#nate x the detective

[wammyhoe]

How would they comfort you?

Wammy guys are late twenties to mid-thirties | SFW | HC

L

Not the best at comforting, but he tries, and we’re giving him points for that!!

L provides information or facts to help you deal with the problem or lighten the load.

Focuses more on the practical side of problem-solving. For instance, what can you do to better your situation, what are your pros, and what's currently happening that you haven't noticed.

Your stress slowly fades as you listen to him ♡

He would help you look at the bigger picture to soothe you! like he did with Light's Dad right before the Yotsuba arc, if I'm not mistaken

If the problem is unsettling for you, he might take matters into his own hands and disappear your issue sooner than you can say "detective."

Beyond Birthday

B provides unique ideas to approach the best ways to deal with whatever is upsetting you.

Offers unconventional solutions that make you laugh!

He doesn’t submit to a problem; he dominates it. Aggressively. And so will you! Don't worry ♡

Mello

One of Mello’s best qualities as a boyfriend is that he’s quite understanding. He’d listen to you first, then expose what he thinks you should do.

My boy can't help but be a tiny bit desensitized due to years on the street and in the mafia. Yet, he listens without judging and sincerely hopes his take on your issue helps.

On a side note, if the issue has a name and he can get rid of it, he'll gladly do so!

Matt

Matt buys you stuff to make you feel better, mostly food, I think.

He would try to make you laugh.

Offers you a cigar as you talk, you know, to release some stress!

Near

Near's comfort would likely be pragmatic.

He'll offer rational advice and observations, analyzing the situation objectively to help his partner gain perspective on their feelings!

Near expresses his care through small gestures of kindness and understanding, such as offering a listening ear or simply being there for his partner when they need him most ♡

[agentnatesewell]

the hours i spend with you i look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. you and you alone make me feel that i am alive. other men it is said have seen angels, but i have seen thee and thou art enough ~ George Edward Moore

thank you @crownleys for this beautiful art of Nate and Suri!

[greyhands]

[crownleys]

Surprise @thee-morrigan, I'm your Secret Santa for the @wayhavensecretsanta! I couldn't resist doing something with both Petra and Holland, they're both so lovely! For Petra, a holiday drive with Ava that gets briefly paused so they can get out and enjoy the first snow of the season in the Square!

And for Holland, a sweet holiday selfie in front of the tree with Nate!

Happy holidays!

[nathanielhsewell]

the love triangle, the wayhaven chronicles.

[rimarzaarts]

Lover's eye

You know those fancy little painted eye lockets from Victorian England? I feel like N would totally give the detective one of those.

[serenpedac]

Alright, I've only just finished the patrol in b1 and am already fantasising about a polymance between Yael, Nate and Adam.

This is not something I ever considered before tbh, because I never thought Yael and Adam being together would work. He's the one with whom Yael struggles most to connect.

Yet, it's funny, because on her (and my) very first playthrough, I had her run into him during the patrol and chose the option of her attention being drawn to him at the start. Not because I thought she'd be attracted to him, but because she would have wanted to understand him better, learn what's behind that hard exterior. I was prentending very hard that it wasn't a flirt option, although I knew it was even before choosing it, haha.

Now the thing is that I can see it: her being drawn to Nate immediately, because of his warm smile, his gentle kindness, the way he makes her feel seen. Yet she's also trying to figure Adam out, and in the process, she's ever so slowly falling for him, for the sense of stability he provides, for how deeply he cares about UB and for that unexpected sense of humour.

...

And they will all live happily ever after in a polymance!! (I will also pretend very hard that that's what is going to happen, even if I already know it canonically won't)

[dragonknightofsummerset]

This is making me feels things.

If I recall correctly, didn't mishka answer an ask, way back, about which ro's would let the world burn and which would sacrifice the detective to avoid that, and N was one who would sacrifice the detective to avoid the world burning?

[schmetective]

the plant, the paper, and the powerless;

pairing: Adam du Mortain x the Detective synopsis: (After Book 2,) Adam replaces your plant. Adam-typical longing and suppression ensues.

There’s a small thump that cuts into the silence of the warehouse’s common room. 

Adam’s frown deepens, and the intention the sound is made with is reason enough to draw the vampire leader’s gaze away from the forest outside the window and to the… 

A blond eyebrow shoots up. 

“What’s that?” 

Nate challenges the skepticism with a raised eyebrow of his own. 

“A plant.” 

So it seems. Newly placed on one of the side tables in the room, the plant sits in a white ceramic pot, its large leaves a vibrant green with speckles of a slightly lighter shade of the color. A few leaves threaten to spill out of the edges of the pot, the stems connecting it soft rather than rigid. Adam eyes it as if the innocent thing has accused him of a great misdeed. 

