her last birthday, until there was a surprise knock on the archway in the entrance of the sitting room.

“Hello.” Andrew stood there, still in his business suit from the day, though with no tie, and with the top button undone. He looked ruffled, and in his hands he carried a large bottle of red wine. “Sorry to barge in… there isn’t exactly a doorbell in this place, and without staff to handle arrivals and departures… well, I did knock.” he awkwardly concluded.

Astra, still in her tank top and stretchy pants from the plane, would have felt severely underdressed to received a prince at a palace, except this was one of her oldest and best friends, and some of the ache in her heart from leaving Kile on the other side of the world eased away just from looking at him. She hugged him, “You don’t need to knock. It’s good to see you.”

“And you.” he hugged her back. “Ah, and here. A housewarming gift.” he offered her the wine.

“You’re just in time for dinner.”

“Am I?”

“It should be here soon. The finest spicy noodles and sautéed vegetables in the land. Although, if there’s no doorbell…”

“The guard at the gate will take it from the delivery driver and have someone bring it in.” he grinned.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go hunt down something to open that bottle.” she said.

A new city, a change of scenery, some delicious New Asian food, a bottle of old wine, a dear old friend… this was the recipe to get over a breakup. Astra knew it, because she already felt worlds better, just struggling to find a way into the wine bottle. There wasn’t a corkscrew in the kitchens that they could find, and this palace didn’t have its own wine cellar, which was the only other place they could think to find wine accessories. In the end, Andrew took an impressive, ancient sword off of a display rack on a wall at the top of the grand staircase and carefully poked the sharp end down until it was lodged into the cork.

Astra laughed so hard her sides hurt as she twisted the bottle out in front of her and Andrew slowly stepped backward. After a couple of tries, the cork loosened up enough that he could use brute force to pull the rest of it out.

When the food arrived, they carried it up to the top floor, to a balcony that overlooked the city, and they had a picnic of sorts.

“Where’s Lucas? You two are usually a package set.” Astra asked between bites of spicy noodles.

“Still finishing up his first year at university.”

“Oh, of course! Kile— “ She stopped abruptly, her chest squeezed tightly, her tongue fell heavy in her mouth, and she drowned the bitter taste of his name on her lips with expensive wine.

“Oh dear. That won’t do.” Andrew leant over and brushed away an errant tear from her cheek. “You mean to tell me… well, he’s safe isn’t he? He’s not unwell?”

“No, no he’s fine. He’s at school… and I’m here.”

Andrew studied her face carefully. He’d met Kile and Astra on the same day, at the same moment, so they’d been friends for exactly the same amount of time. He knew that they’d been together romantically for almost seven years now, the teenage equivalent of a sixty-year marriage. “So you’re… taking time apart?”

“We’ve decided to go our separate ways.” Astra said, the words soft and wispy in her throat. “We’re not… we’re not headed in the same direction anymore. We might never head in the same direction again. After university, he wants to see the world. And I… I might travel around for a while as a dancer, but I can’t imagine not being there for Addy once she becomes Queen… Even if that wasn’t true, we won’t have a good chance to be in the same city for at least a year… and a lot can happen in a year.”

Andrew took a large sip from his glass and then refilled hers.

“That’s really difficult, Astra… I’m so sorry. I know how much you love each other. It must be hell, knowing that you’re growing apart from the person you’re closest to in the world.”

Astra choked a sob in her wineglass and Andrew’s eyes widened, “God, I’m sorry! What a terrible thing to say—“ he sat both of their glasses safely aside and wrapped her in a warm hug.

Astra got his suit all wet from her tears, but she felt comfortable in his arms. “I’m not crying because of you, stupid.” She explained when she had the breath to do so. “It’s definitely because of him. I just… I didn’t think anyone would understand. But you do.”

“I don’t.” Andy rushed to correct her. “Not really. I’ve never experienced anything like that. The closest I can imagine is if… if I lost touch with someone in the Palace kid gang. You’re my best friends, apart from Luke, and I’ve known you forever. If I had to say goodbye to one of you, to lose you forever… it’s not even close to what you’re feeling, but just the thought hurts enough for me to know that you’re going through hell.”

Astra sniffled and collected her wineglass again, ready for more sips, content to allow herself to be comforted by her friend. “Hell has better wine than I expected, I’ll give it that much.”

“Not a bad view, either.” Andrew agreed with a small chuckle, looking out at the city.

“Didn’t expect one of my very best friends to come with me to hell.” Astra timidly admitted.

“And I’m not leaving until I get you out of it.” he’d promised.

Andrew always did have words as sweet as honey.

They drank the whole bottle that night, between the two of them. They had as good an excuse as two teenagers needed: they couldn’t find a wine stopper. Andrew offered to stay the night with her so that she wouldn’t be alone, but now that the world was blurry and warm from the wine, Astra felt delightfully sleepy. She was going to get her first good night’s sleep since losing Kile. So Andrew left, promising to bring breakfast the next morning to check on her.

He checked on her a lot.

He brought her breakfast and dinner every day, and he’d probably have brought her lunch too, except that she was always at her dance seminar during the daytime. Astra ended every night with her body pleasantly tired from dancing, a new half a bottle of wine in her stomach, and her mind full of whatever nice, easy conversation she’d had with Andrew just before bed. Her first week in England flew by.

That Friday night, Andrew appeared in the doorway to the sitting room right on schedule, two bottles of wine in hand.

“You’re mad.” Astra giggled.

“It’s the weekend.” he argued. “You don’t have to dance tomorrow, and I don’t have any public appearances to make until next Tuesday.”

“You’re off work until Tuesday? You English royals really know how to take it easy.” she laughed. She didn’t think her cousins had taken a three day weekend in their lives.

“We’ll keep the second bottle on standby, just in case we decide we want to try it.”

But of course, they were young and it was a Friday night, they definitely wanted to try it. Somewhere after the first glass of the second bottle, refilling glasses got too risky and they started drinking straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth. There was a television show on, showing a concert happening on the other side of the city in a stadium Astra could just see if she stood tall enough on the balcony.

Andrew watched her going almost en pointe to try to spy the stadium, mesmerized by her strength and balance and grace. “Can we dance?”

Astra smiled brightly. Dancing was her favorite in the world, of course they could dance! They danced in their socks to the music on the television until Andrew collapsed, out of breath, on the sofa. Astra joined him, blood pumping pleasantly fast through her veins.

“I’m out of shape!” he bemoaned.

“I’m a professional athlete, don’t compare yourself to me. You did just fine.”

“I did? Do you think I could join the ballet?” He laughed giddily.

She’d never seen him giddy like this.

Andy carried the weight of his country on his shoulders, he always had. Addy hadn’t really started bearing Illéa on her back until she was eleven or twelve, old enough to understand what was coming for her, but Andrew had always been a future king, even when he was tiny. Seeing him now, not a care in the world, laughing about joining the ballet… Astra’s heart twisted in her chest and for the first time since breaking up with Kile, it had absolutely nothing to do with him.

He had no part of this.

Astra leant forward and kissed Andrew on the warm, red cheek.

He looked at her, stunned, smile falling off his face. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know… just because. Just for you.”

“Just for me…” he’d mused.

“For being good to me. For taking care of me while I’m here. For… for being you. Yeah… just for you.” Astra nodded, this time more certain that the words made sense outside of her wine-fogged mind.

“I should be me more often.” he chuckled.

Astra blinked.

Should he?

***

There was a version of Astra’s stay in London where she pined away for her ex-boyfriend every moment she got, and maybe poured that pain into her dancing because it was overflowing from her heart and needed somewhere to go. That’s what she’d been expecting deep down. But what really happened was, she found a favorite market to buy groceries from, she found a bakery between her palace and the dance studio that kept her in much-needed carbs, she found a park with a pond where lots of locals liked to walk their dogs, which meant she got to pet a lot of dogs, and she started falling in love with the city.

And then there was Andrew.

He knew her so well, and they’d loved each other as friends for so long, and spending those mornings and nights with him felt so easy, so smooth.

And he was handsome and kind and… ugh, handsome. Astra didn’t regret kissing him on the cheek. Not even when he stood with her on the balcony a week later, watching the sunset, and she laced her hand with his.

“Are you quite alright?” he’d asked, not because she’d grabbed his hand, but just because he was still so worried about her.

“When I got here, I thought the answer to that question would be no forever.” Astra confessed. “And listen… I don’t really know who I am without Kile, he’s been a part of me for my whole life… but these past two weeks I’ve started to find out… and I like it. I like getting to know me.”

Andrew smiled down at her and squeezed her hand.

“And I like you too, Andrew.”

His smile became pained, “Astra—“

“It’s okay. You’re the next king and blah blah blah.” he laughed, because there were so few people in the world who could blah blah blah being an heir to a throne, but Astra was certainly one of them.

“It isn’t that.” he corrected her with a shake of his head. “It’s… you’re getting out of a serious relationship. You can’t like anyone yet—“

“Yes I can.” Astra scoffed, a challenging glint in her eyes, “Watch me.”

“But we’ve been friends our whole lives, too. Wouldn’t you like to like someone different? A stranger, maybe?”

“Where would I find one of those?” Astra lamented, only half-joking. Having a king for an uncle really limited one’s opportunities to meet strangers.

Andrew peered at her closely, then seemingly made up his mind all at once, saying, “Put on a dress.”

“What?”

“Put on a dress, I’ve got a surprise for you!”

Just like that, Andrew was downstairs talking to his security team and Astra was upstairs trying to figure out what dress to wear. There was a sweet springtime yellow thing… and then there was the red thing.

Astra made up her mind quickly. She chose the red thing. She chose everything that the red thing implied.

She appeared at the bottom of the stairs and Andrew’s eyes widened.

“Is this alright? I have other dresses—“

“S’perfect—“ he muttered and then cleared his throat, “Ahem, that is perfect Astra. Let us be off.”

He formally offered her his arm and she accepted with a proud smirk at the flush in his cheeks, then they ducked into his car and his driver whisked them off across town.

“What are we doing?” Astra asked after they took a turn to a part of town she’d never been to before.

“Did I not say it is a surprise?”

“Yes, but—“

“We’ve got guards, and I’ve gone to this place before. There’s no need to worry.”

“Andrew—“

“It’s where I go when I need to meet strangers.”

Astra blinked, dumbfounded.“You? Meet strangers?”

“How else am I supposed to find a queen? ” he muttered mutinously.

Astra stared over at him for a long moment, never having given it a second thought. Addy would be free to date whomever she chose, but if all else failed she could always have a Selection to find her husband. Andrew had nothing like that to choose from.

Astra was surprised when the car pulled to a stop at the backdoor to a nightclub. Could princes of England really go clubbing? But this place looked like it had tight security, and there were signs posted prominently that there were no cameras allowed on the premises. Andrew’s and Astra’s bodyguards stayed close by as they entered the club and Astra’s ears were assaulted by music so loud she could no longer hear it. All she could hear was the beat.

Andrew took her to the bar and bought her whatever drink she wanted, and then leant in close to her ear so that she could hear him say, “What do you think?”

“It’s a little loud!”

He chuckled, “About the strangers.”

“Oh!” Astra looked around as she spun the little umbrella from her pink drink between her fingers. There were all kinds of men here. Some older than her, some younger, some looked athletic and some looked bookish, and they were all having fun, losing themselves to the same beat. “What do you think?!” she yelled at him.

He looked around at the women in the room, sizing them up, and then shrugged, “Hard to say.”

“How do we meet them?!” Astra was yelling, while somehow he was able to keep his voice low and still be heard when he leaned close to her ear.

“Honestly? They usually just come up to me…” he confessed.

Astra rolled her eyes. Royals.

Sure enough, several women came up to Andrew and threw themselves at him while he and Astra waited for even one man to make a pass at her.

“Maybe you’re intimidating them away!” Astra suggested.

“Maybe so. Do you want me to go dance?”

Did she want him to go dance with one of the strange women in the club so that a strange man might come up to her and hit on her?

Not really, no. She wanted to dance with him. She liked dancing with him. More than that, she didn’t want to dance with anyone else. And she didn’t want him to dance with anyone else. She took his hand and dragged him out to the dance floor, their bodyguards hilariously close by, and they started moving.

It wasn’t dancing the way Astra was trained to think of it. There was no choreography, no gentle swell of melody to carry her movements, this was something far more basic than that. The best part was how quickly she was able to stop thinking about anything but her own breath, the sweat on her brow, and the man in front of her.

There was nothing else in the world. For as long as they could stay with the beat, there was only the beat. Endorphins that she associated with a long hard workout flooded her body, and Astra felt good. And beyond feeling good, she did not feel sad. She did not miss anybody. Not her family on the other side of the world, and not Kile. She was complete right here. All she had to do was make this last forever.

“I am not a professional dancer.” Andrew reminded her, breath coming far too fast to get that whole sentence out without gasping for air several times in the middle.

Astra giggled at him, then hugged him close, “This place is magical!” she yelled in his ear.

“Magical?”

And just to prove the point, and to express her gratitude, she pecked his lips with a kiss.

That was it, right? A kiss of gratitude?

As first kisses went, it was silly. They were both too out of breath to do more than mash their lips together for a second and then go back to gasping for air. Andrew led them away for water and after a few minutes to recover, he was ready to try again.

Astra helped him find a way to move to every other beat instead of every beat, essentially cutting the speed of his dancing in half for him. That helped tremendously. But to help him do this, she had to wrap her arms around his neck to guide him, and once he had the beat it was all much less frantic and much more sensual. This time when they kissed, it was not a silly peck on the lips.

Astra had only ever kissed Kile before, but since that was never happening again, she didn’t allow herself to think about that. She didn’t think about how Andrew was taller than Kile, and his cheeks were softer because he shaved every single morning without fail. She didn’t think about anything except how nice it was not to feel pain. When she was with Andrew, especially when she was kissing Andrew, she felt nothing but joy.

Was she using him to feel better?

If someone made you feel better and wanted to be around you, was that even using them?

They stayed at the club until Andrew was too tired to go on (and even Astra was ready to admit she was tired), and then they climbed back into Andrew’s car and rode off into the night.

Astra’s ears were ringing with the sudden silence, and they were both flushed and dripping with sweat. Astra was ready to bet her face matched the red of her dress and her hair, and was ready to feel embarrassed about that somewhere beneath her exhaustion, when Andrew slid his hand over to hers and squeezed.

She looked over at him and smiled.

It was past 2 in the morning when they got back to Astra’s palace, and Astra couldn’t believe they’d spent so many hours getting swept away like that.

“I’d do that every night if I thought my hearing could survive it.” Astra admitted as they struggled to get up the stairs, feeling distinctly like they had overcooked pasta for legs.

Astra took an ice-cold bath and then rolled her legs out to try to avert any soreness the next morning, and then she found Andrew in one of the guest bedrooms. “Thanks for the dancing… sorry we didn’t meet any strangers.” she grinned.

“I’m not.” he admitted, with complete candor.

“Well then, no future queen for you and no non-childhood friend to date for me.”

“Perhaps you could find a childhood enemy?” he suggested, and she laughed at the dryness of voice as he made the joke.

“Yes, I’ll have to make do.” she agreed.

***

The kisses felt stolen for the first week, like they were getting away with something they weren’t supposed to, but then one day Andrew showed up with Astra’s favorite breakfast, and two paper travel cups of tea, and he pecked her on the lips in greeting and it didn’t feel stolen at all. It felt as comfortable as an old sweater, and made her feel just as warm inside.

To celebrate the end of her first month in London, Astra ordered dinner for them from the same restaurant they’d eaten at on her very first night in town. He showed up looking frazzled after a long day of talking with members of parliament, but all the more pleased to see her because that stress was over now. And, of course, he brought her the same kind of wine they’d shared that first night.

Astra had bought a corkscrew weeks ago now, so they didn’t need to resort to using ancient swords to open their alcohol, which made it slightly less interesting. Astra curled up against him on the balcony overlooking the city and kissed him every chance she got.

“You’re certainly in a mood.” he noted with a smile down at her, after their fourth surprise kiss.

“I’m just glad to be here.”

“Are you?” he seemed surprised. She didn’t blame him. It was quite a turn from her first weepy night a month ago.

“Yes. I think London’s been good for me.”

And maybe she meant the city, with her new favorite local spots and the friends she was making at the seminar, but maybe she meant Andrew. Maybe she couldn’t really tell the difference, and it was all just good for her.

“I am very glad to hear that.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go to Waverly in two months.” Astra admitted. “It’s an amazing opportunity for my career, not to mention I’ll get to visit my grandparents in Carolina all the time, but… I like London.”

This time she was blatantly talking about him.

“Well… London’s not going anywhere anytime soon, I suppose.” he pointed out, fully onto her game.

She hmm-ed into her wineglass, “I suppose not.”

“And you’re always welcome in London, you know.”

Astra giggled and shook her head, surprising him with another kiss as a reward for playing along with her silly euphemism.

Later that night, when the food was stashed away in the kitchen and the wine was mostly empty, Andrew joined Astra again on the balcony as she stood there with the springtime breeze blowing through her loose, curly hair. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I meant it, you know.” he said. “You could stay as long as you like. There’s a tremendous ballet company in London, perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Astra laughed, pressing a hand to his over her stomach and turning to look up at him. “Maybe someday.”

“You’re dead-set on going to Waverly, then?”

“Well, I’ve signed a contract.” she explained.

“Ah. They shall imprison you if you break it. I understand.”

His voice was always so serious when he joked, never giving away the game. She laughed at the thought and said, “Yes, there’s a special prison for ballet dancers who break their contracts, it’s especially brutal. I hear they make you dance to jazz all day.”

This time his lips brushed the placed where her shoulders met her neck, and her breath hitched at the sensation. “I shan’t extradite you.” he concluded, his warm lips brushing her skin. “I shall keep you here, safe and sound, far away from the ballet constables.”

Astra laced her fingers with his over her stomach and said, “They’re relentless, the ballet constables. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

His lips trailed up her neck and stopped at her ear where he said softly, “I think I can manage.”

Astra’s entire body erupted in chills, and suddenly she didn’t want to continue their elaborate, jokey banter about the consequences of her actions. She turned in his arms and pressed her lips roughly to his, knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that all she really wanted was to lose herself in the taste and the feel and the smell of him. Andrew was the only person in the world who made her not care about the future, and when his lips were on her skin that was doubly true.

It wasn’t exactly real happiness she felt when she was lying in bed with him, his sandy brown hair all ruffled, his arm slung across her like he was afraid she’d disappear in the night. True, meaningful, lasting happiness was something that required a lot of factors: feeling good about the present and hopeful about the future, and at peace with the past. Astra wasn’t at peace with her past, and she didn’t even want to think about the future, but the present… the present was so good. It was one out of three. One out of three wasn’t bad.

***

If Andrew’s parents noticed that he was essentially living with Astra that spring, they didn’t say anything about it. Maybe they just assumed that, since they were close friends, he was keeping her company and enjoying a nice, extended visit. And that was perfectly true, except that they were sharing a bed and occasionally a shower, and they shared a cup of coffee in the morning and a bottle of wine at night.

They didn’t go back to that club, but they found other ways to go out together without being photographed. There were secret tables in the kitchens of restaurants, special royal boxes in theaters, private trains to private estates, and one time there was a royal yacht. Astra was surprised that Andy had so much freedom, as the heir to the throne. Addy couldn’t have dreamed of roaming around Illéa the way that Andrew was gallivanting across his future kingdom. Sure, part of it was Andrew making sure Astra was having the time of her life— he probably didn’t usually venture away from home so much— but even so.

“Will you be able to keep this up once you’re king?” she’d asked him as they sat curled up together on a train ride returning from the south. “All this rambling.” she explained at his questioning look.

“Ah. No, there will certainly be less. But my job will be nothing nearly so intense as King Maxon’s, if that is what you’re thinking. For one thing, I’ve got parliament.”

Astra wasn't exactly sure how England’s parliament worked. She knew King Eoan set the legislative agenda, but he couldn’t pass any kind of law on his own. “I can’t believe they let you have a whole train to yourself, and you barely have to work.” she teased.

His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, and his thumb began tracing her upper arm as he said, “If you think my future job’s a scandal, you should see what our queen has to do. Host parties, go shopping, appear at events…” his voice sounded as if it was a strain to remain light and carefree. As if his words were more important than he wanted them to be.

Astra leaned her head on his shoulder. Those were all things she already did for Illéa. Well, she didn’t host many parties, but she sometimes helped her Aunt Ames out when things were especially overwhelming. It was strange to think that she had experience doing the same job as the Queen of England.

“All that, and she gets to retire young?”

“Assuming that whole heir business is sorted out sufficiently early.” he admitted.

“Oh, that.” Astra giggled.

“On the whole, it’s not a terrible job.” he said.

“No, not when you factor in the jewelry.” Astra agreed, still joking.

“Precisely.” Andrew nodded with a small smile against the top of her head.

Astra wasn’t sure why he didn’t return her joke with one of his own.

***

Though Astra very much enjoyed being swept off her feet by the prince, it was the quiet nights at the palace that meant the most to her. Sometimes, after dinner and a long, hot bath, her joints would feel well enough to practice some choreography in one of the drawing rooms. Andrew would play the piano for her, putting years of lessons to use for the first time. Sometimes her joints would not feel well enough for more dancing after a long day at the seminar, and he’d rub her battered feet and ankles until she melted into a puddle at the other end of the sofa or bed, or wherever they happened to be.

She’d ask him about his work, but he wouldn’t tell her much. Maybe he was worried about protecting state secrets, or maybe he didn’t want to worry her. Maybe he didn’t want her to see him in less than a good mood, because he was only there to make her happy. And how could she not be happy?

One night, in the middle of her second month in England, as she laid awake in their bed and brushed her fingers through his unruly hair (a sight so few had ever seen: the Heir to England with unruly hair), she pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear and said softly, “What are we going to do when I have to leave for Waverly?”

Sleepily, he’d pried his eyes open, his eyelashes fluttering against her skin. “What would you like to do?”

“Freeze this moment in amber. Live in it forever.”

“Be young, in love, and carefree forever?” he’d smirked.

“In love?” she’d hesitated, surprised. They’d only been attached at the lips for six weeks now, as impossible as it seemed. Hadn’t they enjoyed half a lifetime together already?

“Oh dear.” He’d lifted his head up so that he could look in her eyes, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Astra shook her head, “It’s okay. I do love you Andrew.”

“Do you?” he sounded amazed.

And she did. She’d always loved him, just as he’d always loved her. They’d grown up together, perfect friends, how could she not love him?

“I’m sorry you didn’t know that already.” she let her hand fall from his hair down his spine, coming to rest on his bare lower back. She traced the shape of a heart there with her finger and he shuddered. “You’re one of the best friends I’ll ever have, and I love you.”

He smiled and returned his cheek to her chest, listening for her heartbeat. “Yes. This moment would do just fine.”

“We could freeze this moment and allow archaeologists to discover it in a few thousand years.”

“And if we don’t like the future, we could simply freeze this moment again.” he agreed.

“You don’t think you’d be bored after a few thousand years?”

He grinned, one hand tracing her ribcage lazily, “I could find a few ways to keep myself occupied.”

***

Astra didn’t notice the first time there was a photographer waiting outside of the dance studio after her rehearsals. And then, a couple of days later, when a rumor sourced to a local food delivery driver was printed in a Sunday paper saying that he delivered Prince Andrew’s favorite kind of curry to the Palace where Astra was staying a couple of times per week. She didn’t mind when Andrew suggested they stop sneaking out to exclusive clubs or restaurants around the city, because staying in was extremely entertaining.

But it was hard to miss when Andrew nervously appeared in her doorway one evening and said, instead of ‘hello’ or ‘how was your day’, “Grandmother has asked to meet you.”

Astra gaped. Queen Cerridwen, King Eoan’s mother, had never met any of the Illéan royals in-person. Maybe she’d met Uncle Maxon back before he was King, when she was still the active queen, but maybe not even then. “Me? Wh…why?”

Andrew ran a hand through his hair and ruffled it in a way that would have been funny if he hadn’t look so stressed. He sank to his knees to sit next to Astra, who’d been sitting on the floor, using the coffee table to hold her nail polish bottles as she painted her toes. “The rumors got to her.”

“Rumors… about us?”

Andrew nodded, “I’ve had the press department squashing everything the second they hear about it, and it’s bought us some time, but the rumors have been consistent for long enough now—“

“The rumors that we’re spending time together?” Astra asked.

“Yes.” Andrew looked faintly nauseous.

Astra smiled and traced his cheekbone with her thumb soothingly, “We are spending time together. We’re not being falsely accused.”

“No, I know… I think, just… I think we need to talk.”

Those were heavy words.

Kile had been the last one to say those words to her, and the outcome had been really unpleasant.

“You didn’t bring wine?” Astra noticed for the first time.

“I wanted us to keep our heads clear.”

“Are you ending this?” Astra asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“No.” Andrew promised. “But we’ve never talked about what this is before. I’ve been able to buy us a little slice of time to ourselves, but I’ve reached the end of my tricks.”

Astra looked into his eyes carefully, noticing the strain there for the first time, “You never said you had to use tricks…”

“I didn’t want you to have to worry about it. I wanted to be… uncomplicated. Simple. After everything you’ve been through, I thought that you needed simplicity.”

“I did.” she admitted, chest suddenly aching at the thought that the simple times might be gone.

He brushed an errant curl behind her ear and smiled bracingly, “I am not here to tell you that the world is ending. Merely that people have found us out. They’re asking questions that I do not have the answers to, and in lieu of my answers, they are coming to their own conclusions. Grandmother amongst the rest.”

“She wants to meet me because she knows we’ve been dating?”

Andrew huffed a breath, “It’s her way of forcing the matter at hand. When it comes to me, to dating the English Heir, there is dating and there is Dating. Courting. Something official, not just between you and I, but between us and all of England.”

Astra looked a little creeped out at the thought, “They… want in on our dates?”

