#lucien would let elain paint his nails pink

[lainalit]

Headcanon: Band of exiles + Elain and Tamlin having a sleepover party, where were braid each others hair and paint their nails, while their gossiping about the inner circle 💞🥰

[separatist-apologist]

Wishing On Dandelions

I see forever in your eyes

Summary: When Elain is gifted a castle from her late Uncle, she expects it to come with bats in the attic and ghosts in the halls.

Not a grouchy English Lord hell bent on pushing her out.

Note: A final thank you to @the-lonelybarricade for both validating all my worst impulses AND being my UK consultant.

Part 1/2 | Read on AO3

To say Elain’s castle was a mess would have been an understatement. Nestled in the English Countryside, on paper it was perfectly picturesque. Charming, even. Elain had known the minute she’d learned of it she wanted to turn into a bed and breakfast. It was, for four straight months, all she thought about. Elain spent those early months picking out swatches and doing expensive surveys on the structural damage–of which there was a lot. She’d bought soil and seeds and enough gardening supplies to shape the whole of England if she’d truly wanted to.

And it had all come crashing down around her, crushed under the immaculate boots of Lucien fucking Vanserra. 

“I own this place.”

He’d said it in that posh accent she loathed, arching one immaculately groomed brow before his lawyers had swept in. He wasn’t wrong—though he wasn’t entirely right, either. His father and her Uncle had owned half, and now so did she and Lucien.

Elain and tried to turn on the charm. She’d smiled and put on her lowest cut dress, had bent against the desk they’d spent so many months arguing over, and asked to buy him out. Lucien had been unswayed—uninterested.

Elain blamed that entirely on how poor Lucien’s vision was. She’d learned this from a friend, who’d given her all the Vanserra gossip. His father had been a Duke before he died—allegedly murdered by his wife, who was little more than a common American actress. It had apparently been a terrible scandal, made worse when people suspected Lucien, his youngest son, wasn’t even his son at all. 

And in between all that, she’d learned that the Vanserra patriarch had been terribly abusive, though that was said like an afterthought. What was important was Lucien’s parentage and the fact that perhaps his claim to the castle wasn’t even legal.

Only, it was. Beron Vanserra had claimed him, and Lucien was uninterested in selling. It left Elain with the option of letting him buy her out, or convincing him to let her renovate and make him her partner.

Graysen wanted her to sell.

And Lucien had agreed to be partners, so long as he was allowed a fifty percent share, and say in her remodel. It was how, six months later, Elain found herself staring down paint swatches over a renovated office her and Lucien managed to share, despite their obvious desire to kill the other. 

“You want pink and green?” he asked dryly. Elain gave herself permission to study him only for a moment. She’d never asked him just how much he could see—the cane he often used to navigate with told her whatever sight he had was limited.

And none of her business.

A trio of scars raked over one of his eyes, like someone had dug their nails down his cheek in an attempt to gouge out his eye. It did little to diminish just how handsome Lucien was, though his mean spirited personality certainly made his good looks almost worthless by comparison. Still, his eyes were the most peculiar shade of russet brown, set in pretty, warm brown skin. His hair was a lovely auburn red and long enough he often tied it off his face, which gave him a rather rakish appearance. He wore a navy button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of well tailored trousers that showed of his muscled thighs, spread apart as he examined each of her swatches with a scowl.

“It’s for the garden view rooms,” Elain explained patiently. Sometimes she thought Gray was right—this was all a monumental waste of her time. She could be back in London planning their wedding like he wanted her, not two hours away negotiating with a terrorist. 

“Why not wallpaper?”

“There—” she was going to kill him. “There could have been wallpaper, but you hated that idea last week. Why not paint, that’s what you said.”

“I don’t recall.”

Elain clenched her hands to fists. “I still have all the wallpaper swatches. Would you like me to get them?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring them with you,” was his dry response. If looks could kill, he would be dead. Elain’s anger practically radiated off her, not that he noticed. Elain was certain he did this in an attempt to wear her down. He’d agreed to be partners because the alternative was a long, protracted legal battle that would have exhausted them both. But Elain wasn’t stupid, either.

She knew Lucien wanted a full share and her out of his life, and it was probably much easier to annoy her into quitting.

Elain clipped out, heels echoing as she made her way through the nearly completed castle. As she went, Elain looked out one of the hatched windows to the moody sea in the distance. She could see it just beneath her bedroom window, crashing against the cliffside her castle stood atop. He’d get tired, too. Lucien would bore of all this eventually and return to London and she’d be free of him.

Elain brought the envelope of wallpaper samples to him, dropping it loudly on the mahogany desk he still sat at. Lucien reached for it with long, strong fingers while Elain sat in the chair opposite him. 

“When is your wedding, again?” he asked in that bored tone. She must have told him a thousand times. Elain’s stomach clenched as she answered.

“Five months from yesterday.”

He nodded, his eyes landing on her. She didn’t think he could see much of her, and still squirmed under what he might find, regardless. 

“You must be dying to return.”

“Of course.” But that was a lie. Elain and Gray were fighting, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was aware of it. And truth be told, Elain was starting to get cold feet. Did she want to marry him?

Everything had happened so quickly, a whirlwind of romance that culminated in a marriage proposal before she’d ever managed to catch her breath. She’d liked how honest he was, how he wasn’t immediately taken with her face like everyone else was.

But sometimes she thought it might be nice to feel beautiful. Or wanted. Or even special. Graysen didn’t think any of those things were necessary.

You already think so highly of yourself. Why should I add to it? 

“How long for the honeymoon?”

“Trying to get rid of me? Or are you mourning the loss of Graysen?” she asked snappishly.

The corners of Lucien’s mouth twitched, like he was suppressing a smile. “I’m told he’s very handsome.”

“He is,” she said defensively, nearly adding, unlike you. But that seemed cruel and was an incredible lie. Lucien was the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life and she dreaded when Graysen realized this. He, like everyone else, imagined Lucien as a stuffy old man. Elain had never corrected this misconception as it made her life far easier.

Graysen was coming to visit in the next month and Elain knew it would be a miserable fight the second he laid eyes on Lucien. 

“How terrible to be away from him,” Lucien said crisply. “I would think you’d want to spend every moment possible with him.”

“I’d think you would have learned to mind your own business by now,” Elain retorted. Lucien did smile then, and she wished he wouldn’t. It was far easier to hate him when she wasn’t reminded that he was beautiful. 

“Pick a sample, Lucien, or I’ll do it for you. And I’ll make it ugly and claim it was your design.”

Lucien, who was so fashionable, scowled. “Yes, that is exactly the sort of immature antics I’d expect from you. Do whatever you like—in truth, I don’t care.” “Of course you don’t. This has just been a week of wasted time,” Elain snapped, rising from her chair to gather up her samples. 

“You’re not in London, are you?” he replied smoothly 

“Mind your own business, while you’re at it,” Elain ordered, storming from the room before Lucien could say anything else that might convince her to finally wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. 

-*-

“This looks nice,” Elain lied, staring at the garish pink couch now sitting in what would become her lounge. “Very vivid.” “I thought you’d enjoy it,” Lucien murmured. He had one earbud in, listening to something softly on his phone. She knew he wanted her to throw a fit over how ugly that sofa was. She refused, if only because Elain couldn’t stand to see Lucien happy. Irritating her pleased him, and so Elain would merely vent her frustrations to her sisters later when he wasn’t around.

Lucien didn’t notice the shovel in Elain’s hand. That wasn’t his fault, given Lucien could just barely see when his hand was two inches from his face. 