Perhaps it has. 

“For?” 

The icy green of Adam’s eyes meet the warmth of Nate’s, hundreds of years of friendship between the gaze, yet this time there settles a lot of… Nate holds back a chuckle, recognizing the look from his friend rather quickly. Suspicion. 

Nate smothers the amusement that threatens to expose his intentions into a deadpan as if what -- or rather, who -- the plant could be for was rather obvious. The furrowing of Adam’s eyebrows as he searches Nate’s face tells the second in command that maybe the 900-year-old vampire knows exactly who the plant is for, but is hoping it’s not. 

“The Detective.” 

There’s a failed attempt to hold back laughter from Felix, who is draped across a chair a few feet away, watching the exchange with the look of one who is thoroughly entertained. He tries to pass the sound off as a cough. 

Adam stiffens, shoulders tensing as he looks away from Nate and back at the golden pothos. With the heated gaze that Adam gives the poor thing, Nate’s surprised that it doesn’t just wilt. A perseverant one, that plant. Much like someone else Nate knows. Someone who hasn’t given up on his friend just yet.

“...Why?” Adam’s tone is clipped, and Nate knows he’s stalling. Trying to appear unmoved. A tree that stands firmly rooted in the ground, refusing to bow down to the wind. Grasping at a semblance of normality; of himself before they came to Wayhaven. Before… 

Before the Detective threw him off kilter and changed everything. 

“You broke the plant in the Detective’s office, remember?” 

Felix mumbles something about a desk. 

Nate continues, “And you said that you’d --” 

“I know what I said,” Adam says in a low voice, holding back a growl because this is Nate, and Nate is just being the friend he’s always been. He doesn’t look up. 

There’s a moment of silence, and in it Nate falters a bit, wondering if this was a good idea after all. If Adam wanted to brood in silence, then maybe that was -- 

Adam’s fingers reach out around the potted plant. He gingerly picks it up, shifting his grip so that it rests in the crook of one arm. Almost cradling it. 

Nate smiles warmly at Adam, who looks as if he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. There’s an uncertainty in those green eyes of his, one that wasn’t familiar until about four months ago. 

And then he blinks and is moving away from Nate and across the common room to the door that leads out into the hallway. 

“I’ll be back,” he says once he reaches the door. 

“Okay, we’ll be here,” Nate says with a smile and an encouraging nod. 

“Though Nate never said you had to do it right now --” 

But Adam has already closed the door before Felix can finish his teasing. 

Nate’s gaze remains on the door for a short while, deep in thought and with hope in his chest. Felix watches Nate with an unusually straight face before a glint of mischief lights his eyes. He shifts in the chair, planting both feet on the rug and resting his elbows on his knees. His fingers lace together. 

“My, my, Natey,” Felix begins. Nate turns to him. “I never thought you’d be one to scheme.”

Amusement and a hint of pride dances around the young vampire’s words as he looks at Nate with respect in his gaze. 

The tall vampire rolls his eyes. 

“I’m just helping him. Replacing the Detective’s plant after he broke the pot is the right thing to do.” A light shrug. Hands dig into pockets. “Even more so now that the Detective is part of our team.” 

“Our family,” Felix adds with a thoughtful rub of his chin, eyes searching Nate’s face. He seems to find what he was looking for, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “And getting our almighty leader and our wonderful Detective a moment alone had nothing to do with it?” 

Nate rolls his lips together to suppress a smirk. It’s too late, though, Felix has already seen it. Nate turns on his heels and begins to walk out of the room himself. 

“That would be a likely outcome, wouldn’t it?” Nate says, voice light as he ponders aloud, though it seems he had already considered this long before Felix suggested it.

The young vampire grins. 

.

You are bored. Bored as balls. You tap your pen against the surface of your desk repeatedly. 

Bored as… butts. 

You swivel in your chair, now tapping your pen against your knee. You eye the ceiling accusingly. Your paperwork has mostly been done, files saved and tucked into their rightful folders on your computer. And in a (normally) quiet town like Wayhaven, that left you, as the detective, with… nothing. Nada. 

Bored as books. Books can’t be bored. Bored as -- 

A knock raps against the glass partition. And then a familiar voice, one you love to hear. 

“Detective.” 

You spin around quickly, a smile on your face before you’ve even seen him. 

Adam. 

He stiffens under your gaze, shoulders rolling back and back straightening as if his posture could be any more correct. His eyes fall to the smile curling your lips, and that ice in the green… It melts. Softens. 

Your heart thumps hard against your chest. 

“Adam!” Your eyes fall from the softness in the green of his eyes to the dark green bundle held carefully in his hands. “And… plant.” 