Andrew rubbed his brow, “In a manner of speaking… there comes a point when I’m meant to introduce anyone I am seeing to the people of England as a potential future queen.”

“Why? It’s not like they get to vote on who stays in your bed, or in our case, my bed.”

“No, but it’s…” he seemed so uncomfortable at having to explain this to her. Probably any English girl he dated would have seen this coming a mile away and known what to expect. Astra blushed a little, feeling inadequate for the first time all spring. “It’s a bit like a small Selection, perhaps. They get to know the person their prince is dating and they get to watch me court their future queen.”

“Oh, and your gramma wants you to do that with me?” What a relief to know she was just a confused old woman who’d misunderstood.

“Precisely. Meeting Grandmother at her estate in Scotland would signal the official start to our official courtship.”

Astra felt all the tension leave her body and she smirked at him, “Your gramma is proposing marriage to me on your behalf.”

“Basically.”

“What’s she in such a hurry for? We’re teenagers.”

Andrew let out an exasperated sigh, relieved now that he could see Astra wasn’t panicking and throwing everything she owned into a bag to haul back to Illéa on the first flight out the next morning. “I don’t know. You’re a good match, obviously. My father is close with your uncle, but it would be smart to solidify that alliance with some kind of marriage.”

“Very sexy and romantic.” Astra giggled.

“Isn’t it just?” he agreed wryly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, “I suppose she’s worried because I’ll be king in a few more years. She doesn’t want me to have to go through that enormous transition of responsibility by myself. I suppose finding a queen would be much harder as king than as prince, too. Father’s even asked me if I want to take a few months next year and devote myself to dating full time before he begins handing off responsibilities to me in earnest. As part of a formal ascension plan.”

“What a conversation.”

“You can’t begin to imagine.”

Astra collapsed into giggles, doing her best to imagine it anyway. King Eoan asking his son if he wanted to be a full-time, 40-hours-per-week dater as part of his obligations to the crown.

“It’s good you think this is funny.” he sulked, but he only partially meant it. He was genuinely glad she was laughing instead of crying.

Fairly certain her toes were dry now, Astra stood and screwed the caps on her polish, stashing the bottles in a drawer next to her vanity. She stretched, fingers reached for the ceiling, going up on her toes, and as she came down she whisked her loose t-shirt over her head.

“Astra.” Andrew cleared his throat, forcing his eyes away from her lacy, pale blue and white bra, “Clear heads, remember?”

“I’m just getting comfortable.” she said in a voice that clearly told him she was not just getting comfortable.

He stood and she came over and loosened his tie for him. He placed a hand over hers when she made for his shirt’s buttons and said, “Do you want this to last past April?”

Astra gulped, “I wish April was forever.”

He stared at her, the only flicker of doubt coming from the small twitch of his eyebrow. “That’s not the same thing.”

“… I know.”

“You don’t have to answer me tonight, but we should talk about it. If we keep going past April, I suspect it will make the most sense for you… for you to meet grandmother.”

This time, when Astra continued with his buttons, it was a genuine effort to help him get comfortable, and not a ploy to see his bare chest. Seeing his bare chest was an undeniable bonus, though. She linked her fingers with his and dragged him towards her bed, and then she flopped down on her back and stared up at the top of her four poster canopy. “So what would happen after I met your grandmother?”

“You’d get some secret service protection.” Andrew laid on his stomach and used his finger to draw doodles on the smooth, soft skin above her navel. His breath felt warm as it puffed against her ribs, but her skin erupted in goosebumps anyway, and he pressed a chaste kiss to them. He knew the effect he had on her, and it only made him want to cherish her more.

“I’d go back to Illéa, though. To Waverly.”

“Yes. We’d coordinate that. It would probably be a less hectic place for you than in England.”

“You think England will be hectic if you announce we’re officially dating?”

Andrew huffed one dry, humorless laugh. “When they find out I’m thinking of making you their princess… sweetheart, it’s going to be a nightmare of a circus.”

“Terrifying clowns?”

“The most terrifying.” he agreed.

Astra sighed, “Then what? How long would we get to date before they’d expect you to decide whether you want to marry me or not?”

“Given the time you’d be spending in Illéa, we could get a year.”

“A year.” Astra liked the sound of that. Sure, she’d dance until her contract was up in Waverly, but then she’d come back and get to do this with Andrew for months and months. His dad might even let him date her full-time. Morning, noon, and night cuddles.

“Yes, and then…”

“And then a fairytale proposal. Would it have to be public?”

“Gosh, no.” Andrew promised. “But it would need to have a good story behind it. Take you somewhere meaningful—“

“Like the club where we first kissed.” Astra teased, running her hands through his hair.

“No, not at all.” he chuckled.

“And would I get to wear one of the crown jewels or something?”

Andrew lifted his head to look at her. “Would you want one?”

Astra laughed. It was all so completely silly. She was an eighteen year old girl! A boy was offering her a crown jewel! She laughed some more.

“Our engagement would be six months, eight at most.” he said. “That’s going to be the hardest time for you. You won’t be royal yet, but you’ll have all the expectations. Of course, you’d have everything you’d need from us. Security, education, an allowance for your clothes.”

“Mmm, clothes.”

“And then—“

“A royal wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And a royal honeymoon?”

“Of course.” he pressed another kiss to her skin, this one not so chaste.

“And then I’m your princess?”

“Until we take our oaths to become king and queen.”

“You really think I could be queen?”

“You think you couldn’t?”

“I know how hard it is on my Aunt Ames. It’s not really the life I saw for myself.”

“It’s different in England, you know. We’re smaller than most Illéan provinces, and we’ve got parliament.”

She couldn’t continue to fantasize about marrying him without understanding what he meant when he said that. “Andy, how does parliament help you?”

“Eh… help is not the word.” Andrew admitted. “It’s more that they take certain responsibilities off the monarch’s plate. Whether they do so in a manner that helps is an entirely different question. But unlike Queen America, who assists on many matters of policy and diplomacy, my mother’s job is almost entirely ceremonial, supporting my father’s efforts.”

“So do you think I could dance if we were married?”

Andrew fell quiet, wracking his brain for a way. “Not once we were engaged… I just can’t imagine that you would have time. And you’d quickly become one of the most famous women in the world… not that you’re anonymous now, just that we’re talking about a whole different stratosphere of public interest… even if we found time for you to dance in the royal ballet, it might not be safe.”

Astra hated that answer, but it made perfect sense to her. Addy had never regularly commuted into the city for any reason. Keeping her safe during recurring, publicly open performances would have been a nightmare, and Astra supposed that would be true for her too.

Astra also knew she wasn’t going to dance forever. She probably had a good ten or twelve years before retirement, and that was only if she avoided any major injuries. In Astra’s experience, injuries and pregnancies were two of the most common reasons dancers retired younger than thirty and they were both to be avoided.

“How long do you think we could put all of this off? I don’t want to stop dancing.”

“I know. I want you to dance! You’re bloody magnificent when you dance.”

“Just when I dance?” she teased suggestively.

“Other times too.” he smirked up at her. He let his face fall gently on her stomach, breathing in the smell of her body wash and then lifting his head again, “I could tell Grandmother we’re not yet ready. You could go to Waverly and come back for visits now and again.”

“Sounds like I’d miss you.”

“I’d miss you too.”

“Sounds better to me, though.”

“I suppose it must. The people mightn’t be fooled, they’ll still expect something is happening between us.”

“They’d be right.”

“But Astra… No matter what, I’ll be King four years from now. There’s no delaying that. ”

“That’s a long time, Andy.”

“I can’t… you must understand, I’d need to know for certain by then.”

“Of course!”

“Ideally… Ideally I would be married by then so that we could share the coronation ceremony.”

“So we could have a wedding earlier that fall? You’d propose that spring? That gives us a few years. That gives me time to dance.”

“But would it be enough?”

“Three years is forever, Andy.” Astra grinned down at him.

“And you’d really consider being my queen?”

“I’d consider a lot of things for blue eyes like yours.”

“They are an important part of the benefits package.” he agreed, placing an arm on either side of her and bringing himself up so that they were eye to eye. “Along with lots of travel to exotic locations. The finest champagne money can buy. Famous designers tripping over themselves to clothe you. A handful of palaces. Lots of diamonds.” he punctuated each of these offers with a deep, heated kiss and by the end Astra was absolutely dizzy and in no state to negotiate her future job benefits.

***

By the end of the week it was not just one photographer waiting outside of the ballet studio anymore, there were dozens. They were aggressive and pushy, yelling her name and constantly demanding she tell them if she was seeing Andrew. Her Illéan security detail was not pleased. The theater that housed the ballet was difficult to secure against so many persistent intruders, and there was serious discussion about whether they could even let her finish the seminar. They also discussed calling King Maxon and asking him for reinforcements, which made Astra’s stomach feel sick. She didn’t want her uncle to have to pay money and spare resources to send across the world to her all because of her love life.

It was a tense day and a half before Andrew was able to come through with security of his own to supplement her detail. It had been a tough thing to organize, given she wasn’t officially his girlfriend, but he’d found a way for her.

If Astra knew anything in those days, it was that he would always find a way for her. That had never been the problem.

There were reporters outside of Astra’s palace now, night and day, and they marked each time Andrew came or went. Instead of lounging together on the balcony overlooking the city, Astra and Andrew had to draw the curtains closed for the sake of their privacy.

“We should just tell them we’re not really dating.” Astra said. “I can’t outright lie to them.” Andrew insisted. “I can’t break trust with my people. I don’t have to confirm we’re together, but I can’t just tell them we’re not.”

“There’s got to be a way… tell them we have no intention of courting right now. That’s not a lie, is it?”

“It’s a bit transparent.” Andrew pointed out.

“Well, I’d love to hear your better idea!”

Andrew sighed into her hair. They were dancing to the music on the television, its glow the only light in her bedroom. “Maybe we break up. And I tell them we broke up.”

“You’re breaking up with me?” Astra suddenly sounded so small and vulnerable, he squeezed her tighter, “No! Not really. Not in that way. It’s just a way we can… buy you some more time before we have to fess up to anything.”

Astra didn’t want to fake-break up with Andrew. She wanted the entire world to leave them to their peace and quiet in their little palace of domestic bliss forever. What was so complicated about that?

Andrew had the idea of staying away one night to try to relieve some of the heat, but all it did was leave Astra pacing the floor alone, listening to the rumble of dozens of people camped out on the street in front of her palace all night.

Astra and Andrew were summoned by Queen Waverly the next day and sat down together on the sofa in her office.

Everything about it was embarrassing. Andy’s mother needed to know how long they had been romantic, how far their romance had gone, how serious they were about their future together, and why Andrew had turned down his grandmother’s invitation.

“Lovey, she wasn’t trying to force your hand.” Waverly told Andrew sympathetically. “What’s happening now out there… it’s going to get worse, the longer we let the media spin itself up into a frenzy.”

Astra said, “I only have a week and a half left, your Majesty—“

“Astra.” Waverly reproached the use of her title. “We’re having this discussion as family. Call me Aunt Waverly… if you’re marrying my son, call me Mum.”

Astra gulped, looking at Andrew, lost.

“We’ve only been together a few months, we don’t know—“ Andrew spoke up, until Waverly nodded and held up her hand to silence him.

“I understand entirely.” She turned her head to the side to study a giant portrait of one of Andy’s female ancestors. “Listen you two, I know that this is a complicated situation. The only thing that will help is being forthright with the people.”

“If Astra meets grandmother, the people will be demanding a proposal by Christmas.”

“Perhaps so.”

“We’re not ready for that.” Andrew was keeping a lid on his princely composure, but Astra could tell he felt hopelessly trapped by his mother and the palace and his people beyond its walls. He was ready to rattle the cages.

Waverly nodded, “Your father and I will do everything we possibly can for you, you know that. We only want your happiness. But things are getting very intense, very fast out there. That’s happening because you’re choosing not to do things the conventional way. You must understand that.”

Very intense, very fast. That was Astra’s whole relationship with Andrew in a nutshell.

“It’s just a week and a half.” Astra reiterated. “Then I’ll be back in Illéa and the press can calm down for a while.”

“The speculation won’t stop until it is addressed by us, and it might even turn ugly.” Waverly warned. “When you stop giving them fresh photograph opportunities every day at your ballet house, when there aren’t rumors flying about sightings of the two of you all over London—“

“Not true, by the way.” Andrew said.

“Some of them could be.” Astra reminded him.

“Only the very old ones. We’ve not been out in a fortnight.”

Astra nodded.

“My point is, in a vacuum of real news, someone will invent rumors to splash on their tabloids. It will be anything and everything. Abuse, affairs, pregnancy out of wedlock, Astra will be a gold digger who broke Andy’s heart one week, the next week Andy will be a womanizing fiend who took advantage of a childhood friend. Relations between England and Illéa will be on the brink—“

“They won’t!” Astra objected.

“Only in the magazines.” Waverly replied. “But we wouldn't want any hostile nations thinking the rumors were true and attempting to take advantage of the supposed rift. You see how this could spiral?”

The room fell to silence for the first time. Astra shivered just a little, “I feel like I’ve been tossed into a tornado.”

“It gets better." Waverly promised. “Once you’re proactive about telling your own story, it gets harder for the media to frenzy over half-credible unattributed rumors.”

Astra buried her face in her hands. She’d thought she’d have years before she had to tell the media a story about her relationship with Andrew. It felt wrong that the people of England were forcing an eighteen year old girl to move so quickly.

“I just need time.” Astra said into her hands.

“Right.” Waverly made up her mind and stood, “In that case, Eoan and I are inviting you to stay here with us for the rest of your visit, Astra. We’ll tell the media that we’re very much looking forward to spending time with you before the end of your trip.”

“No, wait…” Astra looked up, heartbroken that she was losing her private little palace. Would she even get to go back and say goodbye to it?

“This isn’t a punishment, sweetheart.” Waverly sighed and then tugged Astra up to standing, pulling her into a tight hug. “You’re not in trouble. Not one little bit. You’ll have more privacy here, behind our gates and with all of our guards. You’ll have one of our cars to drive you to and from the ballet, and Andy won’t be caught coming and going at all hours of the night because he already lives here… or he did before you came to town.” she said the last part teasingly to her oldest son, who had the temerity to blush at his shamelessness.

Astra felt her eyes sting with tears, “I love that palace… it’s been a good home for me.”

Waverly smiled sweetly, “You’ll be welcome to stay there the next time you come back. If you and Andrew announce an engagement, we’ll fully staff the place for you so that it’s safer. Perhaps you and Andrew could use it as your home for the time between your marriage and his assumption of the crown.”

“Really?” Andrew looked enticed by the offer.

“You’ll need to live somewhere, dear. You couldn’t live with your parents as newlyweds, it would be unbearable.” Waverly teased. “England would never get an heir that way.”

Heirs.

Hearing the queen say that word in this palace, next to the crown prince made it feel very real and very scary. Did Astra want her kids to be heirs? She thought again of Addy and Jamesy… she loved them more than anything in the world, but she couldn’t imagine raising her children for such an incredible responsibility.

Waverly continued softly, “The main thing is, we need to be very delicate here, my loves. When Andrew becomes king, he will become the head of the church. Please understand, I do not mind what you the two of you do or don’t do, so long as you are safe and consenting.”

“Mother.” Andy squirmed.

“But it would put Andrew in a difficult position, becoming head of the church, if he was seen to have a… well a marriage-style relationship with a woman who was not his wife for too long.”

“Yes, heaven forbid I have a healthy, long-term girlfriend.” Andy scowled.

“It’s the vows to God that are the issue at hand, not heaven, and you know it.” Waverly scolded his sass quietly, but efficiently.

“So we break up.” Astra concluded. “We officially break up when I go back to Illéa, and then when it’s time, I come back to England and we publicly reunite… you don’t have any church issues, and I have time to dance.”

Waverly looked between them quietly. “It might be the only option, short of scheduling dinner with your grandmother.”

Andrew looked almost as sad as if the breakup was real. Maybe he was scared it would become real once Astra was out of the whirlwind. She laced her fingers with his and squeezed, “We’ll figure this out.”

He squeezed back twice, gently.

***

That night Astra slept in Andrew’s bedroom for the first time in their entire affair.

“The maids are gonna know.”

“Everyone knows.” he snorted into her hair. “That’s why we’re here and not across town in our own palace.”

“Your parents are in the building.” she complained when his hands began wandering her body.

“Not close enough to hear anything.”

“Still… what if they have to walk by for a glass of water or something?”

“You want me to keep my hands to myself tonight?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, so shall we see who can be quietest?” he brushed his fingers across her ribs and she quietly shrieked a giggle. “You are so bad at this, darling.”

“Oh yeah?” she got her revenge with vicious tickles, exploiting every sensitive spot she’d found on his body the last few months.

***

Living in the English palace was an easy adjustment for Astra. She'd grown up in Illéa Palace which, as the functioning capital building of one of the largest nations in the world, was larger and had a much bigger staff. The English palace was certainly ancient and stately, but Astra had grown up visiting the place, so at least she wasn’t too dazzled to see this for what it was.

There was no more delivery from local restaurants once those palace gates were closed, but the royal chef made sure that Andy and Astra had everything they wanted delivered to one of their rooms each night, so that wasn’t actually too much of a change. Not only that, but the maids were discrete and only came onto their floor when Andrew was at work and Astra was at the ballet for the day, so it was almost like their bedrooms magically tidied themselves up each day.

Really, the biggest change for Astra had been weeks before, when rumors had started flying and she and Andrew had stopped venturing out into London. Andrew still appeared in her doorway just in time for dinner, looking handsome and happy to see her. They still shared good meals and long baths, and a warm bed each night. But now the illusion that time didn't exist and that they could continue peacefully, blissfully existing in their little bubble forever was burst.

Since the royal palace hadn't released a statement about the gorgeous young foreign princess living in the same palace as their handsome young future king, salacious headlines were beginning to trickle from tabloids to increasingly reputable news sources. Astra and Andrew's private affair wasn’t so private anymore.

Some part of Astra had been hoping that the rumors would die down once she and Andrew had retreated into the palace, even though she knew better. But on her second-to-final rehearsal before her big seminar performance, photographers started camping out overnight at the stage door to the ballet, not just hounding Astra but harassing her fellow dancers, too. It was humiliating to think that these world-class performers, some of whom Astra had idolized for years, were getting manhandled on their way to and from work every day because of Astra’s love life. She wasn’t sure her reputation in the industry would ever recover from this. Who would want to work with her when her very presence could cause such a disruption?

She cried in the backseat of the car on her way back to the royal palace that day, but she had big sunglasses on, and at least no photographers caught her moment of weakness.

“I don’t want to be the girl who’s dating the future king. I want to be a damn good dancer.” Astra said that night, her cheek pressed to Andrew’s chest as he drew swirling designs on her bare back with his fingers.

“You are both.”

“You don’t understand… you literally can’t.”

“What?” Andrew wasn’t insulted, which was the great thing about him. He was always humble about his own limitations. “Why can I not understand?”

“Have you ever looked up to someone who was truly excellent at the very thing that you wanted to be truly excellent at?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

“King Maxon.”

Astra rolled her eyes and lifted her head so he could see her at it. “You met him when you could still count your age on one hand.”

“So?”

“So most people never get to meet their idols, and if they do it’s because they’ve worked extremely hard to become very good at something. There are choreographers and dancers at this seminar that I’ve admired for a decade. And now my presence is turning their workplace, a place I consider to be sacred, into a hostile circus.”

Andrew frowned down at her and said softly, “Did I not promise you terrifying clowns?”

“I don’t want to bring chaos to every stage I cross.” Astra pouted.

Andrew nodded and said, “So we should announce our breakup immediately. I’ll release a statement tomorrow, and ask a friend of mine to appear in public with me tomorrow night… a woman. It won’t cure everything overnight, but it would surely alleviate some of the pressure.”

Astra stared into his eyes, then studied the line of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through just for me.”

“Astra, are you joking? You’re the one going through trouble for me.”

Astra nodded, but she dropped a kiss onto his lips anyway. “Okay, but the breakup is fake.” her lips danced over his.

His teeth gently teased her lower lip as he replied, “Yeah. I noticed.”

***

As warm and inviting as the arms holding her were, Astra had a difficult time staying asleep that night. She was nervous about returning to rehearsals the next morning, nervous about their final performance, now only a couple of days away, nervous about her new relationship with Andrew, and nervous about being nervous about her new relationship with Andrew.

At around four in the morning she slipped out of bed and tiptoed back to her suite, where she found a pitcher of water and a tray of snacks waiting for her. She spent so many hours of her day exercising that sometimes she woke up in the middle of the night ravenously, painfully hungry, so she’d requested that she be left some snacks just in case. She picked at a scone, lost in her anxieties, and her stress about not being able to sleep, until the telephone next to her bed rang so loudly and shrilly that it caused her to jump and splash some of her glass of water onto her night shirt.

“Hello?” Astra picked up the phone, hoping to hear an Illéan voice on the other end of the line. She hadn’t spoken to Addy in a few days, and it had been almost a week since her Aunt Ames or Uncle Maxon had phoned. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in longer than that, but they’d be arriving in London in less that twenty-four hours so that they could watch her final performance, so she wasn’t too desperate to speak to them.

And while the voice on the other line was Illéan, it definitely wasn’t one she had been expecting.

“Hey.”

Astra’s stomach clenched and her body flooded with adrenaline. She reminded herself to behave like a normal person and not like a lunatic when, as casually as she could, she replied, “Kile? Is that you?” like she didn’t know. Like she wouldn’t know his voice anywhere, anytime, under any circumstance. She knew his voice better than she knew her own.

“Sorry, I know it’s the middle of the night over there. …You don’t sound like you were sleeping, though.”

He would know.

Astra gulped hard, “I needed a snack.” It was a lie, but it was close enough to the truth.

“Hm. Is he there then?”

Astra felt defensive anger flare up in her chest, and only later realized that the anger was covering a sense of guilt. “So what if he is? You broke up with me—“

“Astra—“

“No, it’s okay. I’m not saying that in a mean way. I’m stating a fact. We are not together because you broke up with me, so why do you care if he’s here?”

There was a long pause and then a low groan on the other end of the phone. Astra heard a brush of fabric over his microphone, as if he’d been rubbing his face and his sleeve caught on the receiver.

“I want to know if he’s there, because I want to talk to you when you’re alone. It’s why I’m calling so late… or early, I guess.” Kile said.

Astra’s traitor heart beat faster. What did he want to talk to her about when she was alone? Was he going to apologize? Was he going to ask for her back?

It was too late, obviously. Astra had obviously moved on. Obviously. “He’s not here.”

Kile sounded relieved when he said, “Good.” and that annoyed Astra. He had no right to be relieved that she wasn’t in bed with another man. He’d hurt her in a way she’d never known she could hurt before.

She lashed out, “I didn’t want to wake him up with my snacking. But he’ll probably notice I’m gone soon, so you should hurry up and say what you want to say.”

The pained sound that snuck out of his throat with his next exhale was not as satisfying as Astra had hoped it would be. She regretted her words already. Maybe now he wouldn’t ask for her back… not that she wanted him to.

Kile said, “Let me ask you something…”

This was it. He was going to ask for forgiveness. He was going to ask her to come back to Illéa and be with him.

“What do you want more than anything in the world?” Kile said.

What was he expecting her to say? That she wanted him? She was dating the Crown Prince of England!

“Astra?”

“What do you mean, Kile?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? For our whole lives you’ve always wanted one thing more than anything in the world. What is it?”

Oh. Astra replied almost mechanically, her voice barely above a mumble, “I want to be the Prima Ballerina for the Angeles Ballet for at least a season, maybe two.”

“And you wanted that enough that you didn’t even think about moving closer to my university, because it would have taken you away from the Angeles ballet. And not for a good reason, like that invitation you got to dance in Waverly. For no reason. For me.”

“You’re not no reason—“

“No, I’m just not a good enough reason.”

“Kile—“

“You can’t argue with that.”

“You said you wouldn’t promise to look for apprenticeships and internships in the cities where I was dancing. You said you don’t want to live in Angeles when you grow up!”

“I don’t. I’m going to go where I can do my best work.” he said plainly. “I still think you and I made a good choice to split up.”

Hearing him say that was hard. She wanted him to regret it. She wanted him to miss her like she had missed him before Andrew had swept her off her feet. Losing him had changed her and she would never be the same as she was before, and he wasn’t even sorry.

Kile continued, “I’m just saying… what was the point of drawing a line in the sand about you and me if you were just going to walk all over it for Andy?”

“What?”

“We both know that you’ll never be prima anything if you marry Andy. You told me yourself, every waking hour of a prima’s life is devoted to dancing or preparing to dance. There are no hobbies, no vacations, no date nights. There definitely isn't time to be somebody’s princess.”

“I’m already an Illéan Prin—“

“Cut the shit, Astra, you know what I mean.” Kile sounded exasperated, and she knew why. She was trying to miss his point, but he wasn’t exactly being subtle about it so dodging it was proving impossible.

“Maybe I want something else now. Maybe I want to marry Andrew.”

“Look… Andy’s not a bad guy—“ Kile admitted through gritted teeth, “But there will be plenty of not bad guys waiting for you after you retire. So if you pick him, do it because you want the life he’ll give you more than the life you can earn for yourself. And be ready to bury your dreams of being a prima ballerina forever, if you do. I know you, and I know you’re getting swept up in this—“

“Don’t talk about me like I’m some helpless little… little damsel, Kile.” Astra snapped.

“Think about it logistically. Do you want to move to the other side of the world from your parents and your little brothers? They’ll visit you as often as they can, but your visits to Illéa will always be to the Palace, to King Maxon and Addy. You won’t be able to go home again. Do you want to have to keep a royal schedule, planned months and years in advance? And you can forget being around from Addy once she becomes queen, you’ll be trapped on the far side of an ocean.”