Elain liked to think that if Lucien could see her, he would have known not to try her when she was so capable of digging another flowerbed out back where his lifeless body would become nourishment for generations of tulips. 

Elain trekked out into the first warm, sunny summer day. She’d been growing most things indoors using little planters, and over the next week, Elain intended to begin repotting it all into the yard. She had her classic English garden to add a lively bit of color to the grounds, and then her herb and vegetable garden so she could boast of having both on her website. 

Lucien very rarely bothered her out on the ground, primarily because the guys who were supposed to be laying down her path kept rescheduling on her. Lucien didn’t like the uneven ground, which made it the perfect place to avoid him. 

Outside was Elain’s sanctuary. She had a little glass greenhouse for her tomatoes, and other things she wanted to grow when it got too wet and rainy to support much outdoors. And she had a pretty, white shed that she stored all her things in—of which, Elain had a lot. Gardening had fast become her hobby.

Elain had a green thumb and, beyond that, loved the peace of doing something gentle. Elain felt most herself when she was in her garden, and could easily forget all her worries, her insecurities, her sense that the world was all wrong and only she could see it. 

And for all his snobbiness, Lucien had never once made a comment about her broken nails or her sunburned cheeks when she returned inside. Of course, Lucien couldn’t see those things, but still. It was nice not to have him constantly scrutinizing her appearance. 

It was a low bar to not dislike Lucien simply because he couldn’t see her, but it seemed like lately all Graysen did was comment on her appearance. She’d once loved that he was taken by her beautiful face. Graysen had joked he ought to have taken her swimming so he could see the real her beneath.

Though, during one rather heated argument, he’d said her looks were passable at best, and hardly special compared to other women he’d known. And though it was shallow, his words still bounced through her head on occasion. Why did she care?

But if Elain wasn’t beautiful, what was she? No one had ever valued anything else, and neither had Elain. It was, occasionally, pathetic how much she cared and how hard she tired. She knew everyone thought so. Both her sisters found her shallow and insipid and in love with London’s social scene. 

Elain had never been happier than she was in the castle. If Lucien would just go, Elain thought she, too, might retreat entirely from life in the city. And maybe it was a good thing he stuck around, given Elain would definitely have postponed her engagement forever if she’d had that kind of peace. 

Elain pushed those thoughts from her mind. For six blissful hours, Elain did nothing but practically bathe in dirt. She returned that afternoon sweaty, her overalls caked in fertilizer and soil and with two broken nails. She came back happy.

Lucien paused, walking the familiar path from his bedroom to the dining hall. “What’s got you so happy?” “How can you tell I’m happy?” she replied, as if she wasn’t grinning ear to ear. Even Lucien couldn’t ruin the good day she’d had. 

Lucien frowned. “You’re glowing.”

Elain might have asked him to expand on that had she not been so surprised. Lucien continued forward, his immaculate shoes clipping over the wood floors they’d bickered over for weeks. Elain hated that Lucien was right—both the herringbone pattern and the crisp, light wood had been the right way to go. 

She watched him go, eyes narrowed. That was, perhaps, the nicest thing Lucien had ever said to her. Elain wasn’t even certain he’d paid her a compliment at all. Arms crossed over her chest, Elain turned for the winding stairs that would take her far, far away from him.

Not even Lucien could ruin a perfect day. 

-*-

Lucien was insane. That was the only way to describe what was currently happening in the courtyard. He’d lost his mind, holed up with only Elain for company, and was now certifiable.

How else did one explain the four roaming hens making a mess of things. 

“Lucien!” Elain screamed, hands balled into fists. 

He took his time, dressed immaculately in a butter yellow button up and charcoal slacks. Elain marched toward him, leaned against the archway that led back in.

“Do you think I won’t make you try and catch them?” she asked him, furious he’d brought livestock to the castle. “Because I will, Lucien. I swear to God—”

“You wanted farm to table, Elain. Now you have four egg laying hens, and a pen just out back by your greenhouses. What could you possibly be upset by?”

“You’re a stupid blighter, Lucien,” she snapped, resisting the urge to shove him. “You know this isn’t what I meant.”

He pressed a hand to his broad chest. “How could I possibly know anything about what you mean when you refuse to speak to me?”

“I wonder why!” 

“I thought you wanted to be partners,” he chided, making a mockery of her.

“I did, Lucien. You’ve been nothing but rude and petty this entire time!”

“Yes,” he replied dryly, his eyes wholly focused on her. She wondered if she was glowing to him now, or if some other color had overtaken her. “I have been the problem.”

“You have,” she snarled, taking two steps forward to jam her fingers into his chest. “Spoiled, princely Lucien Vanserra didn’t get his way. Has to share one of his toys with me. You could have left me here and stayed in London, but you couldn’t stand—”

“That’s enough!” Lucien snapped, his chest rising and falling. “You’ve said quite enough. Anymore and I think it’ll be unforgivable.”

Elain yielded a step, unsure when she’d come so close to him, or when she’d begun to notice he smelled like warm cinnamon and leather. 

“The hens aren’t going back, Elain. They’re a gift.”

With a huff of air, Lucien turned, walking off like he’d been the one injured and not her. Like she hadn’t just dumped a bunch of brown and white hens in the middle of her lap with no concern given to their lives or her ability to even care for them.

Elain was a plant girl—not an animal one. She sighed, bending as one particular white feathered bird rubbed its face over her leg. 

“Alright,” she grumbled, holding the bird in her hands. “I suppose we ought to get you four settled.”

By the time Elain had corralled all four birds, she’d also given them names, marked by yarn she’d tied gently against one of their legs. Henrietta wore pink, while Laya green, Cooper yellow, and Meggatron wore purple. Elain spent the rest of her day in the village, talking with a local farmer who had, coincidentally, sold Lucien the hens, on how best to care for the birds while dodging his attempts to unload several more on her. 

Elain would have her revenge in the form of the sweetest hen, who, over the course of several irritating days, became her strange companion. Henrietta followed her about, weaving through her flower beds and her newly laid path, clucking her observations while Elain pretended she knew what was being spoken. 

Lucien could now join her outdoors if he wanted—and he often did, if only to annoy her. Henrietta didn’t like him. Perhaps she remembered how he’d dumped her out here to fend for herself. Maybe he just radiated something the chicken didn’t like. Whatever it was, Henrietta’s feathers would ruffle, flapping as she chased after him and nipping at his ankles until he was far from Elain. Only then would Henrietta waddle back, preening and waiting for Elain to stroke her feathers. 

“She’s a menace!” Lucien snarled one day, watching Elain from the patio, arms crossed over his chest. 

“She’s a gift,” Elain replied, throwing his own words right back into his face. Lucien had given her, perhaps, her first real friend. A bird friend, but a friend all the same. Every morning Elain traded her hens eggs for breakfast, and every afternoon while the other ladies traipsed about, clucking gossip and exploring their enclosure, Henrietta inspected the grounds, kept Lucien far from Elain, and Elain got to waste time outdoors while Lucien focused on their internal operation.

It was always meant to be that way in Elain’s mind. She’d handle the aesthetic, the day to day, and Lucien would oversee the financials, the business-y things Elain couldn’t be bothered with. Elain still had hope that could be their arrangement if Lucien ever got over his desperation to be freed of her. 

Elain was careful that evening with her hens, looking up at the sky which seemed moodier than usual. The air whipped around her, far colder than the day had been, and beneath her, Elain could hear the ocean crashing against the cliffside chaotically. 