You put down your pen and stand up from your chair, walking around your desk only to lean against it to be just that much closer to the vampire. You raise an amused eyebrow at Adam, biting a grin down. He is all too aware of the entertainment you’re finding in this, and his eyes harden, eager to find somewhere to look at that isn’t the distraction your eyes serve as. 

You want him to say it. 

But he doesn’t want to say it. 

You wait. 

He can wait too. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, chin dipping. Really?

He raises his eyebrows as well, this time challenging your gaze. 

But then your eyes are sparkling as if his sudden appearance is a gift on your birthday, just the one you’ve been excited to open; the one that’s shaped exactly like the thing you asked for. And he gives in. He loses, and he doesn’t feel terrible about it. Not one bit. 

“I told you I would replace Officer Poname’s gift to you.” 

He steps into your office, and you don’t know why your breath catches in your throat the way it does. You watch him as he moves to the file cabinet where Tina’s plant had once rested and, with a gentleness unfit of a man as strong as he, places the plant there. Almost exactly the place you remember putting the original plant. Or perhaps exactly there. 

Your stomach flips.

He turns to look at you, eyes soft and wandering slowly over your face. You hold your breath. 

Whatever state he was in, he snaps out of it and looks away. 

“That is all, Detective. I apologize once again for breaking your plant. I hope this one makes up for it.” 

You smile, and he watches from the corner of his eye. 

“More than enough, Adam. Thank you. Really.” 

His shoulders relax as if he had been afraid that you would say otherwise. He looks to you again, the intensity of his gaze startling you like always. You remind yourself of how to breathe. 

“Good.” 

He turns quickly, making to move out the door, but your mouth is quicker than that. 

“Wait!” You blurt, not really knowing what you want him to wait for. 

All you know is that you don’t want him to leave. 

He slowly turns back to you, eyes widened just a bit, enough for you to tell that maybe, hopefully, he wants to stay too. 

“Why don’t…” You fumble for a reason for him to stay. One he won’t refuse. One he’ll find tactical sense in as the leader of Unit Bravo. Think, think, think. You swallow. “Why don’t you stay until my day’s over? I could catch you up on everything that’s been going on down here. You might find something I missed.” 

Unlikely, you think, and not just because you're damn good at what you do. The action that the circus had brought along with it has finally settled, and Wayhaven has blinked and carried on as normal. But you have nothing else to go on. Damn it. This is a flimsy excuse. He’s definitely -- 

“Okay,” he nods, not even pausing a moment to consider it. “I’ll stay.” 

He’ll… stay?

He moves to the window and looks outside. 

He’ll stay.

“Okay,” you say, your voice sounding lighter than you would have liked. 

You hope he can’t hear the flutter of your heart as you move to sit back in your seat. 

.

Adam can hear your heart, its pace quicker than normal as if you had just run. He tries to ignore it, and almost successfully does, but… his own heart is harder to ignore. It pounds in his chest. 

Because he’s never been alone with you like this before. He feels restless as he stands, gazing out the window but not really looking. He needs to be doing something, but he doesn’t know what. Four months ago he would have been satisfied with staying still like this, but you’ve changed everything. 

Do you know that? 

His muscles are about to twitch in anticipation, and thoughts buzz in his mind, bouncing off its walls here and there. 

“So --” 

“Do --”

You speak at the same time that he is about to. He turns to you, hoping the surprise isn’t too evident on his face. Hoping he has caught the softness in his gaze before you can see it. But you are unlike any detective he’s ever worked with, and he knows he’s too late. You smile. 

And maybe it’s okay that he doesn't catch it in time. 

“So, I lied,” you inhale shakily, eyes darting away as if you felt guilty. He can see it on your face, lining the features he would never admit plagues his thoughts every moment he’s not with you. 

You look back at him as if seeking to gauge his reaction. He doesn’t move. 

“I’m done with today’s paperwork and… and nothing of interest or reason to be wary has occurred. I’m sorry. I…” 

It’s okay, he wants to say. I wanted so desperately to be here. More than you can know.

He bites his tongue and straightens himself. When had he leaned forward to listen to you speak? 

“It is alright.” 

You blink. 

“It-- It is?” 

He nods. 

“Oh,” you breathe, sighing in relief. “That’s good. Thanks.” 

You look away, and so does he. He is unsure of what to do now that there is technically no reason for him to be here, not as the commanding agent of Unit Bravo. That’s all he can remain to you. All he could bear to be. 

He makes to turn back to the window, but then you speak again, and he’s eager to listen. 

“Have you ever made a paper airplane?” 

“I am not Felix.” 

“So you have?” 

He can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips. “I have. I am quite good.” 

You raise an eyebrow and lean back in your chair. “Oh? Not as good as I am, I bet.” 

