#sebastien le livre x female reader

[epilogue-and-prologue]

Falling - III - How You've Realized You've Fallen and It's Too Late To Go Back

A story I had in my WIP for the last few months and in my head since seeing the Old Guard.

Booker x Female Reader!with a sister

Warnings: Throughout the story mention of depressive behaviour, endangerment of others and one self, SMUT! 18+ DO NOT READ THIS. This is the FINAL PART. I'll consider writing more for this if I ever get inspiration to strike, but for the time being it's the last one.

He sought your care

You took it upon yourself to go take a coffee in that little shop every other week. Not even once after that first time you touched each other again.

It was a taboo you both silently agreed on. Him because he thought he would break you, you because you thought that you were afraid of what this man could do to you.

It only made things worse.

Way, way, worse.

The tension between the two was so palpable that your sister started poking sticks in it just for fun. He would sometimes pick you up from your apartment, and she’d be opening the door with innuendos barely covered through a thin veil of sarcasm.

It was hell. She was making it very uncomfortable and you could not find it in yourself to keep apologizing to Booker every time she did that. After a while, he only rolled his eyes at her antics.

He enjoyed spending time with you, exchanging about books and literature. He was surprised to learn that a doctor could be so well-read.

“My Mom was sick for a long time when I was in college. The first year I had literature as a major. The second year I switched and restarted in medicine instead. She died a little before my graduation.”

He never mentioned it again, silently voicing the shared grief he felt by deeply looking into your eyes. You thought it would burn you whole if he ever touched you again.

One afternoon, you decided to stay in your apartment. Just because it was pouring outside and you did not feel like going out. Booker seemed to agree with you so you prepared coffee and tea and put them on the coffee table, turning halfway so you could see him sitting next to you on the couch.

He was caressing the edges of the cup without drinking from it.

“Something the matter?”

Your voice startled him.

“No. Nothing.”

You take a sip of your tea before putting your cup back down on the table.

“Are you sure? You seem… - I’m sure.”

His tone was dry and left a bruise right through you. He leaned back an arm outstretched on the back of the couch. He ran a hand over his mouth, seemingly thinking about what he had just done.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It wasn’t fair of me…”

You reached out for his hand but he pulled it out of your reach.

“I… I can’t do this anymore. - What do you mean? - We can’t keep seeing each other.”

Your blood heats up in your veins. You put your glasses away, as it kept falling off your nose.

“Why? Did I do something? - No. Absolutely not. It’s just… The way this is going… It can’t go that way. - Why?!”

You sat up, head held high.

“Why? Booker, I can take it. I can take almost anything, but if you keep things from me I’m not answering for any of my future reactions. - I… Don’t make this more complicated than it should be! We have to stop before… - Before what?! - Before I hurt you. - How do you mean? - I mean before you get hurt. It’s simple. I don’t want you to get hurt. - But you’re hurting me right now.”

He rose, his eyes meeting yours. Two pools of pain and incomprehension for him to blame himself for. He was up to leave in a split second.

“I’m… This will hurt way less than what you could be risking just by being with me. - And who are you to decide that for me? - I… I’m only trying to protect you!

You’re not protecting me! You’re protecting yourself! You’re protecting your secrets and your past and I’ve never ever pressured you to tell me anything about these and I won’t start now. But don’t pretend you’re protecting me when you’re not…”

You’re both standing up now, almost ready to go at each other’s throats.

“You don’t understand, do you? - If you don’t explain shit to me, then no I can’t understand! - I can’t have you hurt. You could die! -…What?”

You swallowed hard as he ran a hand through his hair.

“My line of work… I met a lot of dangerous people who would not have hesitated to hurt me. They still do. They could come after you and try to hurt you. That’s why we need to stop seeing each other.”

Mild lie to cover up his past. Again. How could he tell you who he was without scaring you for good?

You took it in for a moment. It felt like he was trying to rip you apart. You believed him when he said he had people threatening him, you believed he might be a danger to you, and you believed something bad could happen. You also trusted him not to hurt you on purpose, to be there when you needed him too, and more importantly, that you wanted to be there when he needed you.

“…But I don’t want to. I don’t want you to just exit my life like that, that’s… - We don’t have any other choice. - You don’t. I do. I still have agency. I can choose whether or not I want to be with you… And this might seem crazy but I really do.”

Your face looked heartbroken and hurt and in pain and tears. You went to him and wrapped your arms around him. Old books, warmth, drumming heartbeat. You always wondered what he would feel like up close.

“I won’t let you go. - Please… - I won’t. I can’t. I just can’t…”

You stepped back, grabbing his face in your hands, his mouth agape, his eyes watering, visibly out of breath. He took ahold of your wrists ready to pull you off.

“I…”

You knew it wouldn’t be enough for him to stay, but you said it anyway.

“Booker… Sebastien, je ne peux pas parce que… parce que je t’aime. »

[I can’t because… because I love you.]

He frowned, feeling uneasy as he heard his name. His hands stilled on yours, searching your eyes for a reason not to believe you. You moved a little closer afraid he would step back, your breath mingling with his before his body crashed into yours.

You seek out each other*

His cheeks are prickly under your palms, but his hair is soft as you slip your fingers into his locks. His arms are holding you tightly against him, his tongue caressing your lower lip, your hands caressing every inch of him you can get access to. He doesn’t stop you, only trying to bring your body impossibly closer to his pushing your lower back to meet you stomach to stomach the fabric of your shirt bunching up, revealing a little of your skin to him, as you push his shir off of his shoulder then his t-shirt, separating only for a second his eyes never leaving yours hunger painted there in all the best ways, he helps you out of your shirt leaving you bare for him to see, your covered ass against him as he slips his hands over your stomach and hovers over your breasts one finger at a time, tease your sensitive skin, his beard bruises deliciously the dips of your shoulder as he leaves kisses along the line of your shoulder blades and your clavicles dipping his head to your collarbones, never stopping caressing you as you were touching him everywhere you could, his neck, his cheeks, his hair, the nape of his neck, the early birth of his back, his chest, his shoulders, his arms, he would not stop himself from touching you devouring you with his eyes as much as his hands.

“Bedroom.”

Your heavily breathed plea, makes him pick you up and grunt in your ear as he nips the earlobe, you reach the bed, closing the door unceremoniously, he sits you there at the edge of the bed, still a bit dazzled by what just happened. You bit your lip in anticipation as he kneels before you kissing your mouth thoroughly, nipping on your lower lip, before dipping his head into your neck, your breasts and down as you lower yourself down on the bed, back arched as he removes your pants. You’re turned on but not enough to his taste as he settles without a word between your legs your panties on one of your ankles. He’s bathed in the setting sun and you can see his eyes grow in anticipation at the vision of your pussy. He presses his tongue against your clitoris and you whimper. He chuckles before doing it again. And again. And again, circling your clit and sucking on it and licking every part of your pussy clean in the most filthy way possible.

You want to see him, and you can but through your eyes, your glasses off, you can only see the shadow of him, a light shining on him and making his irises look as dark with desire as they’ve ever been. You don’t tell him to stop, you can only mewl and moan and open your mouth without any sound at all in the hopes he will make you come.

He doesn’t.

“What?!”

He doesn’t say a word as you up, your pussy dripping on the sheets, ready to explode as he pulls down his pants and gets rid of them now hovering over you. He’s frowning still, your cum on his lips and beard as he kisses you senseless. You don’t mind.

“What you said earlier…

It was all true…”

He doesn’t add a word. His hand comes to caress your cheek, kiss your nose, and your temple, and stroke your collarbone. He was never good with words ironically. Only with actions. Only in battle. Whoever said that love was like a battlefield might have been right. His love was like his fighting: violent, unmerciful but efficient.

He pushes his dick into you without another warning.

You bite your lip so hard, that you thought you had broken the skin there. He soothes you, his finger against the sensitive skin, he goes and holds your hands above your head. He starts moving and you swear even at this slow pace you close your eyes and you can see stars.

“Regarde Moi…” [Look at me…]

You open your eyes, openly watching him as reaches down to tease your clit. For a split second, you wonder how he does it without straining a muscle. The pleasure elicited by his action makes you forget all about it though. His rhythm goes a bit quicker, your legs high on his waist, yourself rendered incapable of touching him, arching your back eager to be close to him. He lets go of your hands and you start touching everywhere you can grabbing his ass to bring him closer to you, your breasts against his chest, your hand now in his hair as his head dips in your shoulder, his ragged breath tattooed on your heated skin, his rhythm picks up in speed as he lets go of your clit and intertwines your hands together, you can feel your pussy seizing on his dick on the verge of climax, you can feel his arms tremble no longer able to hold him up. He pushes a kiss on your throat, on your jaw on your lips, his tongue on yours. He pulls back looking at you with all the desire in the world. HIs voice is weak and strained.

“I… I love you too.”

He doesn’t add another word as your chest explodes in warmth and lust and heat. He pushes into you again and again and again before you feel your orgasm creep up on you, a silent scream escaping your lips as your pleasure floods in your body and on the sheets, he keeps pushing before grabbing onto you like a lifeline, bruises on your waist to be found in the morning, grunting in your ear.

Collapsing on top of you, still inside you, he moves to push himself off but you stop him. He settles there, his head on your chest as you run your hand through his hair, both cooling off.

You cover both of yourselves up with a blanket.

He’s fast asleep, his breath and beard tickling your skin.

[victoria-daydreams]

Till Kingdom Come

Chapter Twelve: A Macabre Rite of Passage

AN: You ever lose a post in your drafts? No, just me. Well, that’s what happened here. I didn’t think that was possible lol.

Word Count: 4.6k

Trigger Warnings: none

Taglist: @nerds4life246, @leahnicole1219

Chapter Thirteen:  A Simple Lover’s Quarrel

New York, 1889

On a sunny, New York City afternoon, sunlight shone down on the stately, grimy buildings providing some brightness to the residents below. Creaking of carriage wheels filled the crisp air along with the distinct cries of newsboys, shouting the latest headlines on every available street corner. The busy street was filled with carts selling fruits and vegetables of all kinds to the bustling crowd of New Yorkers, carrying baskets of groceries while children clung to their mother's side or onto their cuddly toys. Couples of young and old strolled on the cobblestone streets, sporting colorful gowns and embroidered suits. Occasionally, stopping to consort with a member of the class below them.

It was just another regular day in the city and Sabine was right in the middle of it.

"Remind me why we're doing this today?" he asked.

Side by side, she walked with Bastien as they did bit of grocery shopping of their own.

Sabine smirked, "Because while we are immortal, we still need to eat," she replied, keeping her voice low.

Steam rose up above the general cheerful chatter of the crowd, coupled with the enticing smells of the competing aromas wafting from the immigrant street vendor's wares.

"Honestly, this is your fault," Sabine stated, adjusting her grip on her own heavy basket. "Someone couldn't keep their hands off me this morning," she pointed out. "We could have been finished by now,"

"Well, someone didn't seem to mind my freshly shaven face..." he trailed off, discretely lowering his lips to her ear. "All over their body," he finished, regaining his posture with a cocky grin.

Her cheeks heated at his words.

"What can I say?" Sabine began, looking over at him. "You cut quite the dash with a scraped chin," she complimented, forcing herself to not touch Bastien's face, a gesture that would be heavily frowned upon.

"I do, don't I?" he remarked, as he gave his clean shaven jaw a stroke.

The two of them passed by rag-tag groups of men and women that walked between the lamp posts. As they crossed over to another street, they walked past a group of middle aged men dressed in sharp suits, smoking on cigars and buying the latest newspapers.

"Wait here will you," Bastien requested. "I must know the latest scandal rocking this city," he quipped, making Sabine smile.

"Go on," she chuckled, flicking her chin out toward the pale faced and rag-adorned newsies ahead of them.

Bastien flashed a smile of his own before moving away from Sabine, leaving her alone on the corner of the sidewalk. Tilting her head up, Sabine briefly admired the cloudless blue sky. She couldn't believe her dreams of coming to New York after had come into fruition. After California, the band of immortals state hopped their way from the West Coast back to the East Coast, residing in big cities where it was easy enough to blend in. There was only one area that they all refused to live in and that was the South.