She debated bringing them inside, weighing the damage they might do indoors with what a storm would do outdoors. Elain locked them up, deciding they’d be fine. She was anxious, though, watching the windows all evening as if a raging hurricane was going to just appear on the horizon.

By the time Elain fell asleep, the night was merely windy and nothing else. She felt silly for how stressed she’d been.

And vindicated when she woke to the sound of glass breaking in the distance. The castle had come with old, thin stained glass she and Lucien had argued endlessly about keeping. Most of it had been ruined, but some had managed to survive centuries of abuse. Lucien had wanted to carefully cut it out and preserve it while Elain wanted to keep it in the windows. She’d won that argument, perhaps to her detriment.

Elain kicked off the blankets, heart pounding. Dressed in a thin tank top and hip hugging shorts, Elain flew down the hall toward the sweeping steps that would take her to the grand hall. All she could think about was her chicken, locked outside in that rickety pen.

Elain’s bare foot hit the wood, propelling her forward. She ran for the door and might have made it had a strong arm not caught her around the middle. Lucien hauled her off her feet, stumbling when she flailed. The two of them hit the ground in a tangle of limbs.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, just barely visible to her in the dark.

“The chickens, Lucien, let me go—”

He’d pinned her back to his chest, wrapping muscular legs around her waist to keep her trapped on the ground.

“Don’t be a muppet,” Lucien grunted, struggling to keep her from breaking free. “That storm will blow you right off the cliff.”

Elain’s panic threatened to overwhelm her. “Lucien, Lucien please, please let me go—”

Somewhere in the castle, more glass shattered under a deafening crack of thunder. Lucien’s strong arms came up over her face, pulling her closer as if he expected that glass to explode around them. Elain turned into him, feeling his thudding heart through her skin. Lucien wasn’t wearing a shirt, she realized. Just a pair of loose trousers slung low over his hips. 

“I’ll be fine,” she breathed, ignoring the way the wind howled. She’d be lucky if all her plants survived this night. “Let me go.” Lucien’s hold on her relaxed enough for her to stand. Elain took his hand in hers, knowing that if she was struggling to see, it would be twice as bad for Lucien. He allowed her to haul him to his feet, fingers laced as the pair of them went toward the door. Elain didn’t dare look up at him, nor did she drop his hand as she unlocked the front door and pulled.

Wind slammed into the pair of them, causing a jumpy Lucien to shove her behind his much larger frame. The world was a violet shade of black, and moving sideways in the rain. She could see nothing at all and knew, looking outward, that Lucien was right. It was foolish to go out there and risk being harmed. 

“Elain,” he warned, one arm thrown out before her. “You can’t.”

A soft sob escaped her. “I knew I should have brought them in.

It took Lucien effort to close that door, leaving the fury of nature to rage against the wood and stone. Instead, Lucien took her hand again, either to steady himself or to comfort her. She assumed it must be the former, given how little he thought of her.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her to the left. Elain flipped lights on as they went, which improved the confidence with which Lucien moved, though he never dropped his hold. He took her to the study they shared, a familiar battle ground and the only place the two of them willingly went to see the other.

Lucien put Elain in a chair before seating himself not behind the desk as he so usually did, but on the arm, the two facing the wall of windows behind the desk that would tell them when the storm ended. 

“You can go back to bed,” she told Lucien, angling her body so her legs were tucked beneath her. Her head was just a tad too close to his thigh, something that would have bothered her any other time. Now, it seemed almost comforting to have him so close.

“I’m fine,” Lucien replied, his eyes not on the windows, but on her. Maybe it was her fear—or maybe curiosity finally won out—but Elain couldn’t help herself.

“What do you see?”

His eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Very little,” he admitted after a moment. “Shapes, color. The further away I am, the more of a haze it appears.”

“And when you’re close?”

“Even if we touched nose to nose, I’d never truly know what you look like.”

Elain nodded. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” he murmured, turning his head away. “Not anymore. 

It was the end of her questions. Anything else was obscenely personal and though she and Lucien had struck a strange, almost friendly truce in the moment, she knew once the storm quieted, she would pay for this moment of weakness. 

Elain fell asleep to the sound of thunder and the worry that all her chickens—including her beloved Henrietta—would be dead in the morning. 

She woke to Lucien’s voice. “Hey,” he murmured, poking her in the ribs. She opened her eyes to find him crouched before her, this time in a plain white shirt. And tucked beneath his arm was a bleary eyed, rather exhausted looking Laya. 

“Henrietta?” she asked, thinking only of her favorite.

“Tried to murder me on sight,” he replied dryly, giving Elain the bird. “But they’re all alive…as well as your plants.”

He’d never been so close to her. In the hazy morning glow, Elain saw the shadow of a beard grazing his sharp jaw. She thought of his chest, all carved muscle now hidden beneath a t-shirt stretched over his body, and how he’d held her down with so little effort.

How he’d used his own body to shield her not once, but twice. 

“Thank you,” she told him. Lucien didn’t quite look at her, nodding silently. He rose to his feet, tall as he looked down his nose at her.

“Get that bird out of our house, Elain.”

And that was that. 

-*-

“What happened to your face?”

Graysen’s question drew Lucien’s attention from across the room. Eyes narrowed, knuckles white as he gripped his pen. Elain hated that every time Graysen spoke, she found herself looking at Lucien. She ought to look at Graysen, who she wanted so badly to be happy to see. She’d been right to think Gray would hate Lucien, but she’d also thought Lucien would like Gray.

She’d been very wrong. Lucien loathed Graysen for reasons that eluded her, and the entire week had been either avoiding the pair of them entirely, or trading verbal insults with Graysen. He’d also begun joining them at dinner, providing a buffer between her and her tense fiance. 

“It’s a sunburn, Gray,” Elain replied, embarrassed to have both of their attention on her. 

“Ah, of course. My wife is so very common.”

She hated when he called her his wife. He made it sound like something filthy, something insulting. 

“Did you not see the vegetables Elain has been growing?” Lucien inquired, his expression betraying the fight that was brewing. His fingers drummed against the wood grain of the desk while

Graysen sat in the same chair she and Lucien had slept in not a week before. 

“I saw the livestock,” Graysen replied, his brown eyes laser focused on Lucien. “Elain says that was your doing.”

Elain winced.

“Yes,” Lucien agreed, reclining back in his chair. He was so obviously the lord of the castle, and though she was loathe to admit it, her ally in that moment. “They are like children to me.”

She stifled a laugh. 

“I was just telling Elain how capable you seem. Everything is in order, is it not? She could return this evening with me. Tell her, Vanserra, that she’s not needed.”

Elain looked up at Lucien, who in turn was staring right back. Was she a haze to him? Could he feel her desperation, her sinking misery as she realized Lucien was about to get everything he wanted. Graysen would needle her into going home, into finishing their wedding planning. As Elain was hit with the realization she didn’t want to marry Graysen—like, at all— Lucien replied,

“Elain is very needed. None of this works without her.”

“Oh, that seems impossible,” Graysen snapped, his temper rising to the surface. “I see her little touches, but what does Elain know of running a business? I assumed that was what you were for.”

“You assume wrong. I merely pick out paint swatches,” Lucien replied dryly. “And, of course, tend to my beloved chickens.”

“What exactly is going on between you two?” Graysen demanded. He rose from his chair, eyes on Elain. She hadn’t told Graysen that Lucien couldn’t see, which might have settled some of the jealousy now careening through him. He went to her, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist. Funny, how common and mediocre she was right up until another man might have even a passing interest. 