“Is that a challenge?” 

“I did say I’d bet, didn’t I?” 

Oh, you are always full of surprises. 

You pull out a few sheets of paper and grin at him. 

“Are you sure this is a productive use of your time as this town’s detective?” 

You’ve already begun folding your airplane, and you don’t even look up when you reply. “You scared, old man?” 

“Never.” 

It’s far from the truth. He is terrified of the power you have over him. The power that has him sitting in the chair in front of your desk. The power that has him pulling a sheet of paper from the stack and beginning to fold it into an airplane. 

He is terrified. 

.

You are giddy. 

And prideful. 

So, so prideful. Your paper airplane sails across the precinct from your office to the other side of the large room, landing beautifully on the floor. 

Adam’s barely makes it halfway across. The nose crumples when it hits the floor.

“Again! That’s 10, me, the wonderful Detective, and 0, you. Not so good as you said you were.” 

You grin and jab him in the side with your elbow teasingly. 

He growls in frustration, jaw tensing as he looks at his crashed paper airplane as if it has betrayed him. 

You laugh softly, walking to pick up both his and your planes. You dump them in the bin under your desk. 

“Been 70 years since you flew?” 

It’s a joke, but his eyes widen for a second and it has you thinking maybe you can read minds. 

But then again, you probably can’t. Otherwise this would be so much easier. You wouldn’t second guess everything Adam does. 

“Something like that,” he says, his voice almost… fond.

Of what? You? 

You shake away the wishful thinking. 

“Thanks for staying,” you say, shrugging on your coat. 

Your workday has ended, and you are almost sad that it has. You wonder if Adam will ever be this… unguarded again. 

You thank and say goodbye to the night volunteer. 

“It is nothing,” he says as the two of you walk outside of the building. 

But it is everything. You hope he knows that. 

The two of you step outside of the precinct, and a gentle breeze greets you. “It’s not… nothing, Adam.” 

You turn to look at him, only to find he is already looking at you. He does it in a way that steals your breath from your lungs. As if you are the only thing he ever wants to look at. 

The breeze ruffles his hair that he’s let grow just a bit, and the gold of the evening that washes over the town softens the strong lines of his face. You wonder, for a moment, if there are angels, and if he has lied about being a vampire. 

But no, he is just Adam. And you are looking at him through lenses crafted by love, understanding him to be beautiful in a way that no one ever has been to you. 

And probably ever will be. 

A ghost of a smile flickers on the corner of his lips, his gaze soft as it envelops yours. 

“I will see you soon, Detective,” he says softly, the words drenched in something you don’t understand. As if he wants to say something, to reveal something, but doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t quite know if he wants to.

You forget how to breathe.

“Bye, Adam,” you breathe, finally remembering how and not really wanting to say goodbye. 

What is it?

He nods, looks down the street, and when seeing no one, is gone in the blink of an eye. As if he were never there. 

A warm feeling curls and uncurls in your chest. 

Hope. 

Hope to someday find out what it is.

[grapecaseschoices]

[agentnatesewell]

Happy Birthday, Agent Sewell!

Thank you to my dear and the spectacular @crownleys for this magnificent art of Nate and Suri!

[greyhands]

An unfinished drawing (I wish I have more time to draw), inspired by a sweet couple picture. Even so I'm still liking it so I'm posting it.. !

[not-sewell]

two weeks on, i'm still thinking of N hearing this from the detective's conversation with Sin...

...and giving myself brainworms.

[thecryptidenthusiast]

Diagnosing these two with ‘Right Person, Wrong Time’ disease

[lykegenia]

Unicorns And Mistletoe

The Wayhaven Chronicles Nate Sewell x Leah Kingston No warnings except, as always, Rebecca being parent of the year

Read it on AO3!

She’s three, and old enough to know it’s part of the punishment. She still has yet to understand what the punishment is for, but she knows that if she can just work it out then her mummy will come back and everything will be alright again. The people she left her with – kind, smiling, smelling of gingerbread – are nice, and their warm house is nice, and all the Christmas lights twinkle together in a confusion of reds and greens and golds, and they told her the guest of honour gets to add a bobble – no, bauble – to the Christmas tree. They clapped and smiled when she picked the sparkly plastic reindeer from the box and hung it on the highest branch she could reach, and told her that was the surest way to summon Christmas magic.

They’ve left her alone now, though, because she said that she wanted to look out of the window, and they’re kind people so they set her up with a cushion and a cookie and milk in a plastic glass with a fairy on it. There’s a creeping feeling in her chest that it was the wrong choice, that she’s not doing what she’s supposed to, because every so often she hears footsteps and then a pause, and then they shuffle away again and murmur between themselves in way she’s come to learn signifies pity. But nobody stops her, so she doesn’t turn around. She sits by the window and stares out and eats the cookie slowly and puzzles over how to make the Christmas magic work so that everything stops being her fault.