It seemed like everyday new Jim Crow laws were being enacted...or there was news of another lynching.

The shriek of street children playing in the alleys with a refreshing degree of excitement snapped Sabine from her daze, shaking her head a bit. She had gone into a slight trance and the passing crowd didn't offer her much of a second glance, only if it was to silently question her social status as a colored woman wearing a dress of a middle class woman at best. But Sabine ignored the occasional stares and held her head proudly, waiting for Bastien to return.

"Sabine?"

The voice hit her by surprise and she froze. Nobody knew her real name outside of Bastien, Andy, Nicky, and Josef. The owner of said voice was female, but it sounded weak, frail even. All of which that made it abundantly clear that it was not Andy.

"Sabine?"

Looking from her left to her right, Sabine couldn't find the voice at first only seeing people perusing around the vendors and carriages that trundled along holding the rich. It wasn't until she completely turned around and found herself staring down at an older, black woman, maybe in her late sixties or early seventies.

"May I help you ma'am?" Sabine asked, cocking her head.

"My, my, my," she breathed, her eyes roving over her face. "It's you, it's really you," the woman stated, reaching out to touch her face.

Sabine leaned away from her a little, "Ma'am...I...think you have me confused with someone else," she corrected, but the woman just shook her head.

"I'd know this face from anywhere, so warm and full of love and shaped just like a heart," she remarked. "A mother always knows her daughter's face, Sabine," she said gently.

Sabine nearly fainted from the woman's words.

Her mouth opened and closed, "No, no, you must be mistaken," she said, shaking her head.

The woman gripped onto her arm, "You are, you must be!" she maintained, trying to convince Sabine or maybe herself.

"I-I-"

"Mama, Mama!" another female voice called.

A middle-aged, well dressed woman came hurrying over to them with a parcel in her hand.

"Mama, please let go of the young lady's arm. We don't need to cause a scene in front of all these people," she said, placing her hand on top of her mother's and scanning the crowd nervously.

Sabine glanced around the busy street and sidewalks as well, but no one seemed phased about what was transpiring. In their heads, its just another colored family having a squabble.

"But Emile,"

Once that name came from her lips, Sabine was sure that she was actually going to drop to the ground. Blood rushed to her ears and drummed in its canals, muffling all the sounds surrounding her while she felt heartbeat increase dramatically, it felt like her chest was going to explode.

"Emile. Mama. Here?" Sabine thought.

Faintly, she could hear her older sister and mother arguing with each other.

"See reason Mama, this can't be Sabine, she's too young,"

"It is her, you can't recognize your own sister? She's a Freemen like us,"

"What's going on here?"

Bastien's deep voice is what brought Sabine back down to Earth as she attempted to process if what was happening actually real. His expression was a mixture of seriousness and confusion while tucking his newspaper under his arm. Emile and the older woman instantly became demure at the arrival of Bastien, her mother even going so far as letting go of her arm as if it burned her.

"It's nothing sir, my mother was bit confused," Emile explained, her eyes not quite meeting Bastien's. "It was a mistake, we apologize for wasting your time and disturbing your maid," she said, before quickly walking away arm in arm with her mother from Sabine and Bastien.

"My maid?" he repeated, his brow furrowing and looking in the direction of where the two women went.

Sabine placed her hand on her chest, trying to calm her erratic breathing down which did nothing of the sort.

"Sabine, are you okay?" Bastien inquired, eyes filled with concern.

His hand went to reach to touch her on the waist, but he quickly snatched his hand back. Thank god, he remembered to show restraint.

"Sabine?" he called again, waiting for an answer.

"I think I just ran into my family," she breathed out.

~~~x~~~

"You're acting like a spoiled brat Sabine," Bastien said, opening the door to their home. "You don't get your way for once and you throw a fit," he added, closing the door after Sabine marched inside.

This argument had raged on since the moment they left the street where Sabine had been reunited with her family. They did their best to keep the heated whispers between them, but occasionally Sabine's temper got the better of her and she drew more than a few stares when she lashed out at Bastien. However, once they entered the confines of the safe house, the gloves came off, figuratively and literally.

Sabine slammed down the basket onto a table near the door, "I'm acting like a spoiled brat for wanting to see my family?" she repeated incredulously, as she roughly tugged at her gloves.

Bastien pulled his coat off, "Yes, you are," he insisted, removing his hat and hanging it above his coat. "If that is your family, then they think you're probably dead and it is best that we leave that way,"

Sabine placed her hands on hips and frowned, in utter disbelief at what Bastien said.

"No, it is not," she disagreed, vehemently shaking her head. "Did you see the desperation in her eyes, the way she tightly clung to my arm? After all she has been through in her life, from being enslaved and watching her daughter be ripped away from her. Why should I be the one to make her suffer even more?" she questioned, pointing to herself.

"You're not Sabine!" Bastien replied in exasperation. "She's an old woman, for all we know, she thinks every girl that looks like you might be her daughter," he reasoned, sticking his arm out to the side.

Sabine lifted her brow, "She said my sister's name, Emile," she pointed out, shrugging her coat off.

"Coincidence," he retorted.

"They have Louisianian accents for god's sake!"

"Sabine, there are plenty of slaves that could've escaped from Louisiana named Emile," Bastien guessed, and Sabine's coat hit him dead center in his chest, hard.

"Don't be an ass!"

"What? It's a possibility!"

"You are the most infuriating man I've ever met!"

Sabine began pacing up and down the den area in a vain attempt to control her temper.

"Hey, what is all this yelling about?" Josef asked jokingly, walking around the corner.

"I think they're having a lover's quarrel," Nicky commented, coming from behind him.

She halted in her movements, "Sebastien won't let me reunite with my long, lost mother and my family!" Sabine exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

Josef's eyes widened sharply, "Your mother?" he repeated, as Andy joined them as well, a half-closed book in her hand.

"Yes!"

"And I forbid you from going to see her," Bastien declared, placing his hands on the waist.

Sabine scoffed, "You forbid me?" she echoed, raising her brow again. "I'm not a fucking child, I do as I damn well please!"

"See Andy," Bastien started, walking towards the oldest immortal. "I told you that we had gone too soft on her," he stated gesturing towards Sabine.

A sympathetic expression was on the older woman's face as she looked at the youngest immortal.

"Sabine, I'm going have to agree with Booker," Andy spoke up, causing Sabine to deflate a bit. "I do understand why you want to do this, but it's going to cause nothing but pain,"

Bastien lifted his hand in the air as if to say 'thank you'.

"I mean, what would you even tell them, hmm?" Bastien questioned, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. "Hello, I'm Sabine, you're long lost daughter thought to be dead. I'm technically forty-seven, but I have the face of a twenty-two year old!"

"Then I won't tell them my true identity!" she shot back. "I'll play the role of a concerned young woman if it means I get to see my family again!" Sabine exclaimed.

"Book maybe-" Nicky began.

"No," Bastien interrupted, looking at him. "Sabine," he called, turning to face her again with his hands pressed together. "I am trying to protect you, reuniting with your family will only bring you more pain," he stressed.

"Just because you're family despised you when they died, doesn't mean mine will!" Sabine snapped.

Even though the sentence had already left her lips, she realized how cruel it was.

Bastien tightened up, his face no longer showing any measure of restraint. He let out a breathy laugh of disbelief and Sabine could see how much her words hurt him to say what she did, his blue eyes were practically swimming now. Regret gnawed at her, she didn't mean to say that, it was the heat of the moment and tempers were flaring. And she...she said it. Sabine didn't like how this was going, she felt her guilt grip on her harder the longer she looked at Bastien.

For once, there was utter silence between all of them, it was eerie, unsettling even. Sabine did not like this sudden change, it was obvious it made miserable company.

"Bastien, I..." Sabine trailed off, when he would no longer look her in the eyes. "Bastien," she called again, but he did not meet her stare.

The Frenchman moved away from her without speaking a word, his expression held tightly. He moved towards the front door and gathering his coat and hat as he went.

"I'll go after him," Josef muttered, briefly looking over to Sabine and giving her a forced semi-smile. "Booker," he called, jogging to catch up with him.

The door slammed shut and Sabine felt herself flinch as the sound reverberated throughout the room, leaving her feeling inexplicably cold. Josef, with his coat in hand, reopened the door and this time closing it with a soft click. Sabine dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, wondering how she was ever going to fix what just happened. Warm hands found there way on top of Sabine's shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

"Everything will be fine Sabine," Nicky assured, and she lifted her head away from her palms.

"How could you possibly think that?" she asked, shaking her head. "Did you not hear what I said to him?" she questioned, feeling her eyes well up.

Sabine knew that Nicky could see the guiltiness on her face, it was easily readable.

"Excuse me," she whispered, her voice trembling and rushed towards the hall where her bedroom was.

The door swung open and Sabine snatched her hat off her head, throwing it to the floor with one hand and slamming the door shut behind her with the other. Blindly, she threw herself onto her bed, landing stomach first with a muffled thwump against the mattress. A soft sob left Sabine as she gripped the soft blanket, her chest tight. A few tears leaked from her eyes and she did nothing to stop them. Sniffling, Sabine sunk deeper into the mattress.

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door and Sabine lifted her head from her pillows and looked back at the door. Sabine turned away, intent on ignoring whoever it was and let out a sigh instead as she closed her eyes. There was shuffling from outside her door, but Sabine remained keen on ignoring Nicky or Andy, they would give up eventually. That belief quickly left her mind as soon as she heard the door knob turn slowly on its hinges.

Then the door creaked open.

The sound of heels clacking against the floor echoed hollowly throughout the bedroom, Sabine squeezed her eyes just as the bed dipped beside her. She felt a hand gently nudge her.

"Come on, Sabine. Get up," Andy ordered softly. "No use in sulking, what's been said has been said, and you can't change that," she said.

Reopening her eyes, she slowly turned her head in Andy's direction. Sabine knew she undoubtedly looked like a mess, her face was slightly red and teared stained. Her eyes, which were usually warm and clear, were now blurred and teary.

"I've ruined everything Andy," Sabine croaked out, sniffling once more. "I-" she began, but stopped herself.

She could feel a lump in her throat that was keeping her from finishing her sentence, and the emotion that clung to her words wasn't making the lump go away any sooner.

"Now, now," Andy started, rubbing her on the back soothingly. "Don't be dramatic," she stated. "The two of you were arguing and hurtful things were said by both parties, that's not unlike for couples,"

Sabine scoffed, "I doubt Bastien would throw it in my face that I was a slave, as I did with mentioning his dead wife and kids," she pointed out, shaking her head.

"No, I don't think he would,"

"He has every right to be mad at me," Sabine replied. "He misses her, he misses all of them," she stressed, burying her head in the pillows. "And I went ahead and said...that," she finished, letting out a huffed breath and closing her eyes.

"Well, I'm not here to berate you Sabine," Andy informed, shifting herself on the bed. "You know what you did and you know what you must do," she remarked.

"I know,"

The youngest immortal looked over at her elder, her brown eyes mixing with gray ones. A grim expression lined Sabine's face. Of course she felt bad for what she did and was trying to fix it, but she feared it wouldn't be good enough. They had their fights like any couple, but this one was different, it felt different. This one was more personal, on both ends. Right now, Sabine wanted nothing more to be wrapped in Bastien's embrace, to have silly, meaningless debates like they always did about food, books, and art. Now she wasn't sure if those would happen anytime soon.

In her anger, Sabine crossed a line.

Andy let out a sigh, "Sit up, sit up," she said, gently pulling at her body.

Sabine was reluctant to move from her position, much more content to wallow in her sorrows, but she did and let Andy guide her into a upright position. Scooting closer towards her, Andy put one hand on Sabine's shoulder and the other on her cheek.

"Clean your face," she instructed softly, using her thumbs to wipe the remaining tears away. "You, Nicky, and I are going out," she announced, her hand gently gripping at Sabine's arm.

"Where?"

"I'm sure Nicky and I could use some fresh air as we finish the rest of today's errands," Andy explained, while Sabine looked over at where she threw her hat. "And you could use the air as well to clear your head, put you at ease a little," she suggested, and Sabine met her gaze again. "Sound good?" Andy questioned, with an encouraging smile.

Sabine nodded her slowly, "Sounds wonderful," she responded, a genuine grin growing on her lips.