“Nothing, Gray, come on—Graysen he’s blind, he can’t see you!” she snapped when he pressed his mouth possessively against her own. He’d begun to grope her through her dress, which filled Elain with miserable shame. 

A lazy smile graced Lucien’s handsome features. “If Elain wants to return and plan her wedding, she knows she always has a place here. That won’t change.”

Elain wrenched herself from Graysen’s grasp, striding across the room. Elain couldn’t be sure Lucien was being honest. For one terrible moment, she considered leaving with Graysen and going back to London, where she knew she’d fold like cardboard. Graysen’s family was without titles, was self-made in the same pretend way her father was—generational wealth that went back generations, had allowed both her father and Graysen’s to create new business ventures that had become wildly successful. 

“You heard him,” Graysen followed Elain out of the study and into the hall. “Go pack your things. This has gone on far too long.”

“You’re right,” Elain agreed, whirling on her heel. Lucien would hear the entire thing, which embarrassed her more than she was willing to admit. Better him than all of London when she was fleeing the altar at the last minute. At least Lucien would merely mock her in private. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Graysen’s features hardened. Elain took a step back, positioning herself in the doorway, trapped between Lucien at the desk and Graysen in the hall. “Can’t do what anymore?”

Elain couldn’t breathe. She hated confrontation. “I—”

“Sounds like she’s breaking up with you, mate,” came Lucien’s steady, cool voice. “What else could that possibly mean?”

Lucien was just behind her. She could smell the warm cinnamon and leather of his body, was certain if she took a step back she’d be touching him. 

“Who asked you?” Graysen demanded, hands balled into fists. “I don’t seem to recall wanting the opinion of a lowborn bastard—”

“Graysen!” Elain snapped, eyes wide. She threw out a hand as he surged forward, clearly looking to vent his fury on Lucien. In his haste, Graysen shoved Elain with more force than, perhaps, he’d meant to. She hit the corner of the door frame with a gasp, collapsing at Lucien’s feet from the echoing pain ricocheting through her temple. 

A crack of bone and Graysen’s groan told Elain that Lucien had retaliated. He’d hit him. Lucien had hit Graysen in the face. Graysen stumbled backwards, blood dripping from his nose. His eyes were wild with hatred and as Lucien began to crouch to help Elain to her feet, she saw what Graysen intended to do.

Lucien, of course, did not. She flung herself upward as Graysen lunged, sending both her and Lucien flying to the floor. Elain screamed, her fall broken by Lucien’s body. They knocked over a small table, shattering a lamp and sending several well chosen books thudding to the ground with them.

“Don’t!” Elain demanded breathlessly as Lucien locked his legs around her. They were sitting on the floor, chest to back, staring up at a bleeding, enraged Graysen. “Don’t you dare touch him!”

Something like regret flitted over Graysen’s features. He offered Elain his hand and Elain, in turn, pressed closer to Lucien. “Get out, Gray.”

“Don’t you ever come back,” Lucien added roughly from behind her. 

Graysen set his jaw. “I get it, Elain. Why you’d prefer someone who can’t see how terribly mediocre you are. How utterly plain—a disappointment to everyone who loves you.”

Lucien started to stand, but Elain grabbed his wrist, pulling him back to the ground. She’d expected this lashing out. Hurting her to make himself feel better. That was Graysen’s way.

He left her there on the floor, raging as he made his way upstairs for his things. Elain winced, rising to her feet only when she heard the front door slam.

She brought Lucien with her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking out his bruised, bleeding hand. “Hitting him was a mistake.”

“Are you hurt?” Elain asked, though what she wanted to say was, why did you hit him? 

The sound of rubber against pavement drew them further apart. Elain knew their engagement wasn’t over. Graysen would go home and sulk for a day or two before he tried calling. Tried reframing what happened as somehow her fault, or Lucien’s, or some trauma from his childhood that still haunted him. 

That would be when they’d truly be done. Elain would say it again, with feeling, and then she’d deal with the ugly fallout. She’d make all the apologies and let Graysen paint her as a whore, shacking up with Lucien Vanserra out in the country, despite her and Lucien just barely able to tolerate each other.

Or, she thought anyway.

“No,” he murmured, looking at his hand before reaching for her face. Lucien’s thumb swept over the forming bruise, eliciting a hiss from Elain. She jerked from his grasp.

“I’m fine. It was an accident.”

“Sure. How often do these kinds of accidents happen?”

And Elain hated him, because she couldn’t say it was the first time she’d been shoved by Graysen. Or the first time she’d excused it as an accident. Her silence was damning. 

“Right,” Lucien finally said, drawing a deep breath. “Well, far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, but—”

“It’s over,” she said softly, swallowing the urge to cry. “There’s no need.”

She started to walk away, intending to ice her face and lay down and pretend none of this had happened. Lucien would let her, she thought. He’d go back to ignoring her, just as she’d been ignoring him.

Elain turned. “Thank you. For ah…”

He nodded, clenching his jaw. “It was nothing.”

How wrong he was.

-*-

Elain and Henrietta were pulling weeds from a crack along the sidewalk when Lucien’s shadow blotted out the sun. Henrietta immediately began squawking, lunging for his ankles. Elain caught the bird as Lucien stopped back, brows furrowed. 

“That bird is a menace.”

“You bought her,” Elain reminded him, not for the first time. “You brought your own worst enemy into our home.”

“So I did,” Lucien murmured, blinking against the brightness of the day. 

“Did you want something, Lucien?” she asked, shifting from foot to foot before him. Lucien so rarely came to see her unless he wanted to complain or pick a fight. Despite a shared moment with Graysen–who still hadn’t called her, despite going on day five—she and Lucien had slid right back into their usual squabbles with no trouble at all.

“Would you come to the village with me?”

“Me?”

But Elain knew why he wanted her to go with him. It was new and unfamiliar, and even with his cane, Lucien was wary of places he’d never been before. There were whole swaths of the castle Lucien had never ventured, places Elain would retreat to when he was especially irritating. 

Lucien said nothing at all, waiting for her to either tell him yes or no. Elain sighed softly. 

“Yes, I’ll go, but only if you swear to be polite to everyone we meet.”

He pressed one of his large, strong hands against his chest. “I am always polite.”

As if his knuckles weren’t still bruised from hitting Graysen. 

“You have never been polite a day in your life.”

“You wound me,” Lucien said in the driest tone known to man. She didn’t know why it made her smile.

“I’m starting to think you’re quite charming.”

“I am incredibly charming,” Lucien told her, following behind her as she went to secure Henrietta away.

“What does that say about me, then?” she wondered, more to herself than to him. 

“You are terribly unlikable,” he said, her voice suggesting the opposite was true. Elain didn’t dare touch that, opting instead to brush her fingers against the back of his hand. 

“This way.”

He brought his cane with him, rolling it over the pavement as they walked. He still kept close, his free hand occasionally bumping the back of hers as they went. 

“Step,” she murmured, grabbing his hand as the path became steep and narrow, carved out centuries ago when people didn’t have such wide feet or were somehow better able to balance themselves. 

“Thank you,” Lucien replied, squeezing her hand as they went down together. 

“So…your brother,” Elain began, wondering what topic was safe to broach. Probably not the rumors his mother had killed his father.

Surely Eris Vanserra was safe to discuss.

“Like his movies, do you?”

“He’s very handsome,” Elain said by way of agreement, unwilling to admit that Lucien was far lovelier. 

Lucien scoffed. “Wait until you meet him.”

“Is he coming here?” she asked. Lucien had never mentioned his family and they’d never come to visit, either. She was surprised he’d kept this from her.