“Kile—“ Astra tried to interrupt him because she wanted him to stop making sense.

“What about the little things? What about the weather? You’re an Angeles girl, are you going to miss the sun? You know they use different numbers for temperature over there, right? How’s it going to feel to wake up in the morning and have some maid tell you that it’s twenty-five degrees outside, so you’d better stay in the shade to keep cool?”

“Kile.” Astra laughed.

“I’m serious. You’re not just choosing a career here, Astra, you’re choosing a life: from the moment you wake up to the moment you fall asleep.” Kile paused and let out a tired sigh. “I just don’t want you to make a big mistake that you can’t undo. I know how badly you want to dance. You’re not ready for this, and even if you were, this wouldn’t be the right choice for you.”

“I’ve changed, Kile.” she wanted to add that he’d changed her. That losing him had made her someone new, someone she didn’t even know yet, but she kept that part to herself. Listening to his voice for so long that night… suddenly she found that she didn’t want to hurt him anymore.

“It’s barely been three months, Astra. You haven’t changed that much.” he promised.

Astra wasn’t sure. Sometimes change was gradual, sure, but sometimes change was all at once. Traumatic change was a sudden shattering of what came before, such that one could never go back again. That was what losing Kile had been like.

But did that mean she wanted to give up dancing and become Andrew’s princess? His queen? His wife and the mother of his heirs? Did she want to leave Illéa forever and eventually move into this palace?

She wanted all of that when she was wrapped up in Andrew’s arms.

But here, alone in the middle of the night when she had her wits about her…

She climbed back into bed and woke Andrew up with steady, gentle kisses. Everything about the love they made that morning was slow and desperate, and even though she hadn’t meant it to, in the end it felt like goodbye.

***

Astra was gone to her final rehearsals before dawn, but later that morning Andrew was true to his word and made a big announcement that he and Astra had both been secretly dating, and were now publicly broken up. He made a good show of wandering around London looking sad that day, and that night he went out to dinner with a fashion model friend, who did not mind the publicity one little bit.

There were still plenty of photographers salivating at the chance to photograph Astra looking dismal at having lost the chance to become an English princess, but at least they were leaving the rest of the dancers, and everyone else associated with the ballet, in peace.

Astra’s parents arrived at the royal palace in time for dinner that night, and Astra had a lot of explaining to do to them. King Eoan and Queen Waverly seemed to find Astra’s discomfort at explaining her affair with Andrew to her parents over roasted asparagus incredibly amusing, and possibly reminiscent of the beginning of their own relationship. It wasn’t fair, though. Andrew missed all the “fun”, making sure it looked like he was rebounding with that gorgeous model.

That night, Astra was too nervous about her impending final performance to wait up for Andrew to get back to the Palace. She could go to bed early or never at all. She drank some tea laced with a little bit of melatonin and fell asleep soon after dinner.

She woke up in Andrew’s arms, her cheek pressed to the side of his bare chest. She listened to him breathe deeply and evenly for a little while and tried one last time.

She could quit dancing.

She could leave Illéa forever.

She could raise her children to be heirs.

Her children could raise their children to be heirs.

When she died, her bones could be interred in a big old church.

Her whole life could be that easy.

God, it would be so easy.

“Andy?” she whispered.

He didn’t stir.

“Andrew?” she tried again, this time pulling away from him and sitting up in bed.

He didn’t hear her, but he reacted to the loss of her warmth, and eventually his heavy eyelids fluttered open. “Astra?”

“What time did you get in last night?”

“This morning.” He admitted, yawning widely. “I expect the tabloids will be plastered with headlines about their debaucherous future king today.”

“Was it any fun?”

“Yeah. Ellie’s great; she’s always happy to be photographed on my arm. Missed you, though.” he added, as if suddenly awake enough to worry that she was jealous.

She wasn’t the slightest bit jealous. Well, the slightest bit, but not for the reasons he would assume. Astra was jealous because Ellie could keep being photographed on Andrew’s arm for as long as she pleased, with no consequences.

“Maybe you should marry Ellie.” Astra suggested.

Andrew laughed, and it turned into a yawn. Then he explained, “Ellie’s too focused on her career right now. And anyway, she’d be far more interested in you.”

“Now that would be a tabloid headline.” Astra joked weakly.

“What’s the matter? Are you nervous for your performance? Is it because you’re leaving England this time tomorrow? Is it because you told your parents what’s been happening between us—“

“I’m not nervous.” Astra said, even though her stomach was in knots. Those weren’t nerves. That was grief. “Andy… I want to be a ballet dancer.”

Andrew sat up in bed now and rubbed the sleep from his eyes so he could focus on her. The words were familiar, but her tone was alarming. “Of course you do. You are a ballet dancer, and you’re bloody brilliant.”

“I want to be a prima ballerina.”

“Okay.”

“That sort of excellence takes years to achieve.”

“Good job you’ve been dancing since you were four years old, then.”

“Shh.” she pressed a finger to his lips so that he would stop talking back and listen to her. He complied. “I won’t be ready to be a prima for seven or eight years. I have a lot to learn. And when I’m ready, I want to be a Prima Ballerina for at least one season, maybe two. That’s every waking hour devoted to dance for two years straight. Then I want to live in Angeles and stay close to Addy in the first few years of her reign. I want to be there when she gets married and has babies, because she is great at putting on a brave face and absolutely terrible at processing the emotions that are scaring her into needing to be brave. She’s going to need me, and I’m excited to be there for her. I can’t live on a different continent than my dad. There can’t such a huge time difference between me and my mom. I can’t be a foreign queen. I don’t want to be foreign at all. Andrew… I can’t marry you.” Her cheeks were wet and her voice cracked, but she didn’t know when, in that little breathless tirade, she’d started crying.

Andrew stared blankly ahead, hugging his knees to his chest around their blanket. He didn’t look surprised. He’d known she was too good to be true all along. Finding his queen could never have been so easy, so perfect. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up.

“Andy, none of those reasons I gave have anything to do with you. I love you. You’re a good man, and a great partner, and you have no business being such a talented kisser when you’re so handsome. It’s overkill.” she waited for him to smile. She waited for him to do anything. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Andrew. I just can’t marry you. I’m eighteen years old, I just got control of my life. I’m not ready to sign it over to a monarchy. I would love to be your wife, Andy, but I would hate to be your queen.”

Andrew blinked hard, then looked over at her. His voice was too casual, his words were too easy when he said, “I understand entirely. I can wait.”

Astra furrowed her brow, trying to hold his far off gaze. “Wait? What do you mean, wait?”

“You want to be a prima ballerina, and you said it would take you nine or ten years to accomplish your goal. Fine. I will wait, and when you’re ready I’ll ask to marry you.”

“No, Andy—“

“I don’t mind ruling on my own for a while.”

“That’s more than a while! You’ll be king in four years—“

“It isn’t a problem.” he insisted.

“Did you hear the part about what I want to do after I retire? About living in Illéa, about staying close to my family?”

“Astra, once we’re married, you can do whatever you like.”

“But queens have responsibilities.”

“We can redefine the role to mean whatever you’d like it to mean. I don’t care. I love you, Astra, and you’re the best future queen I could ever hope for.”

Astra paused, blinking hard against the tears in her eyes. It hurt to hear him say that. It hurt to realize that he didn’t believe he deserved any better. “Andy, that’s not true. You deserve a wife who will stay by your side. You deserve a wife who adores you and would be willing to sacrifice her own ambitions to serve England. I’m not good enough to be your queen.”

“Then no one ever will be.”

“Andrew—“

“Let me wait for you, Astra, please.” His voice broke on that last work, his eyes finally meeting hers and betraying his anguish. “Let me hope. It’s all that I have left.”

Astra couldn’t figure out what would be crueler, to let him hope when she’d made up her mind, or to take that hopeless hope away from him.

So she wrapped him up in her arms and they laid down. She combed her fingers through his hair and he brushed his thumb against her ribs until her alarm clock rang and her last day in London began.

***

In retrospect, Astra should have chosen a happy, upbeat, peppy song for her exhibition. She could have flounced all over the stage and spun a ridiculous number of times on her toes, and allowed her partner to toss her all over the place with an enormous smile on her face.

Instead, she’d chosen an exhibition from a ballet about a woman mourning her dead lover, dancing with his ghost. She’d been thinking of Kile when she’d chosen it, hoping it would help her work out her feelings about their doomed childhood romance. Now she was about to take the stage of the royal ballet, with Andrew and his parents in the royal box, watching her close enough that she could see the pained look on Andrew’s face as clear as anything.

Astra and her dance partner, Geoffrey, took their place while the stage was lit in nothing but the darkest of blue lights. He laid down across on their only set piece, an enormous fake rock, and Astra settled over him in a dramatic pose of despair, arm flung over her forehead.

The first part of the dance was hers alone. Her grief, her agony, her desperation. None of it was fake. When Geoffrey arose, as a ghost, and began dancing with her, the bittersweet mixture of joy and sorrow was easy to tap into. Nothing brought her more joy than dancing, and nothing brought her more sorrow in that moment than Andrew watching her live the life she’d chosen over him.

When Geoffrey faded back into the fog upstage and left Astra alone again in the center of the stage, all the passion and desperation fled with him. The rest of the dance was small and slow, painfully precise movements timed with the orchestra just so that if she made the slightest misstep, it would be immediately, embarrassingly obvious.

But Astra did not have to fake the exhaustion and resignation her character was feeling. If she allowed herself to second guess her decision to break away from Andrew now, she’d second guess it forever. The roar of the audience as the last tremulous notes from the string section died away seemed to make a deafening contrast.

Astra was surprised to find tears had started pouring down her cheeks somewhere during that performance. Geoffrey returned and took her hand, and they bowed. As was customary for this exhibition, several members of the audience threw flowers onto the stage. From the third row, Astra’s dad threw a whole bouquet, and a little teddy bear. Astra laughed as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Then she turned to the royal box to curtsey, perfectly observing royal protocol, and was startled to find that Andrew had been crying, too.

He tossed her a single white rose with a beautiful red satin ribbon tied around the stem, but the look on his face was resignation. He could love her with all of his heart for all of his life and still never be able to give her the kind of affirmation she got from a packed theater full of an adoring audience. He’d seen her dance dozens of times in her room at her little palace, and hell, he’d even danced with her himself. But seeing her like this in front of them…

He could wait until the oceans ran dry and the mountains fell flat, and every single star in the sky flickered into darkness… Astra was never coming back to him.

Astra spent that night with her parents, letting them gush over her and spoil her with presents, and help her pack up the life she’d made in London for the last few months. She hoped Andrew would come and say goodbye once her parents went back to the suite they were staying in, but he never appeared, and Astra didn’t chase him down because she thought he deserved to set the terms. That dance had been her goodbye to him. It was up to him whether he wanted to say goodbye in return.

The next morning, Queen Waverly was the only one in the entrance hall waiting to see the Orders family off as they left. The English Royal jet would take them as far as Carolina, where they would visit James’ family for a little while.

Astra imagined Andrew’s private car speeding out onto the tarmac to stop them. She imagined him dashing from the backseat and waving his arms to alert the pilots that they couldn’t leave until he’d said his farewells.

He didn’t come. It was easier this way.

Kenna and James stayed with Astra’s grandparents for a few days, but James had to go back to work and Kenna needed to get back to the Palace. Aunt Ames had five children, two of them under the age of six, and though they had plenty of help in that Palace, Kenna was their primary nanny, their aunt, and she missed them like crazy.

Astra stayed with her grandparents for a couple of weeks, until her contract at the Waverly Ballet began. The media frenzy around her got much better in that time, though it was impossible not to notice that things were staying hectic around Andrew as the English tabloids seemed to catch on to how severely he’d had his heart broken.

Astra wished she could take some of that public shame away.

She wished she could take some of his pain away, even as she was mending her own broken heart. Her weeks in Carolina were good for that purpose. Her grandparents spoiled her rotten, and she gave her body a much-needed break from dancing. Instead, she spent her days learning needlepoint from her grandmother, and her nights stargazing out by the pond where her parents used to sneak off on dates before Gramma Magda gave up trying to convince Kenna to marry someone from a higher caste.

When Astra packed her bags to take the short flight up to Waverly to begin yet another new life with another new ballet company, she was still wearing the beautiful red ribbon that Andrew gave her as a parting gift on that rose, tied around her wrist.

And when, years later, she sat on her sofa and watched him become King of England in front of the entire world, her fingers traced that now slightly frayed red ribbon, Andy’s last gift to her, in a familiar, much-practiced gesture.

It would have been so easy to say yes, to give in to the pressure and let herself get swept away by the English people, the royal traditions, the prince’s staggering blue eyes. It would have been a good life, too. A perfectly fine marriage.

But Astra didn’t want to be queen, and now she wouldn’t have to be, and the freedom she felt watching Andrew bear the weight of that crown was all the reminder she needed: she made the right decision. And now, despite the dull ache of longing in her chest for he boy she’d loved and left behind, she was happy. Truly happy. She was at peace with her past, content in her present, and excited for her future.

When the coronation coverage ended, Astra got ready to return to bed. She was surprised when her phone rang, but she knew exactly who it would be.

“Mom?” she said, before the person on the other line could say a word. Her little cousins would have had just enough time to be tucked back into bed by now, if Aunt May was helping. Kenna would have rushed to the phone as soon as she got the chance.

“Sweetie? How are you, little bug?”

“I’m fine, Mom, I don’t need the pet names.” Astra grinned, rolling her eyes.

“Are you sure?” Kenna double-checked.

“Yeah. I wish Andrew wasn’t alone up there. I still love him, I don’t want him to suffer. But I was nothing but relieved when they put that crown on his head and I didn’t have to put one on mine. I made the right choice.”

“I know you did, honey, but just because you did the right thing doesn’t mean you have to feel perfectly fine about it. Especially not on a night like this.”

“Honestly, Mom… my time in London feels like another life. One I’m nothing but grateful for, but not one I want to relive.”

At first, Astra’s spring with Andrew felt like it had never really happened, or like it had happened to someone else, or like it was all a fever dream: too hot, too heady, a surreal hallucination more than a fairytale fantasy. But now, with some time and space, Astra could see it for what it really was: a romantic affair with someone she could have chosen to marry, but who ultimately was not the right fit for her. On the one hand, Astra and Andrew loved each other, and their marriage would have been fine: they’d known each other forever and they each fully understood the challenges of the royal life they would have been embarking on together.

On the other hand, Astra had known what she wanted out of life since she was a very small girl. It was a hard thing to ask an eighteen year old to walk away from a guaranteed royal wedding for a chance to work very hard to one day, possibly, make her dream come true. If Astra hadn’t grown up in Illéa Palace, she might not have made the same choice. But everything she got out of her life from now on was truly hers, she was the captain of her own fate, and even if she failed and never became a prima ballerina, at least this way she’d have had the chance.

“But Mom?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t ever tell Gramma Magda that Andrew proposed to me and I turned him down. I think she would disown me.”

#challenge #Astra and Andrew Challenge #RIP your dashes if the Keep Reading doesn't work #its almost 16000 words long #one for every tear I cried breaking Andrew's heart

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ibijau · 3 years

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How to Woo a Lan pt 4 / Also on AO3

Jin Ling explains why he fell in love, gets some advice, and tries to give advice of his own in return

Clearly expecting that the conversation would take a while, Nie Huaisang put away his work and called for servants to bring everything needed to serve tea. Once they were alone waiting for that tea to arrive, Jin Ling started explaining how he had fallen in love with the most perfect person in the entire world, how beautiful Lan Sizhui was (this earned him an unimpressed stare from Nie Huaisang), how elegant (more staring), how nice (a roll of the eyes).

“So he is polite, and you find that impressive,” Nie Huaisang noted, hiding a yawn behind his fan. “I suppose someone living in Jinlin Tai and the Lotus Pier wouldn’t be used to it. And of course he’s handsome, he’s a Lan. I think it’s something in the water of the Cloud Recesses.” Jin Ling frowned at the dismissal of Lan Sizhui’s quality, while Nie Huaisang yawned again, this time without bothering to hide it. “Is that why you love him? He’s capable of more basic decency than most people you’ve met in your life -a very low bar, might I add-, he’s somewhat good-looking, and that’s it?”

“Of course that’s not all!” Jin Ling exploded, but he couldn’t explain the rest right away as the servants returned then.

Nie Huaisang, who could act like a good host when he felt like it, prepared tea with slow, measured movements and poured it for both of them when the servants left again. With unexpected elegance, he gave one glass of tea to Jin Ling before making a gesture to order him to resume speaking.

“He really is kind, and I won’t let you treat it like something that doesn’t matter,” Jin Ling said, before taking a sip of tea.

It was nice, if a little plain. Having accompanied both his uncles to conferences in Qinghe before, he knew this blend was considered the better sort of tea available in the Unclean Realm, which comforted him. He had no doubt Nie Huaisang wouldn’t have hesitated to serve him bad tea if he’d really been annoyed about being half blackmailed into helping.

“I know people from Gusu Lan are polite, but it’s not the same as kind,” Jin Ling pointed out, and he could have sworn Nie Huaisang’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. “When we were in Yi City, he really was nice to everyone, checked those that had gotten poisoned, and encouraged them to eat some congee even if it tasted awful. If it had been me, I’d just have scolded them into eating it! And some of the others with us were scolding their poisoned friends, because we were all worried, but he took time to reassure others, even if he had to be worried too. I mean, his dad was out there fighting stuff, of course he was worried!”

Nie Huaisang made a face at the mention of Yi City, and quickly opened his fan to hide behind. Jin Ling only remembered then that if he and his friends had almost died in that place, it might have been because of this man sitting across from him. It was a really odd thing to think, and if Wei Wuxian in person hadn’t made the accusation, if Jiang Cheng hadn’t later told Jin Ling that the whole thing made sense… how could Nie Huaisang have had the guts to do that, when he was too much of a coward to meet Jin Ling’s eyes when he mentioned this?

“I suppose he’s been raised a little better than most boys his age,” Nie Huaisang conceded,fanning himself just a little too quickly. “An effect of growing up around Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen, both excellent role models, except for their taste in friends. So you love a beautiful young man who is kind to everyone, hm?”

“Well…”

It was Jin Ling’s turn to avert his eyes, his cheeks flushing a little in embarrassment.

“Well, it’s also that he’s not always sweet,” he muttered, before quickly emptying his tea to give himself a countenance.

“How so?” Nie Huaisang asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. He even closed his fan, as if to better focus on what Jin Ling had to say.

“Well. Well, you see, after that whole thing in Jinlin Tai, when Wei Wuxian accused my uncle of murder, and my aunt died, and then me and a bunch of juniors were kidnapped, right?” Jin Ling asked. Nie Huaisang grimaced again. Right, this too was kind of his fault, wasn’t it? “And even then Sizhui was so nice when we were held in that cave, and trying to comfort everyone! But also… Well. I have this very annoying cousin, you see? And he was acting awful, and Sizhui had been patient and patient and patient, but in the end… well, in the end he snapped, and I think if he hadn’t been tied up, he would have slapped Jin Chan in the face.”

Even after this long, the memory of Lan Sizhui’s righteous fury still made Jin Ling’s heart beat a little faster. That it had happened because his cousin had been pestering him was just a nice bonus.

“And also, he tries to hide it, but he’s a little proud,” Jin Ling added. “He really, really likes being praised. His face completely lights up when Hanguang-Jun says he’s done good, and he’s almost glowing whenever Wei Wuxian compliments him and says he’s a good boy and all that. And then when someone says something mean to him, his face does that thing…”

Jin Ling tried to scrunch his own face into an approximation of Lan Sizhui’s expression. He didn’t have a great talent for impressions, but it was still good enough for Nie Huaisang to let out a snort. He then tried to cover it by coughing a few times, but Jin Ling knew what he’d heard.

“It’s never for very long,” Jin Ling resumed, “but I noticed it and it’s just. I guess he wouldn’t like me to call it that, but it’s really cute. I just wish I didn’t keep saying the wrong thing to make him make that face, you know? I want to watch it, not cause it.”

“At least you have self awareness,” Nie Huaisang said, rolling his eyes. “That’s more than several members of your family could ever have said. You’ll just have to learn how to turn a weakness into a strength. Now, tell me, what have you tried to make Lan Sizhui aware of your interest in him?”

Jin Ling, suddenly, desperately wished he had some tea left in his glass, just so he could pretend to drink it instead of facing that question. He ended up turning the empty glass between his hands and staring down at the table, feeling Nie Huaisang’s silence get more and more judgemental the longer it took Jin Ling to answer.

“I see,” Nie Huaisang said after a while.

“You don’t see anything! I just want us to be good friends first, and then…”

Jin Ling trailed off, and toyed some more with his empty glass.

“Fine, then what have you done to become his friend then?” Nie Huaisang insisted, amusement piercing through his voice.

“Well, he hasn’t been around much those last few months,” Jin Ling muttered. “But, well, I went with him on Night Hunts twice before someone killed my uncle, so there’s that. And then he came home not too long ago, and we went on another Night Hunt with everyone! And then…” He sighed, deeply. “And then I said something wrong, and I think I accidentally insulted him, and I haven’t seen him since then and I can’t see him until I figure out how to do things right!”

Nie Huaisang hummed, but didn’t say anything right away. When Jin Ling risked a glance, he found the older man looking at him the way one might inspect a horse before buying it. Jin Ling didn’t particularly care for that. It felt so wrong for Nie Huaisang to have such an intense, calculating expression on his face, making him look miles away from the blundering fool who had bothered Jin Ling’s uncle for years and years.

When Nie Huaisang looked like that, it became too easy that he had done all those terrible things Wei Wuxian had accused him of.

“It’s true that you have a certain gift for saying exactly what people don’t want to hear,” Nie Huaisang stated, fanning himself slowly. “You’re impulsive, that’s your problem, and your uncles both failed you in that regard. It’d be hard to go against your own nature in the best of case, but they've done nothing to help you understand your own temper. I suppose we’ll have to work with it. Have you ever considered taking up a correspondence with Lan Sizhui?”

Jin Ling shook his head. “It’s… isn’t it risky? My uncles have always told me if I start liking someone, I shouldn’t leave traces. There’s always a risk of blackmail, if the other person doesn’t feel the same. Not that Sizhui would ever do that! But, well… Letters can fall into the wrong hands, and because of my grandfather I know people watch me more than other boys my age in case... well...”

“I’m not telling you to write him erotic letters,” Nie Huaisang said with a mocking sneer. “Not yet anyway, and I could teach you a trick or two about keeping those secrets. But simple, polite letters... it’s a good way to stay in touch with a friend, and it would let you think more carefully about what you’re saying, and how you’re saying it.”

“Oh.”

That did sound wise. Even Jiang Cheng was a little less abrasive when writing than in person, and Jin Ling was fairly sure he wasn’t as bad as his uncle. That might be worth trying.

“Another piece of advice,” Nie Huaisang continued, fanning himself with slow, nearly hypnotic movements. “Own up to your faults. Admit to your little friend that you’re aware your mouth goes faster than your brain, and that you often realise too late you said something bad. You could even tell him that you’d appreciate his guidance in correcting this. Gusu Lan disciples love that sort of things, they’re all raised to become teachers. Offer yourself as a student and the fight is half won already.”

“You’re sure?”

“How do you think I even got Lan Xichen to notice me? ‘Please Xichen-gege, please tutor me’,” Nie Huaisang whined in a high pitched voice, his bottom lip trembling for a moment, before his pathetic pout turned into a disgusted grimace as he closed his fan with a sharp gesture. “I think the Lan like a desperate case, so you should have your chance.”

That was a very rude thing to say, but Jin Ling could hardly disagree. Nie Huaisang was a complete mess, that much was clear. And as for Wei Wuxian, the less said, the better. Yet those two absolute disasters had, apparently, managed to seduce the two top cultivators of Gusu Lan, nay, of the entire cultivation world, who surely could have had their pick of competent and emotionally capable partners of any gender.

Jin Ling hated that it did make him feel a little more hopeful.

“Well, that’s all my advice for today,” Nie Huaisang announced, before glancing with disgust at the pile of paperwork he’d set aside earlier. “I have to do my own work these days and it takes a while, so I’d appreciate it if you left. I know etiquette dictates I should invite you to spend the night here,” he added, “but I really don’t feel like it, and I don’t suppose you’d enjoy it either. Who could say if I wouldn’t change my mind and murder you in your sleep, right?”

Nie Huaisang laughed at his own joke, earning an unimpressed stare from Jin Ling for his poor taste in humour.

It probably was a joke.

Right?

Just to be a pest, Jin Ling considered forcing the issue and demanding to be given a room. But Nie Huaisang had guessed right in suspecting that Jin Ling didn’t quite trust him enough to make himself vulnerable in his domain. Not only that, but if he stayed, poor Ouyang Zizhen might start worrying about him, and either try to storm the Unclean Realm on his own, or worse fly toward the Lotus Piers and get Jiang Cheng to storm the Unclean Realm, by far the worst possible option because then Jin Ling would have two other sect leaders furious at him.

“I’ll leave,” he conceded, which made Nie Huaisang smirk. “But can I come back tomorrow, and show you my letter? Just to make sure I’m not writing anything too awful.”

“I would say no,” Nie Huaisang sighed, “but I have a feeling you’ll just do as you please anyway, so I might as well pretend I have any control over this. Yes, come back tomorrow, why not. It’s not like I have anything better to do. Try to be here at the same hour as today, and I should be able to make time for you.”

Jin Ling promised. Nie Huaisang then called for a servant to bring Jin Ling back to the gate so he wouldn’t get lost. The distrust, apparently, was mutual.

Once out of the Unclean Realm, Jin Ling lost no time in returning to Qinghe proper, and there he headed straight for the inn where Ouyang Zizhen awaited his return with much anxiety. The poor boy nearly cried of relief when he saw Jin Ling enter the inn. In fairness though, he was just that sort of a person so Jin Ling told himself he hadn’t caused his friend any actual worry. Still, he made sure to buy the best food the inn had to offer, and some wine as well, just to thank Ouyang Zizhen for having come along.

