#you should see the margins of my class notes. all just brainstorming for this au

[skitskatdacat63]

[reyxa]

an obligatory zutara teashop au

AO3

title: can’t we just get oolong? author: Reyxa rating: T summary: au where zuko and iroh settle in ba sing se post-banishment. when a pretty water bender start frequenting the jasmine dragon, zuko's world turns upside down.

Chapter 1: Jasmine Tea

“Uncle, get the jasmine leaves from the back!” Zuko calls, writing ‘silent passion tea’ in neat brushed letters beneath the ingredient list.

Iroh huffs, clambering out of the small dusty closet with armfuls of jars. “You know, Prince Zuko, a healthy young man like you should be the one running around. You should help me get off my aging feet.”

Zuko laughs quietly before blowing on the ink to speed its drying. “How many times do I have to tell you, Uncle, I can’t and won’t accept the title of ‘prince’ any time soon.”

“What an easy way to skirt the question of my age.” Iroh winks as she sets the jars on the granite countertops. “What mix have you decided on, Prince Zuko?”

Ignoring the honorific his uncle refuses to drop, Zuko places the name card in its wooden holder and grabs the green tea jar. “Not a good one.”

“‘Green tea, jasmine and vanilla notes’, eh?” Iroh raises an eyebrow, his trademark wide smile taking over his face. “Very romantic.”

Zuko snorts. “There’s customers waiting, Uncle.”

He pretends not to notice the prying look on Iroh’s face as he shuffles from table to table. Romantic. Pfft, as if Zuko could ever know what that will feel like. His best case is taking up a Red Lamp District lover who charges a single silver coin each night.

“Hello, Zuko here.” Zuko never knows what to do with his face when greeting customers. When he first started working at the Jasmine Dragon, he had been a bitter 14 year-old convinced he was wasting his time on trivial things instead of chasing the Avatar. His frustration had driven more than enough customers away. Zuko of the present settles on a warm half-smile, though he wonders vaguely if it comes across as a grimace. “What would you like?”

“Zuko… as in Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation?” the man squints at him, grasping the hilt of his dagger.

He laughs, trying not to let bitterness seep onto his tongue. “I wish. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Gao, please,” the woman, face pale with cosmetics and eyelids blue as the sky, places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’d like a jade springberry tea and he’ll have a black tea with syrup.”

Zuko shrugs, notes down the order, and greets the next table. His smile is marginally less forced when he sees the familiar face of a regular. “Miss Sora, what can I get you?”

Sora groans, wrinkled face offering a dry smile. “It is not what you can get me, dear Zuko, but what I can get you.”

She often spouted nonsense Zuko seldom understood but he was used to it, living with his uncle and all. “I assume it’ll be the regular. Green tea with lemon and a meaningless epiphany.”

“Not meaningless, my dear!” she gestures for him to come closer. He sighs. The more he complies, the faster he can get back behind the counter where he’s most comfortable. She drops her voice as she speaks. “There’s talk along the outskirts of the wall.”

He has to roll his eyes discreetly. He has long given up caring about the outside world. He’s tired of hearing about his sister chasing after the Avatar and his crew from his uncle, he’s tired of hearing about the useless Earth King, and he’s especially tired of hearing about the scores of refugees entering the city. All Zuko wants is to pretend he didn’t exist before the age 16 and try his best to forget the royal blood in his veins.

But he hardly has these luxuries.

“Are you listening, boy?” she shouts in his ear. He cringes but nods regardless. Grabbing his ear, she whispers again. “I have heard there is a girl from the Water Tribe in the inner-city. Looks of marriageable age. I imagine a cabbage cart’s worth of boys will be chasing her tail.”

Shaking his head, he reclaims his ear and stands back up. He taps his foot insistently on the stone floor. What does he care about some washed-up girl from a broken tribe? “Just the green tea, then?”

Sora slams a hand down on the table, her green eyes wide. “Zuko, my boy! Think of the potential! The only Fire Nation boy in all of Ba Sing Se and the only Water Tribe girl for miles!” she presses a hand to her heart. “What a love story to behold.”

He tries his best not to fume but his palms prickle. Why is everyone trying to marry him off? Why does anyone care what happens to him at all? But more than anything, Zuko is worth more than a Water Tribe peasant, regardless of his lost title.

He’s about to blow when his uncle pops out from the counter with a mug filled with well-steeped green tea. “Sora,” Iroh sings, practically oozing charm and charisma. “Have you finally come to accept my marriage proposal?”

Predictably enamored by him, Sora blushes a deep red and fluffs her silver hair. “Oh, you’ll have to bring me more than tea for that, Iroh.”

Zuko stalks off, fingers prickling with the fire he can’t summon.

~

Katara is not enjoying being cooped up in a Ba Sing Se upper-class house with three children and an overbearing chaperone.

She wants to read her scrolls quietly? Nope, Toph is idly bending rocks up into their hardwood floors. A nice hot shower? No! Sokka and Aang used all the hot water to wash the ink off Momo. A stroll down the street? Joo Di must accompany her, of course.

Slipping away was the easy part. The gang had set out into the city earlier that morning to spread word about Appa. Toph and Sokka paired up and went on their way, pasting posters and chatting away. Aang had taken to the skies. And Katara had finally found a peaceful afternoon to herself.

Knowing where to go though, is turning out to be harder than she thought.

She hums old songs as she strolls down cobblestone streets, enjoying the sun and the clamor in the streets. It’s nothing like her close knit village back home. Ba Sing Se is vast and heavily populated. And though Katara’s only ‘allowed’ to roam the wealthy rings of the city, she can’t help but wonder what true hardships still plague the impoverished streets outside the ring.