~~~x~~~

Sitting at her vanity clad only in her nightdress, Sabine silently unpinned her hair. A knock rapped against her door as she dropped the pin into a little enameled box.

"Come in," she said in a clear voice,

Sabine heard a soft click behind her at the same time that she dropped another pin into the box. When her eyes returned to the mirror, her movements froze at who was standing in the door frame. At that moment, the temperature in the bedroom seemed to drop a few degrees.

"Sebastien," she whispered, turning slightly towards him. "I-" she began, but stopped when he quietly stepped in, closing the door after him

Sabine went to stand up and Bastien just shook his head, motioning for her to stay where she was. Her mouth suddenly felt dry and all the words she had come up with earlier had up and vanished.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards her hair.

She nodded slowly, shifting her body to face the mirror again and Bastien's hands found themselves into her hair. He took the ornate silver comb from on top of the vanity and started at the ends. Sabine watched him through the mirror, feeling his fingers separating every last strand of her hair.

"Where did you go?" she asked quietly, finding the courage to speak.

"Where do you think?" he asked back just as softly, though there was a hint of humor in his tone, but also a trace of bitterness.

Though she tried, Sabine could not ignore the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke and booze, clinging to Bastien's clothes. She stared at his reflection again, he seemed completely unfazed or even showed the slightest sign of inebriation. Bastien languidly ran the comb through her black locks, with steady hands, stroke after stroke. Normally, she would this find quite amusing, Bastien playing sober incredibly well when they both knew he was not. Except that it wasn't, not today at least. Especially since she was part of the reason why he smelled like a brewery and the whites of his eyes were bloodshot.

"What is going on in that head of yours?"

Bastien had caught Sabine's stare in the mirror and held it, he could see the troubled look in her eyes.

"Why are you...why are you being so kind to me, Bastien?" she asked, her tone guarded. "I was absolutely dreadful towards you earlier," she admitted.

"Yes, yes you were," he agreed, without breaking eye contact and Sabine felt herself wince.

It was one thing to acknowledge it, it was another to hear it spoken aloud by Bastien himself. It stung in more ways than she thought it would. She cast her eyes downward, feeling uneasy and ashamed, but two fingers underneath her chin guided her eyes back to the glass in front of her.

"Shall I braid your hair for you?" he asked.

"Yes, please,"

Bastien's fingers combed through her hair once more and Sabine closed her eyes at his touch, feeling him beginning to braid with surprising ease.

"I would do this for my wife every night before bed," he stated softly.

Sabine's eyes snapped back open, recognizing that far off tone he gets when mentioning his family.

"I guess that explains why you are the only man to possess this rare ability and other men don't," she replied, an attempt to be humorous.

He stopped, only to return to his task a second later, "Or how I'm adept at lacing a corset so well," he mentioned.

"You did that for your wife as well?"

"Every morning when I could," he replied, finishing the braid and combing at the ends.

Sabine felt her heart squeeze slightly with guilt. She turned in her chair, looking up to the man behind her.

"Bastien, I do apologize for my behavior today. I should've never said what I did,"

"When I told you about my family, something so intimate to me and how they treated me afterwards..." he trailed off. "I never would've thought that you would take information and use it against me in the manner that you did,"

"I-" Sabine started, but cut herself off, she could feel herself getting worked up and defensive. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way," she stated, sighing deeply. "I knew where the conversation was headed, I knew what your concerns were," she continued, standing up from her seat. "I wish I had worded it differently, but I was so angry, so hurt, by your flippant attitude. At that point, I stopped caring. I wanted to say something, anything, to reciprocate the same pain you were causing me," Sabine explained, wringing her hands. "Only I took it far," she finished, glancing up at him.

The nervous motions in her hands grew tighter and more frantic that she had to move her hands behind her back.

"Sabine, it felt like you took a knife, and stabbed me with it," Bastien described. "And then, you decided to twist it around for good measure," he added.

She bit the inside of her cheek and lowered her eyes to the floor, "I am sorry Bastien," Sabine repeated.

"Yes, I know," he acknowledged, exhaling heavily. "And I forgive you," he informed. "I am sorry myself, I was harsh with you when it was not necessary. You were not acting like a spoiled brat," he apologized.

"Thank you for recognizing that,"

The two them stood in silence, every second feeling like an eternity. Finally, Sabine brought her eyes to his and and took his hands in both of hers.

"Is all well between us again?" she asked, her dark brown irises looking into his blue ones. "I do hope so now that we both apologized for our regrettable actions today,"

Bastien let out a rough sigh and shifted his eyes to the ceiling, "On one condition..." he trailed off.

"And that is?"

"You let me seal this with a kiss," he answered, staring back down at her with a faint grin.

She scrunched her nose up, "Ugh, maybe later," Sabine suggested, smiling a little.

"Why?" Bastien inquired, pulling her closer.

"Because my dear, you reek of alcohol," she replied bluntly. "And so does your breath," she commented, putting her hands on his chest to keep him at bay. "I'll draw you a bath and fill a glass of water for you-"

"I can do that all myself Sabine, I'm not that drunk," he cut in, his mouth curving upwards. "You go on and head to bed, I'll freshen up. And maybe I'll get that kiss,"

Sabine chuckled, "For now, I can only give you this," she said, before slipping her hand from his and pressing two of her fingers onto her lips and then onto Bastien's.