Pink stole over his cheeks. “I’m sure he will,” Lucien mumbled. “He’s a nosy fucker.”

“Is he as charming as he seems?”

“Hardly,” Lucien replied, some of his embarrassment fading. “Eris is an asshole and everyone who knows him well thinks so.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him. And…and your mother? She was an actress, wasn’t she?”

Lucien nodded, his grip on her hand tightening. “Before my father.”

“You didn’t want to act?”

“I don’t have the face for it,” Lucien said. 

 Elain, forgetting that he was talking about his scars, retorted, “You must be the best looking man I’ve ever seen. Of course you have the—”

Lucien was grinning ear to ear. “You’ve ever seen?”

They’d readed the edge of the village, which was more of a sprawling town than anything. Elain quite liked it, with the cozy farmland that stretched further inland, and the vine covered structures that made her feel as though she’d stepped into the pages of a storybook. 

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“You must be looking at some dreadful men.”

“I think I proved I was,” she grumbled, pulling her hand from his. Lucien was still smiling, still so obviously delighted by her admission. “Surely you must know that.”

“It has been said before. Usually with the caveat that the scar diminishes it.”

“Well,” Elain murmured, feeling more stupid by the moment. “It doesn’t.”

“I’ll take your word for it, given how lovely my mother assures me you are.”

It was Elain’s turn to look at him. “Your mother said that?”

“She said a lot of things about you.”

“Such as?”

“That you were quite accomplished and that I ought to endeavor to be a little nicer.”

“Well,” Elain sniffed, secretly pleased that someone's mother liked her. “She’s right.”

“So I’m learning. We got off on the wrong start. I’ll take all the blame for that.”

“Why did we?” she asked, falling into step with him as they began walking the uneven cobblestone streets. Elain was tempted to take his hand again under the guise of keeping him from tripping, though in truth she liked the steady warmth of his touch. 

He blew out a breath. “You aren’t the only one with a failed engagement.”

“You—?”

“Not me,” he interrupted, a dark shadow passing over his face. “Her. She—”

“Was stupid?” Elain offered in the most light hearted tone she could imagine. “And you’ve been hiding out here ever since?”

A whisper of a smile slid over his face. “Something like that.”

"I suppose we can hide together now. I doubt I’ll be able to show my face in London anytime soon.”

Lucien glanced down at her. “I could live with that.”

“Well that’s good,” Elain said lightly, ignoring the jolt that passed through her when his fingers brushed hers. “Because you have no choice.”

“Neither do you.”

Elain had to look away to keep him from seeing how she smiled.

No choice sounded so good. 

-*-

Lucien found Elain in the drawing room, staring at her phone with misty eyes. She heard the clipping tones of the soles of his shoes before she saw him, dressed in black trousers and suspenders hugging a muscular frame. She liked the navy of his shirt, liked how he always rolled his sleeves to his elbows. 

“There you are,” he murmured, dropping a stack of envelopes in Elain’s lap. He didn’t know she was sad, nor did he care. “It’s time to start thinking about hiring staff.” “What is this?” she asked, clearly her throat. Lucien paused, brows knitting together.

“Resumes…is…are you well?”

“Perfectly content,” she lied. Feyre had texted that she was getting married to a man Elain had once to be nothing more than a fairytale. In a month, no less. It was dredging up old feelings—of wanting to be married and how Graysen was still ignoring her, waiting for her to come crawling back to him. It put a giant question mark on everything. If she’d been less of a coward she would have just called him and ended things definitively. 

Elain never wanted to talk to him again. The bruise on her face had just faded, and Lucien’s knuckles were no longer swollen. It was as if Gray had never been there. Almost like she’d never met him, despite the engagement ring sitting on her desk upstairs. She needed to return it to him. 

“I ah…” Lucien cleared his throat. “Did something happen?”

“No. My sister is getting married,” she said, careful to adopt her cheeriest tone.

“Ah,” Lucien replied, coming around the sofa. Elain pulled her legs back quickly before Lucien sat on them, leaving a cushion of space between them. “You’re missing Graysen, then?”

“No,” she said too quickly. She sounded like a liar. “No, I don’t miss him, I just…I don’t know. My whole life I thought I’d be married first. It was…” How embarrassing to admit it had been her biggest goal. “It was what was expected of me.”

Lucien raised his brows. “So you want to be married?”

“Shut up,” she grumbled. 

“Who is she marrying?”

Elain looked back at her phone. “Rhysand Campbell—”

“Oh.”

Elain stared him down. “What do you mean, oh?”

“You can’t be too mad about that. He’s a Campbell.”

“That’s meaningless to me, Lucien.”

“A Marquess, the Duke of Campbell's only son. Distantly in line for the throne, I’m sure. Obscenely wealthy. I’m surprised they managed to keep it a secret.”

“You don’t know Feyre, then,” Elain murmured, resting her head on her elbow against the back of that ugly pink couch. “I’m sure this quick wedding is her attempt to keep things quiet.”

“Are you going?”

“Of course. I’m going to offer some of the things I already put deposits on.”

The air was thick around them. “It gets easier,” he finally said, misunderstanding her.

“I don’t miss Gray. We moved so fast, and…” And it was all wrong, though she didn’t know how to say that outloud, either. “Your fiance left you, I take it?”

“For another man,” Lucien murmured, his eyes far away. “They’re married now.”

“Do you miss her?”

He frowned. “No. I forget about her entirely most days. But when it first happened, I felt adrift. Pointless. I loved her and how could I not see she’d fallen out of love with me?”  

Elain said nothing. What could she possibly offer to him that wouldn’t sound cheap or meaningless? They were just barely friends, still sniping more often than they didn’t. It felt less antagonistic to her, now, and more like a byproduct of clinging to their former dynamic in favor of whatever this was. 

“You’ll always be the one who got away from him,” Lucien finally told her. “So, at least you have that going for you. And, if what my mum says is true, you’ll be married by the end of the year to someone new.”

Elain swore she detected the faintest hint of bitterness in his words. “You know what we should do?” she asked, tossing his resumes to the coffee table.

“What?” he asked warily.

“Get drunk and watch a movie.”

A smile crept up his face. “Are you hiding a television somewhere, Elain?”

She grinned. “In my bedroom.”

It was how they found themselves sitting on her rose and cream duvet, surrounded by several bottles of wine—no cups, which Lucien swore wouldn’t be necessary—a few bags of crisps, and a selection of the worst horror movies known to man.

“Here are the rules,” Lucien began before pulling the cork of his bottle of red out with his mouth. “Drink every time someone makes an unfathomably stupid mistake. Drink every time American politics get referenced. Drink if two people have improbable sex during the worst possible moment.”

Lucien had told Elain he enjoyed movies, despite his limited sight. In the driest tone imaginable, he’d said, “I do possess an imagination, you know,” which had shut her right the hell up. 

“Also drink anytime something horrible is a reference to being a woman,” Elain told him, earning an arching look. 

“I’ll leave it to you to let me know when that happens.”

“Oh, I will be,” Elain assured him. It should have been strange to have this man she’d hated for so long stretched out against her bed. Instead, Elain thought it was so normal it was above approach. She turned on the movie and immediately the pair began drinking. More rules were added—every time someone pulled off a shoe to throw it at the murderer, every time someone tripped over a tree root, every time someone stopped running to scream.

Elain was well and truly drunk by the time they were halfway through. Lucien was laying against her pillows, hand on his stomach as he laughed himself stupid. Elain was on her stomach, head propped up on her hands, defending the choice to go into the cellar.

“The door locks!” she insisted while Lucien wheezed, laughing harder than she’d ever seen.