--

She’s seven, watching the rush of her classmates burst out into the playground like a torrent of water from a leaky dam, straight for the line of parents waiting just beyond the gates. She herself goes at a steadier pace, the better to observe the crush of adults huddled under scarves and thick winter coats just in case there’s one she recognises. She’s a clever child, however – all her teachers say so – and she learnt quickly not to expect too much. The others are shouting and laughing, and holding up the Christmas decorations they made for proud inspection. Her own pinecone, dangling from one gloved hand like a talisman, has silver glitter and blue sequins to represent snow – like a glass one she saw on the TV – and has a length of silver ribbon that she tied around the top of it herself so it can hang on the tree. The other children needed the teacher to do it for them.

As she tears her gaze away, she notices an older couple all smiles as they wave at her, and suddenly it feels like she’s walking in treacle. The Wrights are nice. She has to repeat it to herself. Mrs Wright wears a woolly hat shaped like a Christmas pudding, complete with knitted holly leaves and two red pom-poms for the berries, and Mr Wright’s puffer jacket is unzipped over a green jumper decorated with snowflakes and reindeer.

“Where’s Mum?” she asks when she reaches them, although the answer doesn’t really matter beyond the obvious.

“We’re sorry, Leah.” Mrs Wright shakes her head. “Your mum tried to get back in time, but you know work keeps her very busy. She should be here tomorrow, and in the meantime, we can have a sleepover! I need your big strong arms to help me stir the Christmas cake.”

“Did you enjoy your last day at school?” Mr Wright asks.

She shrugs one shoulder, her eyes on a robin foraging for worms under the nearby hedge. There’s one in her garden that will come so close that she can sit next to it while it gobbles up the bacon fat she cuts into tiny pieces and sets on the wall, but she hasn’t yet persuaded it to eat out of her palm.

Mr Wright tries again and points to her hand. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

She stuffs the pinecone into her pocket. “Nothing.”

“Ah, well. Let’s get you home to pick up your night bag, and then we’ll get the magic started.”

“We haven’t put up our decorations yet, you know,” Mrs Wright adds. “Would you like to help?”

She shrugs again. “S’pose.”

When they get to her house, she sneaks away and puts the pinecone on the kitchen counter, balanced on its end with the glitteriest side towards the door so her mother will see it when she comes in.

--

She’s thirteen. Dusty, cold, but pleased with herself. She’s spent the day scouring the house, teetering on the ladder up to the loft and digging through the junk in the garage, and now there are three boxes lumped on the living room carpet. They read ‘XDecs’ in unfamiliar handwriting, and they’re so old that the tape on the edges is starting to disintegrate, but she found them.

She unboxes the tree first, brushes the dust off the plastic branches and works out how the pieces fit together, then fishes about for lights and tinsel. The longest garland she takes to wrap around the stair banister, the second longest drapes over the mantle, and then – through trial and error and a lot of sideways squinting to make sure it looks right – she daubs the tree with ornaments in what she hopes is a tasteful array of festive cheer. The pinecone she made when she was little isn’t among the baubles, but it doesn’t matter. It probably would have spoiled the aesthetic anyway.

There’s just enough time to clear away the empty boxes and vacuum stray bits of tinsel of the floor before an engine growls to a stop on the slushy driveway.

“Leah?” her mother’s voice calls from the back of the house.

“In here!”

She stands in the middle of the room with fists bunched, waiting for the big reveal. The crisp click of her mother’s high heels slow as they reach the hall. When she appears in the doorway, her face is drawn into a frown as she watches her daughter sidestep awkwardly to one side with a vague gesture to the lit-up Christmas tree.

“Surprise!”

A pause.

“Where did you get all this?” her mother asks.

She shifts under the scrutiny. “… Found it.”

“Where?” When there’s no answer, her mother sighs. “From the loft? Leah, you know you’re not allowed up there. It’s dangerous. What if something had happened?”

“Well it didn’t,” she counters. “And I knew you wouldn’t have time to decorate, so I thought…”

She scuttles backwards as her mother strides into the room, glancing to the tree and back again as if it’s an unruly pet one accident away from being sent to the rescue shelter. The critical eye her mother casts over the decorations makes her sullen, but there’s something else there as well, a wistfulness as a slow hand reaches up to cup a sphere of clouded blue glass etched with the words Baby’s First Christmas in elegant gold cursive.

“It’s very… thoughtful.” Her mother sighs again and drops the memory. “It’s been a long day, and there’s shopping in the car. I need a shower – can you fetch it in?”