Gently, he wrapped his hand around hers and kept it there.

~~~x~~~

Sabine was half-asleep felt her mattress dip down beside her, a heavy, solid weight joining her on the bed and underneath the covers. Blinking to adjust to the darkness, she turned over to face Bastien.

"I didn't think you'd be joining me in bed," she said hoarsely.

Bastien slightly froze, "I didn't want to be alone tonight," he explained, his voice low. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he apologized, settling underneath the blankets.

"Eh, never you mind," she yawned. "I meant to stay awake for a little longer, but my efforts failed," she explained, a sleepy smile on her lips.

Sabine could feel the bed shift as Bastien fumbled about for a moment or two before he found the oil lamp on her nightstand. She blinked a few times, her eyes once again adjusting and she saw the face of Bastien, who is looking at her with a wry smile on his face. Sabine shifted on the bed so that she laid on her side, her elbow on her pillow and her cheek in the palm of her hand.

"You smell better," she commented plainly, and Bastien let out a hearty chuckle.

"Good enough for that kiss that was promised to me?" he asked curiously, grinning at her.

"I suppose so,"

Sabine leaned forward and pecked him on the lips.

"I said a kiss, not a peck," Bastien reminded, wrapping her into his arms and pulling her onto his chest.

A small giggle escaped from her as she reached her hand out, cupping his cheek. Briefly, the two immortals just gazed at each other in silence, content with the other's presence. She dipped her head slowly before brushing her lips over his, indulging in the softness of them. Bastien inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his hand caress the small of her back. Sabine went to pull back, but didn’t get far as Bastien sought her lips in a slower and lingering kiss. A soft hum left Sabine just as they parted for air, their chests heaving.

Reopening her eyes, she leaned down again and kissed the corners of his mouth before pulling away once more. Bastien's warm breath mingled with hers as she stroked her thumb back and forth across his cheek.

"Are you alright?" Sabine asked, searching his eyes.

"I am better now," Bastien answered, his hand coming to a stop on her waist. "Today...today was rough," he stated. "For the both of us," he added.

"I know," she agreed, with a sigh and laying her head on his chest.

Sabine could feel the slow rising and falling of Bastien's chest beneath her head.

"I sometimes forget just how sharp your tongue can be," he commented, his voice sending a low rumble that reverberated through her body. "I don't think I've been on the receiving end of one of your lashings before, at least, not in a very long time," he noted, and Sabine planted a kiss on his night shirt covered chest.

"Bastien," she called quietly, reaching her free hand out to interlock their fingers.

"Yes?"

"Promise me something,"

"Anything,"

"Promise me, that we won't go to bed mad at each other," Sabine said, nestling her face into the crook of Bastien’s neck. "I don't know if I could bear it, us going to bed in anger, and then waking up again the next morning with unresolved, bitter feelings still clouding over us," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I promise,"

Chapter Fourteen: Welcome Home, Sabine Freemen

[epilogue-and-prologue]

Falling - I - How You Get To Know Each Other

A story I had in my WIP for the last few months and in my head since seeing the Old Guard.

Booker x Female Reader!with a sister

Warnings: Throughout the story mention of depressive behaviour, endangerment of others and one self, two sisters relationship, smut at some point but it will be signalled, loneliness and angst at first and during, speaking in French because I CAN.

You’re drenched and Ophelia too.

She was laughing as much as she could seeing you desperately trying to cover yourself with your jacket over your head outside the school. You were laughing too. You’re still both laughing when you enter the building. It’s the most startling sound he’s heard for weeks.

He’s checking his mail. Nothing in the small box. He smiled curtly and left.

He hasn’t been talking to a lot of neighbours.

Except you. Except for your sister, Ophelia.

He knows your name too but never says it aloud. He always stays very polite and gentle. A perfect Englishman with somewhat nothing of the classic tailored Englishman.

You went back home and thought nothing of it.

You knocked on his door.

It took a few seconds before you heard keys shuffling and the door slowly opened.

He’s a little dishevelled and visibly sweating.

“Hi! Oh… I’m sorry did we catch you at a bad time? -No not at all.”

He frowned.

“Do you need anything?”

You took a deep breath, biting your lip. His eyes followed yours as you lowered them down for a moment before turning to Ophelia.

“Uhm…Yeah. We were about to make crepes but we don’t have any flour. Do you happen to have any? We would repay you for it. -I don’t know… Just let me check.”

He disappeared from the entrance for a second, leaving the door ajar. You couldn’t see inside the darkness swallowing everything whole. You did not have time to think about it before he came back with a half bag of flour.

“I’m sorry I don’t have more. And don’t worry, you can keep it. -Oh. Well, thank you. We’ll be bringing back crepes as soon as we’re finished. -You don’t have to. -She really wants to though.”

Ophelia looks at you, her 15 years making her too tall for your taste. She could crush you in a hug and take from the cupboard you couldn’t reach and make you want to crawl into a mouse’s hole and never leave it, in no time.

You coughed, a little embarrassed.

“Anyways, hum, thanks for the flour.

-Anytime.”

You stood there awkwardly for a second before your sister took the flour from his hands and waved him goodbye. He closed the door right behind you a tug at the corner of his lips making him think that he might have smiled a little. He hadn’t smiled in so long.

He could hear you banter with your sister a little before closing your front door.

You did deliver him those crepes a little later in the night. You could see his television lighting up the living room in blue hues. In the dark, he seemed so much more tired than earlier. You could see the span of his face marked by memories you knew nothing about, the way his body blocked the entrance to his place, the way he quietly thanked you and wished you a goodnight, waiting for you to leave before closing his door. As he did before. You left and he then closed the door. Maybe not to be rude and close the door in your face? You were pretty sure he would have done that in an instant had it been not considered rude to do so.

You had seen him hold the door for the young mother living downstairs with her stroller. He didn’t even look her in the eyes, just responding to her thanks with a tight smile and not even wishing her a good night. He was a loner. Nobody in the building knew his name. The name on the mailbox was Booker. No first name.

Just your clean plate on your doorstep the next morning with neat words on a piece of paper.

Thank you

Ophelia passed him by on the stairs.

“I think I heard him talk on the phone with someone named Nile.

-Oh. Ok. Did you do your homework? “

She heaves a sigh.

“You’re really going to dodge the ball on this one?”

You looked her straight in the eyes.

“This man is trouble. I can feel it.

-He’s also very fuckable. -‘Lia! -What?”

Her face was somewhat innocent but you knew better. She finished cleaning the dishes before ditching to her room. You smiled fondly at her attempt though. She was a little bit too worried about you sometimes.

You passed him by on the stairs.

You had just arrived back from work. You greeted him and he barely responded to you, his eyes a bit out of there, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me. How’s Andy?”

The person on the phone gave him a short answer. He hummed softly. You could see his whole demeanour change, his hand running through his hair, his figure standing a little taller. You reached your floor as he climbed back the stairs.

You looked at him, your eyes taking in the whole new energy coming off of him. Something lighter? Probably. Just less rough than the last time you had seen him.

He caught you though. Surprised, a bit startled maybe, his mouth slightly agape by it. He licked his lips and you felt the place increasingly getting hotter with embarrassment by the second.

You fumbled with your keys and got into your apartment.

You didn’t mention it to Ophelia.

Your mind made it out to be nothing.

It wasn’t.

He knocks on your door.

It is a surprise. Something you haven’t expected. It is a Sunday. You heard the bells going on somewhere near and had wondered who would be foolish enough to get married. Or to even celebrate anything. Ophelia spent the night at her friends’ house, the flat is empty. Luckily.

He seems a bit out of sorts, both his hands pressing against the doorframe. Cheeks flushed by what you smell as alcohol on his breath. You grimace. He flinches.

“I’m sorry… I… shouldn’t be here.”

His eyes dart to yours before his arms fall back to his side. He is hovering on your doorstep, like a ghost whose purpose is lost to them. He can’t quite decide to leave or to ask for what he needs.

You lick your lips silently, your hand still on the doorknob. You are about to close the door when you notice blood on his hands. His knuckles were cradled into his palms, his fingers red.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

Your anguished question hits him like a ton of bricks. He steps back. Looks at his hands. Hides them in his pockets. His head was low. Searches for his keys. Opens the door to his flat. And leaves you there, a ball of anxiety in the pit of your stomach.  

You can’t sleep properly for the next week.

[epilogue-and-prologue]

Falling - Prologue

A story I had in my WIP for the last few months and in my head since seeing the Old Guard.

This prologue happens in the aftermath of his exclusion of the group.

Booker x Female Reader!with a sister

Warnings: Throughout the story mention of depressive behaviour, endangerment of others and one self, two sisters relationship, smut at some point but it will be signalled, loneliness and angst at first and during, speaking in French because I CAN.

I will publish the prologue this week and then a chapter a week ;).

Day 7

It had been a week since his friends left him. Since he said goodbye to Andy.

“Have a little faith”

Booker could still hear her voice in his nightmares, waking up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night. After the hotel room, he had found a small flat not too far from the Globe. Joe and Nicky used to tell him stories about Shakespeare he ate up as a child would candy. He had not been around for that, but he sure loved to hear the grotesque anecdotes they had about the poet. Sitting up in his bed, the few lights streams through the windows, illuminating spots in the room. Pieces of the worn carpet, the oak dresser in front of the bed, and the scar on his right calf.

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember why he had that scar in the first place. It was before the war. Maybe when he had his first son. Or his second. All he can recall is the grief. The unwavering grief accompanying those memories. Even though he smiled thinking about the first time he taught them about talking to a woman, or the time they all were so happy when pretending they were soldiers in the war.

He never had dared to tell them that it was gruesome. He wanted to protect them from that prospect. His wife always saw through him. A young woman turned bitter after years of loneliness. She had seen him take post after post away from home, barely hugging his children before leaving. She had resented him for it, relentlessly, refusing him their bed when he knew she was giving herself away to others. He had tried to take her by force but was stopped by her tears, her cries, her kicks. He would feel the pain deep in his guts, the guilt. He would then be brought back to his own childhood home, his father forcing himself on his mother and the look of utter desperation on her face, absolute loss of control. And in his soft new childish mind would forge the promise never to do that to his wife. He ran a hand over his face and pulled the cover off, going into the adjacent kitchen for a coffee. It tasted like shit. Nicky’s was better. He had learned the technique from an actual coffee merchant in the 1750s. Or some date along these lines.

The window in the living room is translucent. The day is still young. He can hear the mother next door leaving her flat, peppering her daughter in kisses making the kid giggle and then just outright asking her to stop in what he assumed was an attempt at an adult voice. He waits until their feet can no longer be heard before going to take a shower.

He stays there an hour, not knowing what to do with himself in the meantime.

He falls asleep on the couch and sees the clock turning from 8 to 11 in no time.

He wonders if he should let himself die of hunger this time. Hunger is a death he has not tasted before, maybe it could be more merciful than the others. You slowly lose your lifeforce, drained out of you by your own body pumping blood and nutrients until there’s nothing left. You stop breathing. Almost like falling asleep.

He dresses up and leaves for the grocery store.

Hunger isn’t on the menu for today.

Day 14

The kid’s name is Ophelia. Funny name. He overheard her mother call her that. Maybe sibling? She seemed a little bit too young to have a kid that age.

The tragic name though.

He tries to keep himself sane by going on walks. He tries new recipes. He tries and tries and tries not to let himself lose control over this reality he has to face every day. The loneliness. It was killing him before. It is excruciatingly ripping his heart out now.

He receives papers. Newspapers and administrative papers. He wished letters were still a thing. He misses writing letters to people. More personal than texts or emails.

He feels like an old man. He is an old man. His bones don’t ache right, his back doesn’t give out as it should, and his knuckles bruise so easily but heal so perfectly. He wishes old age would come to take him in his sleep like a long-lost lover.

But it doesn’t. It can’t.

And it’s killing him more than anything ever has in his entire existence.

[epilogue-and-prologue]

Falling - II - How You Fall For Each Other

A story I had in my WIP for the last few months and in my head since seeing the Old Guard.

Booker x Female Reader!with a sister

Warnings: Throughout the story mention of depressive behaviour, endangerment of others and one self, two sisters relationship, smut at some point but it will be signalled, loneliness and angst at first and during, speaking in French because I CAN.

You hoped he was alright.

“’ Lia, don’t forget your lunch.”

You handed the small bag to the young girl before she pecked your cheek and rushed through the door. On the way out, there stood the neighbour slightly in better shape than the last time you saw him.

She slammed her hand on his back, making you both jump.

“Good day to you neighbour!”

She then proceeded to leave without another word.

He raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk on his face.

You raised an eyebrow in return, a smile drawn on your face.

“I don’t control what she does, Sir… Although I am sorry, that was… inappropriate.”

You swallowed hard, pinching your lips. His smile slipped.

“It’s alright. I’m guessing it’s payback for Sunday morning….”

You opened your mouth to answer that but he cut you short with a raise of his hand.

“It’s fine. I am sorry I went to you that day. It was weird and uncalled for. We don’t know each other…”

You snickered.

“I don’t even know your name, dude.”

The look of shame on his face, made you regret that. He simply pinched his lips, lowered his head, and looked at his shoes. He closed and locked his door. Before going downstairs, he fidgeted with his keys, head somewhat still looking at his shoes, barely looking at you.

“My name is Sebastien.”

You felt your eyes grow wide. You felt the heavy touch of the name on your tongue, not quite infatuated with it yet.

“People call me Booker.”

You looked at his face, his eyes on you for a split second, a split second of your smile. He started leaving and by the time you realized what had happened, you ran to the small balustrade, bent slightly over it and heard yourself shout your name to him.

He looked up, eyebrows knitted in confusion when he saw you. He looked back down, his hand holding on tightly to his keys.

“I know.”

He smiled a little before leaving.

You were left on the staircase, a bit starstruck for a minute before remembering you had to get to work and ran back home as rapidly as you could.

He hoped you were alright.

He was coming back with groceries and almost collided with a running Ophelia. She stopped abruptly looking him up and down curiously. He pretended not to notice and kept on climbing up the stairs. She called after him.

“Dude! Could you do something for me? Neighbour to neighbour?”

Booker’s brows furrowed a little. Curiosity got the better of him though.

“Depends. What is it?”

Ophelia smiled brightly. Not a good sign if you knew her. Not at all.

“My sister is sick. I’m supposed to get some medicine at the pharmacy. Do you think you could keep an eye out? She’s got this nasty habit of working even though she’s sick.”

His pupils grew wider in surprise and his mind started reeling. Something he thought he forgot how to do centuries ago. But Ophelia did not have the patience for his antics.

“The flat’s open anyhow! She’s on the couch you can’t miss her!”

She bolted away as if running for her life.

He stayed there for a solid minute before smiling to himself and leaving the hallway.

Once arrived he dropped his groceries in his entryway and closed the apartment right behind him.

Your flat’s door was left open, he just had to push it. As the door closed behind him he missed having his gun in his hand at this very moment as if you were a threat. He remembered you could be but dismissed the thought so easily it surprised him. You were not defenceless, you could be a spy or a newly hired kidnapper to torture him. He just knew you were not. That he would trust you. Somehow.

The main room was poorly lighted, leaving him in the dark, the kitchen counter to his left, opened in a living room, blue light coming from the TV screen on some show you weren’t even watching. He closed the door behind him, walking in slowly and carefully so as not to wake you up.

But what he saw was entirely new to him. And it was saying a lot.

You were sitting in a large plaid shirt, leggings on and a heavy blanket over you. On the coffee table, tissues used and unused, several medicine books opened, your laptop on your knees, music blaring from your earplugs, your glasses slipping from your nose not even bothering you although they did fell when you turned to see him and got scared. Your laptop almost followed.

He was looking at you as one would look at a desperate mental case. His hands in the pockets of his jacket, his head tilted to the side, a smirk on his face. You wondered if he wasn’t sick himself there for a moment.

“What are you doing here?”

He inhaled slowly, trying very hard not to smile. He deemed it impossible.

“Your sister told me you were here. Sick.”

He gestured to the books and computer.

“And not supposed to work. - Ha! That traitor.”

You looked him over, making his cheek flush a little. You wondered if his cheeks would feel just as you imagined they would in the palms of your hands.

“What are you doing here then? - Supposedly keeping an eye on you. - …OOOOkaay. Serve yourself some coffee. You can sit in the armchair over there.”

You vaguely indicated an old green leather armchair left of the TV, back to the windows.

“Not like I’m going anywhere, anytime soon…”

Your mumbling did not escape him as he poured himself a cup. He poured a second one and left it on the coffee table. Just in case. You barely raised your eyes from your screen to register it.

“Thanks but I don’t drink coffee. Nice touch though. - …You’re welcome?”

He pulled the curtains on the windows back a little. Just enough to enlighten your working space. You grunted a little at the bright light before diving back in.

Booker’s hand was firmly attached to his cup of coffee as he went to see what your library consisted of. Old habit. They were displayed on the wall opposite the window. As if asking to be touched and considered. The pull of a good book was always something he looked forward to. Somehow his chest felt a little tighter at the thought that you did too. He noticed mostly classical work. Dostoyevsky, Tolstoï, Dumas, Zola, Dickinson, Dickens… A few fantasy books, and young adult novels, probably belonging to your sister. A strange thing caught his attention though. All the French ones had worn covers and were written in French. The others were in English.  He turned to you, sipping his coffee as if it wasn’t a surprise for him. A good poker face was his only salvation in this world. Or so he thought.