“God, Elain, I’m begging you, stop. I can’t breathe—”

“You’re being an ass,” she grumbled. Lucien had paused so he could try and choke down his laughter.

“You’re telling me, if someone broke into our castle, you’d go running for the dungeons?” he asked, wiping at the tears beneath his eyes. “Would you chain yourself up for them, too?”

“I’d leave them to Henrietta,” Elain snapped.

Lucien chuckled, about to make some remark about Elain’s chicken when her phone rang shilly. Lucien, startled, rolled off the side of the bed with a heavy thud. Elain giggled, reaching for the device on her nightstand.

Graysen. 

Elain hit answer, putting him on speaker before she could chicken out. “Hello?”

“Darling,” Graysen began. Lucien’s head popped up from behind the bed, tendrils of copper-colored hair falling against his face. “I need you to come home this weekend.”

Lucien crawled back up the bed, mouthing what?! as Elain shrugged helplessly.

“For what purpose?”

But she knew. Graysen was going to pretend nothing had happened. He’d spent the week mulling over what had happened and must have come to the conclusion that he was wrong. He couldn’t apologize, though, so instead he’d pretend nothing happened. Let her slide back into the familiar dynamic without risking a fight.

“Father will be in town and wants to discuss some aspects of our wedding.”

“No.”

Lucien gave Elain a thumbs up and a smile.

“No?”

“We broke up,” Elain reminded him as everything she’d rehearsed flew out the window. Lucien’s presence was helpful. She kept her eyes on his hand pressed against the bed. It was a reminder of what he’d once done, and what he might do again. 

“You can’t mean it,” Graysen protested after a moment of silence. “Elain, it was one fight.”

More lies. “I’ll send the ring back. Keep whatever deposits you can get back.”

“Elain, talk to me—”

“I don’t want to,” she whispered. And with that, Lucien reached over and ended the call. 

“He doesn’t get to ruin tonight,” Lucien told her, blocking Graysen’s number before he could call again. “Or any other nights.”

Elain sighed. “I don’t know if I can.”

“C’mon,” Lucien said, clearly rallying for her. He thrust his bottle of wine into her hands, nodding at the neck. “Drink.”

Elain did, and as it turned out, Lucien was right. Drinking masked how badly she felt until she didn’t feel bad at all. Of course, then Elain felt nothing, which explained how she found herself asleep in bed, still in her sage colored sundress from the night before. One leg was thrown over Lucien's waist, her cheek stuck to his bare chest, unbuttoned but still technically draped in the navy button up. He had one hand resting on her hip, the other dangling from the edge of the bed. 

For the life of her, Elain could not remember how they’d ended up like this. She didn’t remember the end of the movie, either. 

“Lucien,” she whispered. He grunted in response. 

Elain tried to pull away but Lucien’s grip tightened.

“Don’t,” he rasped, eyes shut tight. “If you move, I think I might throw up.”

“I have to pee,” she said, rolling over clumsily only to fall out of bed. The whole room was spinning, and Lucien wasn’t wrong. Elain used the bathroom and was braced over the sink, wondering if she was going to puke, when he came stumbling in and occupied the toilet.

“We drank too much,” he gasped as Elain tumbled to the floor so she could hold his hair. Cheek resting against the cool wall, Elain nodded. 

“It was fun, though. Right?”

“It was,” he agreed. “I can’t wait to do it again.”

-*- 

Was Elain insane? 

Yes, Lucien was good-looking. That was like saying the sky was blue or her name was Elain. It was merely a fact, one she’d always been aware of. What was new to Elain was thinking Lucien was hot. He’d tied his hair into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, had rolled the sleeves of his white shirt, and sat with his ankle over his knee just beside her as they began the process of interviewing new staff members.

Elain couldn’t focus. She kept staring at the veins running from his hands into the corded muscle of his forearms. Elain was hyper aware of his thighs, outlined in his nice pants, and the cut of his jaw. Lucien was wholly unaware of her attention, and why shouldn’t he be? Just that morning Elain had called him a wanker over toast and jam. 

Lucien offered up a dazzling smile to the young woman they were meeting with before sending her out. He waited until the door closed to sigh, stretching long legs out in front of him. Elain had to look away.

“That’s the last one,” he said, stretching his neck. “Who did you like?”

“Er–” You. “They were all good.”

“That is my exact problem, too. Probably later tonight we should go back over resumes and pick who is best qualified.”

“Yeah. Maybe over dinner?” she suggested, well aware what she was asking him for was a date. She was losing her mind. 

“That works for me,” he said absently, glancing over at her. Elain was dressed far too nice and she knew it—Lucien couldn’t see the swell of her breasts or the way the skirt of her dress was riding up her thighs. Elain didn’t know how else to communicate to him that she liked him—or even if she wanted him to know. 

He stood and so did she, unsure why. You’re losing your mind, Elain. Sit back down. 

Lucien glanced over. “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” she said too quickly, the word half a squeak. “Just–tired.”

He looked like he might say something before nodding, leaving her alone in the drawing room. Without his presence, Elain felt almost rational. Normal. 

Well, normal except for wondering what his mouth would feel like pressed against her own. But otherwise Elain was totally normal.  Sane, even, when she went into the dining room to find Lucien undoing his top button. He had a glass of what looked like gin and something set before him, along with a spread of resumes. Elain indulged in a quick fantasy of him tossing them to the floor, grabbing her by the waist, and hoisting her atop the table where he’d kiss her until someone of her good sense returned. 

“Want to get started?”

I’ll show you started— “Yeah,” she managed, sinking into a chair. Lucien joined her at the head, drumming his fingers absently against the table. 

It was hell. That’s where she was, that’s what was happening. Sitting three feet from him, his shirt unbuttoned just enough that she could see the barest hint of his chest. Broad hands gripped around that glass he kept bringing to his lips. She was, as she so often was, grateful he couldn’t see any part of her. It was bad enough her fidgeting occasionally drew his attention.

They were getting nowhere, thanks to Elain’s distraction. He did notice that.

“Nervous about going home?”

“Huh?”

“Your sisters wedding?” he clarified, pink creeping up his neck. That was interesting, she decided. What was he embarrassed about?

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose I am a little distracted.”

“We’re nearly done,” Lucien hedged, tilting his head in her direction. “Though, just in time for the off-season.”

“I was thinking that, too. Maybe we should…maybe we should slow down a little? Focus on finishing our renovations and look at hiring in February?”

Which, of course, wasn’t selfish at all. 

“What were you thinking?” he asked, unaware that Elain was merely trying to buy more of his time. 

“Well,” she chewed on her cheek. What was she thinking? “I—”

“Maybe we should consider installing televisions in the bedrooms?” he interrupted, back to drumming his fingers on the table. “And I was thinking it would be nice if we had a restaurant instead of the a la carte we were thinking.”

“Yes!” Elain breathed. Yes, getting a restaurant in one of the large halls would take so much extra time, which meant the two of them could continue living alone, sniping over the details. “I love that idea.”

More color flushed over his features. “We could go into the village tomorrow and see what…ah…right.”

Elain’s stomach sank. She’d be on her way to Feyre’s wedding tomorrow. “Well…you could always go without me. Tell me what you learn.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, and Elain swore there was heat beneath those two words. 

“It’s just a few days,” she added, wondering what would happen if she just left the morning after the wedding. “It won’t change anything.”

He nodded, rubbing his fingers over his lips. “No, you’re certainly right.”

Lucien rose from his chair, shaking out his hands. “I ah…well, I should er…go…give the bad news.”