While they had lunch in the privacy of their room, Jin Ling reported his success, and shared the advice given to him. Jin Ling had told Ouyang Zizhen that he’d gone to Nie Huaisang in particular because he used to be friends with Lan Xichen and thus knew Lan Sizhui, an explanation that seemed to be accepted without further questions.

Jin Ling couldn’t help thinking that Lan Sizhui would have asked for more details about that. He was curious and observant, surely he might have picked up on something wrong with Jin Ling’s lie. Then again, with gossip forbidden, he might not have said anything.

Someday, Jin Ling wouldn’t have to speculate. Lan Sizhui and him would be married, and happy, and they would share everything, unlike some people, so Lan Sizhui wouldn’t even have to pick up clues to know things.

With this goal in mind, Jin Ling started drafting a letter as soon as he was done eating. His first attempt was predictably awful, but to Jin Ling’s surprise, he actually realised that on his own, even before Ouyang Zizhen could check it. Maybe Nie Huaisang had been on to something about it being easier to deal with his temper and lack of social skills on paper. So Jin Ling drafted a second letter, and then a third, while Ouyang Zizhen sat by, reading over his shoulder and occasionally offering his opinion.

By the fifth draft, Jin Ling felt he was starting to get the hang of this.

“I just can’t believe you got him to agree,” Ouyang Zizhen said while glancing at his letter again. “I mean, Nie zongzhu! You’ve said that Wei Wuxian said that he’s the one who got your uncle killed, right? So… are you really sure it’s not a trap?”

Jin Ling chewed on the end of his brush, trying to remember how to write a certain character, and shrugged.

“I’m not sure it isn’t. A trap, I mean.”

“And you’re still going back tomorrow?” Ouyang Zizhen gasped. “He’s given you advice, and good one at that, isn’t it enough?”

Jin Ling shrugged again, and wrote down another sentence.

His friend wasn’t wrong to find him unwise. Nie Huaisang was dangerous, there was no denying it, and he certainly wasn’t nice, that was certain as well. But if Nie Huaisang had been as awful as he pretended to be, he wouldn’t have listened to Jin Ling at all, wouldn’t have talked so fondly about Jin Zixuan, wouldn’t have gotten so upset at the thought of Lan Xichen’s reputation being ruined any further.

Nie Huaisang wasn’t nice, but he probably wasn’t that bad either. No more than other people in Jin Ling’s life, anyway, and at least he didn't shout as much as Jiang Cheng did.

“If I don’t go back, he’ll think I’m scared,” Jin Ling claimed.

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Even if I were, I wouldn’t want him to know that. Anyway, I think I’m done, can you read it?”

Ouyang Zizhen obeyed, and agreed it was about as good as it could get without getting too awkward. It didn’t need to be perfect, anyway. Jin Ling had a feeling that Nie Huaisang would enjoy having something to criticize. So he put away his letter, and went out to explore Qinghe with Ouyang Zizhen, forgetting his love troubles for a little while. They had great fun, and Jin Ling only wished a few times that he could have been doing this with Lan Sizhui instead.

Soon, he would.

Come morning, Jin Ling dutiful returned to the gate of the Unclean Realm. Just like before the disciples guarding the entrance stared him down in disapproval, but this time they let him in almost immediately, and Jin Ling was again led by Qinghe Nie’s first disciple toward Nie Huaisang’s office. This time there was already tea waiting for him when he got there, and the pile of paperwork on Nie Huaisang’s desk looked a good deal smaller and neater. Either he had worked hard to free some time, or he had hidden away anything sensitive to make sure Jin Ling wouldn’t get too curious. Jin Ling figured he would have done the same, and decided to take no offence.

Instead, he put a small pouch of candies on the desk, by the teapot. Nie Huaisang threw him a sharp look for that but pinched his lips so he wouldn't ask any questions. Jin Ling sat down and shrugged.

“You used to bring those to Jinlin Tai when I was little, even if nobody but you would eat them. I figured you had to like them, and since you’re helping me and all…”

“I see good memory runs in the family,” Nie Huaisang noted, glaring at the candies yet making no movement to take one. As if Jin Ling would have poisoned him. It was a coward’s method of murder, Jiang Cheng always said, and Jin Ling was no coward. “Did you write a letter, Jin zongzhu?”

“I did,” Jin Ling confirmed, digging into his sleeve for the latest draft which he handed to Nie Huaisang. “I think it’s pretty good.”

In answer Nie Huaisang just rolled his eyes, and started reading. Jin Ling realised he was getting nervous, as if that odd man’s approval actually mattered in any way. To distract himself he drank some tea, and helped himself to a few candies. They were pretty much nothing but sugar, which made his teeth ache. How could anyone enjoy something like that? Maybe Nie Huaisang had just wanted to be a pest back then, bothering everyone with shitty candies.

“It’s acceptable,” Nie Huaisang said at last, returning the letter to Jin Ling. “Not great, but a clear improvement over the things you tend to say in person.”

“I can rewrite it again,” Jin Ling muttered, disappointed that all his efforts got him so little praise. “If you show me what to change…”

“No, the imperfections are necessary,” Nie Huaisang explained, opening his fan. “If it is too polished, it will be obvious that you’re not writing alone. It really isn’t so bad, anyway. Better than when your father… well, nevermind that. You’re not doing so bad. And inviting him to a Night Hunt is smart, I’m surprised you thought of it.”

“You don’t think it’s too bold?” Jin Ling asked.

“He’s a Lan, they don’t see Night Hunts as a prelude to flirtation,” Nie Huaisang said, before grimacing. “I wish I’d known that when I was young, actually. So don’t hope for anything more than a pleasant moment with a friend. Well, pleasant if you enjoy Night Hunting, which apparently some people do.”

Jin Ling huffed. Of course he liked Night Hunting. Any decent cultivator did. But of course, Nie Huaisang was hardly a decent cultivator, no matter how you looked at it, and his dislike of Night Hunts was no big secret. He only showed up if he had absolutely no choice, Jin Guangyao used to complain, and then he was such a hindrance that everyone would have been better off without him, especially poor Lan Xichen who’d had to rescue him more than once.

But still Nie Huaisang would go and try, Jin Ling remembered. He didn’t enjoy it, but he tried, at least if Lan Xichen was also present. And Lan Xichen did look happy about that, whenever it happened. Really happy, instead of just polite.

It really was too bad that these two had fallen out like that, because they’d seemed to have a good influence on each other, aside from the one murder. Not that any of this was Jin Ling’s business, of course, and he presently held little affection for either man.

And yet...

“Since we’re on the topic of letters. Have you ever thought of writing to Zewu-Jun?” Jin Ling asked, because if it were him having such a huge argument with someone he loved, maybe he would want someone to butt in and help. He wouldn’t like it, but he’d want it. “Because maybe…”

“I have written to Gusu Lan a few times on official business,” Nie Huaisang coldly cut him, closing his fan with a snap. “Aside from this, I have no reason to correspond with anyone there.”

“But maybe you could…”

“I have nothing to say to Lan Xichen,” Nie Huaisang explained, reopening his fan with an impatient flourish. “You see, I am not sorry for what I’ve done,” he said with a cruel smile. “Your uncle deserved to die. He was an awful man, who did awful things, and if I’d truly had my way, he would have died an awful death.”

Jin Ling, who’d thought that losing an arm, being stabbed by his closest friend, and then having his neck snapped by the enraged fierce corpse of one of his victims only to be trapped with said fierce corpse for a century to suffer untold torment had been a pretty awful way to die already, couldn’t help a frown.

He made a decision to never ask Nie Huaisang what he would have preferred to see happen to Jin Guangyao.

“I know what Lan Xichen wants to hear from me,” Nie Huaisang continued, fanning himself. “He most likely wants me to say that I’m sorry. And I could say it. I’m a very good liar, if I do say so myself. So I could lie to him, say exactly what he wants to hear, be exactly the man he wants me to be…” He paused and grimaced in disgust. “But in that case, I would just have turned into another Jin Guangyao.”

“And you don’t want to become like him.”

“I am like him,” Nie Huaisang snapped with such rage that Jin Ling jumped on his seat. “I can’t change that now. I am a good liar, but I’ve decided long ago I wouldn’t lie to myself, and I know what I am. As for Lan Xichen, in spite of his blindness, in spite of his errors, he deserves better than to fall prey to another liar. And that’s why I cannot…”

“You really should write to him,” Jin Ling insisted. “And tell him all that stuff. I mean, since you don’t have regrets and you know you're an asshole, then it’s no big deal telling him things as they are, right? And then at least he gets to know the full truth. You old people really should be more honest instead of making everything complicated all the time.”

Nie Huaisang glared at him, as cold and angry as he’d been the day before, but Jin Ling realised it was already starting to lose its effect on him. It wasn’t so different from when Jiang Cheng threatened to break his legs over every single little annoyance.

Well, it was a little different in that Jin Ling still wasn’t sure Nie Huaisang wouldn’t murder him if he was certain to get away with it, but it was still the same general sentiment.

Jin Ling didn’t even mind that Nie Huaisang impatiently ordered him to leave, grumbling about disrespectful children, time wasted on educating idiotic youths, and how he refused to be involved in this any further. This, too, Jin Ling had heard before from his uncle, and he’d learned to ignore it all.

If the letter and the Night Hunt didn’t work, Jin Ling knew for sure he could come and ask for Nie Huaisang’s help again.

#xisang #zhuiling #lingzhui #jin ling #nie huaisang #mdzs #operation woo a lan #jau writes

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amazingmaeve · 4 years

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Going Home - Michael Gray

Main Masterlist // Peaky Blinders Masterlist

Summary: After his cousin and mother sent him to America Michael was angry with them but then he meet you. Then you guys go back to Birmingham with your kids and another on the way

AN: I haven’t seen season five but I know Michael isn’t the best character. And Gina doesn’t exist in this and John is alive. Also don’t judge me if i get anything wrong from the show.

Pairing: Michael Gray x Female!OC

Warnings: Pregnancy, Language, angst, alcohol

YOU and Michael met when he came to America. When he first arrived in America he was pretty pissed as his cousin and his mom sending him there. Plus he barely had no way to contact them and he knew they wouldn’t contact him either. He would probably stay there for the rest of his life he thought. He was bitter for the first weeks he was just angry and always mad at people. Until he met you.

You were working as a seamstress who makes suits and etc. in her own store. He ran into you on the streets and he was about to yell at you before he actually got a chance to look at you. He apologized for bumping into you and you waved it off and accepted his apology.

He suggested walking you back to the store you worked at. You blushed and nodded clearly smitten by him and everything he does and the way he spoke. He was smitten as well. On the way to the shop you almost tripped but he caught you. He thought how clumsy you were was very cute and the way you blushed when he caught you. As you were nearing your shop you said farewell to each other feeling sad he was leaving already.

But he came in the next day asking for a suit with a smirk on his face which made you get butterflies in your stomach like from the day before. You thought you’d never see this mad again in your life but apparently he wanted to see you again. You agreed on making him a suit and he asked you to dinner that night and you agreed feeling real giddy as you jumping around in your head.

You got your best dress and did your hair and make up real nice. You wanted to impress him but what you didn’t know you already made a great impression on him. He looked real nice as well as he put a different suit on but he looked real good. He took you to a nice restaurant and got you the best food there and it tasted good. You talked about your lives like how your father ran out on your mom and she became a single mother. And you always admired her. You weren’t that tough of a child to raise and you were a single child which made it easier.

He told you the story of him growing up in a village and that his name was Henry and then Tommy found him explaining his family wasn’t really his family. He moved to Birmingham and met his mom and cousins who got along until he came to America you didn’t ask why because it seemed like a sensitive topic.

After that night you guys were like glue, always at each other’s sides, going on dates every week. And two months later he asked you to move in with him and you were shocked but agreed with a smile and you already loved him so much.

Then not even a month later you were pregnant with your first child and you were scared to tell him. You hadn’t even told him you loved him. You didn’t even know if he wanted kids. but when you were about to tell him the big news he blurted out he loved you. You were shocked shocked but also very giddy and you wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him happily saying you loved him as well.

You told him you were pregnant and hoped he wouldn’t be mad. And he wasn’t. He was a little surprised but happy nonetheless He asked you to marry him which you scoffed and rolled your eyes saying he only wanted to marry because you were pregnant. And you guys only knew each other for three months. But he told you that ‘you loved me and I love so why the hell not’. You thought about it for a few days and agreed wanting to do it as soon as possible so that you would be able to fit your wedding dress only being a months pregnant.

You got married a week after with your mom being the only one there. You gelt like the happiest girl alive.

Then months later you gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. And Michael suggested the name Anna saying it was his sisters name. You agreed because a few months earlier he told you he never met his sister and she died. Plus you thought it was a good name.

You got pregnant about 6 months later. God it felt like your family was growing every day. When you told you felt happy but he was even happier

The midwife also told you it was twins which as an even bigger shock and you were a little scared since it was two instead of one. Not only pushing one kids out but two. You only went through it once and it hurt then. But now twice the pain. Michael reassured you that you were strong woman and you could do it.

Three months later you being eight months pregnant and looked like you were about to pop, Michael told you some news. You found out you were pregnant at four months. It surprised it took so long for you to find out.

“My mom wants me to go back to Birmingham,” He told you one night when you guys were cuddling. You only asked about his family a few times and he told you almost everything about them. That they were blinders and his mother and cousin sent him here. You were kind of angry but happy because you wouldn’t have met him if they didn’t send him here. He told you about the Italians and you didn’t blame him for any of it since he thought his mom was still mad at Tommy and that’s why he didn’t tell him. Plus it was in the past and he hadn’t done anything to you to prove he was a monster.

“Why does she want you to come now,” You asked as you looked up at him. You heard about his mom and she seemed like nice person and you didn’t want hold a grudge against for what happened. But you wanted to be on Michaels side as well. But it seemed he gotten over it as well. But he had a little anger in the pit of his stomach that he could ignore.

“She says that she wants to settle things between us,” Michael explains looking down at you with love in his eyes. You both layer in silence for a second.

“So what are you going to do,” You asked as you traced your fingers along his chest.

“I think I should go,” He replied. “Patch things up with the family.”

“Well if you’re going I’m going,” You beamed while looking up at him with a smile on your face.

“Nope,” He disapproved and you looked up at him with a shocked look on your face.

“What why not,” You pouted whole looking up at him.

“Sweetheart you look like you are about to pop and I don’t want you to get hurt,” He cooed you in a stern voice. You knew that he was worried about you.

“I know but I want to meet your family and I want to make sure your okay while you’re there as well,” You told him. He didn’t seem faltered by your words. “Okay how about this if I feel like somethings wrong tomorrow I’ll stay with Anna if not we both go with you. And I won’t put my self in stressful situations,” You offered. He let out a deep sigh before being his hand up to rub his eyes.

“Fine,” he grumbled but before you could cheer he put his hand up. “But we make sure not to put you in ANY stressful situations,” He approves with a stern tone in his voice.

“Ok yep agreed,” You agreed happily with a smile on your face. A wave of tiredness crossed over you. “Let’s get to bed,” You yawned before curling into Michael.

Before you fell you asleep you heard a soft voice “I love you,”

As You Michael and Anna got arrived in Birmingham you started to feel nervous wondering what his family was like in person.

Michael told you that they were dangerous but to not be afraid because they wouldn’t hurt you.

You guys were on the train on your way to Small Heath. As you promised you didn’t put yourself in stressful situations. You were starting to feel a bit uncomfortable on the train and hoped you would get there soon.

Once the train stopped Michael tapped you on the shoulder when he noticed you didn’t get up.

“Come one love we’re here,” Michael coos as he stands pulling his daughter up with him.

You let out a yawn and stood up and stretched. God you could barely move without taking everything out.

“Ok I’m ready,” You sighed and looked at your daughter sleeping in Michaels arms.

Even though she was a little past 1 years old and knew how to walk she loved being in her dads arms. You smile at the two them.

Anna stirred in her sleep and rubbed her eyes with her tiny hands.

“Hey Anna were here,” Michael whispered to his daughter with a smile painted his lips. Anna smile and let out a little giggle.

“Daddy,” Anna let out. She has been saying some words ever since she turned a year and would try to form sentences.

You and Michael shared smiles before walking out onto the platform. He put Anna down. You guys where nervous about letting her walk but Michael held to her hand. You stood to his side while Anna was on his other.

You could tell he was nervous about seeing his mother.

“It’ll be ok Michael,” You whispered in his ear wrapping your hand around his.

Michael nodded doubt running through his veins. He felt extremely nervous about seeings his family again. And about them seeing you and Anna as well.

Then you saw Michael stare at a women with dark hair and high cheek bones. You guessed that was his mother.

“Stay here,” Michael whispered to you and put Anna’s hand in your own. You nodded and watched him walk towards the woman.

You saw that they talked for a minute then a smile was spread across the woman’s face as she hugged him. You saw Michael relax and hug her back.

You let out a smile at the reunion.

“Up,” Anna raised her arms indicating she wanted to be held. You laughed a little and bent down being careful of your belly and picked her up. She wrapped her legs around you watching out for your belly. She let out a little smile and played with your hair.

You looked up and saw that Michael and Polly were walking over to you. You would say you were nervous but that would be an understatement. She looked like a very intimidating woman and you’ve heard a lot about her from Michael.

“Mom this Y/N my wife,” Michael introduced two of you and pointed to your daughter. “And this is our daughter Anna.”

Michaels mom, Polly, looked at your daughter who was resting her head on your shoulder feeling a tad tired. You noticed that Polly was getting a bit teary eyed.

“Nice to meet y-you I’ve heard good things about you,” You stuttered a bit feeling nervous about meeting your husbands mother. She looked like she could be very intimidating at some points but now she hasn’t done anything to make you feel like that.

You put your hand out to shake but she pulls you in for a hug which was kind of uncomfortable with your belly and your daughter in your arms but you tried to hug back anyways. You didn’t want to seem rude.

“Anna after,” Polly trailed off looking at Michael who nodded knowing who she was talking about after she retreated from your hug. She pulled Michael into her arms and whispered something in his ear. “Let’s get you two home you two must be tired from the the ride.

You, Michael, and Anna walked into Pollys house which wasn’t huge but wasn’t small either. You thought it looked really comfortable which you loved. Anna seemed to be getting a bit fussy so Michael took her from your arms into his. Anna put her head into his neck drowsing off.

“I’m going to go lay her down it’s been a long day for her,” Michael told you before going upstairs to one of the rooms.

After Michael left you stood there awkwardly waiting for him to return or Polly to come back from the kitchen.

“Come on in I don’t bite,” Polly called out to you when she noticed you didn’t follow her to the kitchen. You blushed a little before entering the kitchen and sat on one of the chairs. “So has my son been treating well,” She asked you as she got some tea ready.

“Yes he has been a complete gentleman,” You reassured while giving her a smile you put your hands on your belly and felt one of the babies kicking.

“I’m guessing 8 months along and with twins,” Polly asked before sitting down as she noticed you rubbing your belly.

“Yes did Michael tell you,” You ask curiosity painting your face.

“Nope intuition,” Polly gave you smile which you returned.

“I don’t want to sound rude but I’m hoping I give birth soon its been a lot of uncomfortable months for me,” You explain as you try to get situated in the chair.

“I’d assume it would be uncomfortable for twins,” Polly teases while giving you a smirk.

“I’m kind of scared though,” You admitted.

“What are you scared of darling,” Polly asked as she looked at you with a worried look on her face. Even though she didn’t know you for long she felt that you changed her sons life and would be a good addition to the family.

“Well it hurt with Anna so I assume it will hurt twice as much with the twins,” You explain to her. “Michael always reassures me though but it doesn’t help that fear in that back of my head.”

“You’ll be fine I can tell you’re a strong woman,” Polly acknowledged while taking a sip from her tea. “And plus we can get the best doctors to help you through it,” She reassures you.

“I hope so,” You mutter looking down at your huge belly.

“Have you and Michael thought of any baby names,” She tries to distract you.

“We’ve has a few but nothing that’s stuck,” You explained. You thought if it was two boys Henry and William and if it was two girls Rose or Luna. Michael just told you whatever you wanted. Before Polly could say something Michael came down into the kitchen.

“Didn’t have to much fun without me,” Michael joked and kissed your forehead then sat down next to you.

“We were just discussing baby names,” You explain while makes an oh face. Before he can respond Polly interrupts.

“We’re having the family over so that we can celebrate the new family members to the family and your arrival,” Polly surprises you and Michael.

Great a family reunion with the whole family.

As the family rolled into the house you were introduced to everyone. Michael seemed to be taking to his cousins while you were talking to Esme, Ada and Polly. Linda was sitting down reading a book. Anna was asleep upstairs. You woke her her up to feed her and then a few hours later everyone rolled in. So you put her to bed not wanting her to be stressed.

“So you and Michael happy for the baby,” Ada asked as you guys sat food down on the table.

“Yes but it’s going to be more stressful with Anna and it being twins will make it harder of course,” You explain while setting some silverware down after setting down the potatoes.

“Yeah it was hard when I married John he already had a lot kids when that happened,” Esme joked with you while nudging your arm.

“Plus with you getting pregnant every couple years,” Ada jokes while Esme rolls her eyes. It didn’t look like she took it to heart though.

“I don’t think it should be to long now,” Polly told you pointing to your belly.

“Well I hope so,” You laughed while leaning against the table. Before you could speak you felt some pain in your stomach which made you groan a bit.

“You okay Y/N,” Ada asked concern lacing her voice.

“Think it might be soon than later.”

Turns out you were in labor because not 5 minutes later you felt your water break which made you groan as another contraction hit you. Ada and Esme helped you upstairs to one of the rooms and laid you down.

You could hear Michael and Polly arguing. You knew Michael wanted to be with you when you gave birth since he was their for Anna’s birth. As another contraction hit you someone ran into the room and began to soothingly rub your back.

You looked and saw that it was Michael which made you sigh in relief.

“Michael you aren’t going to leave me are you,” You whimpered while some tears travelled down your face. Michael soothed you while wiping away you’re tears.

“Don’t worry love I’m not going anywhere,” Michael whispered in your ear.

You smile but let out a moan when you felt another contraction hit. You could feel them getting closer and closer.

Polly and Ada came up with some supplies and got you ready and when she said push you pushed with all your might.

It took about 5 minutes before one of your babies were out. You let out a breath before letting out a sigh but knowing it wasn’t over.

“It’s a girl,” Ada smile at you while Polly cut the cord. She wrapped the baby in a blanket while handing her to Michael. Michael started down at you’re daughter in awe.

It was broke as you felt another contraction hit you. Polly told you to push and Michael was by your side with your second daughter. Trying to comfort you while holding the baby. Ada took the baby from Michael knowing that you need some comfort.

“I can’t do it,” You sobbed as you leaned back on the bed and wiped the tears from your eyes.

“Don’t worry darling just a few more pushes and you’ll be done,” Michael cooed you.

You nodded before pushing again and only a few minutes later another baby was out you let out a happy sigh while leaning back on the pillow sweat coating your body.

“Another girl,” Polly whispered handing her to you after she cut the cord. Ada handed Michael the first baby and you looked at your babies in awe.

Ada and Polly left you alone for some privacy.

“They’re so beautiful,” You whispered while kissing your daughters nose.

Michael was about to respond before you guys heard someone say, “Mommy,” You looked up and and saw Anna standing there with a smile on her face.

“Come here sweet heart say hi to your sisters,” Michael smile as your first daughter came over to you and tried getting on the bed but failed a few times before succeeding. She went up to lay next to you staring at the new baby.

“What should we name them,” You ask while looking at Michael trying to wrap your arm around Anna with a baby in your arm.

“How ‘bout we both name one,” Michael suggested. You nodded and Michael whispered “Emily.”

“That’s a beautiful name Michael,” You whispered as Michael came and sat down next to you guys. “I’m thinking for this one Rose,” You suggested with a smile.

“I love it,” Michael pressed a small kiss to your lips.

You guys chuckled quietly when you heard Anna start to snore and you weren’t to far behind her.

Michael smiles warmly at all of you. His family.

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youngerdrgrey · 3 years

Text

the only way to get over someone... // a Batwoman fic

About: SPOILERS FOR THE SEASON TWO FINALE / post-2x18 / season two finale — After the s2 finale, Ryan tries to be a good 'friend' to Sophie, but it does not go the way she planned (feat. an extended cut of the similar tastes in conversation).

Notes: Don’t read if you haven’t seen the finale. This picks up at the end of the Kate and Ryan scene, then continues on from there because my WildMoore heart wanted to. Under the cut because spoilers + read on ao3

Kate Kane is leaving, and Ryan might need some time to fully process that. Kate’s opposite her, comfortably seated on the corner of their desk. The beer bottle clinks against the edge of it as Kate covers her bases. The suit’s staying with Ryan.

Kate starts, “As for Mary and Luke….”

Ryan jumps in with a smile. “They are my family, and I am going to take care of them.” No questions asked. Though, with Luke and his new super suit, she will definitely have help in keeping their family safe.

“Thank you.” Kate smiles back at Ryan. “And Sophie?”

Not family. Not in the traditional sense, at least. She’s family-adjacent at best. She’s… she’s Sophie, the same person who ruined Ryan’s life and relationship multiple times, and the same person who helped Ryan build them both back up.

Ryan quirks her head from side to side. “Can I get back to you on that?” The repetition gets another grin out of Kate. Worry still shines in Kate’s eyes though. Ryan admits, “She’s saved me a lot more than she’s hurt me, so, I guess I can look out for her too.”

Kate sighs in relief. “Good. She’ll need it. She’s not invincible, Ryan. Mary told me all about the two of you going back and forth over Cluemaster. She’s tough, but Sophie’s a lot more fragile than she seems.”