“You…speak French?”

It took you a minute and a sneeze before answering him. You took a tissue and blew your nose loudly before looking up at him, your glasses on the edge of your nose again. You pushed them up.

“Yeah. I did a year of residency in Lyon. - Residency? You’re a doctor then? - Yes. Well. In training, still. Oncologist.”

You looked at him sideways trying to decipher what had elicited such questions.

“You speak French too?”

He sighed, a bit embarrassed.

“I am French.”

Your whole face lit up and you went to get out of your cover clumsily.

“OOOOh, that’s so much fun. Do you think we could do language dates? I miss those! I used to meet up with people so I could practice my French from time to time and…!”

Your computer fell to the floor in a clatter you took notice of and ignored. It had seen worse. But you tripped over and he barely had time to catch you before you hit the ground. His coffee cup was long forgotten on the floor.

Disoriented, you wondered why your eyes were seeing his shoes rather than his face. And when you looked up, his face was so very close, you lost all common thought or breath for that matter. His eyes dived into yours, worry etched in them, his right hand on your waist bushing up the fabric of your shirt there, the other on your elbow. You could feel his muscles tense under your hand. It felt warm.

“You’re okay? - Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

You dusted yourself off and left his arms. It felt like a loss on both sides.

“Sorry about the coffee I’ll clean it up. - Don’t worry, I’ll… - You were NOT supposed to leave the couch ‘til I came back, you idiot !”

Fortunately, Ophelia’s return was not something to dismiss as quickly as what had just happened.

The moment was gone.

He cleaned up the coffee, cleaned up the cup without a word, as your sister almost hand-fed you your medicine. You bickered with her so much, that he left without a sound. Or a goodbye.

You sought his attention

You hadn’t met him after that incident. Booker seemed like a reclusive person and never did anything to prove this hypothesis wrong.

‘Lia often mentioned him off-handedly, in passing as if she had not been trying to test the waters about him. You managed to get off easily with a good big sister act, telling her to clean her room or to go get you something at the store. She could never refuse but always tried to stall as much as she could.

“Come on! There was something there, right? - No. There wasn’t. Even if there had been something, it is none of your business. I can handle my life  on my own, thank you very much.”

She burst into laughter so dramatically you thought she would strangle herself on her laugh. Your hands crossed on your chest you looked at her sideways. After she comically swiped off the tears from her eyes and caught her breath, she added: “ Yeah… No. Mom was always behind you to push you. And now I am here and I won’t let you end up all by yourself! You don’t even have friends outside of work. You barely go out, and on  weekends, you stay cooked up in here rereading French books until they can’t stand on their own.”

Your arms dropped to your sides and you sat down on the arm of the armchair near the TV. She was right. You hated it when she was right. That almost 16-year-old giving you life lessons was way more than your pride could handle sometimes.

“I have to go to school. Pick me up after your shift? - I can’t. I have a staff meeting right after. - Okay. See you tomorrow then.”

You chuckled a little as she kissed your cheek and left in a hurry. She was always late. Always speeding to go here or there, never stopping, never hesitating. Very unlike you.

“Love you! - Yeah, yeah, love you too! Bye!”

As soon as the door closed behind her, you felt the 12h shift you were on yesterday weigh down on you swiftly. It was barely 8 and you couldn’t even stand up on your own.

You crashed on the couch, an arm plopped up against your eyes trying to still your breathing and have a quick nap. You still had to revise new patient results, enter data in your research program, finish preparing for the symposium next month and call your assurance company about the sick days you took and how much they’d cover for that.

As soon as your thoughts started drifting off, they went straight for Booker. How he must have felt, the anxiety making you think the worse, maybe he did not want to talk anymore, maybe it was so awkward for him he just wanted to ghost you, maybe his face was so warm so close to yours was because he was so embarrassed to give you false ideas about his intentions, maybe he was just being friendly and a good neighbour but he had guessed that you were not looking at him as just a neighbour… Damn him! Seriously! With his lean figure, his strong muscles, his sky blue eyes, profound and drawing you in, his face, his gentle shyness, his kindness, his solitude you wanted to take him out of, his misery written all over his face after alcohol took him there… How much you wanted to feel his arms around you as you fell asleep, how much you wanted to discover more about him, talk with him, tell him your secrets and hear his…It was a spiral of infinite questioning and you kept falling deeper and deeper.

Notsleeping, nor working. You huffed and puffed with no other effect than annoying you even more. You stood up quickly, a little dizziness taking hold before receding.

You had only one way of finding out what happened in his head. And that was to ask him. More importantly ask him now, before your nerves got the better of you. It was that or weeks of insomnia. And you had already done the latter.

Now, in front of his door, you felt your hands twitch a little, your legs bouncing, your eyes not knowing where to look, sweat dripping down the ape of your neck and your temples. You pushed your glasses up and before you could register what you were doing, you saw your hand knock on his door.

Your heartbeat was in your throat. You had had crushes before, just…usually not this intense. Not this hypnotizing, not this heated. It felt as a writer said once as if by just seeing him you knew he would be a part of your life one way or another. And strangely enough, you couldn’t seem to think that you could let go of him.

The keys turned in the lock and you stopped breathing. He leaned against the doorframe, his face still not rid of sleep yet. He must have been asleep! You hadn’t even thought of that!

“Oh… Hi. I – I’m sorry, I should have waited, it’s so early I should have known you were sleeping I’m so sorry- - It’s fine. You needed something?”

He rubbed at his eyes and stifled a yawn. You could see his collarbone revealed by his loose shirt. You swallowed hard.

“Hum… Not exactly. I… I’ve been meaning to ask you something…But I can come back if it’s better for you…”

He ran a hand over his face, his eyes not yet completely open and half-smiled at you.

“Well, you’re here now. Just ask me.”

You licked your lips, biting down with overuse of strength on your lower lip. You took a breath.

“I…About the other day… I wondered if you’d be okay to meet up with me for coffee or lunch to practice my French. If that’s alright with you of course…”

Booker was taken aback. He remembered the “other day” pretty vividly. Your face so close, the cloth of your shirt in his hand, the soft lull of your heartbeat beneath his fingers, the softness of your skin against his, the curiosity and worry written in your eyes. He thought that he probably could not forget it even if he wanted to. He smiled at the memory.

It had been such a long time since someone turned his head as you did. His wife maybe, once upon a time. An air of melancholy crossed his face before he gained back his countenance.

“Do you mean… right now? - Oh! No! No of course not. Maybe sometime next week. I have consults and shifts and somehow a lot of work I can’t seem to go through on time.”

He chuckled, his eyes low. It made you smile.

“I was thinking… We could go get a coffee. I know a small coffee shop called The Unicorn which makes the best cinnamon rolls in all of London. It’s close to the hospital so we could meet there Thursday evening next week? At 6?”

He nods almost hesitantly, his eyes a little bit sad, without you knowing why.

“Let’s do that. - Alright. See you next week then.”

You smile brightly one last time, before walking back to your door. As you closed it you saw his stare fixed on something on the floor. His eyes fall back on you and he smirked a little, closing his door as well. You could not stop smiling.

You knew you were too hopeful. You always were. It took a little bit of your joy away from you for a second. You realized that it was just a meeting. Not a date, not anything romantic just too people meeting to talk. In French.

Thursday arrived with the slow rhythm of a snail’s pace. The day itself passed by in a hurry of meetings and appointments and students asking questions. When you were finished it was 5 past 10 already and you ran to get changed and leave the building.

You walked to the coffee shop. When you arrived, you saw him on a couch right by the window, observing his surroundings. There were books everywhere, plants and soft lights. It was as soothing as it was cluttered with a mystery of objects you had no idea what use they had for.

“Hi! - Hi.”

You sat in front of him, and quickly the waiter asked you what you wanted. Booker already had a cup of coffee on the table in front of him making you think that he might have arrived a little earlier than you did.

“A mint green tea and a cinnamon roll, please. - Right away then. - Thank you.”

He smiled at you both and left.

An awkward silence started to take hold. You coughed in nervousness.

“I love this…”

You gnawed on your lip remembering why you were here in the first place. It took you a second before you managed to form a proper sentence.

“J’adore cet endroit. Il y a une atmosphère qui est tellement… paisible. »

               [I love this place. There is such a peaceful atmosphere to it.]

Booker chuckled, somewhat surprised by your slight accent, but delighted by the sounds you were making. As his mother tongue, he had lost touch with it, as if it was a burden for him to bear, not to be able to reconnect with anyone through that medium. Not really. And here you were, making the effort to talk to him and trying to understand his language. And even if you did not know how much it meant to him and how much warmth you procured him at that moment, he could not help but thank you. In his own way.

“Pourquoi m’avoir demandé de t’aider à parler français alors que tu le parles déjà si bien ? - Je pensais que j’étais plus…rusted que ça. - Rouillée. Je pensais que j’étais plus rouillée que ça. - Je pensais que j’étais plus rouillée que ça. Ok. »

[Why ask me to help you speak French when you speak it so perfectly already? - I thought I was more… rusted(she doesn’t have the translation for that so he gives her) than this. - Rusted. I thought I was more rusted than this. - I thought I was more rusted than this. Ok]

A small smile crept up on you as the waiter brought you a steaming cup of tea and the roll you had asked for. Booker leant in as you grabbed the pastry and cut it in half.

“Tiens. Prenez en la moitié. - Merci. »

[Here. Take half.  – Thanks.]

He took the pastry from your extended hand, your fingers touching in a heated talk as his hand almost covered yours. It lasted a second too long, your eyes avoiding each other passively.

“Tu as mélangé le tutoiement et le vouvoiement. - Ah oui ?! Pardon, je n’avais pas fait attention. - C’est rien. Et tu avais raison, ce gâteau est le meilleur que j’aie jamais goûté. - Ah bah tu vois ! »

[You mixed tu – you informal – and Vous – you formal. - Really? Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. - It’s nothing. And you were right, this cake is the best I’ve ever eaten. - Ha! You see!]

You laughed as he let go of your hand, and took another bite into the pastry, sipping his coffee. You started eating yours when you noticed him staring at your lips.

“What ? Est-ce que j’ai quelque chose ? - Ne bouge pas. »

[What? Do I have something? – Don’t move.]

His fingers found the corner of your mouth slowly erasing a trace of something you could not see. He licked his thumb slowly.

“Tu avais du sucre au coin de la bouche. - Oh. Merci. »

[You had sugar at the corner of your mouth. – Oh. Thank you.]

Heat growing in your cheeks, you kept eating in silence. The silence went on for a good five minutes before you cut into it. Or smashed into it to be more precise.

“Qu’est-ce que tu fais comme travail ? Je ne t’ai jamais vu partir à des heures de travail, ni ramener du travail à la maison. - Je ne travaille pas. Enfin, si. Je fais des missions en tant que travailleur indépendant. - Oh. Comme quoi ? - Beaucoup de choses dans le domaine militaire. Je ne peux pas vraiment en parler. »

[What do you do? I have never seen you leave at work hours or bring back work at home. – I don’t work. Well, I do. I have missions as an independent.  -Oh. Like what? – A lot of things in the military. I can’t really talk about it.]

Booker knew it was a lie. But better lie than put anyone in the line of fire. He was a soldier. He knew the price of civilian lives all too well. You nodded slowly, nibbling on your cinnamon roll, and sipping your tea trying not to get burned by it. Happened more often than not.

“Oh. Ok.”

A pause. His eyes were looking at you with curiosity.

“Et du coup, pourquoi tu es à Londres en ce moment ? »

[So, why are you in London these days?]

He took a big sip out of his cup, not meeting your eyes, looking everywhere but at you.

“J’ai pris ma retraite anticipée. Mon équipe et moi pensions que c’était… la meilleure solution après notre dernière mission. »

[I took an anticipated retirement. My team and I thought it was… the best solution after our last mission.]

You frowned.

« On dirait que la décision a été prise sans ton accord. »

[Looks like the decision was made without your approval]

He shrugged.

« C’est sans importance. Maintenant c’est fait.  - Hmm. Et tu as toujours des contacts avec eux ? - Oui. Mais seulement avec la plus jeune. Nile. - Comme le fleuve ? »

[It doesn’t matter. It’s done. – Hmm. And do you still have contact with them? – Yes. But only the youngest. Nile. – Like the river?]

He chuckled thinking about what the young woman would say hearing that. She probably would not show how bothered she was by always being referred to as the river in Egypt.

“Oui. Comme le fleuve. -C’est un joli prénom. Comment ça se fait que tu n’ai pas de contact avec les autres ? »

[Yes. Like the river. – It’s a pretty name. How come you don’t have contact with the others?]

Booker’s shoulders fell. You could see his head lowering, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth before he answered with a tight smile.

“Nous avons rencontré des tensions au sein du groupe. C’est mieux comme ça. »

[We had tensions inside the group. It’s better this way.]

You did not press the subject.

“Tu as de la famille à Londres ou est-ce que tout le monde est en France ? »

[You have family in London or is everybody in France?]

You felt him pause as his eyes locked with yours over the table. He leans back in the cushions.

“France. Je ne les vois plus vraiment. -Vous avez coupé les ponts ? -Quelque chose comme ça. »

[France. I don’t see them anymore. – Burned bridges? – Something like that.]

You tilt your head a little, furrowing your brows at the mysterious man in front of you. Visibly broken by life, left aside and ditched as if he didn’t matter. He leaned back in to take his cup and as he got a hold of the handle you put a hand over his.

“Je suis désolée, je n’aurais pas dû… -Ce n’est pas grave. Tu ne pouvais pas savoir. »

[I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… - It’s fine. You couldn’t have known.]

His hands now cover both of yours in a warm embrace. You stayed like that for a moment, only looking at your hands interlocked.

You pull back first, as you notice the hour on your watch.

“Damnit, I was supposed to go pick Ophelia up! -Go. I’ll take care of the check. -What?! No, no, don’t... -Don’t worry I’ve got it.”

You felt sorry for a second before kissing him on the cheek, rushing out with a whispered: “Thank you”.

He stayed there, awestruck, barely touching his cheek, skin tingling like it hadn’t in years. The joy he feels is soon erased by a sense of sadness.

He knew he shouldn’t hope. He’ll outlive you, he’ll hurt you, he’ll lose you.

But even immortals are still human in the end.

So was he.

[victoria-daydreams]

Something’s Gotta Give

Chapter Three: Tea for Two

AN: Honestly, I should be asleep as I post this chapter, but if I delay this any longer I think I might rip my hair out (not really). If there are any mistakes, I’m sorry, it’s 3am and I’m bleary eyed. Anyways, thank you to everyone who has supported this story! I really didn’t think anyone would enjoy it but myself.

Chapter Four: A Frightful Dinner

Summary: What should’ve been a fun and simple dinner between Livia and Booker takes a dark turn when she discovers a startling secret about him.

Having a cup of tea with each other became a weekly ritual for Booker and I.

And from tea, sometimes we swap over to coffee, where I discovered that Booker makes the best coffee known to man. He always made my cup of coffee sweet, rich, creamy, and added a dash of cinnamon to top it off. It's so perfect, I'll never look at coffee served in cafes the same anymore. Regardless of the beverage we were drinking, Booker and I always made sure to bring food for our little get-togethers. When its my turn to bring the food, I usually buy pastries like eclairs, macrons, pain au chocolat, etc. I couldn't help myself, I've got quite the sweet tooth which Booker commented on clearly amused once he noticed the trend. While Booker opted to bring sandwiches and quiches, which were a lot healthier than my choices.

At first, our little “tea parties”, as I liked to call them always took place in my apartment, but as the weeks passed and Booker grew more and more comfortable with me, he invited me to his apartment for the first time for a cup of coffee. To my surprise, when I entered Booker's apartment, it was not shrouded in darkness like I previously believed, the space was actually well lit.

Unless, he had the lights on and blinds opened for my benefit.

But you know what, I wasn't going to complain about it. The mere fact that Booker felt he could trust me by letting me into his personal space brought me indescribable joy. Each week over tea or coffee, a new subject was discussed. One week it's about books, the next about traveling, the following about daily life, and so on. Truly, it was a very gratifying experience to see how our relationship had blossomed. Not too long ago it felt like I had to pull teeth to get Booker to speak to me or I had to decipher his body language to determine if he was even comfortable speaking to me.

But now, conversations between us flowed naturally.

However, I have noticed that other things have changed between Booker and I. Well, at least for me it has. As of late, I would feel my heart start racing and beat like thunder whenever I would spend time with him. I would find myself studying Booker's features instead of listening to what was coming out his mouth. My eyes would move from down his nose, across his cheeks, around his jaw line, and at his lips. Heat would always flush my face and down to my neck when Booker called my name to snap me out of my daydream.

I couldn't help it, from the jump I said the man was handsome, but I didn't think I would catch feelings for him.

It certainly didn't help that our hands would innocently brush against each other when doing simple tasks, for example, doing the dishes together. Or the way he would lightly place his hand on my mid-back to usher me into his apartment after we've came back from the market. I always felt like I was set aflame every time Booker and I made contact with each other. I began to wonder if Booker had caught onto my growing feelings for him, he hadn't said anything or treated me differently. But, at times I would feel Booker's gaze linger on me when he was supposed to be reading, like the time when I was detangling my hair or when I was drawing in my sketchpad.

There's also the fact that Booker brought me flowers one day when we were having tea. They were roses, yellow roses to be specific. He told me the roses reminded him of me because of their warmth. And don't get me wrong, I damn near gushed over the beautiful, sun-colored bouquet of roses because I hadn't received such a gift in god knows when, but I also had mixed feelings about the flowers. Yellow roses symbolize friendship and I was left wondering one single question.

Did Booker just politely friend zone me?