“I guess.”

Her mother gives a prim nod of acknowledgement and slides from the room like snow off an overladen branch, only to pause in the doorway. “Don’t forget, you’re going to the Wrights tomorrow, so make sure you have everything ready – and make sure all of this is unplugged so there’s not an accident. Those lights are far too old to be safe.”

She deflates, and doesn’t bother to answer, and after a moment lunges for the socket to cut off the lurid glitter of the Christmas lights.

--

She’s nineteen, and ignoring half-drunk texts from her friends asking why she isn’t at the campus party. She’d turn her phone off completely if not for the unlikely case of an emergency, but she’s not even bothering to open the messages anymore. Instead, she hunkers down in the armchair, annoyed to find that the hot chocolate at her elbow hasn’t magically refilled itself. She’ll have to buy another one soon or the café owner might throw her out. She decides it can wait until the end of the chapter she’s reading.

“No way – Leah?”

She looks up. The boy smiling at her is in her class. He’s handsome in a roguish sort of way, but they’ve never really talked.

“Couldn’t be bothered with the party?” he asks. “Shame. I hear WelSoc managed to get a boost for the budget.”

“Why aren’t you there, then?” she retorts, confused. She doesn’t hear about the antics of the Welfare Society – the university’s main student organisation – all that often, and she would have thought Bobby would have been there to report on it for the student newspaper if nothing else.

He shrugs and flops down in the armchair on the opposite side of the table. “I might go later. It’s always more fun to be fashionably late. Besides, by that point people will be nice and drunk and happy to spill all their secrets.”

“What secrets?”

“Oh, you know, gossip and stuff. Why aren’t you there?”

“I’m not really a Christmas person,” she answers, turning back to her book.

“Oh?”

“It feels like wasted effort most of the time.”

To her surprise, he smiles. “I’ve never looked at it that way, but you have a point. All that excess just to roll around with indigestion for a week.”

“Putting up decorations just to take them down again,” she agrees, wrinkling her nose. “And most of them are tacky anyway.”

“Ah, you’re a woman of taste, then.”

She doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, but he waves her away with a private laugh and jumps to his feet.

“I’ll not inflict my presence on you any longer, in that case, but if you do decide to go to the party I hope you’ll say hello.” He winks. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah – Merry Christmas.”

Still confused, she watches him saunter back outside, only pausing briefly to pick up something from the barista before the clipped view from the café window cuts off the sight of him. A little while later, when she gets up for another hot chocolate to go with her book, the woman smiles and waves away her bank card.

“That guy you were talking to already paid,” she explains.

“What do you mean?”

“He paid for your drink – it’s on the house.”

She snaps her gaze to the window, as if Bobby might be standing there staring in, with a big sign informing her that it’s an elaborate prank. But all she can see are the indifferent shadows of passing shoppers hurrying about in the last of the daylight, wrapped up in their own concerns.

“Oh,” she says, and smiles at the barista because it’s polite, and takes the hot chocolate back to the rest of her things.

--

She’s twenty-six and alone in her apartment. Tina thinks she’s with the Wrights, and she told them she’s celebrating with Tina. She hasn’t even needed to invent an excuse to fob off Rebecca. In front of her is a spread of ingredients for homemade tacos, and a stack of DVDs that are old favourites. There’s not a bough of holly or the twinkle of a fairy light in sight.

She decides that she’s content.

--

She’s thirty-one. Staring at the monstrous fir Felix has somehow managed to sneak into the warehouse.

“How did you even get it in here?” she blurts. She has to crane her neck upwards to take in the full might of the thing.

“I didn’t,” Felix replies, proud. “I got some delivery people to do it while we were out – for the extra surprise factor.”

The rest of Unit Bravo sidle forward, as awed by the presence of the tree as she is, though the levels of enthusiasm vary.

“I thought we could decorate it together,” he continues, flinging open the first of several boxes that have been left at the foot of the tree, “you know, since we get so little time to do things as a family.”

That appears to be the magic word. Adam answers Mason’s pleading look with a minute shake of his head, and Nate is already striding forward to help unpack the ornaments. It leaves her with an uncomfortable itch between her shoulder blades, as if she’s suddenly wearing clothes that belong to someone else. Years of memories come bubbling up like rising damp under paint, phantom emotions she’s tried for so many years to bury and which now burrow so easily through her flesh.

“Leah?” Nate asks, with his hands curled around a string of coloured glass beads.

She smiles. It feels wooden. “Are you sure we can reach the whole way up?”

“I’m sure we’ll manage with us all working together,” he says, and beckons her to his side with a chaste kiss to her cheek.