Elain watched. “Okay.”

Lucien seemed flustered and out of sorts—so wholly at odds with himself. He cleared his throat, looking as though he needed to say other things before finally leaving her, once again, alone to her thoughts. Elain stood, intending to follow him before she thought better of it.

Better to go to her own room before she did something stupid. Something rash. Her and Lucien were friends after six months of fighting. Why ruin it over a passing moment? Because somehow Lucien was still the nicest man she’d ever met? Certainly the best looking, which did little to help.

Elain slept like shit. She tossed and turned until she was miserable and dawn was peeking through her curtains. With nothing to do but shower and get herself ready, Elain whiled away the rest of her time at home curling her hair and checking her luggage one last time. 

Lucien was waiting in the hall just outside the door, pacing slowly back and forth. “I didn’t think you’d be awake,” she said, secretly delighted to see him. Lucien was casual, dressed in athletic shorts and a plain blue t-shirt.

It was his hair, though, that made her heart pound. He always had it pulled off his face but today he’d left it down to spill around his broad shoulders. While normally he seemed rakish and yet refined, that morning he was somehow undone. She’d seen him like that only once before when they’d drank too much in an effort to chase away her thoughts of Graysen.

Elain wanted to glide her fingers through the silken strands. 

“All set?” he asked when she was just in front of him. Elain plastered a smile on her face she knew he couldn’t see. He could hear it, though.

“I am,” she said brightly. “You didn’t have to see me off.”

But when she tried to push past him for the door, Lucien’s fingers curled around her wrist. “Elain,” he murmured, forcing her to look up at him. They were so close. She could have surged up on her tiptoes and kissed him if she liked. “Be safe.”

Elain kept her feet on the ground. “Of course. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Gently, she pulled her wrist from his grasp. Lucien wasn’t done, though Elain didn’t know it. He caught her elbow, pulling gently. Elain, head turned, started to ask what he was doing.

His lips connected with the corner of her mouth, though she suspected he’d meant to kiss her on the mouth. A rush of air escaped her and the kiss ended before she could lean into it. Before she could turn and grab him by the neck and kiss him like she’d wanted to the night before.

Lucien’s cheeks seemed to burn with heat. He blinked, dropping his hold on her, and before she could say a word, turned and left her there. 

Standing by the door.

Wishing he’d done far more.

[birdiethebibliophile]

{fic} Let Your Hearts Be Light

Word Count:  2.2k Characters:  The Inner Circle, plus the Archerons, Lucien, and mentions of Lucien’s ma, Varian, Thesan, and Helion Relationship:  Feyre/Rhysand, Lucien/Cassian, Elain/Azriel, Nesta/Mor, and last but not least, Amren/Jewelry Warnings:  Not a one, aside from a complete overload of fluff

Here on AO3.

Summary:    In which the whole squad gets together in the cabin to celebrate Yuletide. Food, family, gift-giving, cookies, snuggles. The whole shebang.

(And yes, I'm posting a Christmas fic in June. Don't judge me.)

__________________

“Feyre!” Rhys hollered from the doorway. “Our brothers-in-law are here!”

“Brothers-in-law? Wouldn’t it be brother-in-laws?” Cassian wondered to himself, shouldering past Rhys, almost knocking him over with a casual sweep of his wings.

“Oh, sure, leave your husband outside in the snow because you’re worried about semantics,” Lucien complained, following after him and grumpily shaking his hair free of ice crystals.

“You know you love me.” Cassian hooked an arm around Lucien’s neck and pulled him into the room, kissing the top of his head.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up, you’re getting your ego all over the cabin’s nice clean floor.”

Feyre rushed into the room, beaming. She was covered in flour from head to toe and was wearing a bright red sweater. One of the sweater’s sleeves was shorter than the other, and the hem seemed to be unraveling. “Glad you could make it! We missed you last year when you were in the Autumn Court for the Yuletide celebrations.”

Lucien’s expression softened. “We missed you too, but Ma really needed the company. She misses them around the holidays, and nothing we can do changes that. Doesn’t matter they were bastards. She even misses Eris – keeps going on about a sweater she once made him… I think she’s getting senile in her old age.”

“Speaking of sweaters, what the hell is that?” Cassian asked, plucking at the uneven sleeve of Feyre’s knitted garment.

“It was a gift,” Feyre said, her voice dignified.

Cassian grinned. “All right, has to be Elain. There’s no way Nesta would have the patience to make something like that.”

“Actually, that would be my doing.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair and posed. “Here you see the lovely High Lady of the Night Court, Feyre Archeron, modeling this Yuletide season’s latest fashion in –”

“– in shapeless mounds of yarn?” Feyre teased. “To be fair, this is the best result so far. Even the Suriel would reject the scarf he made.”

“You’re just jealous,” Rhys said, pouting.

Elain emerged from the kitchen, pink-cheeked and covered with flour as well. “Feyre! You abandoned me in the middle of cookie-baking!” she exclaimed.

“Sorry, Elain. Isn’t Az helping, though?”

Elain went a bit pinker. “Not with the cookies!”

“I object to that assessment.” Az was somehow free of flour, though his wings were very carefully folded to his back. He looked more than a bit absurd with holly and mistletoe tied around his head, tangled in his hair – not to mention the fluffy, light pink sweater he was wearing. The overall effect made him look like a poisonous bunny rabbit:  terrifying, yet adorable. “I am helping with the cookies. I’m tasting them to make sure Elain hasn’t poisoned us.”

“First of all, I thought that was Mor’s job, and second, as long as neither Nesta nor Amren has been in the kitchen, I doubt we have anything to worry about,” Feyre said with a laugh.

“Has someone been eating my cookies?” Mor stormed into the room, her hair distinctly mussed.

“Morrigan!” She was immediately enveloped in a giant bear hug courtesy of Cassian – both arms and both wings. “Cauldron, I’ve missed you!”

She shoved at him good-naturedly. “Oh, get off, you overgrown child. Hi, Lucien.” The other Fae smiled and waved at her. “You been keeping him in line?”

“If by that you mean making sure he doesn’t destroy any more cities, then –”

“Nesta!” Cassian yelled happily, greeting the Night Court archivist with the same full-body hug he bestowed on Mor. “How’s the research going?”

“It would be going better if someone didn’t keep insisting that I need to go out and do things,” Nesta grumbled, extricating herself from Cassian’s arms.

“Admit it – you enjoyed yourself the last time we went to Rita’s,” Mor said cheerfully.

“I spent the whole time working on that inventory for Tarquin,” her wife pointed out, “and you spent the whole time drinking tequila and flirting with the waitress to try to make me jealous.”

“Which worked, didn’t it?” Mor said slyly.

Nesta went very red. “So. Lucien, how goes the Autumn Court?” she asked, her voice unusually loud, covering up Cassian’s gleeful “it did?”

“Oh, the Autumn Court is fine,” Lucien said. He led the way into the living room and curled up on a chair like a large, ginger cat. Nesta followed, grabbing one of the appetizers put together by Elain the previous day – more whipped cream than substance. “Same as always, really. I’m constantly impressed with Ma for running it for so long with no help; I barely get by with Cassian’s, some days.”

Cassian followed the two into the room, flopping down on the carpet next to Lucien’s chair. “Once Beron was gone, she managed to get a lot of laws changed,” Lucien continued, absently running his fingers through his husband’s hair. “Reinstituted the old traditions – the bonfires, the festivals… evidently, before his rule, the lesser faeries – especially the asparas and korred – had important parts to play in court functioning as well as cultural rites. You should visit, Nesta – you’d find it fascinating.”