~~~x~~~

"When I invited you over for dinner I was hoping you would actually help me make it," Booker quipped, looking over his shoulder.

I chuckled a little, "Hmm," I hummed, as popped the last bit of cracker that had fromage fort spread across it. "It seemed like you had everything under control," I replied, a smile on my face.

If someone had told me that by the end of this day I would be having dinner with Booker, I would tell them they were crazy, hell I might even laughed at them. Having a cup of tea with Booker is one thing, but to eat dinner together, it's different, more intimate. When Booker invited me over, I had just finished putting away groceries and was about to make dinner myself, but in stepped Booker. It was quite adorable when he asked to have dinner with him, in my opinion. He was clearly nervous, he stumbled over his words a few times. Whether it was because Booker is still a slightly reserved man, which meant doing this was uncharted territory for him or it was the possibility that he also had feelings for me was unclear.

I hoped for the latter.

"Do I now?" Booker asked, turning around and folding his arms across his chest.

My grin widened, "Undoubtedly," I said, with a laugh.

Feeling a bit of cheese on the corner of my mouth, I took my thumb and wiped it off before placing the speck of cheese onto my lips. Booker's eyes darted down to my lips and I had to force myself to keep a straight face as I felt a slight increase in my heart beat from Booker’s lingering gaze.

"Maybe it was just involuntary," I thought.

I picked up my wine glass, "But since you're begging me so much, I guess I have no choice but to help," I joked, standing up from the kitchen chair and taking a sip of the dry wine.

Booker faced the counter again, "Your kindness knows no bounds Livia," he deadpanned, resuming his work on slicing the mushrooms up.

I walked up to him and placed my hand on the back of shoulder, at first his body tensed before his muscles relaxed.

"What would you like me to do Chef Booker?" I questioned, my lips curving into a smile.

He rolled his eyes at the title, but still a smirk made its way onto his face, "Can you chop the broccoli please?" he asked, motioning to the vegetable to the side of him.

"Gladly," I replied, removing my hand from him and placing my glass down.

I moved over to the sink and turned the faucet on, pumping soap into my hands I placed them underneath the warm water, giving them a good scrub. Drying my hands on a towel placed on the sink, I took my place next to Booker and began chopping the stalk of broccoli.

"In the month and a half that I've known you, I've noticed a difference in you,” I stated, still cutting the broccoli up.

Booker glanced over at me, "Like what?" he asked curiously, dumping the mushrooms into a pan on the stove.

"Well for one, you don't look so haggard," I commented, placing my knife down and picking up the cutting board.

"Haggard?" Booker repeated, breathing out a laugh. "Wow, Livia," he chuckled, taking the board from my hands and tipping the broccoli into in the pan as well.

"Wait, let me finish!" I said, laughing myself now. "There's a glow to your skin. I can sense a newfound joy in you, an emotion that you believed would never return," I continued, and from the corner of my eyes I saw Booker still. "And your eyes," I breathed, shaking my head. "Your eyes always conveyed to me of a man who lives in silent misery. Your eyes would say what your mouth would not," I explained, my voice taking on a softer tone. "But now, I can see a small shine, a little glimmer twinkling in your eyes," I finished, turning my head slightly to look at Booker, who seemed to be stock still.

Silence swept over the small room, apart from the sounds of the vegetables in the pan sizzling and the wind outside softly rustling the colorful leaves on the trees. My heart began hammering in my chest, the elongated silence from Booker made me nervous. God, I hope I didn't say anything that offended him.

I cleared my throat and brushed the bangs of my hair away from eyes, "I don't know, maybe I've been reading too many of those poems you suggested," I guessed, chuckling while shaking my head.

A warm, rough hand covered the top of mine and my head snapped up to look at Booker.

"I guess, it's kind of hard to remain gloomy when you have a neighbor that is the personification of a ray of sunshine, annoyingly persistent as she may be," Booker teased, looking down at me with sincereness in his eyes and a small smile gracing his lips.

I playful bumped his arm with my own, "You love it though," I teased back, sticking my chin out.

"I do," he agreed softly, stroking his thumb back and forth across my hand.

The gesture sent shivers down my spine and goosebumps raised on my arms. Booker's exquisite blue eyes were locked with my rich brown orbs. The proximity between us was making it hard to breathe, all Booker had to do was lean his head down a little further and—let me not get ahead of myself.

"More wine?" I squeaked out, trying to regain my breath subtlety.

Booker smirked, almost as if he knew the effect he had on me, "I would love some," he answered, giving my hand a squeeze before removing it to work on the garlic bulbs.

I turned around, a grin on my face as I held my hand against my chest. I made my way back over to kitchen table, a slight spring in my step, to where a bottle of unopened wine was located. Grabbing the corkscrew, I jammed it into the top of the bottle and began twisting the knob a few times until the familiar and gratifying loud pop of a wine bottle being uncorked echoed throughout the room. It startled me, but at the same time a satisfied smile grew on my face until I heard Booker swear loudly behind me. Immediately, I placed the bottle down and turned around to see little red droplets dripping from Booker's fingers and onto the floor.

"Oh my god Booker!" I exclaimed, rushing to his side.

"It's nothing Livia!" he insisted, cradling his bloody hand as he moved towards the sink.

"Nothing?" I repeated, disbelief clear in my face. I moved in front of him and grabbed his wrist to show him the severity of his wound. "Booker, your palm is split wide open!" I pointed out, my tone turning frantic "We need to go to the hospital!" I stated, releasing his wrist and turning around to grab the towel from the sink.

"Livia-"

"Here!" I began, spinning back around to face Booker. "Use the towel to...." I instructed, but slowly trailed off as my eyes widened at what I was witnessing.

My breath began to quicken, becoming shallow as I watched the skin on Booker's palm draw itself back together. The towel fell limply from my hand and onto the floor with a soft thud. Slowly, I raised my hand and covered my mouth in horror as I watched tendon by tendon mend itself, and at that moment I felt my stomach lurch and a strong wave of nausea hit, forcing me to place a hand on my stomach in order to calm it down. The deep laceration on Booker's palm inexplicably became a mere scratch before the scratch itself simply disappeared.

As if Booker never injured himself in the first place.

"What the hell!" I whispered, my eyes still glued to Booker's his hand. The image of his palm knitting itself back together flashed in my mind, making me slightly gag. I lifted my eyes to Booker's who's face had gone ashen and was contorted with unease. "What the hell was that?" I asked, my voice once again not above a whisper, but the panic laced through the question couldn't be clearer.

"Livia, I can explain," Booker stated slowly, reaching his bloody hand out to me and taking a small step in my direction.

My eyes slightly widened again and I recoiled backwards, my back running into the cupboard. I tightly gripped the counter as I watched Booker's shoulders deflate like a balloon losing air, hurt was evident in his eyes at my reaction to him and a sad frown formed on his face. The silence was deafening in Booker's apartment, the only thing I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. I slid my body along the cupboard, reaching down to snatch my coat from the chair that was next to it.

"I-I need t-to go," I announced shakily, avoiding Booker's stare.

Hurriedly, I moved to the door and made haste of the lock on the door, nearly yanking the door of its hinges as I left.

"Livia, wait!" Booker called, and I thought I heard movement behind me. "Please!" He pleaded.

My hands fumbled around in my coat pocket for my keys, but finally managing to grab them. I nearly sprinted towards my door even though it was only a short distance away. My hands trembled as I inserted the key into my door and jerked the key hard, twisting the doorknob and pushing my door open. I entered my apartment straight away and as I went to shut the door I paused, glancing at the apartment door across from me. Out of nowhere, the sound of glass shattering across the hall made me jump back, causing the door to slam shut louder than I intended it to. I slid the deadbolt lock into place and did the same with the bottom lock, leaning my forehead against the door, closing my eyes.