Felix has already draped a length of tinsel around his neck like it’s a feather boa, and grins wide as he turns to her. “Where do we start? I bet you’ve had loads of practice.”

It stings.

“Put the lights up the centre of the tree,” she suggests, grateful for Nate’s touch. “That way they’ll reflect off the baubles.”

“Great!”

The vampires take to their task rather well. The military precision with which Adam lays the lights is matched by the haphazard way that Mason – obviously unhappy with the glow – drapes the outer branches in tinsel to hide as much of it as possible. Nate, meanwhile, is trying to bring a bit of coordination to the chaos that is Felix’s method of flinging baubles on the tree with no care for size or colour.

“But it’s festive,” the younger vampire protests, as a shiny green chilli pepper is swapped with a more tasteful globe of frosted golden glass.

“I just think it will look better up here, because it’s smaller.”

“You mean because it’s somewhere I can’t reach to move it somewhere more fun. I can get a stepladder, you know.”

She smiles at that, content to watch the banter. The variety of ornaments that have been procured cover a dizzying array of styles, from traditional to psychedelic to things like the chilli pepper that she knows Felix bought because he found them amusing. It’s not quite the same as the Wrights’ collection, which they’d once told her had been built up over years gathering trinkets on holiday or been gifted from friends and family, but the effect is similar.

“Leah, you agree with me, don’t you?” Nate pleads, his eyes wide and helpless.

She smiles. “A little disorder gives it personality, don’t you think?”

“But…”

“Ooooh I think that counts as a top ten anime betrayal,” Felix cackles.

“What’s anime?”

“Never you mind,” comes the haughty reply as the younger vampire holds out his hand. “I’ll be taking my pepper back now, thank you.”

There’s a groan as Nate passes it over, and she gets the feeling his defeat is not as final as he’s pretending, but before she can voice the suspicion, he comes to fold his long legs down next to her on the carpet.

“You haven’t put anything on the tree yet,” he notes, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her face.

She shrugs. The ornament turning in her hands is a tiny wooden reindeer with a bell around its neck. It’s not sparkly like the one when she was three, but it’s similar enough for a wave of guilt to wash over her for all the years she turned down the invitation from the Wrights because she didn’t want to be reminded of that pitied, unwanted little kid who was once dropped on their doorstep.

“Hey…”

“I’m not a big Christmas person,” she murmurs, though she knows the other vampires could easily listen in if they choose to. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have horrible memories, but part of me always felt left out of that holiday magic, you know?”

With the Christmas tree lights reflecting off the sympathy in his brown eyes, he curls a gentle hand around hers and lifts her knuckles to his lips. “I’m sorry your past experiences weren’t what they should have been… though I hope you don’t feel left out now?”

It’s impossible to feel anything but dizzy with him so close, and yet as her gaze falls to his lips she wants nothing more than to be closer still.

“I’ve never felt more at home,” she tells him, smiling at the way confession makes his breath stutter.

The pad of his thumb brushes her cheek.

“You have no idea how much it delights me to – what are you doing?”

He pulls away to frown at Felix, who snuck up from behind to stretch out a bunch of mistletoe above their heads, the white berries and green foliage made richer by a ribbon of deep maroon.

“It’s Christmas,” the younger vampire explains. “Kissing under mistletoe is tradition.”

“You really think they need mistletoe to be going at it?” Mason calls from the other side of the room.

“Is that sort of language really necessary?” Nate demands.

“Not denying it though, are you?”

Mortified, he rubs a hand across his brow, and though her own cheeks are surely crimson by now, she keeps her fingers tangled into his to make sure he won’t pull away for good.

“You were so close you were practically on top of each other,” Felix offers, though whether he’s trying to be helpful or embarrass them both further is difficult to say.

“I was merely…” Nate clears his throat, tries again. “Why don’t you finish decorating the tree?”

Felix rolls his eyes, discarding the mistletoe on the sofa as he goes. The moment of heat has passed, but with attention gradually sliding off them, Nate inches close enough to wrap an arm around her waist. She snuggles into his side, ear over his heart, content to soak in the atmosphere of the room. Crackling fire, twinkling lights, and the good-natured bickering between Mason and Felix. She can feel Nate wince with every tacky bauble added to the tree, but torn as he is between protecting his décor and keeping her company, not even the glittery unicorn with the neon-pink mane and glowing horn stirs him to fully intervene, and she presses a kiss to the back of his hand to show her sympathy.

It's later, when the fire has burned down to embers and even the wind outside has fallen quiet, that she approaches the tree with the little wooden reindeer. There’s no ribbon loop to hang it on a branch, but she finds a bare spot in between a garish purple raspberry and an intricate crystal snowflake, and jams its legs on either side of the stem, like it’s leaping through a forest.