Ryan has seen a bit of that. Sophie does her best to hide the cracks in her armor, but Coryana in particular stripped down a layer. Her fear for Jordan took another, even her concern for Ryan in these last few days wore at it. “And you’re about to break her heart.”

Kate nods. She seems so sure that looking for Bruce is the right move. Maybe that’s what a good trip of Snake Bite can offer: clarity. Not that Ryan’s interested in joining Kate on that other side.

“Help her through it?”

Ryan jokes, “I’ll make sure she finds a suitable rebound. There’s a pretty great lesbian bar here.”

Kate’s eyes twinkle. “Keeping it close to home?”

Ryan does not like the implication in that question. She redirects the conversation. “Call us every once in a while. And make sure to tell Mary how much you miss her. She won’t admit it, but she loves to hear it. And maybe text Parker too. That girl is so hungry for gay mentorship. And —”

“I get it. I will keep in contact.”

Ryan aims her beer bottle at Kate like a threat. “You better. Don’t make me come find you. I almost died the last time.”

But Sophie saved her then. Ryan can always do the same.

Sophie does not know what to do with herself now. There’s no guidebook on what to do when the love of your life comes back from the dead, then promptly leaves to search for her cousin. No FAQ with tips on how to handle making out with said love of your life either.

There’s a knock on her door. A hopeful part of her immediately thinks it’s Kate. Sophie will open the door, and Kate will drop down her duffel bag and helmet and say, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sophie rushes to the door. Throws it open and — oh, of course. Ryan gives her an apologetic smile from the other side of it.

“I know I’m probably not who you want to see right now….” Ryan starts. Her arms shift around two resusable grocery bags with overflowing snacks and wine bottles. A backpack bumps them from her shoulder. She offers another smile. “I brought supplies. And I’m here to keep you company through the heartache and to take you up on your offer.”

That explains the backpack. Sophie checks, “Kate’s leaving tomorrow?”

Ryan nods. “Tonight’s her last night in the loft, and my only night crashing on your couch. If the offer still stands?”

She seems hopeful too, and nervous, like she’s bracing herself for Sophie to close the door in her face.

Sophie hasn’t exactly had any company at her place. Not since Julia. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone here tonight. Make her laugh, make her smile.

Sophie steps back to let Ryan in. Ryan glides forward. Sophie closes the door and leans back against it so she can watch Ryan take in the space.

Ryan does a full turn in the entrance. “Damn, you got it like this?” She whistles low in appreciation. Her platform converse pad along the hardwood flooring between the front door and the living room. It’s spacious with the most comfortable couch Sophie’s ever owned, her favorite coffee table, and a large TV, courtesy of a Black Friday sale two years ago. This place isn’t as nice as her old apartment with Tyler, but it’s still one of the nicer places that Gotham has to offer.

Ryan glances back at Sophie, and she realizes she should probably answer the playful question.

“I barely got it like this. Say what you want about my comphet marriage,” Sophie pushes off the door to approach Ryan in the living room, “the dual incomes made life a lot easier.” She winces. Any income. “I may have to downsize again now that I’m unemployed.”

Ryan sets her bags down on the coffee table. “Just work with Luke.”

Sophie’s eyebrows raise in confusion. “In real estate?”

Ryan gives Sophie an equally confused look. “He still daylights as Head of Wayne Security. If you work there too, it’ll make Bat stuff that much easier.”

Oh. “I… hadn’t thought about that.”

“Bat stuff or what comes next?” Ryan asks.

“Honestly? Any of it.” Sure, Ryan has called Sophie now that Sophie knows the truth. They’ve teamed up, and they really did a great job last night during the blackout. All signs point to Sophie officially being a part of the team. She simply doesn’t want to assume and get hurt in the process.

Ryan reads her silence and rolls her eyes. “Consider this your Bat Team orientation. We mostly work nights, though there are the occasional work trips. We went to a beautiful island this year for a company retreat.”

Sophie can play along. “I think I’ve been there. Shame about the fire.”

Ryan nods with a faux somber expression. “Beautiful sight, even if it did almost kill me. Oh, and we have full medical benefits, so long as you go to Mary and Mary alone. No overtime. No days off. But you get to make Gotham a better place.”

Sophie pretends to think it over. “Is there a uniform?”

“Only for me. The rest of the staff comes as they are.”

“Lucky them.”

Ryan pops the collar on her flannel shirt. “You should see me in my suit.” It fits Ryan in all the right places for being protective wear. Sophie will never say that though. Ryan’s cocky enough without being complimented.

Sophie eyes the bags. “So what’s the plan?”

Ryan perks up, their earlier bit forgotten. “Anything we want. I’ve got face masks —” She tugs them out to show Sophie. “Candy and snacks. Most of it’s vegan, so I can enjoy it too. I brought wine that I took from the bar. We can blast angry, pop music, or do sad girl karaoke. Ooh, you can call Kate a bitch again.”

“I called Circe a bitch,” Sophie clarifies.

Ryan waves that off. “She deserved it.”

“Well, she’s gone so….” Sophie shrugs because that is the point, isn’t it? She glances around her one bedroom apartment — the effects of her last break-up — and logs the empty spots on the walls where old art would’ve gone. There’s space on the bookshelves from the books Tyler took with him. After the divorce, Sophie had to physically sort through her life. What does she do now when there’s nothing to pack up, or send away?

Sophie admits, “I’ve never had another person for this. Though, Kate and I did have a better goodbye than we usually do.” Even saying that puts a little smile in the corner of Sophie’s lips.

Of course Ryan clocks it. “Oh, y’all had a good-bye then.”

Sophie’s smile gets bigger as she licks her lips. A very good bye. As the rest of the conversation filters back in, Sophie’s smile shrinks. “She wants me to go for something easier.”

Ryan hums in understanding. “Long distance isn’t great, especially when you have no idea where she’ll be.”

“Are we still talking about Kate?” Sophie asks. Angelique’s out there somewhere. Ryan spent the majority of their working relationship hating Sophie because of Angelique. If Ryan’s still hung up on her….

Ryan shrugs. “We’re all getting over someone. I am just much further along than you.”

Honestly, direct communication is not something Sophie is interested in right now. She doesn’t want to think about whether Ryan misses Angelique, or how much Sophie will miss Kate when the reality sets in. She doesn’t want to think about Imani, or the fact that Ryan has had a whole mini-relationship in these last few months while Sophie’s been frozen in grief and time.

“You know what they say, the best way to get over someone…” Sophie lets the sentence hang a moment as Ryan’s eyebrows inch higher and higher up her hairline. Sophie laughs before finishing, “is to watch a movie with a friend. You pick.”

The way Ryan’s face lights up with the power is absolutely worth whatever disaster will take up the next two hours of Sophie’s life. “Let me see what you got.”

As Sophie brings two glasses of wine over to the living room, Ryan puts a throw pillow on the ground and tells Sophie to sit on it.

“But the couch—”

“Is for me!” Ryan plops down with her feet on either side of the pillow. She looks like they’ve got church in the morning and the hot comb’s smoking on the tray beside her. “You know the set up,” Ryan says.

“True. Care to tell me why?” Sophie’s hair is fine.

Ryan’s nose quirks up the way it does when she needs to keep her emotions in check. She shrinks into her chest. “When I was sad, my mama used to play with my hair. She’d claim that she was oiling my scalp, but mostly, she ran her fingers through it. Gave me a little massage until I felt better, or went to sleep. I am willing to do that for you, if you want to actually relax.”

Relaxing does sound better than drinking a lot of wine and crying. Besides, Ryan studies Sophie’s face like she wants to find every crack and smooth it over. How could Sophie say no?

She sets the wine down and sits onto the pillow. Instinct takes over as she scoots back until her back’s to the couch and rests her neck against the side of the cushion. Ryan does a little happy dance that shakes the couch. She presses play on the movie, and Sophie watches the credits. She does. She sees that much for sure. But once Ryan slips her fingers into Sophie’s hair, Sophie tunes all the way out.

A light lavender scent hits her nose each time Ryan’s hands shift towards the crown of her head. Did Ryan put on a perfume, or is that an essential oil? Lavender’s meant to be calming. Soothing. Sophie wants to drown in it.

As Ryan massages her way along Sophie’s scalp, the world melts away. No pain, no drama, just a weightlessness that eases down her body and makes her want to cry. Her body sinks into the softness. The peace and stability of knowing hands and the right amount of pressure to send tingles through her skin. Then Ryan’s short nails get involved, lightly scratching, and Sophie barely bites down on a moan.

Ryan must still hear it. A little chuckle shakes the couch. She doesn’t comment thankfully. Sophie doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed right now. Too lost in the feel of Ryan’s hands on her. If this is what Ryan can do with just Sophie’s head —

Sophie’s eyes fly open. She needs to get a grip.

Ryan’s fingers snake down to Sophie’s shoulders. Again, the only grip Sophie can focus on is Ryan’s. Sophie lasts another few minutes of this high before sighing out, “Marry me.”

She figures Ryan will laugh at that too. They’ve joked enough about dates, both in and out of the cowl. Ryan doesn’t even stop touching her. Ryan leans down rather than keeping the distance. The shift in position tightens her thighs on either side of where Sophie sits. She waits until her breath is a warm whisper against Sophie’s ear to let out the sexiest little laugh. Sophie genuinely stops breathing.

“If you think this is good, you’re not ready.”

In an instant, Sophie would really like to be. Ready, willing, anything and everything if it feels this good and Ryan stays this close to her. Her face is on fire as she turns her head to see Ryan. Fuck, Ryan’s lips are right there. Teasing and parted, and Ryan’s tongue dips out to wet them. Sophie drags her gaze up from Ryan’s lips to meet Ryan’s hooded, sparkling eyes. Oh she knows exactly what she’s doing to Sophie. She’s enjoying this.

Ryan’s voice still sounds teasing. “Watch the movie, Sophie.”

“I’ll watch what I want to watch,” Sophie shoots back.

Ryan takes that as the challenge it is. She holds the stare and kneads her thumbs into the backs of Sophie’s shoulders. Sophie’s eyelids flutter, and she struggles again to keep from audibly moaning. At least this time, she catches the little gulp Ryan does.

Ryan scoots back onto the couch, up to her full — albeit little — seated height. Sophie turns further, and she tries not to think too hard about looking up at Ryan from between Ryan’s legs. It must be on her face though since Ryan actually averts her eyes.

“Soph....” Ryan’s voice strains. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Ryan started it with that ‘if you think this is good’ comment. She is not putting this back on Sophie.

Ryan groans, flustered in a way that should not look as cute as it does. “You know what! You — we — just look over there.” She takes a hand off Sophie to point back at the TV. “I am trying to be a good friend right now. To both of you.”

And there goes the fun. Sophie turns back to the TV. She really has no idea what’s happening in this movie. She doesn’t want to ask either. They’re damn near fifteen minutes in. She’s not going back in the movie, or with life. She’s not going to break down over losing Kate again. She has no reason to. She’s spent more time with Ryan this week than she did with Kate. She’s fine.

Ryan clears her throat. “Talking with her today was, like, everything I’d imagined it would be. She’s funny and witty, and she has great taste in everything. Present company included. I can see why you’d love her. And why it would be easier to not try to deal with those feelings of loss all over again.”

Sophie drops her head back against the couch. Her ceiling’s not nearly as interesting to look at as Ryan. Or Kate. “Do we have to do this?”

“We’re not doing anything else so….” Her narrowed eyes say exactly what she means by ‘anything else.’

“There are other things, Ryan.” Besides giving in to the tension that flares between them, besides shifting an already unstable dynamic past its breaking point. Probably many, many times.

Ryan holds her hands together in her lap. “Well, you’re clearly not interested in the movie, so: your call. What does the great Sophie Moore want to do with her break up night?”

Sophie’s eyes dance as she gets up to kneel in front of Ryan. (Yes, Ryan glances at her through what looks like a haze of lust and concern. Yes, she blinks, and all that emotion slips back under the base gleam in Ryan’s eyes. No, Sophie does not want to think about how many times Ryan might’ve looked at her like this without ever noticing.)

“Well, Ryan Wilder, there is one thing that I have been dying to do.”

“You have to— Sophie, please listen before we end up falling.” Ryan glares up at Sophie. They’re standing on a building that Ryan says is the best jumping point to the Bat-roof. It’s lower down, which is probably why Sophie has never seen either of the Batwomen coming.

Ryan’s face is torn between excitement and dread at sharing her red and black baton with Sophie. She repeats for the third time which button to press to shoot the grappling hook, how to angle the body, and how to land so they don’t fall off the roof.

“I’m listening,” Sophie swears. She adjusts her stance so her feet are wide like Ryan instructed. She angles her body towards the other roof — their roof. She takes a steadying breath and gently plucks Ryan’s hand off the other end of the baton.

Ryan steps in to wrap her arms around Sophie’s waist. “You have to brace yourself for landing. And please do not let go of me. I’m holding on, but—”

“I won’t let go,” Sophie assures her. She wraps her left arm around Ryan and holds tight to the baton with her right. Okay, another steadying breath, and she jams her thumb into the button. The wire flies out, and in a breath, they soar up through the air. Wind whips around them, and Ryan squeezes so tight that her face is nearly in Sophie’s chest.

For her assurances, Sophie does not stick the landing. She stumbles the moment the wire ends, and Ryan stumbles with her. Both of them clatter onto the Bat-roof with a groan and a laugh and a tangle of limbs that ends with them side by side on the roof’s floor.

The air around them is quiet and warm and still has a hint of the smoke from all the fires in Gotham yesterday. Sophie has the fleeting thought that it might be easier with Ryan than she ever expected. What ‘it’ is, well, Sophie blinks that away.

She props herself up on her elbows. “Can we go again?”

Ryan laughs. “No recovery period with you.”

Sophie gets up and offers her hand to Ryan, who takes it without hesitation. She tugs harder than she needs to. Ryan pops up with little more than a breath between them. She uses her free hand to tuck Ryan’s hair behind her ear. Lets her finger trail down Ryan’s neck.

Sophie whispers, “Oh, Wilder, you have no idea.” Ryan’s dramatic groan of reply makes Sophie laugh harder than she has all day. "Come on, round two."

Ryan pouts as Sophie heads for the stairs. Ryan points out, "I normally just jump off."

"What's the rush?" Sophie holds the door open for Ryan to come with her. "We've got all the time in the world."

a/n: We made it through season two, and I love these two so much. What about you?

#batwoman #batwoman fic #wildmoore #ryan wilder #sophie moore #ryan x sophie #mine #batwoman: s2 #batwoman: 218 #kate kane #kate x ryan #but not in a ship way just in a tag way

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melanielocke · 3 years

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Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 33

AO3

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month

Previous Chapter: Chapter 32

Next Chapter: Chapter 34

Alastair used his dagger to mark trees that stood out enough they’d draw his attention. How he’d woken up here with his dagger still on him, he wasn’t sure, but it was convenient. The forest looked the same everywhere and he couldn’t rely on his memory when he couldn’t tell the difference between the different paths he’d taken. He needed some things to narrow it down, which was why he’d started carving letters into trees. He’d remember enough to know where he was when he encountered one he’d previously carved, and he worked in alphabetical order. Even with his memory, he still ended up going in circles a couple of time, but at least he remembered which letters were part of that circle. When he ran out of alphabet letters, he continued with the Persian alphabet. After that, he figured numbers would do the job.

He didn’t know how much time he had left, nor did he know where Thomas was. There were very few buildings in the realm of the thief, but the scenery did change. The woods weren’t the same everywhere, although it all had the same air of darkness. Some places the woods were like he remembered from Devon, maple trees overgrown with moss. Others reminded him of the Hyrcanian forests in northern Iran his cousin Soraya had sent him pictures off. He’d started emailing with her about a year ago, but hadn’t met her yet in real life. He guessed now he never would.

He asked souls for help occasionally. Most of them could speak, but none had seen Thomas. Someone as tall and muscular as he was tended to draw attention, so Alastair assumed it was unlikely someone had seen him but did not recall. He had to be here somewhere. Someone ought to have seen him, right?

A soul of a white woman walked over to him. It was one he hadn’t seen before. She looked like she was from the Regency period. She wore a creamy white long gown with an empire waist and puffy sleeves. Alastair liked historic fashion, although he was by no means an expert, and could usually recognize the time period when it came to European fashion. Lately he’d started looking into historical Persian fashion as well. There were people from all over the world in here, although he was under the impression the majority was white. Perhaps that was a regional thing, because this part of the realm was layered over western Europe. Or perhaps the people making deals with the thief were mostly white, European people, who tended to sacrifice other white people due to proximity.

‘You’re Alastair Carstairs,’ she said.

Alastair frowned, why would someone he had not met approach him here? ‘The thief sent you,’ he concluded.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I was commanded to find you by a girl. I don’t know… She wants me to bring you to her.’

Alastair took a step back. Could he trust her? This was exactly the kind of trick he expected from the thief, to lead him to the wrong place so he would not find Thomas in time. ‘Who is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ the woman said. ‘She told me to find a man named Alastair Carstairs and I found you.’

‘But how do you know who I am?’ Alastair asked.

‘I don’t know, I just do. I know you’re the one she’s looking for.’

‘What did she look like?’

The woman tilted her head. She was wearing a creamy white bonnet that matched her dress. Not something Alastair liked exactly, although he loved men’s hats of the time period she was from. He loved historical gentlemen’s hats in general, and it was a real shame people had stopped wearing them.

‘She had light brown hair, fair skin. There was another girl with her. And a young man.’

‘Did the other girl have red hair and brown skin like mine?’ Alastair demanded.

‘Yes. She had a sword. And the boy was very tall.’

Alastair nodded. It could still be a trick, of course, but it was worth checking out. ‘Take me to them.’

Alastair followed the ghost. He wondered who she was, and how she’d ended up here. She must have been here for a very long time, still wearing the clothes she’d died in. Alastair recognized dress styles even older. A woman in a dress that looked mid eighteenth century, Elizabethan fashion even. Medieval and renaissance clothes, although he didn’t spot a lot of those.

He still made sure to mark the trees when he followed, using numbers now. The regency woman’s soul was clearly annoyed when he had to stop so often, but he suspected Lucie would want to know the way to the thief. He couldn’t afford to get lost in the shadows.

Lucie, Cordelia and Thomas were walking through a part of the woods that resembled how he pictured Scandinavian forests. Lots of pine trees, rocks like in Frozen.

The woman he was following addressed Lucie. ‘I have found Alastair Carstairs, milady,’ she said before turning around and returning to… wandering around aimlessly? Her stare went blank, and she went in a circle, as if her soul had just left her. Lucie must have woken her up somehow.

‘Alastair!’ Cordelia yelled at him. ‘Why would you do such a thing? What is wrong with you?’

‘I’m sorry, Layla. I thought you were dead. Thomas was dying. I had to do what it took to save him and I knew this was the only way.’

‘I never asked you to die for me,’ Thomas said softly.

Alastair took his hand. ‘I know, eshgham,’ he said. ‘But there was no other way. Now that Lucie and Cordelia are here, we still have a chance. But if I have to die so you can survive, that’s alright. It’s for the best.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Thomas said, almost angry. ‘I do not want this, I do not want you to sacrifice yourself for me. Have you considered how that would make me feel, to know I live because you died?’

‘I know it would be difficult. But in time, you would have realized I was never that special or interesting. You would have realized you could find someone else, and be happy. I do not think I could have done such a thing.’

‘Why, Alastair. Why do you not think your life is worth saving? Why do you think dying for me is a reasonable solution to this problem?’

Alastair couldn’t even begin to explain. Thomas did not understand, he did not see…. Alastair was too broken. He was doing the best he could with the pieces, but one day he would no longer be able to go on. He could not change, he could not be what Thomas needed. Thomas’ life was worth far more than his and so Alastair had made the only rational decision.

‘There’s no time to have this discussion, not if you want to kill the thief before my bargain ends,’ Alastair said.

‘We can’t find him,’ Lucie said. ‘We went to his castle, he isn’t there.’

‘He has another. A prettier one, classical style. If he didn’t leave, he’s still there now. I can show you the way.’

***

Cordelia followed Alastair through the woods. There were letters and numbers carved into trees every now and then. The farsi letters indicated Alastair had done that on his way here. He could navigate back easily. Cordelia wished she could talk to him, but he was right, there was no time and Alastair closed himself off from the rest of them. His face was blank and he showed the directions matter of factly. He was just like he’d been the past years, before Cordelia had learnt about their father and about Charles, never showing so much as a hint of emotion. Back then, she’d though he simply felt too good for her, or was, as her father had described it, going through a very turbulent adolescence.

Now she knew that wasn’t true at all, and she felt like she was losing him again. Even if they won. Even if he survived. He claimed he was sorry for leaving her, he’d believed she was dead. Cordelia suspected this had been his backup plan in case they failed at stopping Tatiana, something he had not shared with any of them. He could claim there was no one available to discuss his plan with at the time. Cordelia believed he’d had this plan since before they left, and had kept it a secret because he knew anyone else would try to stop him.

It felt like a punch in the gut. She’d thought that after years of silence, she finally got her brother back, but perhaps she hadn’t known him as well as she believed.

‘We��re almost there,’ Alastair said quietly. ‘Do you have a plan?’

‘We didn’t have much time to plan,’ Cordelia admitted. ‘Lucie will use her power against his in an attempt to neutralize him, which will ask a lot of her power, and that should give me the window to attack. Perhaps it’s better if you wait outside.’

‘No,’ Alastair said. ‘I have my dagger, I can help you. Besides, it’s only my soul that’s here. I don’t think I can sustain real damage.’

‘He might be able to control you though,’ Lucie said. ‘You and Thomas.’

‘Then you command me to fight him, Lucie,’ Alastair said. ‘I don’t think what I am now differs so much from a ghost. No doubt he can do it too, but with conflicting commands I hope that leaves me on your side.’

Cordelia wasn’t too sure about this, but she guessed he could help. They’d trained together, she’d want him to fight with her. She was just scared, but perhaps he was right, perhaps his soul couldn’t sustain harm. Of course, it was also possible any harm would make his heart stop beating. None of them had any idea what effect Alastair’s choice had on his body.

Cordelia was lost in thought and following her brother when Thomas suddenly grabbed her shoulder. She stopped, turned around. Alastair stopped too.

‘Watch where you’re going,’ Thomas said gently.

Cordelia looked in front of her. Nothing out of the ordinary. What was Thomas seeing? Her sight of the supernatural was not a gift she was born with, but after training with Risa for years she was decent. Right now, she saw nothing.

‘There’s a swamp there,’ Thomas explained. ‘Water, mud, with some clumsy bridges over it. Alastair picked the bridge so I thought you could see it, but then you almost stepped into the swamp. Could be dangerous, even deadly.’

Cordelia squinted, tried to picture the swamp Thomas described. Nothing.

‘I can’t see it,’ Lucie said. ‘But I can feel his magic. I think I could unravel the illusion, but I’d planned to conserve energy.’

‘This swamp wasn’t there when I exited the castle,’ Alastair said, ‘and I’m fairly certain I took this route. He changes the lay out of the world then, and uses an illusion to lure us into the swamp. Thomas can see where we can walk, as long as we follow into his footsteps we should be fine.’

Cordelia would prefer to see where she was stepping, but had to admit Alastair and Lucie were right. Lucie should save her energy for the real fight, so Cordelia did the best she could to follow into Thomas’ footsteps. She got her feet wet from a couple of mistakes, but so far could pull her feet back in time before it sunk in. Lucie had almost fallen all the way into the swamp, but Alastair had caught her in time, and Thomas had guided their steps so they’d stand somewhere safe for a while. At least she could feel the water when she stepped in it. Her shoes and socks were soaked by now, but that wouldn’t kill her, at least not in the short run. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what sort of infection she could get from the dirty water.

‘You’re going to have to jump,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s a bit missing in the bridge here.’

‘Can you mark the edge?’ Alastair asked, handing Thomas his dagger.

Cordelia wasn’t sure how he’d brought a dagger in here with his soul, but was glad for the backup. Thomas carved a line into the ground, then jumped over and carved another line at the edge. It was a doable distance, Cordelia could jump farther. She wasn’t so sure Lucie could though.

Alastair went first, jumping over and taking Thomas’ hand to find balance. Thomas avoided his gaze, Cordelia suspected he was very upset about what Alastair had done, and with good reason. She hoped they could talk it out once they were all back. She hoped she could do the same.

Cordelia went next, she didn’t need help to find balance, she could feel where she could best place her feet.

‘Catch me if I fall!’ Lucie yelled at them before jumping herself.

Cordelia’s estimation that she might not make it had been correct, she fell backward and Cordelia caught her hand just in time, pulling her back and into Cordelia’s arms.

‘Thanks, Daisy, I knew I could count on you,’ Lucie said. ‘Thomas, please tell me we’re almost there.’

‘I think I can see the palace. Just a little while farther.’

‘I don’t see anything, but I trust you,’ Cordelia said.

‘Guess he made that disappear too,’ Alastair said. ‘But I’m not stupid, I know where it was.’

‘It’s still there, don’t worry,’ Thomas said. ‘And if he made it invisible, he’s trying to keep us away. That means he’s scared, doesn’t it?’

Had the thief not counted on Thomas’ sight? He must have known about that gift, right? And Alastair’s memory? But perhaps the thief had only counted on her and Lucie as potential enemies, since Thomas and Alastair were currently his souls. Was she missing something?

‘He should be,’ Alastair said. ‘I think he believes I work for him now. Said I should fail my task, and then I could stay here with Thomas forever.’

Thomas made a face. ‘That sounds dreary.’

‘It does, and I never would have done that,’ Alastair promised. ‘Even if he said I could be his prince or whatever and live in the castle. But I think that’s why he’s not expecting me. He offered me power, and he said Thomas could be there with me if I failed to save him. He must have thought I would fall for that.’