I flipped around with my back against the door, slowly I slid down the door and covered my face with my hands.

"What the fuck did I just see unfold in Booker's apartment?"

Chapter Five: Avoidance

[victoria-daydreams]

Something’s Gotta Give

Chapter Five: Avoidance

AN: I can’t believe I’ finally finished this chapter! It took me forever to complete it, I thought I would have this chapter out by yesterday or even the day before yesterday, but for some reason I kept getting easily distracted by other things. Also, shout out to everyone who has recently followed this story! Truly, I am thankful, because as I said before I really didn’t think anyone would read it, this story was just a plot bunny that I needed to get out of my head.

Chapter Six: Let’s Try this Again

Summary: Livia and Booker have reconciled with each other, but Livia still feels like she needs to make it to him up and she’s got just the plan.

Slowly, I could feel the heavy fog of sleep lift from my mind as I felt myself waking up. My eyes gently fluttered open, my vision slowly clearing until I could see rays of sunlight peeking through the window. The rays illuminated the room, bathing it in a soft, warm glow. My eyes scanned over the room, my surroundings were incredibly unfamiliar, the walls were painted in a beige color and not in burgundy like I have in my own bedroom. Quickly, I pushed myself up from my sleeping position, knocking off the blanket that was covering me.

I went into a small state of panic as my head turned from left to right before it dawned on me where I was. My eyes had landed on the spines of the antique books that rested on the bookshelf near the bedroom door. Closing my eyes, I found myself being able to breathe a lot easier and reopened my eyes. I swung my feet off the bed and planted them on the carpeted floor before pushing myself off the edge bed. Sliding my shoes back on, I made my way to the en suite bathroom, flipping the lights on as I entered and stopped at the sink.

I groaned internally once I saw the state of my hair, on one side my hair was flat as a pancake and on the other side my hair had shrunk. Not to mention the fact that I didn't sleep with my satin bonnet over my hair. I twisted the knobs and splashed some water onto my face, the water awakening me even further. I cupped my hands together and poured more water over my hair, hoping to rejuvenate it back to its usual state. Using my fingers, I gently fluffed my hair out to restore some of its volume, it was decent enough, but I would have to wait to get back to my apartment to really fix my hair.

I switched the lights off and left the bathroom reentering Booker's bedroom and I opened the door leaving the room. The smell of toast, bacon, and eggs wafted into my nose, bringing a smile to my face. I ran my fingertips along the hallway wall and as I got closer to the kitchen the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee teased my nose.

I leaned against the wall with a smirk on my face, "A girl could get used to this," I stated, folding my arms against my chest.

Booker lifted his eyes from the novel he was reading and flashed me a warm smile. "Good morning Livia," he greeted, placing his book down on the table.

"Morning Booker," I greeted back, pushing myself off the wall and walking to the small kitchen table. "You made breakfast and coffee," I remarked, gesturing towards the table as I slid into the seat across from him.

"Think of it as a thank you gift for all that you did me for yesterday," Booker stated, grabbing his mug.

My lips curved upward, "You're too sweet Booker," I replied, picking up the fork placed next to the plate. "Did you sleep well?" I asked curiously, sticking my fork into the scrambled eggs.

"The best I've slept in days," he answered, mirroring my smile.

I moved some of my hair behind my ear, "Yeah, sorry about falling asleep in your bed," I apologized, with a sheepish grin. "I know I said I would sleep on the sofa," I continued, picking up my own mug of coffee.

"You have nothing to apologize for Livia," Booker assured. "I'm sure the bed was a lot more comfortable than the sofa would've been," he joked, making the grin on my face grow wider.

"You even took the time to tuck me in," I remarked, before sipping some of my coffee, it was made just the way I liked it.

"I wanted to put you underneath the covers," Booker began, sticking his hand out. "But you looked so peaceful asleep that I didn't want to move you and risk you waking up," he explained, shaking his head.

I smiled, "Very considerate of you," I said, before digging my fork back into the food. I lifted the fork to my mouth, but then stopped when I recalled something that happened last night. "Booker?" I called, and he moved his eyes from the page of his book to me. "Why do you have a gun?" I questioned, before taking another bite of my eggs.

"For protection."

I narrowed my eyes, "It's practically to illegal to own a gun in France unless your job requires it," I pointed out.

"How do you know I don't need it for my job?" Booker challenged, and I just raised a skeptical brow. "You're American, your country is very gung-ho about guns, right?" He questioned, and I rolled my eyes. "Shouldn’t you be foaming at the mouth because the government is not allowing you to protect yourself?” He asked again, a smirk on his face.

"Really Booker?"

~~~x~~~

Placing, our dirty dishes down onto the counter, I turned the knob to the sink and water streamed out. I rolled my sleeves up and placed my hand underneath the water waiting for it to warm up.

"Breakfast was delicious Booker, thank you," I stated, looking over to him.

He grinned at me, "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," he replied, placing the mugs next to the plates.

I squirted soap into the sink, "Now, I may have imagined this because I was half asleep," I began, scrubbing a plate clean. "But did you mutter something after you wished me a good night?" I asked, turning my attention from the dish to him.

"No," he answered, a little too quickly for my taste.

My eyebrow arched, "Are you sure?" I questioned, handing him the cleaned dish to dry. "I could've sworn you said something in French," I recalled, moving onto the next plate.

Booker shook his head, "You must've of been dreaming Livia," he suggested, glancing over at me.

"You know I have friends that are French right?" I questioned, a playful smile on my lips. "I may butcher the words, but I think they'll able to decipher whatever you said Booker," I teased, smirking at him as I passed him the second plate.

"Livia."

A smile worked its way onto my lips, it was becoming a habit of Booker’s to groan my name in annoyance.

I lifted my hands in the air, "Fine, keep your secret French mutterings to yourself." I joked, dipping my hands back in the water to finish the rest of the dishes. "Will you at least tell me what you wanted to say yesterday?" I asked, cleaning off the forks and knives.

Booker stopped in mid-motion of drying, "I did promise you that yesterday, didn't I?" he responded, sounding hesitant. "Well, I...um...I'm..." he trailed off, seemingly unable to finish his sentence.

I could see the discomfort in his face about whatever he wanted to tell me. I placed my soapy, wet hand on top of his.

"Though you've been leaving me in suspense this whole morning," I quipped. "Whatever it is that you wanted to tell me, I can wait until you're ready," I stated, an understanding smile on my face.

Booker let out a sigh, "God, you have the patience of a saint Livia," he commented, shaking his head.

I chuckled, "I try to," I said, with a slight shrug of my shoulders and removing my hand from his wrist. "This is still a lot for me to take in as well," I added, finishing up with the mugs.

"I know it is,” he agreed, nodding his head. "And you honestly probably deserve to freak out more,” he admitted, looking over at me.

I leaned my head from side to side, "You're not wrong there," I stated, lightly laughing. "I deserve a nice, relaxing night. Maybe I’ll cook to de-stress," I said, nodding to myself. And that’s when an idea popped into my head and a smile formed on my face. "Let's have dinner at my place tonight," I suggested, and the mug that Booker was drying nearly slipped from his hand.

"What?"

"I wanna make it up to you, seeing how I made a muck of things a few days ago," I explained, drying my hands on the hand towel. Booker gave me an uncertain look at the idea of my makeup dinner. I placed one hand on my hip and the other on the sink. "Come on Booker, what's the worse that can happen?" I questioned.

Booker just raised an eyebrow that silently asked 'really?'. Just as he was about to respond, I removed my hand from my hip and placed my finger to his lips.

"You know what, don't answer that question," I stated, shaking my head. Pushing off the sink, I walked over to the armchair where my coat was resting. "An executive decision is being made and the decision is you're going to have dinner with me at my apartment," I ordered, pointing at Booker who just smiled at me.

Booker crossed his arms, "How do you know if I don't have plans already for tonight?" he asked, leaning back against the sink.

I rolled my eyes, "Booker, it's you, we both know you're not doing anything tonight,” I pointed out, walking backwards.

Booker chuckled, "Ouch," he replied, placing a hand against his chest.

"6:00 o'clock tonight Booker," I informed, unlocking the front door. "Be there or be square." I said, looking over at him.

~~~x~~~

For most of the afternoon, I have been running around my apartment like a chicken with its head cut off. The first thing I did when I got back inside my home was start cleaning. My apartment actually wasn't that dirty to begin with, but I just wanted to tidy it up before Booker came over later on tonight. So, I swept the floors of my kitchen and living room, vacuumed the rug, threw the trash out, and other various things. When I was finished frantically cleaning my apartment I was met with the most challenging decision of them all.

What I was going to wear tonight for dinner.

There were so many outfits laid out all over my bed, I paced back and forth on my bedroom floor glancing at the clothes. There were dresses, skirts with a matching top to it, or pants with a top that matched it. I thought about wearing a pair of pants because it's easy to move around in them, but then I questioned myself on if that would be, I don't know, sexy enough. I mean don't get me wrong, I can fill out a pair of jeans very well.

Wait a minute.

"Why am I trying to dress sexy for Booker?" I thought. "We're just having dinner tonight, it's not a date-" I continued. "Oh my god, is this a date?" I wondered.

Leaning my head back, I covered my face with both of my hands and a loud groan escaped from me. I am making this so much harder than it needs to be. I dragged my fingers down my face, wondering if Booker was going through the same thing or if it was just me and my tendency to over analyze things.

I glanced back over to my bed. "It's decided." I stated, clasping my hands together. "I know what I'm going to wear." I declared, scanning over the combination of outfits I put together.

"God, what am I going to make for dinner!" I fretted, scurrying out my room and to the kitchen to look for a cookbook.

After several hours of working myself into a frenzy to make everything perfect, I was finally done. The meal I had prepared was stored in the oven to keep warm, a fresh table cloth was draped over the table along with the utensils, plates, and wine glasses that were neatly arranged on the table. The small fireplace in front of the coffee table was lit, warming up the apartment to the ideal temperature where it wasn't too hot but not too cold.

I was lighting the last candle I pulled out when I heard knocking on my door. I watched as the wick flared to life, emitting a sunset orange glow. Placing my lighter down, I wiped my hands together and made my to the door. Unlocking the door, I pulled it open to see the back of Booker and I placed a hand on the door frame.

"You're not getting cold feet, are you?" I greeted, a smirk pulling on my burgundy painted lips.

Booker spun around, "No, I..." He trailed off, his eyes scanning over my outfit. It was a simple rust colored v-neck jumper that stopped just above my knees and underneath the jumper I wore a plain black long sleeve turtleneck. "Wow, you look stunning," he breathed, returning his gaze back to my own.

I felt my cheeks heat up as a bashful grin made its way on my face, "Thank you Booker," I said, my grin widening. "You're looking rather dashingly handsome yourself," I complimented back.

Booker wore a plain blue button down shirt tucked into his black pants, it was somewhat strange to see him dressed this way. I was used to his casual style of clothes that he usually wore, but yet I liked this change in style. Another thing that was different about Booker tonight was his hair, I've been accustomed to seeing his hair tousled in some sort of fashion, but now it was neatly combed over and parted to the side. I almost wanted to run my hand through it to mess it up a bit.

Booker mirrored my expression, "Thank you," he smiled. "I brought you these," he informed, extending his arms forward revealing a bouquet of blush pink peonies.

"Oh Booker!" I gushed, taking the flowers from him. "These are gorgeous!" I beamed, looking at the flowers and then back at him. "Come in, come in, before we let out all the heat from the apartment," I said, placing my hand on his bicep and gently pulling him inside and closing the door.

"It's nice and toasty in here," Booker commented, pulling his jacket off.

I locked the door, "It's not too much is it?" I asked, a slight panic building up inside me.

"It's perfect Livia," Booker reassured, hanging up his jacket on the coat rack.