“It looks good there,” Nate murmurs, coming to stand at her back. He presses a kiss to the top of her head as his arms wind around her waist. “Are you sure I can’t just –”

“I’ll tell Adam it was you,” she warns. “Is it worth it for the wounded, puppy-dog look Felix will give you when he notices you’ve moved them?”

A sigh heaves through him that ruffles her hair. “For you, I suppose I can live with it, but I may have to stage a disappearing act in time for next year.”

“Even for the unicorn?”

“Especially for the unicorn.”

Chuckling, she turns in his arms. “It sounds like you could use a distraction.”

“What did you have in mind?” he asks, though with the way his voice lowers and his fingertips toy with the hem of her shirt, he already has some ideas of his own.

She licks her lips. His own part in response.

Instead of indulging him, however, she dodges the kiss and steps around him to where the mistletoe lies in a crumpled heap on the sofa. The room is warm, the lights in the Christmas tree like the glitter of a galaxy in the void of space, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to send a shiver across her shoulders as she plucks up the greenery with nimble fingers.

[fauville]

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles rating: general pairing: nate sewell/female detective (charlie langford)

i'm so embarrassed because of how self indulgent this fic is, but people wanted me to post it soooooo. i think about dad!nate a lot, so maybe i will write more about it at some point!

★ ★ ★

Charlie is frowning at the inadequate selection of apples at the marketplace, her hand resting on her belly over her chiffon summer dress when she hears Nate calling her name in the crowd.

She turns around with an exasperated sigh, a half-smile on her face and scans the mass of people for her husband, but Nate must be somewhere further in the crowd, because she can't see his towering frame anywhere near her. But he will find her soon enough.

She left him at the book stall where he was distracted enough for her to slip away for a moment. She intendented to go back to him before he noticed her disappearance, but she got hungry and left to find a snack at the food section of the market.

The owner of the fruit stall is glaring at her, so Charlie quickly points out the most juicy looking apple and pays for it, before Nate appears from the crowd with a worried frown on his brow.

For a moment Charlie just stares at him; she will never get used to how attractive he is and they've known each other for three years. His hair is tied up in a knot and he's wearing a pure white t-shirt and jean shorts. He kind of looks like a dad.

Which is lucky because he will be one soon.

“Charlotte!” Nate says, when he reaches her and immediately pulls her into a loving hug. “You're alright.”

Charlie can't help the snort that she lets out. “Yes, I am. I'm not lying dead in a ditch somewhere, don't you worry, dearest.”

Nate scowls. “Don't even joke about that,” he says and lays a protective hand on her stomach.

Charlie chuckles and covers Nate's hand with her own, patting it reassuringly. “I was gone for ten minutes,” she says gently.

“Fifteen,” Nate huffs and shakes his head. “That’s fifteen too many.”

“I'm pretty sure we're safe enough at the moment,” Charlie points out, when Nate bends down to kiss her forehead, cradling her closer to him.

“Maybe,” Nate admits a little reluctantly. He takes Charlie's hands to his own, rubbing a thumb against her knuckle. “But I would still prefer you would remain close by.”

“You know I can take care of myself,” Charlie reminds him, but her tone comes out mostly fond instead of firm like she attempted. This is a conversation they’ve had for countless of times in the last six months, but so far nothing has changed.

Nate starts leading her away from the crowd and Charlie bites into the apple she bought earlier. It’s dry and sour and she grimaces after the first taste.

“I know,” Nate says, so softly Charlie can barely hear it through all the noise around them. “But I can't help but worry.”

He stops walking and spins around to look at her properly and takes her hands, the bitten apple rolling from her hand on to the stone paving. There's something in his gaze Charlie can’t read. Something desperate and insurmountable.

“You're carrying my child,” he says. “Our child. That means I can barely think beyond the worry I constantly feel when you're not near. I'm so afraid of losing you both that it's almost making me lose my sanity and all reason.”

Charlie swallows. She can feel her eyes starting to water. Damn pregnancy hormones. “Nate…”

“I know,” Nate murmurs before she can open her mouth, smiling softly down at her, pressing a kiss to their linked hands. “I will work on it. I promise.”

Charlie nods, something inside her chest soaring. “Thank you,” she answers, because she knows that Nate means it and that’s enough for her.

Then she looks sadly at the dropped apple on the ground. It may have been dry and sour, but she’s still hungry like… well, a woman who’s eating for two.

“I'm hungry,” Charlie says and Nate laughs so loudly a few people close to them flinch and give him the dirty eye. He throws them a sheepish smile and gets a few starstruck looks back, which makes Charlie roll her eyes affectionately.

“Let's go home, ya rouhi,” he replies, guiding her towards the car. “I'll cook.”