Thomas looked away again. ‘I am starting to remember. You three, you all spark memories of who I am. Who I was. It’s… difficult, to remember the past time. So much has happened. But I remember now.’

‘That’s right,’ Alastair said. ‘It’s been a turbulent couple of weeks. But it wasn’t all bad.’

He put his hand on Thomas’ upper arm as if he was trying it out, to see if Thomas still accepted his touch. Thomas didn’t reject him, which she guessed was something, but he didn’t respond to Alastair’s touch either.

Thomas sighed. ‘No it wasn’t.’

They followed in Thomas’ footsteps for a little longer until he said they were back on dry ground. It all looked the same to Cordelia, odd how it could be so well hidden. It felt different underneath her feet though, and she instantly felt safer.

‘We’re almost at the castle,’ Thomas said.

‘Here’s my B mark,’ Alastair added. ‘I remember it’s here even if I can’t see. I never realized your sight ability helped you see through illusions.’

‘Me neither,’ Thomas admitted. ‘But I think the invisibility of supernatural creatures is an illusion itself, something I’ve always seen through. Odd you can’t, since you can usually see when you know what to look for.’

‘I’ve seen the palace and I know it’s here, but I’m not seeing anything right now.’

‘Watch out, there’s a-,’ Thomas began.

Alastair bumped into something, rubbing his head painfully. His nose looked weird, had he broken it?

‘Wall,’ Thomas finished. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Sort of. I’m fine.’

Alastair glowed a little, and then his nose looked normal again. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said.

‘What happened?’ Thomas asked.

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Do you think breaking my nose here also breaks my real nose? Perhaps Kamala fixed it.’

Cordelia imagined that could have happened. ‘If this is a wall, then where is the entrance?’

‘Right here,’ Thomas said.

‘You didn’t remember that, Alastair?’ Cordelia asked innocently.

‘Oh shut up,’ Alastair said before following Thomas through the entrance.

Cordelia went last, and when she passed what Thomas had marked as the entrance the illusion unraveled before her eyes. The palace was mostly white with blues and gold, built in Roman style, encircled by an equally white wall.

‘Ah, I recognize this,’ Alastair said. ‘He could still be in the hall where he brought me.’

‘I can feel him,’ Lucie said quietly. ‘I think he feels me too.’

#Alastair Carstairs #Cordelia Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Lucie Herondale #Thomastair #Lucelia #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction

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jensengirl83 · 3 years

Text

Regret and Redemption Chapter 6

Dean x reader

Mechanic!Dean AU

Word Count-2476

Summary- Reader has left Dean and is trying to move on with her life. Can Dean prove himself and convince her to come back home?

Warnings-Angst, Heartbreak, Language

A/N- Song in this chapter is Careless Whisper by Seether. Lyrics will be in italics. Thank you to my beta @emoryhemsworth and all my girls and guy for the encouragement to keep going with this series. I love you all!

Amazing series cover and text dividers courtesy of @talesmaniac89

“Hey baby,” Dean answered the phone.

“Don’t call me that Dean, this isn’t a social call,” Y/N said with her voice monotone and void of any feeling.

“I’m sorry Y/N. What can I do for you then?” Dean asked as his heart sank.

“I don’t need you to do anything for me, Dean. I called to tell you something,” she said.

“What is it Y/N?” Dean asked as he held his breath.

“I want a divorce, Dean.” Y/N said with no emotion detectable in her voice.

“No! Baby please, don’t do this. I need you,” Dean said pleading with his wife.

“Dean, you obviously didn’t need me enough to be able to keep it in your pants. I can’t do it anymore. The longer we stay just separated, the more hope it will give you that we can fix this, and we can’t. I’m sorry Dean, but I filed this morning. You should have the papers soon. Goodbye Dean,” Y/N said as she hung up the phone.

Y/N sat with her head in her hands as the tears for the marriage she had lost spilled down her cheeks. Having seen him with Stacy was the proverbial straw that had finally broken her. Her heart was aching at the loss of the only man she had ever loved but she couldn’t ever trust him again. He had done too many things to forgive at that point. No matter how much she still loved her husband, she had to let him go. It was time for her to move on and leave him where he belonged, in her past.

Dean sat staring at his phone for a long time. Her words had destroyed him. He was losing his wife and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. The fact that his marriage was over had begun to sink in and he had no one to blame but himself. He felt that his life was all but over now; the love of his life would never come back home to him. Dean threw his phone across the room with a guttural scream, the pain consuming him whole. He’d lost the only person to ever break down the walls he had built, the woman who he would forever love and never have again.

The weeks that followed weren’t kind to Dean. He had received the divorce papers and that had ruined him. She had asked for nothing: not the house, her part of the garages, not a thing. She stated that all she wanted was the money she’d made from her books and he could have the rest. She said that she didn’t want anything that had been a part of their time together. Dean had looked at the divorce papers at least a hundred times and it had hurt him no less than the first time he had read them. She was done with their marriage and with him.

Dean became a recluse, going to work and locking himself in his office and then back home. He quit talking to his family and friends, never leaving his house except when he had to. Dean didn’t even go to work if he didn’t have to. The will it took not to cry the whole time he was there started to fade. The memory of her was everywhere at work and he couldn’t stand it. If it wasn’t for the employees he had, Dean would lock the doors and never return. He knew the next months would not be any easier. The rest of his miserable life would be a living hell as long as he didn’t have Y/N.

The weeks following her decision to file for divorce were a little easier for Y/N, but not by much. She hid away in her apartment, continuing to work on her novel. Her heart was broken at the end of her marriage, but she decided to move on and try to live her life the best she could. She hadn’t gotten to the living part yet, but she was trying to get there. She had not heard from Dean since the day she had told him she wanted a divorce. She hoped that he had finally gotten the point and was moving on. She secretly hated the thought of him moving on; the idea broke her heart in fact, but she knew she couldn’t forgive him for his betrayal. That one thing is what had ended their marriage, her lack of being able to forgive and trust him again.

Y/N sat in her guest room that she had made an office staring at her computer screen. Some days were easier than others when it came to writing her book, but today was not one of the easier ones. Dean had been on her mind since she woke up that morning and it pissed her off to no end. Here she was, in her own apartment trying to move on, and he still had a hold on her. That thought made her think to call her uncle. She hadn’t spoken to him about the divorce proceedings since she filed.

“Turner Law offices, how may I help you?” Diane answered the phone.

“It’s Y/N. How are you Diane?” she asked her uncle’s secretary. She’d worked there since Y/N was a child.

“Y/N! I’m good, sweetheart. How are you holding up?” she asked her with sincerity.

“I’m hanging in there. Is Uncle Johnnie busy?” Y/N asked.

“He’s on the phone, but I’ll tell him you are on the line. Hold on just a minute sweetie,” Diane said as she put her on hold. Y/N was glad that her uncle was handling her divorce. It made it easier that family was taking care of it instead of a stranger who could give a damn.

“Y/N! How’s my favorite niece?” her uncle asked with a laugh.

“Sure, Uncle Johnnie! You do remember I’m just one out of how many? I bet you say that to all of us,” Y/N said with a laugh.

“I do but that’s because you’re all my favorites!” he said laughing at her.

“That’s a lot more accurate,” she laughed. “I called to ask how everything is going with my divorce.”

“Well Y/N, Dean hasn’t signed the papers yet. I contacted his lawyer to tell them that he needed to get them signed,” her uncle said with a sigh.

“I should’ve known. Thanks, Uncle Johnnie. I’ll call Sam and see what he can do to get Dean to sign them and get this over with,” Y/N said as she ran her hand down her face. Of course, he hadn’t signed them yet.

“You don’t need to call his brother Y/N. I know you want to cut ties and that will just make it harder honey,” Johnnie said softly.

“It’s ok, I actually like Sam,” Y/N chuckled. “I really don’t mind talking to him.”

“That’s up to you sweetie. Hopefully, that little shit will sign the damn papers soon,” he said with a groan.

“Uncle Johnnie…” Y/N groaned.

“I’m sorry honey. He’s lucky I haven’t sent one of your cousins on his ass,” Johnnie said with a laugh, but Y/N knew he wasn’t joking.

“It’s fine, honestly! I’m a big girl and I can handle this without bloodshed,” she laughed.

“Ok sweetheart. I love you and I’ll let you know as soon as he signs, ok?” He said with a smile.

“I love you too Uncle Johnnie! Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome darlin’. Bye Y/N,” he said as he hung up the phone.

Darlin’. That name had brought tears to her eyes. Dean had called her that many times in the years they had been together. There were so many things that she was going to have to move past now that he wasn’t a part of her life anymore. She shook the thoughts from her mind as she went back to her laptop. She opened up her Spotify playlist and hit shuffle. Music had always helped her to focus. The song that started to play had her staring at the screen with tears in her eyes.

I feel so unsure

As I take your hand and lead you to the dance floor

As the music dies

Something in your eyes

Calls to mind a silver screen

And all of the sad goodbyes

This song had always been one of her favorites but now it hit home. The lyrics made her chest feel tight, and her breath came in pants as she thought of her soon to be ex-husband.

I'm never going to dance again

These guilty feet have got no rhythm

Though it's easy to pretend

I know you're not a fool

I should have known better than to cheat a friend

A wasted chance that I've been given

So I'm never going to dance again

The way I danced with you

The tears were now staining her cheeks as her mind replayed that day that she had seen the hickey on Dean’s neck, the mark that had concreted her fears and worst nightmare, the proof that the man she loved had betrayed her.

Tonight, the music seems so loud

I wish that we could lose this crowd

Maybe it's better this way

We've hurt each other with the things we want to say

We could have been so good together

We could have lived this dance forever

Now who's going to dance with me

Y/N laid her head down on her desk and let out the tears, grief, and pain that had been bottled up for the last few months. She finally let herself grieve for the marriage she still wanted, the man she still loved. That was what hurt the most: she still wanted him, but she knew that it wasn’t a possibility. He had hurt her beyond repair this time. No matter how much she still loved him, she would never be able to move past his betrayal.

Dean sat on his couch where he spent most of his time now. He had even been sleeping downstairs since Y/N had told him she wanted a divorce. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in their room without her anymore, the memories of the love they had shared in that room was too much for him. Dean looked a mess, not having shaved in weeks. He only showered because he had to at this point. His evenings had consisted of staring at the walls and looking through old photos of him and Y/N. He knew that wouldn’t help him move on, but that was the point, he didn’t want to. He wanted his wife back in his arms and in their home.

Dean stared at their wedding photo for what seemed like hours. The way Y/N was smiling took his breath away. He had always thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but that day she had been breathtakingly beautiful. Her Y/H/C hair was swept up with just a few pieces down to frame her face. Her Y/E/C shined as he had never seen them before. She had been truly happy that day, and so had he. The two of them had been so excited to start their journey together as husband and wife. Dean felt the tears that had escaped roll down his cheeks as he thought of what he had ruined. A knock at the door had him wiping away the tears as he made his way to see who the hell was bothering him.

“You look like shit, dude!” Sam said as Dean opened the door.

“Happy to see you too Sammy,” Dean said as he rolled his eyes.

“What the hell have you been doing man? I haven’t seen or heard from you in weeks!” Sam exclaimed as Dean turned his back on him and walked back to the couch.

“Oh, you know, having the time of my fucking life Sammy! What do you think I have been doing?! I’m missing my wife and grieving my failed fucking marriage!” Dean yelled as he threw his hands in the air.

“I get it dude, but don’t yell at me! I didn’t tell you to go screw those whores!” Sam yelled and regretted it instantly. “I’m sorry Dean, I really am, but don’t take it out on me man.”

“Fuck you, Sam! You don’t think I regret what I did?! I have never regretted something more in my life!” Dean growled as he collapsed back to the couch.

Sam didn’t say a word as he sat down beside his brother. He regretted what he had said, but the stress of what he had dealt with that day had gotten the best of him. He laid his hand on Dean’s shoulder and let him cry it out, just being there for his brother until he was ready to speak.

“I’m sorry Sammy. I just don’t know how much more I can take, man. I want Y/N to come home and I know that she never will,” Dean said with a sigh.

“It’s ok man, I get it. I’m really sorry you’re going through this,” Sam said as he patted Dean on the back.

“What brings you over here Sammy? You need something?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, Y/N’s uncle called me today. He wants the divorce papers back and signed,” he said as he watched his brother.

“I don’t want to sign them, Sam. That means it’s really over,” Dean whispered as he glanced at the divorce papers sitting on his coffee table.

“This is going to sound rude, but it’s over whether you sign the papers or not Dean,” Sam said as gently as he could, not wanting to rub salt in the open wound. “Besides, you have a more important problem you need to deal with now. That’s the main reason I came over here today.”

“What the hell’s going on now?! I have enough to deal with Sammy!” Dean said exasperated.

“Well, just sign the divorce papers and get it over with. You’ll be going to court over something else soon,” Sam said with dread. He didn’t want to have to tell Dean, but he had no other choice.

“What are you talking about Sam? Just spit it out already,” Dean said as he prepared himself for whatever shit show was coming now.

“Stacy’s filed a lawsuit against you for sexual harassment Dean,” Sam said. “She’s also suing for wrongful termination. This could cost you a lot of money.”

“That’s fucking great!” Dean yelled sarcastically. If he had even a shred of a chance to convince Y/N to come home, it would be gone as soon as she heard about this.

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kelyon · 3 years

Text

Golden Rings 23: A Hat

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Jefferson tries to get help

Read on AO3

Inside a cramped little cottage in a cramped little town in the mountains of a flat planet that flies through space on the back of four elephants on top of a turtle, he is having dinner with his family.

Technically, they are Leo’s family, but technicalities have never troubled him. These people have welcomed him into their lives. This smoke-filled, boisterous cottage is more home to him than the solemn rock quarry where Jefferson spent the first few miserable decades of his life.

The meal is mostly over, but everyone lingers over pudding and conversation and beer. A few of his sisters-in-law have gathered up the dishes and are headed back to the kitchen for the washing up.

His daughter sits on his lap. She is almost too big for the gesture and maybe that’s why she wants it so much. It’s certainly why he lets her do it. How much longer will he have with his little girl? Even if they have escaped from the Queen’s curse, they cannot escape time. There will only be a few more years before Grace is more a woman than a baby. She’ll be as pretty as her mother, and just as smart, winding her way through the hearts of everyone who meets her.

But for now, his girl sits on his lap and listens to her family. Beside him, Leo squeezes his arm.

She leans into him. “No matter where we go, it’s never better than being home.”

He smiles at her, his wife, his life. Her face is ruddy from drink and smoke. Her blonde hair curls in the heat, teasing wisps escape from her bun. Her plump curves fill out her dress like bursting sausage. She has a shine of bacon grease around her mouth and a touch of beer foam on the tip of her nose. In all the lands in all the worlds, he has never seen anyone more beautiful.

Somewhere down the table, a baby cries. One of his many sisters-in-law is trying to soothe one of Grace’s many cousins, without much success. The infant has been fussing all night, and now the poor thing’s wails have drowned out the riotous conversation.

“‘Ere now!” Leona’s mother calls down from the head of the table. “Are you going to help that poor babby or do I ‘ave to?”

His sister-in-law--a washed out, nervous looking woman whose name no one can remember--looks gratefully up at Nanny Ogg. “Can you?”

Nanny Ogg snorts. This grande dame--which she translates as “big woman”--is the matriarch of the Ogg clan and the second-most powerful witch in the Ramptops Mountains, though she doesn’t try as hard. She’s had five husbands (and married three of them), fifteen children, and more grandchildren and great-grandchildren than anyone in Lancre can count.

The baby is passed from hand to hand down the table, squalling all the way. When it finally gets to the head of the table, it is placed into the very solid arms of a round old woman dressed in black. She has a pipe, a pint, and a black pointy hat. (There’s nothing magic about a pointy hat, except that it says that the person underneath it is a witch.) She also has lively dark eyes--like Leo’s, like Grace’s--and the widest grin most people have ever seen.

The current occupant of the old woman’s lap is a mangy ball of fur and claws named Greebo. Though known to pick fights with bears (and not lose), he’s nothing but an old softy to Nanny Ogg. Still, the cat is smart enough to know that he is always second place to any child. As soon as the baby is in the witch’s arms, he scampers out of the way.

Jefferson’s life would have been hell if Nanny Ogg hadn’t given him her approval to marry Leo. They would have married anyway--Leo wouldn’t have let anything stop them--but coming home like this would have been… difficult. There are a dozen tiny ways an Ogg can tell you they don’t like you--and a hundred large and painful ones. But Nanny Ogg’s welcoming nature--and Jefferson’s endless potential to bring her presents from far-off lands--had ensured that they were welcome any time.

Within a minute of entering Nanny Ogg’s embrace, the screaming baby quiets. Within another minute, it sleeps peacefully, despite the raucous conversation around the table.

Perched on his knees, Grace looks curious. “Was that magic, Gran?”

“Coo-ee, no, my duck!” Nanny Ogg chuckles. “The day I needs magic to calm a babe is the day you lot can put me in the ground!”

“But you did it so fast!” Grace persists.

“Coz I been doing it so long,” Nanny Ogg explains. “Ever since your Uncle Jason was a wee thing! There’s a knack to it, but it ain’t magic.”

Grace ponders this for a moment. Children are allowed to speak freely around Nanny Ogg’s table--provided they keep the conversation interesting. “Papa knows a man who does magic.”

Jefferson thinks about explaining, but clearly this is a private conversation.

Nanny Ogg nods sagely. “I imagine your dad knows all kinds of people, the work he does.”

“He was a funny little man,” Grace says. “He has a funny voice and he’s all green.”

“Takes all sorts, luv. We can’t help the way we’re made.”

“He gave me a yellow dress, to match Mama’s pink one. He pulled it out of the air! We were there for--why were we there, Papa?”

“A wedding,” Jefferson answers. “The Dark One and Belle wanted us to be there for their wedding.”

“It was a lovely day,” Leo smiles at him while stroking their daughter’s hair. “Do you remember dancing in that big ballroom, Grace? Remember how he made the instruments play themselves?”

Nanny Ogg snorts. “Sounds like a show-off, if you ask me.”

“Oh he is,” Jefferson agrees. “I don’t know if you’d like him, and Mistress Weatherwax would hate him.”

“Well, there’s not many I don’t like, and there’s not many Esme Weatherwax don’t hate, at least at first.”

They laugh at that, as they laugh at everything. The conversation moves on to other topics. Later the lot of them move away from the table and into the parlor. Around a fire and more beer, Nanny Ogg brings out her banjo, but the evening still manages to end happily.

He puts Grace to bed in a room with her cousins, a group of girls near her age. He kisses her and makes sure she has her stuffed rabbit. Then he goes up to the bedroom where Leo is waiting.

His wife is a dream, all satiny pink. All soft and warm and round. Like a sunset cloud with grasping arms. Like candy floss with a libido. She is everything. All the happiness he has now is because of her. This family, this life, their daughter. Everything in his past led to her, everything in the present comes from her, everything in the future will be theirs together.

They make love, full of food and clumsy with drink. Their lips are loose and sloppy. They giggle and try to stay quiet in this crowded house. Their hands know their bodies. They know how to pleasure each other. They know. They feel. They love. They delight in each other and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

When Jefferson wakes up, everything is gone.

****

For the ten thousand, three hundred ninetieth time, Jefferson woke up alone. In a giant, empty bed, inside a giant, empty house. He woke up, like he always did, with a gnawing ache in his chest and a burning desire for nothing more than to go back to sleep. Back to his dream. His best dreams were always about them. Leo. Grace. Home.

Sitting up in bed, Jefferson covered his face with his hands and let a dry sob rack through him. Tears would come later. First sob of the morning was always dry.

“Morning” was not the right word. It was a gray spring afternoon, more or less identical to every other gray afternoon he’d woken up in since he was brought over to this world. Over the years--over so many years--he had gotten in the habit of starting his day when most people in Storybrooke began to end theirs. The only reason he woke up at all was to get a chance to see his daughter walk home from school.

The telescope was in the office, what he tended to think of as the hat room. This side of the massive house faced Main Street. He could see quite a lot--the diner, the Sheriff’s Station, a few important houses. And he had learned quite a lot, just by looking at all these people living their lives.

Nothing changed in Storybrooke. Children didn’t get older. The old and sick never died. People worked the same jobs no matter how much they hated them. There was a girl he saw walking to and from the diner who had been nine months pregnant for twenty-eight years. Everyone was miserable, alone and unloved in one way or another, but they all carried on with what they thought were their lives.

Until the day a yellow bug drove into town.

Looking through the telescope, Jefferson trained his eyes on a lime green winter coat. The coat was bouncing over the shoulders of a young girl as she hopped, skipped and jumped her way around the sidewalk. His throat tightened, as it did every time he saw her. In the lens of the telescope, she looked close enough to reach out and touch.

Grace was walking with another girl--Jefferson didn’t know her name. She was poor, from Old Town. Her father was gone and her mother worked long hours for low pay. Girls like that didn’t get their accomplishments written up about in the newspaper the way Grace did every time she won the Science Fair. Until a few months ago, Grace had never spoken to this girl. Both of them had walked the same path from the school to the abandoned library, twenty feet apart, every day for twenty-eight years, without ever interacting with each other.

Until the day Sheriff Swan started a youth outreach campaign, and made a point to talk about how much safer kids were if they used the buddy system when they didn’t have an adult around.

Then Grace had looked up from her routine, and she had seen the other girl looking back. Both of them needed someone to walk with. Both of them were looking for a friend. Both of them found one. It was a little thing, but it was a change.

He watched them walk from the library to the house in New Town where Tim and Mia Lewis lived. The people Grace thought were her parents. Every once in a while, they ran an ad in the Storybrooke Daily Mirror--all three of them with big smiles, the adults offering their services in insurance and real estate.

The lights were off inside the house, so he couldn’t see into the kitchen. He couldn’t see what healthy snacks Mia had made for the girls today. He couldn’t see what game they played to unwind for a bit before Mia made sure they both started their homework. A few hours later, the other girl’s mother would stop by after her shift at Granny’s. He never knew if she thanked Mia for watching her daughter. Maybe it was just understood. Maybe Mia said she was just doing what Sheriff Swan advised, watching out for children who might otherwise get into trouble, being alone and unsupervised.

Once Grace was out of his sight, Jefferson moved the telescope to look around town. Not too many changes today. Archie Hopper was walking his dalmatian. Marco the handyman was making another trip to the hardware store. The stranger on the motorcycle idled outside Marine Automotive; he seemed to be watching Marco. Mrs. Gold was strutting away from the pawn shop with her head held high.

He watched her, this woman who used to be Belle. It looked like she was going towards City Hall. Curious. Was she applying for a permit? Was there some licence she needed to renew? His fingers itched to pick up the phone and call the Dark One about what he had seen. He was the only other human being in town, the only person who knew the truth about anything. It was just the Dark One, Jefferson, and Queen Regina.

But he couldn’t bother him too much. They couldn’t raise any more suspicion than they already had with their one secret meeting in the woods. The Dark One was still trying to maintain his cover as “Mr. Gold.” Besides, what difference could it make that Belle was running an errand to City Hall?

With a sigh, Jefferson moved away from the telescope. He’d been awake for more than an hour, it was time to put on pants.

In no time at all, he had showered, dressed, and chugged down a protein shake. Most days, it was hard for him to summon up the will to cook or eat. He kept his body going with prepackaged meal replacements. They tasted like crap, but at least he didn’t have to think about them. He left cooking for people who thought they had something to live for.

He made his way to the front doors. The house had a wide driveway that ran under a large overhang. Whenever visitors came, they could disembark from the vehicles and go into the house without the hazards of rain or snow.

If he ever had visitors.

At the moment, and for the past twenty-eight years, all he had was the most recent copy of the Storybrooke Daily Mirror. It wasn’t a bastion of hard-hitting journalism, but for a long time it had been the only way he could know anything about the town he spent so much time looking at. The newspaper had given him names to put to the faces--Mayor Mills, Mr. Gold, Sheriff Humbert, and later Sheriff Swan. It had been a lifeline, and he still clung to it. For nearly three decades, the dates on the front page had been the only changes he had seen anywhere in this town.

Today’s date was April 2nd, 2012. The headline was about the continued search for a missing person. Kathryn Nolan, a paralegal working at the firm of Duke & Duke, had been missing for more than a month. There had been sightings of a woman matching her description in various parts of Storybrooke, but by the time the police arrived, all traces of her had gone. Sheriff Swan encouraged anyone with any information regarding Mrs. Nolan’s whereabouts to call the station.

On the next page, there was an editorial decrying the lack of effort put forth by Kathryn’s husband, David Nolan, to aid in the search. Sydney Glass stopped just short of outright accusing Mr. Nolan of gross negligence or foul play. He only noted the amount of time Mr. Nolan spent with the schoolteacher, Miss Blanchard. The article concluded with speculation that perhaps Mrs. Nolan was not missing at all, but had run away from a terminally unhappy home.

After finishing the paper, he put it away in the office closet and went back to the telescope. The lights were on in the house where Grace lived. The other girl had been picked up. Tim Lewis was home from work. The three of them were making dinner together. Mia was stirring a pot of chili and Tim was taking a bag of corn out of the freezer.

“She doesn’t like corn, guys,” Jefferson muttered to himself. “She won’t eat the chili if you put corn in it. You’ve been taking care of her for twenty-eight years and you’ve never figured that out.”

He shook his head and looked away. Sometimes it was maddening to watch the town like this, to see these people make the same mistakes, over and over. Emma Swan had made some changes, but there were still so many ways to be unhappy.

He watched dinner in the Lewis household. He watched Grace carefully pick out all the corn from her bowl of chili and set it into her paper napkin. He watched Mia shake her head at his daughter. He watched Tim lecture her about wasting food. He watched Grace scowl as she picked up the napkin and dumped the offending corn kernels back into the chili. She ate, but she looked like she was going to vomit.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. He had to get to her, somehow. He had to let her know that he was her father. He had to get her back to Leo.