A breath of relief escaped me, "Dinner is ready, I just need to take it out the oven." I informed, walking past him. "And the wine has already been uncorked, so we shouldn't have any accidents tonight." I joked, looking over my shoulder as I entered the kitchen.

"Ha ha ha, very funny Livia," Booker deadpanned, following behind me.

I flashed him a smile before squatting down to grab a vase from the island, pushing myself back up, I laid the flowers down and moved over to my sink. Turning the knob, I filled the small vase half full of water before shutting it off, carefully I walked back over to the island and placed the vase down next to the bouquet. My fingers found their way to the ribbon holding the peonies together, I gently pulled it and watched as the flowers released themselves from the brown paper. Gathering them all together, I held up the peonies to my nose and inhaled the sweet fragrance.

I lifted my eyes from the blush colored flowers to see Booker watching me with a satisfied grin.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I laughed, lowering the flowers from my nose to the vase.

Booker shrugged, "I'm just glad that you like the flowers," he replied, before he raised his glass of wine to his lips.

I slightly cocked my head, "Is that really all?" I asked again, now sliding my oven mitts on.

Booker just hummed in response as I opened the oven before bending down and removing the beef stroganoff and placing it on the stove top. The mouthwatering smell of the meal drifts through the entire apartment.

"Whatever that is, its smells delicious," Booker remarked, and my lips curved upwards as I turned the oven off.

"It's beef stroganoff," I answered, pulling the mitts off and grabbing the wooden spoon from the counter. I scooped the pasta out and onto each of plates, placing a moderate amount on them. Plates in hand, I walk over to the table where Booker was sitting and handed him his plate. "Bon appetit!" I cheered, Booker grinned at me and shook his head as I took my seat across from him.

Booker dipped his fork into his stroganoff and raised it to his mouth, I held my breath in anticipation. He slid the fork into his mouth and slowly began to chew, I couldn't tell if he was savoring it or was disgusted by it. Swallowing his food, Booker placed his fork down and I felt my heart beat quicken as he leaned his head against his knuckles.

"This is d-" Booker began, I shut my eyes and clench my fist, preparing for the worst. "Delicious," he finished, and my eyes snapped opened.

"Wait, what?" I asked, furrowing my brows.

Booker just smirked at me, "I got you good, didn't I?" he asked back, picking his fork back up. My mouth opened in shock and Booker laughed at my expression, my leg shot forward and I kicked him in the shin. "Ow!" He exclaimed, still laughing.

"You ass!" I shouted, a smile forming on my lips. "Don't mess with me like that!" I said, joining in with his laughter.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to pull your leg Livia," he explained, before taking another bite of the pasta.

I nodded my head and smiled, "I hate you," I declared, kicking his shin again but this time much softer.

The two of us sat in a comfortable silence as we ate, not feeling the need to fill in the quietness. We had just finished dinner and I was about to stand up to collect our plates when I felt Booker's hand on top of mine.

"Wait," he called, and I gave him a curious look. "I...uh, I'm ready to tell you my secret from last night," he said quietly.

My eyes slightly widened, "Okay," I nodded. "Lay it on me," I said, using my other hand to pick up my wine glass.

Booked looked at me warily, "You won't freak out on me?" he questioned, lifting my hand to his lips and stroking his thumb across my knuckles nervously.

"It's not like I can run out my own apartment," I thought. "Well, I mean can, but it would be pointless to do so,"

"I will not freak out, scout's honor," I promised, and Booker nodded closing his eyes as I lifted my glass to my lips.

"I'm immortal."

I spit my wine back into my glass, nearly raising up out of my seat had not it been for Booker who had a vice like grip on my hand.

Booker stared at me in desperation, "You promised you wouldn't freak out Livia!" He stated, his voice shaking.

I placed my glass back down and lowered myself back into the chair, "I'm..." I trailed off, slowly letting my eyes meet Booker's. "I'm not freaking out Booker," I reassured, trying to catch my breath. "I'm just...processing," I corrected, briefly closing my eyes.

~~~x~~~

After Booker's confession, the two of us moved from my kitchen to the living room. At first, silence consumed us as we sat on my sofa, my mind was racing from what Booker told me. He's immortal. I wanted to say that it wasn't possible, that immortality was a thing of fiction. But deep down, I knew that belief was no longer true, how else could Booker's hand heal itself from such a deep wound and not leave a scar.

Immortality is real, and there's an immortal sitting next to me.

I clutched the pillow against my chest a little tighter as I stared into the reddish yellow flames that burst in front of me. I could feel Booker's eyes on me, they would often bounce from me to the fire as he anxiously played with his hands.

"Please, say something," Booker begged. "Anything," He added.

My eyebrows drew together and my lips curled up into a small frown, I knew that I had no reason to be scared of Booker. He's been nothing but a friend and gentlemen towards me, barring the first time we met each other. God, I probably shared more about myself to Booker in the month and a half that I've known him than I did with ex-boyfriend of six months. Meeting Booker was like a breath of fresh air, it was so refreshing to be able to talk someone who shared the interests and not feel like I was being brushed off. And the thing is, Booker didn't have to speak to me. He could've just turned down my invitation for tea and that would've been the end of it, but he didn’t.

Booker took a huge leap of faith by letting me in, rejecting him now for something he has no control over...would crush him.

I sighed and turned my head to finally face Booker. "So," I began, staring at the apprehensive immortal beside me. "Was Les Miserable anything like the actual French Revolution?" I asked curiously, my lips quirking up into a smile.

A sigh of relief left Booker's lips and his eyes lit up, a wide grin appearing on his face as well.

And that's how we ended up lazily relaxing on the floor in front of the roaring fire inside the fireplace, drinking wine from a freshly opened bottle. My legs had found their way onto Booker's lap which didn't seem to bother Booker too much as he let his fingers softly trail up and down from my knee to my ankle.

"Livia, I'm not teaching you any French countryside dances so you can live out your Pride and Prejudice fantasies,"

I pouted at him. "And why not?" I asked, taking a sip of wine. "It's not everyday you get to talk to a living relic," I pointed out, letting out a giggle and placed my wine glass down onto the coffee table. "I mean, the balls that were thrown in your time, they must've been so majestic," I swooned, placing my hands over my heart and momentarily closing my eyes.

Booker rolled his eyes, "I can't teach you the dances Livia because I don't remember how to do them," he explained, running a hand through his hair. "It's been well over two centuries since I was first taught them," he continued, shaking his head.

"Fine, I'll give you that," I conceded, with a chuckle as another thought crossed my mind.

"I wonder what he looked like before immortality?" I thought.

I tilted my head to the side, my eyes drifting over Booker's figure, trying to envision him in the elaborate fashion of eighteenth century France.

Booker quirked an eyebrow, "Why are you staring at me like that?" he asked, before downing the rest of his wine.

I chuckled, "I was just imagining you in one of those white powdered wigs," I answered, gesturing to my head with an amused expression.

Booker laughed and shook his head. "I wasn't a rich nobleman in the 18th century," he informed. "So, lucky me," he said. "Those wigs smelled quite terrible anyway," he added.

"You weren't some large estate owner?" I questioned, mindlessly playing with my hair.

"I wasn't a Mr. Bingley or a Mr. Darcey, if that's what you're asking," he replied. "Sorry to disappoint."  He added, a smirk on his face.

I grinned at his references. "So, a Mr. Collins then?" I inquired, cocking my head to the side once more.

Booker scoffed playfully, "Not a Mr. Collins either," he answered. "And please don't ever compare me to such a repulsive character," he requested.

"Never again," I swore, placing a hand on my heart. "So, what did you do for a living then? I'm very curious now," I said, aimlessly flexing and extending my feet.

Booker glanced down at the rug., "I was a master forger," he answered, looking back up at me. "Particularly in gold coins." He clarified.

"That takes a great deal of skill,” I remarked, nodding my head, sort of impressed.

"Yeah, well, my forging caught up to me one day. I was convicted of fraud by the French government," Booker stated, a slight frown on his face. "They gave me a choice, I could either hang for my crimes or join the Grand Armee," he explained. "Begrudgingly, I joined the Armee where I would be later hanged for desertion," he finished, with a sardonic chuckle.

I let out a breathy laugh and shook my head, "Wow," I breathed, running my hands over my hair. "I feel like I'm talking to a history textbook." I commented, staring at Booker in awe.

This has to be the coolest day of my life.

I leaned back on my hands, "You're so old Booker," I teased, and he playfully squeezed my calf in retaliation sending me into another flurry of giggles. "So, you were born in 1770, right?" I asked, laying down on my back and gazing into the fireplace.

"That is correct."

"And you died in 1812," I recalled. "By that math, you died at age forty-two," I stated, dragging my hand up and down the rug.

"Where are you going with this?" Booker asked curiously.

I smirked, "That even in your own time, you would be considered an old man," I pointed out, a snicker escaping me, but the snicker soon became a full on giddy laugh that vibrated through my chest.

Out of nowhere, I felt myself being dragged across the plush rug and I let out a yelp that was followed by laughter at the sudden movement. Placing my hands on the floor, I pushed myself up to look at Booker and noticed how close we were to each other. My thighs were covering his lap, one more tug and I would be practically sitting in his lap.

"I wouldn't be completely opposed to that," I thought.

"Then you should respect your elders," Booker retorted, smirking at me.

I rolled my eyes and lifted my legs from his lap. "That sounds like..." I trailed off, sliding my knees up to my chest. "Something," I continued, maneuvering myself around to bring each of my knees on either side of Booker's legs, trapping him between my legs. "An old person would say," I quipped, placing my hands on his broad shoulders. I ducked my head down to his ear, teasing him once more. "Booker," I whispered, my breath tickling his skin.

I pulled my lips away from Booker's ear, grinning ear to ear as a string of giggles bubbled out of my mouth. Booker swallowed thickly as a red flush crawled up his neck. I'm not sure what came over me, it had to been the wine that was making me this bold, I could never see myself actually straddling Booker. In my head, maybe, but physically doing it, no.

Shout out to the wine for the liquid courage, I guess.

"You know that I'm-"

I was cut off mid-sentence by Booker pressing his lips firmly against mine, his hands cupping my cheeks. My heart felt as if it skipped two beats and my eyes widened, I was completely caught off-guard and I felt my body stiffen a bit. It took a moment before my eyes slowly slid shut, my body relaxing into the kiss. My mind went blank as Booker began moving his lips against mine and I responded to the kiss in kind. The kiss deepened and I could feel my head spinning, the lingering taste of wine on his lips caused me to sigh wistfully against Booker.

Booker gently broke the kiss, the two of us catching our breaths. He pressed his forehead against mine, using his thumbs to softly stroke my cheeks. My eyes fluttered opened and his blue eyes looked into my brown one's. And it felt like a thousand butterflies were loose in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," Booker apologized breathlessly. "I just couldn't help myself," he admitted, his voice slightly hoarse.

My lips curled into a grin, "Please, don't apologize," I stated, letting out a breathless laugh. "You don't know how long I wanted you to do that," I confessed, looping my arms around his neck.

His eyes lit up, a smile washing over his face before he placed another soft, chaste kiss on my lips. Just as he went to pull away again, I leaned my head downwards to keep our lips connected. My fingers found their way into Booker's hair, my thumbs stroking his neck as Booker returned the kiss eagerly. His hands traveled down my body, one of them tightly gripping my waist while the other one slipped under my dress, running up and down my thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He pressed me against him as physically close as possible. My breath caught in my throat and I drew back slightly, my heart hammering wildly in my chest as Booker began nipping at my chin.

Booker pulled back, "Am I moving too fast for you?" he asked, concern painted over his face.

"No," I answered, shaking my head. "You're perfect Booker," I reassured, running my hands down his shirt and over his chest.

"What's wrong then?" Booker asked softly, rubbing the pad of his thumb in a circular motion against my thigh.

"I was just thinking," I began, feeling Booker's nose bump against my jaw as he hummed for me to continue. "That my bed is a lot more comfortable than the floor," I finished, an impish smile forming on my lips.

Booker drew his head back, "God, you're amazing," He breathed.

Chapter Seven: A Sunday Kind of Love