“I’m sure I would,” Nesta agreed. “The more I learn about Prythian’s history, the more I suspect that the current High Lords –” here she glared at Rhys, who shrugged innocently “– are the most responsible for the so-called traditional structure with ‘lesser faeries’ and ‘no High Ladies’ and –”

“Have a cream puff,” Mor interrupted, sticking one of the treats into Nesta’s mouth. “I love you, and you know I agree with you, but it’s Yuletide, for Mother’s sake. Not the time to discuss how terrible things are. Or were.”

Nesta subsided, though reluctantly. “He was the one who brought it up,” she said with her mouth full of pastry, pointing accusatorily at Lucien.

“Who wants food?” Elain popped out of the kitchen again, followed by Azriel, both of them bearing platters of meat, vegetables, and flatbread.

“Where’s Amren?” Feyre asked, helping Rhys uncork the wine. “Didn’t she say she’d be here?”

“I believe she said, ‘I expect to be well-compensated for my socialization efforts,’” Rhys said, pouring himself a generous measure of the wine and joining the others as they sat around the table. “I hope you all brought her presents.”

“Well, she’s not going to get them if she doesn’t show up before dessert,” Feyre grumbled.

“I was getting a snack.”

Rhys jumped and swore loudly, the wine he just poured himself slopping against the sides of the glass. “Don’t do that, Amren.”

She smiled at him, silver eyes amused. “You’d think one of these years you’d learn,” she said, seating herself between Elain and Cassian.

“Amren!” Feyre grinned. “I’m glad you decided to show up.”

“She likes it when we’re all here together,” Rhys confided to the table in a whisper. “One big, happy family and all that. A few weeks ago, I got in a fight with Azriel and she dragged me back to the House of Wind by my ear to apologize.”

Feyre crossed her arms. “Just because you were too arrogant to admit you were wrong –”

Rhys cut her off with a laugh. “Teasing, Feyre darling.”

“You were wrong, though,” Azriel murmured, his shadows curling gently around Elain, tugging on the ribbon tying up her hair.

“No arguments tonight!” Cassian proclaimed. “Just food and gift-giving.” He suddenly froze, his face caught in an almost-comic expression of terror. “Lu –”

Lucien gave a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I brought the presents,” he said. “Or rather, I had Feyre pick them up a few days ago because I knew you’d forget them.”

“Your lack of faith saddens me,” Cassian said with a sigh.

“Even though you did forget them?”

“I might not have,” Cassian retorted. “I remembered to get everyone a present, didn’t I?”

“Except for me,” Lucien grumbled.

Cassian glanced at him, eyes flashing with mischief. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of – but – it wasn’t with all the others!”

“Of course it wasn’t. I don’t want you opening it in front of our family. If you know what I mean.”

Lucien went rather red, opened his mouth, closed it again, and busied himself piling food onto his plate, trying (and failing) to conceal the smile that spread across his face.

“Gods, must you?” Amren complained, taking a hearty swig from a hip flask. “Two males are twice as worse as one, apparently.”

Cassian stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re just jealous, Tiny Ancient One.”

“Of what?” she scoffed.

“Don’t answer that,” Lucien interrupted, putting a hand over his husband’s mouth. A second later, he yanked his hand back with a yelp. “Mother’s tits, Cass,” he said with a scowl, using Cassian’s favorite phrase and wiping his hand on his tunic. “Save it for the bedroom.”

“Did he just lick your hand?” Rhys said in mild horror.

Feyre gave him a look. “You’re one to talk. Remember when you –”

“Feyre, if you finish that sentence, I will have Mor and Nesta hold you down so I can sew your mouth closed,” Amren threatened.

Feyre clamped her mouth shut and mimed buttoning it.

“I would, too,” Mor added. “I have absolutely no desire to hear about my cousin’s sexual misdemeanors. I have plenty of my own.”

“Don’t think that threat doesn’t go for you as well,” Amren said, turning a dangerously black-painted finger in Mor’s direction.

“I like your polish, Amren,” Elain burst in innocently.

“What?” Amren studied her hand, completely sidetracked. “Oh, that. Yes, well, this was the only color I would wear, and Helion insisted that painting nails was a vital aspect of – erm – sleepovers.”

“What color did he paint his?” Feyre asked, passing a basket of bread around the table.

“Yellow,” Amren said. “Varian painted his yellow too. And Thesan chose a nice pink.”

Rhys shook his head in mock wonder. “Who would’ve thought all it would take to bond two High Lords, a general, and a firedrake would be nail polish? Ouch, Feyre darling, quit it,” he added as his wife poked him in the ribs.

Meanwhile, Azriel was looking at Elain’s almost-empty plate with concern. “Aren’t you going to eat any more than that?”

She was almost bouncing up and down in her chair in her excitement. “I’m too excited about presents to eat much,” she confessed to him. “Besides, there’ll be cookies afterwards!”

“How many cookies have you already eaten?” Azriel asked, suspicious.

“Maybe two or twelve,” Elain said, blushing. “You ate at least that many!”

“Well, I have two stomachs,” Azriel responded, not skipping a beat. Then he smiled at Elain’s shocked face. “Will you ever stop falling for that?”

She planted a quick, fluttering kiss on his cheek. “Probably not.”

The next few hours were pleasantly occupied by eating so much that everyone could barely keep their eyes open, ripping paper off various presents (of which the most notable were the pink sweater Azriel made for Elain so they could match – pronounced “disgustingly cute” by Rhys; the king’s ransom in jewels lavished upon Amren; and the intricate music box Lucien gifted Cassian, crafted by his friend in the Dawn Court, music written himself), and lying in various states of contentment as they watched the Yule fire burn to embers.

“We should do this more often,” Feyre said sleepily, as Rhys dozed off with his head in her lap.

“Mmhmm.” Nesta and Mor had somehow managed to fit themselves simultaneously into an armchair before the fire, and didn’t seem to be paying attention to what anyone else was doing. Nesta was trying, but it was hard with Mor nuzzling her neck like a friendly cat. “It’s – oh, stop – I’ll admit, one of the better holidays I’ve had.”

“So you’ve finally warmed up to these ‘strange Fae traditions’?” Elain teased her lightly, quoting something Nesta had said quite a number of years before. Elain was also stroking Azriel’s wings lightly, pretending to innocently not notice how he was trying not to squirm, and how he was clutching a pillow in his lap.

“Maybe,” Nesta said grudgingly.

“Knew you would,” Cassian said. He was taking up most of the floor, flopped on the rug and warming his wings in front of the fire with Lucien curled up and snoring against his chest. For a High Lord, Lucien looked decidedly harmless-looking, especially asleep. “Looks like we won’t be moving for a while. You all can divide up the rooms.”

Azriel stood up abruptly. “Elain and I will take the one in the back.”

She giggled and stood. “Good idea, Az. Night.” She gave the rest of them a little wave before being tugged down the hallway by her rather agitated husband.

Feyre yawned. “Rhys, we should probably get to bed as well.”

He grumbled, but headed off down the hallway as well, and Mor and Nesta took the last bedroom.

And as the snow fell in large flakes outside the cabin’s windows, no longer icy and sharp but soft and cozy, and the fire died to a few faintly glowing embers, a sense of safety and peace settled over the cabin full of couples and friends and one firedrake who’d curled up, unnoticed, on a pile of cushions under the table to sort through her newly-acquired hoard and doze without having to deal with anyone else who might want to chat.

It was, indeed, one of the best holidays any of them had ever had. And definitely the best Yuletide.