After dinner, the family watched TV. Grace sat on a couch between Tim and Mia, and flickering light bathed over all of them. They weren’t bad people, her fake-parents. They did love her, and they did the best they could to raise her to be healthy and successful in this world. Whoever Tim and Mia had been before, they were victims of the curse too. They had never meant to steal another couple’s daughter.

He had to put this right. He had to end this curse. Jefferson didn’t have much power, but he would do anything to put his family back together.

He moved the telescope away from Grace. After a brief search, he found the big pink house in Old Town where the Dark One lived. The lights were on, but no one was visible through the windows. If he called on the phone, the Dark One would tell him to be patient. The Savior would break the curse in due time.

But Jefferson had already waited too long.

Scanning through town, he set his sights on the Sheriff’s station. Storybrooke was peaceful enough that most of the cops could hang up their guns in time for dinner. They were all long gone by now. Even Sheriff Swan was packing up and getting ready to go home for the night.

Perfect.

Picking up the sleek, silver cordless phone, Jefferson punched in the numbers he had seen in the newspaper. Through the telescope, he could see Emma Swan hear the phone ringing. She slumped and grimaced in the way of everyone being clawed back into a job they thought was done for the day. Then she straightened up, and picked up the receiver on her desk.

“Sheriff’s station, this is Emma.”

Jefferson cleared his throat. “Yeah, is this the number to call if somebody saw Kathryn Nolan?”

Perking up, Emma fumbled on her desk for a pen and paper. “It sure is. Who am I talking to?”

That question was too complicated to get into. “Yeah, I don’t know for sure if it was Kathryn Nolan, but it looked like a woman in her mid-thirties, caucasian, looked kinda haggard. I, uh, I tried to talk to her, but she just kept walking through the woods.”

“Which woods are those? Where was this?”

“Oh, yeah, it was the north woods. You ever been up on Angus Drive?”

“Can’t say that I have. Still kind of new to the area.”

“Yeah, well that’s where she was. About ten minutes ago I saw her, she was walking towards town. Like I said, I tried to get her attention, but she didn’t listen. I didn’t wanna try to chase after her. Might scare her, you know. Make things worse.”

“Right, right,” Emma said. “So, north woods, Angus Drive, ten minutes ago. And what was your name?”

Jefferson hung up the phone. Then he got his coat and a scarf. It was time to go for a walk.

****

There were several cars in the massive garage of the house where Jefferson had been a prisoner. For the first twenty-eight years, he hadn’t been able to open the garage door to get them on the road. Even after Emma had rolled in, the cars were still useless. None of them had gasoline.

So Jefferson walked. He had walked along the highway and through the woods and over the town line as far as he could before something terrible happened. He walked into town sometimes, trying to find a way out. When he’d noticed “Mr. Gold” acting strangely, he had walked to the pawn shop.

At this point, he knew the town better than anyone else. Who knows the shape of a cage better than the captive inside? He knew the borders and boundaries, especially the area around the house. He knew where the road made a wicked hairpin turn, where someone who was still kind of new to the area wouldn’t know what was coming and could be caught off guard.

The yellow Volkswagen had better brakes than he thought--Emma stopped short of actually hitting him when he emerged from the woods onto the road in front of her. He’d been willing to take the hit, half-curious to see if the curse would let any injury last longer than a week or so.

Emma’s quick driving stopped him from actually getting hurt, but the collision was close enough that he could fall to the ground in a convincing show. She stopped the car and got out when she saw him.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

On the gravel shoulder of the highway, Jefferson groaned and clutched his leg.

“Sir? Sir, can you talk? I’m Emma Swan, do I need to call for EMTs?”

“No,” Jefferson gritted his teeth, swallowed the imaginary pain. “No, I live around here. I’ll be fine. Can you just get me back to my house?”

For just a moment, she hesitated. “Uh, sure. Yeah, let’s get you inside, at least.”

She helped him up and into the passenger seat of the bug. Then she began to drive.

“So where do you live, Mr…?”

“Angus Drive.” He answered only the question she had said out loud. “It’s up ahead.”

“Funny.” Now that the moment of panic had passed, Emma seemed less willing to accept half-answers. “I just got a call about that address. A man said he saw a missing person out this way. Maybe you saw her when you were out. A blonde woman in her mid-thirties?”

He shook his head. “That sounds like your description, Sheriff.”

“First, I’m not in my mid-thirties. Second, how did you know I’m the Sheriff?”

“I read the paper. And who else would be getting a call about a missing person? And, you’ve got your badge on your hip.”

She frowned. “Guess that all checks out. Yeah, I’m Sheriff Swan. What’s your name?”

Again, Jefferson didn’t answer. “This is the house on the right.”

“A house?” Emma said as she parked under the awning. “This looks more like a hotel! Do you have a big family or something?”

Jefferson opened the door, but made sure to wait for her to help him out of the car. “No,” he said. “It’s just me.”

“The sign on the mailbox says Dogdson.”

“Sure does.”

Leaning on Emma, Jefferson pretended to hobble up the stairs to get into the front door. The curse had never given him a key to this house, so he always left it unlocked. Someday, when the curse was broken, he would find a way to lock the door behind him and walk away a free man. He would take Grace and walk all the way to the Discworld if he had to.

“Where should I put you?” Emma asked once they were in the foyer.

“Closest living room is over there.”

She set him up on one of the white leather couches with his “bad” leg propped up on the arm. “Want me to take a look at it?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Listen, I’m kind of an amateur cartographer. Upstairs, I’ve got maps for all of these woods. They could be useful to you, since you don’t know the area well.”

Hands on her hips, Emma Swan looked down at him. She looked shrewd, suspicious. Kind of like Leo, only skinny. “I never told you I don’t know the area.”

Jefferson grinned. What was the old saying about honesty? Better to tell the truth because then you don’t have to keep track of your lies? “I guess you didn’t.”

“The only person I told that to lately was a man on the phone who also didn’t tell me his name.” Emma sat down on the coffee table in front of the couch so they were on the same level. “Did you actually see Kathryn Nolan around here?”

He didn’t stop grinning. “No.”

“And your leg isn’t hurt at all.”

It wasn’t a question, but he still answered. “No.”

“Can you give me a single good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you on the very serious charge of Wasting the Sheriff’s Time?”

Jefferson sat up. “I do need your help,” he said. “But I thought if I told you what was going on, you would think I was crazy.”

Emma didn’t blink at that. “People who might be crazy need just as much help as people who might be sane. Let’s start from the beginning: Tell me your name.”

“Jefferson,” he answered immediately.

“Jefferson,” she repeated. “Is that a first name or a last name?”

“First.”

“And the last name?”

He didn’t really have one. Few people in the old world did. “Ogg,” he answered.

It was the name he went by on worlds where last names were common. Leo’s name. He was part of a proud tradition of men becoming Mr. Ogg when they married an Ogg woman.

Emma looked him in the eyes, long and hard. “Jefferson Ogg,” she said slowly. “That’s… such a weird name, I don’t think you made it up.”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “And what do you need help with, Jefferson Ogg?”

“I…” Gods, how could he even start? He would just have to show her. “It’s upstairs.”

She gave him another look, not speaking. Then she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and pressed some buttons.

“Texting on the job?”

“I left my walkie-talkie in the car.” She put her phone away. “Just letting my roommate know where I am and to call the dispatch office if she doesn’t hear from me in 10 minutes.”

That was almost funny, that she thought he was dangerous. As if the most dangerous person in Storybrooke wasn’t signing Sheriff Swan’s paychecks.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

****

It was the first time anyone other than him had set foot in the office. He wondered what Emma made of the room. All Jefferson ever cared about was the telescope and the walk-in closet where he stored the newspapers. Neither of those things drew Emma’s focus.

“That’s a lot of top hats,” she said as she stood in front of the lit-up shelf. There were rows of them, all made of an endless supply of black felt. “You part of a show choir or something?”

“No.” He shut the door behind them, locked it. “The hats… are actually what I need your help with.” He pulled out some of the felt, some sewing needles and a pair of scissors. He tossed them all onto the table in front of her. “I need you to make one.”

Now the expression on Emma’s face was what ‘suspicious’ wanted to be when it grew up. “You think I’m a hatter?”

He stood behind her, nudging her into a chair in front of the raw materials. “I think you can do extraordinary things, Emma. I think you can do exactly what I need you to. I think you can save me.”

Her expression morphed from disbelief to exhaustion. “No, not you too. Have you been talking to Henry? What is it with this town and people thinking I can save them?”

“Because you can!” He put his hands on either side of the chair and pushed her to the table. Then he leaned over her to keep her from getting up. “You are a special person, Emma. You made the changes start, you can make everything good again.”

“Bring back the happy endings, is that what you want from me?”

She was angry. She meant the remark to be flippant. But she was so right it brought tears to his eyes.

“Yes,” Jefferson whispered. “Yes, that’s all I want. The Dark One says it’s your destiny, that you have already brought--”

“Wait, who?”

“The Dark One,” he said. “Rumpelstiltskin, he--”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Emma pushed herself up away from the table and stood up to confront him. “Do you think you’ve had a conversation with Rumpelstiltskin? What, do you think Regina is the Evil Queen too?”

“Yes!” he shouted. He picked the felt up off the table and shook the fabric in her face. “You have all the pieces, Emma! Why can’t you put them together?”

“Because this is the real world!” she shouted back.

“Every world is real!”

She made for the door. The lock kept her busy for just enough time that Jefferson was able to catch up with her. Gently, he pulled her away from the door and stood in front of it. Just being taller than her was enough to make him look like a threat.

“You don’t understand,” he tried to keep his voice from breaking. “There are so many worlds out there. I’ve been to most of them. The Dark One gave me a hat that I can use to travel from world to world. I could use it to get out of here, but I don’t have it anymore!”

Emma reached for her phone. He grabbed her wrist and pulled the device out of her hand.

“It needs magic,” he explained, as calmly as he could. “I’ve made a hundred hats, but they’re just hats, no good to anyone. I need magic. You have magic. You brought magic to Storybrooke the day you came here.”

She frowned at the phone in his hand and stepped back. “There was nothing different about the day I came here.”

“You’re right.” Keeping her in his sights, he stepped away from the office door and toward the closet. “It was the day after you arrived, the day after you broke the sign. October 24th, 2011. That was the day the clock on the library started to tick.”

Emma just gaped at him. “How could you remember that?”

“It was the most important day in the history of this town. The first real day to happen in twenty-eight years.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can I show you?” he asked. “I’ll even give you your phone back, so you can tell Mary Margaret you’re okay. But I just need you to promise that you’ll hear me out.”

She glared and held out her hand. “You are damn lucky you don’t have a gun right now.”

He watched her press the buttons, then put her phone back in her pocket.

“You bought yourself another ten minutes because I don’t feel like filling out the paperwork necessary to arrest you.”

Jefferson went to the closet. “It’s in here,” he said. “All the evidence I have is in here.”

She put her hands on her hips, squared her shoulders. “Go get it then.”

Right, Sheriff Swan wasn’t going to be the first one to go through an unknown door in the house of an obvious lunatic. Jefferson opened it, and showed her the newspapers. Twenty-eight stacks and counting. Each stack was made of twelve bundles, reaching to the ceiling. Three hundred and forty one bundles. The whole of the curse, contained in this room.

“I saved them all,” he said. “Twenty-eight years’ worth.”

“So you’ve been saving newspapers since you were, what, five?”

“Since the day I came to this town,” he answered. “Since the day anyone came to this town.” Kneeling on the ground, he moved the smallest pile and pulled out the smallest bundle. “Do you want to know what day that was, Emma?”

She didn’t answer, but he took the paper out from the bottom of the bundle and held it up in front of her.

“Go on,” he growled. “Read it.”

“Uh, it says that Mayor Mills announced a new committee to--”

“Read the date!” he snapped.

Jaw clenched, Emma yanked the paper out of his hands and looked at the top. She didn’t read it out loud, but he saw her eyebrows furrow.

“That’s… my birthday,” she whispered. “Like, that was the day I was born.”

“October 23rd, 1983,” he said. “That was the day the curse started. The day you were born was the day the Evil Queen cursed us all to live in a world without magic.”

“That’s--”

“There was no time.” He didn’t let her speak. “Nothing changed, nothing happened. We were frozen. Most of them didn’t notice, but I did. I remembered, I…” He couldn’t go on. “I thought I was crazy. I thought nothing I knew was real. I thought I had lost everything. But you… You’re the Savior. You can bring it back.”

Emma shook her head and looked down at the newspaper again. “Even if all this is true, why am I the one who has to--wait a minute!” She pointed at the paper, at a picture of the mayor. “This is a crock of shit! That’s Regina! Regina wasn’t mayor on the day I was born!” She flipped through the other pages. “Yeah, look at this. Sydney looks the same in this picture as he does today. Look at the school news, I’ve seen these kids!”

“I told you, time was frozen.”

“Or you put a fake date on an old paper just to mess with me!” She kept looking at the newspaper, seeing but not understanding. “Yeah, this ad here, this is Tim Lewis. He gave me a discount on my car insurance. His daughter, Paige? She looks exactly like she does in this ad. Pretty sure she’s eleven, not thirty-nine.”

Jefferson ripped the paper out of Emma’s hands. “She is not his daughter!” He snarled. “Will you listen to me? That girl’s name is Grace. She is eleven. She has been eleven for twenty-eight years!”

“I--” Emma put her hands up and let out a slow breath. “I don’t think either one of us is going to convince the other.”

“I don’t care if you believe me, I just need you to make a gods-damned hat!”

To Jefferson’s shock, Emma seemed ready to do what he asked, maybe in the name of de-escalating the situation. She went back to the table, slowly sat down, and picked up the felt. “You need this so you can go back to Fairytale Land?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t care about that world anymore. I need to go back to the Discworld.”

Emma squinted as she tried to thread a needle. “Discworld? I’ve heard of those books. They’re supposed to be funny, right?”

Jefferson didn’t smile. “It’s a real place.”

Looking up, Emma opened her mouth, and then closed it. “Sure.” She began to half-heartedly jam the needle between two pieces of felt.

He collapsed into a chair by the telescope. Gods, was she really doing this? Jefferson only knew enough about magic to know that he was better off not playing with it. But if the Dark One was right, then Emma Swan wouldn’t be able to stop herself from using magic. She would do it naturally, maybe accidentally. It wouldn’t matter if the hat looked awful. All it had to do was work.

“My wife is from there,” he offered as a way to make conversation.

Emma didn’t look up from the stitches. “From Discworld? Does that make her a witch or something?”

He shook his head. “Her mother is. I guess she could be too, if she wanted. Most of the time witchcraft is just knowing something other people don’t know.”

“Like how to make a hat?” Emma looked at him through a tube of felt. “It’s been a long time since my last Home Ec class. This is not going to be pretty.”

“It just needs to work,” he muttered. “Just… get it to work.”

Sighing, Emma pulled out her phone again.

“Has she even answered you?” he asked. “Maybe she’s off somewhere screwing David Nolan.”

A glare. “I’m doing you a favor by working on this hat. So maybe you could do me a favor and not say rude things about my friends.”

“I got you here by talking about Kathryn Nolan. Do you actually care about her?”

Emma kept her eyes on her work. “She’s a person. I care about people. She could be lost in the woods, disoriented and hungry. Of course I want to find her.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

“I have to hope so.” She cut one of the threads. “We haven’t found a body, or even body parts. If some monster was out there cutting out hearts and putting them in jewelry boxes, at least then there’d be some evidence.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you care about Kathryn Nolan? Or do you think she’s just a fairytale character?”

“I care about her because she’s a fairytale character,” Jefferson said. “Her name was Princess Abigail. She was the daughter of King Midas. She gave me a lot of gold just for trying to find a way to reverse the effects of her father’s… gift.”

Emma nodded, clearly humoring him. “I’d heard that King Midas had a daughter. I didn’t know her name was Abigail. Doesn’t sound Greek, but what do I know?” She was sewing the brim on the hat, after that it would be finished.

Jefferson stood up. His feet moved on a schedule that was bigger than Emma Swan. He looked through the telescope. It was nine-thirty. Bedtime.

“Do you want to see her?” he whispered to Emma.

“Kathryn?”

“My daughter.”

They were putting her to bed, Tim and Mia both. She was almost too big for the gesture, but maybe that was why she wanted it so much. Jefferson felt Emma’s presence beside him, and he stepped away from the telescope.

“They never remember to give her the stuffed rabbit,” he said. “That’s the only one that keeps her from having nightmares.”

“Oh, that’s Paige,” Emma said. She looked up from the window. “You… have a telescope pointed at the bedroom of an eleven year old girl.”

“She’s my daughter,” Jefferson repeated. “I’ve lost her mother. Grace doesn’t know who I am. I need to keep an eye on her.”

Emma stayed between Jefferson and the telescope. “Is it because Paige is adopted? Are you her birth father or something?”

He didn’t know whether to scream or cry, so he laughed. Emma kept talking.

“It’s no shame if that’s the case. Believe me, I know how mixed-up it can be to have a kid that’s yours but isn’t yours.”

“Shut up,” Jefferson said through gritted teeth. “Grace is mine. Mine and my wife’s.”

“You said you lost your wife…”

“Yes! And I’ll only find her again once I have a hat that works!” He almost grabbed her by the shoulders, but she was too fast. She made it back to the table and kept it as a barrier between them.

“Enough!” Emma said. She picked up the hat and tossed it over to him. “This is the last of my goodwill, understand? I’m going to leave now. You’re gonna let me out of this room and out of this house. I’m gonna call Tim and tell him to buy his daughter some blackout curtains. If I ever catch wind of you snooping around little girls again, I will personally make sure you rot in jail.”

Jefferson looked down at the crumpled felt in his hands. It was only a hat by the most generous definition. But maybe it would be enough.

When he looked up, Emma was gone. From outside, he heard the rumble of a car engine starting up. As she drove away, the sound grew fainter. He still held the hat in his hands.

It didn’t feel magical. His old hat had a certain… quality. There was an aura about it, not quite tangible. But there was a feeling he got when he looked at his hat. A feeling of… possibility. Like there was so much more to it than what met the eye. There was none of that in the hat Emma had made.

Maybe magic was different here. Maybe there was a way. Some way. He had to try. He would never know if he didn’t try.

He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Please.” With all his heart, he prayed to any power that was listening.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the hat to the ground, as he had done a thousand different times in a hundred different worlds. The hat spun and he waited for it to keep spinning, waited for it to grow larger and disappear into a whirlpool of purple smoke. He waited for the hole in the whirlpool, the portal that could take him anywhere.

But the hat barely made a full rotation before it stopped spinning. It sat on the ground, unmoving, unmagical.

Jefferson stared at it, until his vision blurred with tears. Then he began to laugh.

Of course it didn’t work! Why would anything work in this world? Of course there was no escape! Of course he was going to die in this world! Or worse--he would live forever in a world without time and he’d never see Leona again.

He sobbed. His legs gave out and sent him careening to the floor. He lay face down on the patterned carpet, stared at Emma Swan’s misshapen hat, and wept like a child.

****

Later--an hour? A year? Did it make a difference?--when couldn’t cry anymore, Jefferson pulled himself off the floor. He made it all the way to the chair before he collapsed again and hung his head in his hands.

It hadn’t worked. The Savior hadn’t worked. The side of goodness hadn’t worked. Well, Jefferson was never one to get too hung up about paltry matters like good and evil.

Slowly wheeling the office chair over to the desk, Jefferson fumbled for the silver telephone. He pushed in numbers he knew by heart, numbers he had wanted to call a dozen times in the past month, but never had. Not until now.

He tried to breathe, as the phone rang. But then he stopped when he heard it pick up. A woman’s voice. Belle’s voice.

“Mr. Gold’s residence. Who is calling?”

Jefferson didn’t speak. He didn’t breathe. Mrs. Gold knew that he had slept with her husband. He couldn’t ask her to put him on the phone. He couldn’t even let her know who he was.

He hung up.

With another deep breath, he pulled a book with yellow pages out from a shelf above the desk. He flipped through the thin paper, until he found the name and number he was looking for.

He dialed slowly, taking a breath between each number. He couldn’t sound like he was upset. He couldn’t show any weakness in front of her.

This was a bad idea. This was the worst idea he could have ever come up with. The last time he’d worked with this woman he had watched her murder a helpless servant once she was no longer useful. How could he know that she wouldn’t do the same to him?

Maybe by the time he wasn’t useful, he would already be in the Discworld.

He needed magic. He needed to get out. He needed power. So he called the most powerful person in town.

Regina picked up on the third ring. “Who exactly do you think you are to be calling my home at this time of night?”

“Your Majesty,” he said calmly. “This is Jefferson the realm-jumper. I’d like to offer my services.”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #jefferson #hat trick

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goldenpoison · 3 years

Text

Come Back To Me

T || 3.2k words || read it on Ao3

“And what if you died?” Alina screams at her husband, her voice almost cracking. Her wariness of nearby servants long gone. Aleksander already dismissed their personal guards the moment they stepped foot in the war room.

The beloved and celebrated rulers of Ravka would often bicker and sass each other. Their people saw it endearing. The lovesick teenagers would stare at the couple and giggle amongst themselves, often chittering about how they want to have something like some day. Their hearts still ignorant of the pain and suffering that trails love wherever it goes. The adults, who were once the bubbly teenagers, would also stare at them longingly, but for a different reason. Where the younger ones stare and wish for a storybook romance, they wish for even a sliver of the comfort and satisfaction that the monarchs had with each other — of a relationship healthy enough that both parties respect the other equally, and are unafraid to not hold back a snide remark.

They rarely fought intensely despite the bickering and the constant back and forth. But when they do, even the birds in their nests and the rabbits in the underbrush stop in their tracks, wary of the change of the lights and shadows. In fact, it’s been years since they had, possibly even almost a decade. Although they’ve been fighting for near an hour now, they have only ever repeated their original points and nothing more. The single difference being that they said them with much fervor than the last. At least, Alina does.

What fuels her most is not Aleksander’s stubbornness, but his calm demeanor. How could he stay level-headed when her temper is only rising and rising?

“I won’t, Alina.” His voice was stern and final. His words, however, were far from certain. “I’ve lived for centuries. What weapon could they possibly possess that could kill me?”

A lie. Excluding who his wife once was — the Alina who was ready to risk everything for the life of a simple otkazat’sya, the Alina just before she tasted the power of all three amplifiers, before she wore the bone of the said otkazat’sya amplifier on her wrist, before her hands were covered in his blood, her mind stained with the memory of his death, and her heart heavy with the guilt of not regretting any of it — for the first time in hundreds of years, there was a weapon that threatened his life. It was the reason why his army requested for him in the first place.

Too many Grishas who even dares to step near the Fjerdan border, no matter their order nor rank, ended up dead. His Heartrender generals died in battle. One found sans her eyes and left with darkness in her eye sockets. Another with his head three meters from his body, messily discarded like it was just another piece of meat to be eaten by wolves. Another general has been spared the dismemberment but was found with wolf bites all over their body and very much dead, nonetheless. All with three bullet holes to the head. Just holes though, the bullets were brutally plucked from their place that left the wounds bigger, bloodier, and dirtier.

They hadn’t known what made the bullets so deadly for almost a week since the Fjerdans first brought out the weapon. It was only until one of the soldiers managed to escape to the camps with a tilted bullet still lodged in his head, just a little bit more to the left of the center of his forehead. They said he came crawling with only one hand to push himself. The other was stuck to his abdomen, trying to apply pressure to the deep gash to prevent any further bleeding. It didn’t work for he still left a bloody path. With his fatal wounds, he only managed to reach the camp post, and died clutching one of the newer guard’s kefta, eyes wide and murmuring mad nonsense.

As reported to him by his Fabrikators, the bullets were apparently made of the usual lead-antimony alloy. Normally, this wouldn’t be quite a problem for Grishas because of their bulletproof keftas. What made them more dangerous is their poison coated Grisha steel encasing. Turns out, the poison was made of a cousin of the jurda plant that branched out only a few decades ago and can only be grown in very specific conditions in Novyi Zem. How the Fjerdans got a hold of the steel, he doesn’t know yet. One thing he is sure of, is whoever was treacherous enough to do or even slightly partake in the crime will receive no mercy.

Still, Alina doesn’t know. She knows of the staggering increase of deceased Grisha, but not the reason. The report came to him only that morning along with the request, and he plans to keep her in the dark about it. Even after all these years, despite her centuries-old valiance and her time-hardened heart, he’s still protective over his wife.

They’ve endured many things together, from numerous bloody wars to the yearly balls and events, filled with the same old power-hungry people hoping to get in the good graces of their king and queen, that they might just of boredom from. Yet, he could never seem to get less protective over her, if not, it might be increasing every day that the war prolongs, and if he was being honest, every time an overly decent looking man or woman steps ever so slightly closer to her and dares to bat a suggestive eye at her. How could he not, when all they truly had left as one another? He stopped trying to make sincere acquaintances before he reached one hundred, and his retched mother, as distant and cold as she was, jumped off the Elbjen mountains. He couldn’t imagine leaving her, but his promise to himself that he will do whatever it takes to make the world a safe place for Grishas was made such a long time ago that he doesn’t know how to live without it.

“Please, my Alina,” he pleaded again.

She sighed a heavy breath, her shoulders dropped and her head lowered. She didn’t utter a single word before exiting the war room.

–

Aleksander couldn’t even say that he woke up unpleasantly, because he simply didn’t sleep at all. Not when he was too lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

When it was time for breakfast, he saw that Alina, too, wore tired unrested eyes. She sat silently at her seat, her lips set in a slight frown and her head bowed. It wasn’t until the doors opened to let the servants enter with their food that she glanced up and Aleksander finally saw the redness in her eyes and the almost-vanished tear stains of her cheeks. She didn’t even bother with her Tailor today.

The servants served them a variety of fruits, buttered bread, and waffles, a food that Alina recently took a liking to these past few months. They stopped serving herring both at the Little and Grand Palace the first week that the couple came to power, courtesy of Alina whose face was in a clearly disgusted scrunch.

They finished their food without a single word said, and the tension in the air grew bigger and bigger with every second that passes. Alina has just stood up when he said, “Will you join me for a walk to the Little Palace this afternoon?”

She only looked at him with skeptical eyes, the rest of her face void of emotion. “Why?”

“For the sake of it. To check on the younger Grishas.”

Silence.

“Please. I leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, you know?” The Darkling never begs for anyone or anything. But he had to Alina, twice now in not even 12 hours.

She flinched the tiniest of flinches when he mentioned when he was leaving, but he saw it anyway. She thought about it for a while and only gave him a simple nod and strode towards the large doors.

–

They walked to the Little Palace in deafening silence. Not a sound could be heard aside from the sounds of their footsteps treading through the snow, their own breathing, and the natural cacophony of the woods and the creatures that dwell in it. As they get closer to the Little Palace, they heard the cheer and laughter of the Grishas hanging out at the frozen lake. Some of them were skating, some Etherealki were messing around with their powers, some hid behind the snow forts they built breathing loudly and looking at their enemy from time to time while their partners threw snowballs at the enemy.

The Grishas didn’t seem to notice them as their fun hadn’t calmed. That was, until a particularly large snowball hit a certain king dressed in black.

Everyone turned quiet. No one moved a muscle and not a single soul intended to. Except Alina. She burst out laughing like a mad woman over the extremely shocked and bothered face of her husband. Honestly, he looked like he was just harassed by a lowly beggar, she thought.

Tears were forming in her eyes when the Darkling finally moved on from his shock. What came after left the Grishas even more shocked than they were before. He chuckled. Not a laugh, no. But something more than a smile, nonetheless. They weren’t even sure if he could do that. It was surely the first time they witnessed something like this. The Darkling, former coveted general of the Second Army, King of Ravka, a man of legend so great that some prayed to him like a saint, who was known as stoic and intimidating, and was only ever seen giving the smallest of smiles, barely a tug on one corner of his lips, actually chuckled.

After a good five seconds, they unfroze like they were finally freed from a curse that paralyzed their bodies, and laughed with the monarchs. Although, a few Grishas were still nervous about their king and forgo the laugh.

Alina wiped the tears from her face and looked at her husband with her bright eyes and wide grin. “Looks like the point goes to them,” she said. “Can we join?” she asked the group nearest to her, basically hopping over to them.

“Of course, moya tsaritsa. Moy soverenyi,” the Squaller playing greeted and bowed. The rest of the Grishas followed suit, their tenseness creeping back in.

“None of that,” the Darkling replied. He walked over to the other group and pointed to his wife, “You’ll regret this.”

“A set of jeweled gold pins when we win?” she bargained.

“If you win.”

“When.”

“If.”

Alina retorts with a snowball thrown to his chest. “Oops, well would you look at that, my hand slipped.”

Before he had any chance to counter, she beckons more of the other Grishas to join their game. Soon enough, they were all grouped up into two teams, each with around eight or so Grishas of varying order, all very much competitive.

Aleksander’s team threw snowballs after snowball, with two Durasts supplying the hands of the five Grishas, including The Darkling, with them so they’re never empty. Yet, only a few really ever got across the other’s fort and hit players. Alina’s team, on the other hand, had very little coordination. Their motto: make it, throw it, hope it hits something. Very unorganized, but hey, it worked.

At first, the Grishas were very cautious to not hit either of the monarchs, but after a few hits, they were the ones being targeted. One rogue snowball even hit Alina’s face, which she only laughed off and insisted they continue with a very precise throw to their opponent’s “tower” that sent a decent portion of their fort crumbling.

It was, as it seemed, an unspoken rule to not use their powers. One rule, which Alina violated. She sent enticing ribbons of light dancing towards enemy territory to disguise the building of the low make-shift shield. Apparently, her team is much more organized than they let on, because once the other team snapped out of the trance caused by the beauty and elegance of the Sun Summoner’s light, a ginormous snowball that they were sure it wasn’t there before, was thrown by three Grishas. It hit the near-center of their opponent’s fort and sent it crumbling down. Alina’s team took advantage of the others’ shock and threw snowball after snowball until the Darkling’s team were forced to forfeit, much to his dismay.

“That wasn’t a win, you know,” he said annoyed, but content nonetheless.

“Last time I checked my books, it was,” Alina replied.

“Your books are horribly mistranslated.”

She only sticked her tongue out at him.

“If you must know, that rule was heavily implied,” he said.

“Oh, boohoo. You’re just mad because you didn’t come up with it sooner, and now you’re acting like a child who got his sweets taken away from him.”

The young Grishas left their anxiousness behind a few minutes after the first snowball was thrown. Now, instead of being tense, they watched amused as their King and Queen bickered. Two very different souls almost wholly opposite one another, yet united and harmonious. It was this bond between them that gave Ravkans hope, and fuels the fire of Ravka itself.

It was the break of dawn.

Alina stood by doors, not daring to go any further in fear that if she did, she’d drag him back towards their quarters and never let him leave. Maybe even do another round of their risqué game they played last night. And a quick version of that right when they woke up.

Aleksander stood by the black troika, none sensibly fumbling with something. He looked over to his wife and didn’t stop his feet when it took a step towards her. Then another. Then another. They’ve already said their goodbyes a few moments ago, but he feels they’re not enough. They’re never enough. A single word of goodbye will never be enough to encapsulate what he feels.

So instead of saying them, when he reaches her at the top of the stairs, he kisses her, deep and passionately. She kisses him back. Where his kiss was intense, if not forceful, hers were tender and caring. He was desperate and longed for his wife. Alina only tried to mellow him down. Her kiss was to bring him back down to Earth, to calm him and remind him that she will be there when he comes home.

Their lips finally broke apart, but their noses remained touching.

“Come back to me,” Alina pleads, silently begging him to promise.

Aleksander only nods.

The first day he’s been gone, he sent a message.

“I’m here at the camps,” he said. “I arrived an hour earlier than expected.” He continued to tell her his ramblings and mortal thoughts that gave them both comfort. Words that reminded them that for each other, they were human. Just two humans with feiry hearts burndened with immortality.

The second day, he told her about the happenings in the camp but still ignored the topic of the weapon. He told her how General Volkova, the general who was found without her eyes, was replaced by General Popov, who was as strategic as he was insufferable.

The third day, he only said that he was fine, and nothing more.

Six days, he’s been gone. Three days without a word from him. He was only supposed to be ther for three days. He was only to assess and observe the situation, possibly come up with new plans, and show his face to the soldiers to relieve some of the anxiety.

She searched for him. Tugged on the string that ties her to him. But it never worked. Out of the many times she tried to appear to him, not once did she succeeded. It frightened her. It made her think of the worst.

No, anything but that, she thought.

The ninth day, a letter written on black paper, stamped with silver wax, was given to her.

She dropped her paintbrush, and hurried to read what was inside, not caring if the face she was painting was left unblended.

Grabbing the letter opener, she let herself hope. That it was him telling her that he’ll be home soon. That it detailed why he wasn’t able to update her.

Her eyes glanced over a word, a simple four letter word, that haunted her nightmares.

Dead.

Her world stopped. Everything went quiet. The curtains that rustled stilled. The whistling wind grew mute. The skys grew dim.

No. No. NO!

Everything came crashing down, as she fell to her knees. She didn’t need to read the entirety of the letter. She already knew what it said. Nevertheless, she forced herself to read it again and again. Hot tears streamed down her face as she read the letter word per word for the third time.

“It is with a heavy heart to write, that His Royal Majesty, the King of Ravka, is dead.”

A heavy heart, she thought, how can a heart be heavy if it was ripped from her chest and stabbed a billion times over?

They were supposed to be together. To never leave each other. To be by the other’s side no matter how far they were for eternity. They swore these words the night before they married. A week ago, he promised that he will come back to her.

Alina didn’t hear the pleading and the screaming of the servants and guards who came up to her room. She didn’t even register the gold pin with a dark blue gem on its head attached to the letter.

She was drowning. Drowning in grief. In sorrow. In emptiness, and in everything all at once.

The Sol Koroleva was drowning in light, that grew and grew with every tear that poured from her eyes.

For a brief moment, she glances at the unfinished painting — at the handsome face that was smiling the smile he gave only to her.

She screamed. And everything in Ravka, all the way to the True Sea, the Shu Han border, and Fjerdan border where the camp was, was enveloped in blinding light. Light that burned bright. Light so hot, it burned every flammable thing it touches. Deadly light, that killed both the Fjerdans, and the Ravkans.

Unlike the Unsea, it didn’t turn the humans into creatures. No. They were simply dead. Blinded, then burned.

The dome of light was so bright and wide that it could be seen from Kerch.

In the middle of all of it, Alina kneeled, sobbing, and clutching the cursed letter close to her heart like she was trying to absorb it.

She used to believe that grief was a beautiful thing. That was what she told herself after centuries of loss. Because if you grieved somebody, then it meant that you loved them enough that you gave them a small piece of your soul never to be returned again. And if they reciprocate, you gain theirs. And if they died, they carry that with them, and you keep a piece of them with you.

But Alina never knew what happens if the person who you loved so deeply that four letters couldn’t even begin to explain what you feel, that your souls became half of the other’s, then became a single one that you shared, leaves you. What happens then?

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d3-iseefire · 3 years

Text

Little Swan Lost Chapter 39

Thorin hadn’t realized it was possible for a human to turn as scarlet red as the girl did when he opened the door. She then did her best to look anywhere but him but her eyes, almost on their own, darted toward his chest every few seconds. Every time they did, he swore she discovered a new intensity of red.

At least he didn’t have to worry about whether his young wife found him physically attractive.

The thought passed idly through his mind, only to be pushed out by another taking its place. He had personally seen her being escorted back into the palace on their wedding night, and her cousin had all but accused her of infidelity. The media reports and rumors, many traced directly back to Shire, also painted her as…promiscuous to say the least.

Thorin had half expected similar rumors to crop up in Erebor, especially after discovering she’d found a way to sneak out of the palace.

Those rumors had never come, however, and now, watching her reaction to him, he questioned if she’d ever seen a man without his shirt on much less done anything else with one. Instead of behaving like the tart the media painted her as, she was behaving far more like a…

“I’m sorry,” Bilba suddenly blurted, derailing his train of thought. She waved a hand vaguely toward where the worst of the bruising from the ocean fiasco had stained his torso a mottled yellow and black. “That must hurt.”

It did, but there was no reason to rub it in her face. “It’s fine,” Thorin said instead. “What about you?”

“Oh.” Her hand lifted slightly toward her side. “I’m all right. Thank you for asking.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence, until Thorin finally cleared his throat. “Did you want something?”

Bilba jumped. “Did you hear what happened today?” Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her. She started wringing her hands aggressively, leaving the skin reddened.

Without thinking, Thorin put a hand over hers, stopping them mid-motion. She froze, and her eyes went wide.

“Sorry.” He pulled his hand back.

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly, waving her hands in front of her. “It’s-- ”

She trailed off again and Thorin suppressed a sigh. They’d be here all night at this rate. “You were saying?” he asked, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. “I was in meetings all day, so I haven’t heard much of anything.”

Meetings that had left him drained and fighting a headache, which was why he’d grabbed some pain medication and gone straight to bed afterward, only to be woken up less than an hour later by her knocking on his door.

Her shoulders slumped a half inch or so as if relieved to find him ignorant. Probably not a good sign.

“I just thought I should tell you. Before –”

“I hear it from someone else?” Thorin filled in. Definitely a bad sign then. He sighed and resigned himself to still more frustration before he’d be allowed to sleep again. “All right.” He gestured toward the couch. “Shall we?”

She nodded, and then paused, eyes darting toward his chest. Thorin raised an eyebrow in question. “Would you prefer it if I put on a shirt first?”

Another nod and Thorin pushed off the doorframe to retrieve a black t-shirt from his closet. It was one he used as an undershirt so it was on the tighter side, but it would have to do. He didn’t really have any casual clothes and he wasn’t about to get dressed back in his uniform for…whatever this was.

He returned to the door. “Better?”

She muttered something that sounded like “marginally” and headed for the couch with him close on her heels.

He sat on one end, and she immediately headed to the exact opposite side. In a seamless, graceful move she sat and pulled her legs up so they somehow fit perfectly beside her on the small cushion. Thorin would have dislocated a hip if he tried to copy that position, but she looked entirely comfortable. His own flexibility was limited to throwing an arm along the back of the couch and crossing a leg to allow him to face her easier.

“You’re a dancer, right?” he asked, only to mentally kick himself. Of course she was a dancer, he’d literally witnessed her doing it.

“I danced for a company back in Shire.” A look of genuine happiness crossed her face, and Thorin realized it was the first time he’d ever seen it. “I was hoping I could maybe dance for the one here in Erebor too.”

Thorin tried, and failed, to find a diplomatic response. He suspected the girl didn’t understand being crown princess wasn’t just a title, but a full-time job. Nori had reported Bilba had lived a relatively civilian life in Shire, but Thorin had thought she’d at least have some idea of what being a princess entailed.

It was becoming increasingly clear that she did not. She’d never inquired about her duties and responsibilities, and while a schedule had been mentioned to her, Thorin doubted she understood just what it meant. The fact she wanted to work at a bakery, and attend college, and was now expressing interest in dancing proved that much.

The look on her face was fading, and he knew he’d waited to long to answer.

“We’ll see,” he said finally, lamely trying to salvage what little he could. “You can bring it up to Balin.”

Perhaps they could work something out where she did certain things part time or only part of the year. There was also the possibility of patronages where they could potentially incorporate what she wanted into her actual duties. It’d depend on what duties she ended up having, and the possible conflicts between those responsibilities and the things she wanted to do.

She gave him a weak, false smile and focused on where her hands were clasped in her lap. “I suppose.” She shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. “All right, I guess I should stop stalling and just tell you.”

The sense of dread reared up again and settled across Thorin’s shoulders. If she’d gone to the trouble of getting him up and was fidgeting this badly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “All right.”

She started talking, eyes focused on her hands and voice low as she recounted the events of the day. By the end of it all, Thorin had shut his eyes and was pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off the worsening headache behind his temples.

Bilba lapsed into silence.

“First off,” he said eventually, opening his eyes and straightening to face Bilba. “I apologize on behalf of my father. He’s an idiot and had no right to do that to you.”

Or at least he had no right to do it the way he had. Thorin doubted the Thain of Shire cared whether or not the girl could produce an heir, not with the crown having four already, but he wouldn’t put it past the man sending someone infertile out of simple spite. So Thorin could at least understand having the question.

Having the question after barely a month, however, was ridiculous and forcing the girl into an exam was asinine. He could imagine what his sister had said to their father, and he fully intended to add his own part in the morning.

He’d also need to speak to Kyra. She didn’t deserve whatever his father had said on top of everything else she was dealing with. The media had been split on her since the wedding, with some giving her sympathy and the rest mocking her mercilessly. He’d heard some of what was being said and it was brutal. Kyra hadn’t commented on it, but he had no doubt she was aware of it.

“It’s all right.” She bit her lower lip. “I tried to tell Dis I didn’t need--”

“Dis is a force of nature,” Thorin said, waving off her explanation. “Trying to control her just encourages her.”

A ghost of a smile graced Bilba’s face. Her shoulders slumped with relief, and she leaned a little harder into the back of the couch.

“I appreciate you telling me,” Thorin added, and he meant it. It suggested at least some level of trust, even if she didn’t fully realize it. Even if she’d believed his reaction might be negative, she’d still gone to the length of waking him up to have a private conversation with him.

She was more comfortable with him than she thought, and if that was the case...

An idea that had been percolating at the back of his mind for awhile pushed to the front, and Thorin acted on it before he could talk himself out of it.

“I wonder,” he started slowly, his own nerves suddenly on edge. “Since we’re already on the topic, if I could ask you something.”

She raised an eyebrow in question, and he froze as uncertainty settled in. This probably wasn’t the best time but, then again, when was a good time to bring up physical intimacy? He’d idly hoped she’d approach him, especially based on the reports from Shire, but that hadn’t happened. Was it because she’d been finding an outlet somewhere else, or was it that the reports were wrong all together?

There was also the fact that he hadn’t even spoken to her until just recently and, again, how did one broach such a topic, particularly to a stranger? Oh, by the way, I know we barely know one another, but I’m not a huge fan of celibacy so I was wondering…”

Yeah, that would go over well, wouldn’t it?

But now she’d brought it up, in a roundabout way, so wouldn’t this be the perfect time to…

“You didn’t consummate the marriage, did you?”

Kyra’s words, almost the first thing she’d said to him after he’d called her on the wedding night.

A sick feeling settled in his gut.

What was he thinking? How could he do that to Kyra? She’d be devastated if he did…that…and she found out.

“Of course not.”

That’s what he’d said to her. Of course not, and he’d meant it even though, in the back of his mind he’d been thinking of the duty of one day needing to produce a male heir.

Duty.

Just a duty.

An obligation.

Intimacy for a purpose, not because he simply…wanted it.

And yet, here he was, about to ask about exactly that.

Mahal, what did that say about him? Was he really that fickle? Was it so important to him that he’d betray the woman who’d been by his side since childhood?

But you betrayed her already, didn’t you? A voice inside his head whispered. You broke your engagement, and married another, didn’t you?

He’d thought he was doing the right thing. He still thought so, most of the time. He’d made his choice and it had been the right one, hadn’t it? He’d been taught since childhood that duty to the crown came above all else. It had been a matter of honor.

And, besides, if he’d refused…if he’d abdicated the throne in favor of marrying Kyra…would that have really been better? Frerin, who had neither the temperament nor the desire to rule, would have been named heir. The nobility would have torn him apart.

Dis would have been there.

Even so, Thorin knew his father would have disowned him and fired Kyra from her position as ambassador. He would have been left penniless, and at the mercy of living off Kyra’s finances.

Excuses.

It was highly possibly they’d have had to leave Erebor, and for what?

For what indeed?

Krya would never be happy living a simple life, and Thorin would be useless for it. He was a crown prince. He didn’t know how to be anything else.

He’d had an uncle once who left everything behind to marry a woman his family had not approved of. He’d ended up rotting away at the villa of some benevolent relative or another, unable to find work due to his notoriety and lack of skill set. There was little call in the workforce for an ex-noble that had fallen out of favor with those in power.

Over time, his uncle had begun to resent his new wife and that resentment had grown into a cancer that had utterly poisoned their relationship.

If Thorin had gone down that same road, would he have faced the same end?

He feared the answer was yes. Yes and, in that, the choice, in the end, had been that there was no choice.

His father questioned why he didn’t abdicate.

The answer was he couldn’t. The answer was there were no good options, no good roads or paths to take that would lead him to an end he desired.

There was only the least painful route.

The route that did the least damage.

The route that protected Kyra from the worst possible pain, even if she didn’t see it.

If it was the right choice, then why work so hard to undo it?

Why are you questioning it?

Why not just ask?

Kyra’s face when he’d told her the engagement was broken filled his mind and a surge of nausea roiled in his gut. He pushed to his feet, guilt making his very bones ache. “Never mind,” he said, voice sharper than he’d intended. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He almost ran into his room and shut the door, the last sight he had of Bilba’s eyes, wide and startled where she still sat on the couch.

He pressed his hands on the door, leaned his head against it, and let out a quiet groan.

She probably thought he was insane.

He thought he was insane, sometimes.

He pushed off the door and paced to his balcony. He threw open the doors and was immediately hit by the bitter cold air coming off the ocean. The loud roar of the sea washed over him, and he heard the distant sound of a ship’s horn.

Thorin walked out onto the balcony, stone cold beneath his feet, and leaned forward to rest his hand on the stone railing. The skies were overcast, as they often were in Erebor, so there was little to see but he could imagine it well enough.

Light caught his attention and he turned to see it shining merrily from Bilba’s windows.

Those windows were supposed to belong to Kyra. The entire room in fact. She’d designed it, even slept in it when she wasn’t in his room. They’d been all but living together right up until the very end when he’d pulled it all down around her without warning.

What kind of man did that?

He tightened his hands on the railing until he felt the edge of the stone cutting into his palms, and then shoved off it angrily.

He stalked back into his room, dropped onto his back on his bed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Mahal, what was he doing?

This was done with. He’d made his decision. Why was he questioning it now? He needed to stop. Stop questioning, stop having Ori look for ways out, stop…

Kyra’s heartbroken sobs rang through his mind, and suddenly bile was forcing its way up his throat. Thorin lunged from the bed, and barely made it to the bathroom before he lost what little he’d been able to eat that day.

When he was done, he leaned forward to rest his head against the cold porcelain of the toilet lid, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Some crown prince he was.

Some fiancé, or husband for that matter.

He and Kyra should have just eloped, years ago when they’d have the chance. He could have given Kyra the large wedding she wanted later, after his father had a chance to calm down. Bilba would have ended up married to Frerin, who was closer in age to her and had far less baggage to cart around.

It would have been better for all of them.

He pushed himself shakily to his feet and went to rinse his mouth at the sink. A glance in the mirror showed him looking haggard, dark circles under his eyes from the day full of meetings, and his hair unkempt.

“Get ahold of yourself,” he ordered under his breath to his reflection. “You’re the crown prince for Mahal’s sake.”

His reflection offered nothing but judgement in return. Thorin splashed water on his face, grabbed a towel to dry off and went to try and get some sleep.

It would be a long time coming and, when it did, his dreams were haunted by the sound of a woman crying and a voice shouting one single question for which he had no answer.

Why?

***

Bilba didn’t know how long she sat on the couch before finally getting up to retire to her room. At her door, she paused and looked over her shoulder toward Thorin’s room. She could hear him in there, pacing about, clearly unsettled.

“Since we’re already on the topic, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about.”

Which topic? They’d talked about money before, and he’d never brought anything up so that left the topic of…heirs? He’d wanted to talk about heirs?

No, she thought as sudden heat flooded her face. Not heirs.

Sex.

He’d wanted to talk about sex.

Wanted to but, instead, had freaked out as far as she could tell and ran off to his room?

Bilba walked into her own room slowly and shut the door behind her. Her room, but Kyra had designed it. How close must they have been to the wedding for Kyra to have designed her room in the marital suite?

He must have been sleeping with her.

Bilba paused mid-step as the thought crossed her mind. She knew that already, logically. They’d been together for years, all but married. She knew it, but this was the first time she’d recognized it.

It must have been a drastic change, for both of them. Their entire lives upended in an instant.

A heavy feeling settled over her, and Bilba wrapped her arms around herself. She’d been congratulating herself on not being bitter but had simultaneously been judging Thorin and Kyra for every time they so much as looked at one another.

If anything, they should be the ones who were bitter. Especially Kyra. Every day she saw the man she loved but couldn’t touch him.

Bilba sank down onto the end of her bed and tried to imagine if she had been Kyra, having to watch Bofur with someone else.

It would have hurt, and she hadn’t even been with him that long. Not as long as Kyra and Thorin had been.

She sighed and studied her hands. She wasn’t so good a person that she fully sympathized with either of them, but she supposed it wouldn’t kill her to try a little harder to be understanding, would it?

A soft scratching came from her balcony doors, and she got up to go open them a slit. Immediately the beach cat strolled in, damp and irritable but with tail and head held high.

“Did you get caught by the tide coming in?” Bilba asked. She scooped the small creature up and went to grab a towel to dry the small animal off with. Once that was done, she changed, turned off the lights and climbed into bed. The cat burrowed under the covers and curled against her stomach, purring softly.

Bilba absently stroked its head, while staring blankly into the darkness.

Had Thorin really wanted to talk about…that? She suppressed a shiver. If he had, it’d probably come up again, or maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t even what she’d thought. Maybe he’d been wanting to ask her if he could continue to have sex with Kyra.

Bilba scowled. Sympathy or not, she didn’t think she’d be okay with that. But she also didn’t think she’d be okay with him wanting to be intimate with her, either.

That wasn’t particularly fair though, was it? If it was something he wanted enough to try talking to her about, then shouldn’t she at least hear him out? Should she bring it up, or wait and see if he mentioned it again sometime down the road?

She’d prefer the latter. Maybe he’d just forget about it all together and never bring it up again?

She sighed. It had been so much easier with Bofur. They’d had a foundation, a relationship that made it easy to just talk when they needed to talk. They’d talked about intimacy. He’d understood her hesitancy, if not the reasons for it, and had assured her he was fine with it.

It had honestly never occurred to her that Thorin might not be.

She sighed and pulled the covers up to her chin. The thought of him possibly wanting…intimacy…made her nervous but didn’t particularly scare her. Mainly because she was confident that, if he’d planned to bully her or pressure her, she’d have known that by now. So she could say no.

She hoped she could say no.

She hadn’t actually said it to him yet, had she?

Some men were so kind, until they heard the word no.

Bilba shook her head. She was reading too much into it, working herself up over something that probably wasn’t even what she thought. He’d probably wanted to talk about something innocuous and, even if it had been that, there was no reason to believe he’d turn into a monster if…when, she rejected him.

“Please don’t a monster,” she whispered out loud.

The kitty grumbled against her stomach, and Bilba settled against the pillow, hoping sleep would find her sooner or later.

Maybe she could try talking to him? Not about that per se but just…about…stuff? She’d talked to Bofur all the time, and she missed it.

Maybe.

She’d think about it.

Maybe she’d just solve the problem by ignoring it all together and hoping it went away.

It had never worked before but there was always a first time.

Right?

Follow on AO3: Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743620/chapters/3723188

#Writing #My Writing #fanfiction #fanfic #LOTR #Hobbit #Tolkien #Female Bilbo Baggins #AU #Modern AU #Angst #Arranged Marriage #bagginshield #romance #Slow Burn

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