Itching to learn more and honestly incredibly thirsty after a day in the sun, she ducks into a lavish teashop, already enjoying the cool indoors.

She’s only marginally sweating through her thick cotton clothes as she seats herself in a tucked away booth. No need for Joo Di to catch wind of her out and about. Better to lay low anyway.

“Hello, miss, I— oh!” the aged man exclaims, a grin on his face wider than Katara had thought possible. “I would recognize those beautiful blue eyes and those lovely exotic clothing anywhere.”

“Oh,” Shit. She really didn’t think she could’ve been recognized so easily. “I shouldn’t be here.” she climbs out of the booth. “I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Trouble?” he laughs. “The presence of a Water Tribe native is nothing but a gift, please have a seat.” a wild twinkle in his golden eyes startle her but she takes her seat again slowly. “I think my nephew would suit your… needs far better. Allow me to introduce you.”

What is this guy on about? “No, that’s not necessary, I was just looking for—“

“Zuko!” the man shouts. “Come attend to our guest!”

Katara sinks into her seat. All she was looking for was a simple afternoon finally alone with her thoughts and this commotion is haunting her now. She’s brainstorming how quickly she can leave when he arrives.

“Uncle, you know I was on a break how could you—”

She stares at him. Dark hair, as thick as hers but far more straight, tumbles into a pair of eyes golden like the sun. Honestly, she’s wondering if she’ll be blinded if she stares for too long. Though far more distracting is the deep burn scar across his eye and scraping into the pale skin of his cheek. Her healer’s hands are itching while her heart thrums loudly in her ears.

“Zuko! I think this lovely girl would like some tea. Please serve her.” the man chuckles through his whole body before winking at the two of them individually. He flounces off, leaving them gaping at each other.

“What can I get you?” he sighs, grumbling something under his breath about crazy old people and their meddling ways.

Zuko, the name is vaguely familiar but Katara writes it off, completely distracted. She is struggling to find her voice in her Si Wong desert of a throat. “Just some jasmine tea.” she chokes out, holding onto her necklace for dear life. “With honey.”

He merely grunts and stalks off, not nearly as friendly as his uncle.

She sighs. She has got to stop finding pretty boys at every pit stop. The urge to repeatedly smack her forehead against the table takes over but she’d rather not be concussed when she returns to everyone else. She settles for tugging on her mother’s necklace nervously and endlessly fussing with her hair.

Shouting from the back startles her enough to yank hard on the necklace. Something about marriage and royalty and… flirting? Regardless, it ends with a scarred waiter storming out of the back with several teacups and pots in hand.

Katara sinks back into her booth, chiding herself. She doesn’t have time to care about pretty temperamental teashop boys. She’s in Ba Sing Se to find Appa, convince the Earth King to rally his forces for the invasion, and get out.

“Forgot to ask if you wanted just a cup or a full serving.” the boy’s voice shocks her from her internal scolding. She looks up at him, finding eyes desperately trying not to meet hers and lips pursed. “Uncle said to just bring a full pot for you.”

“Mmm hm,” Words, Katara. Words. “That’s kind of you, thank you.”

His brow seems to soften as he nods. “How hot do you want it?”

The double entendre makes her tug hard enough on her mother’s necklace to break the clasp. She sighs, holding up the torn satin strings. “Oh fuck… um, however it is now should be fine.”

He shakes his head as if to laugh at her, holding the teapot like a turtleduckling. His eyes close, brows drawn together as he concentrates.

Katara squints at him, thoroughly confused until steam rises through the spout of the pot. Her heart stumbles, she isn’t sure if it’s fear or something else entirely. “You’re a firebender,” she whispers, a hand uncorking her water skin.

He offers her a confused look as he pours her tea. “Um… yeah? What did you—“

Her waterbending stance comes maturely as she pops out of the booth, water poised for striking. “He’s a firebender! Everyone get to safety!” she shouts.

The room looks back at her, the same confused look on their faces as the one of her server.

“Why aren’t you leaving?! He’s dangerous!” she throws her water closer to his face. “Who are you?! Are you working for Azula?”

The recognition flickering over his face is enough for her. She drenches him, the force of her bending throwing him against the back wall.

“Stop, stop!” his uncle comes trotting out from the back. “It isn’t what you think, miss!”

“Are you a firebender too?!” she draws her water back, splitting it to hover dangerously close to both the firebenders. “Is this teashop for some sort of front for a Fire Nation military base?”

“How do you know Azula? Did she send you here?” his broadswords seem to materialize from nowhere.

“Me?! Working with Azula? How dare you!” she bends her water into ice shards, flicking them to pin him against the wall. He deflected them and it only makes her angrier. “Tell her her chase for the Avatar ends in Ba Sing Se!”

“Alright, alright, let’s all calm down, hm?” the elderly man skirts around the water she’s wielding, a smile on his face. “My dear, we are only Fire Nation refugees. We came to Ba Sing Se to settle away from the oppression of the Fire Nation.”

The boy snorts, still gripping his broadswords.

“The Fire Nation has taken so much from us.” his face falls, flickers of grief in his eyes. “We mean you and this city no harm at all.”

Katara’s heart softens. The pain written all over the old man’s face guides her to ease her weapons. She knows it well. “The Fire Nation has stolen so much from me. I’ve never heard of or seen peaceful Fire Nation citizens, so I hope you understand why—”

“We’re not citizens.” the other firebender rolls his eyes, drawing back one of his swords. “It’s your turn to explain, waterbender. How do you know Azula?”

She glares at him, poised to whip her water out once again. “I don’t owe you any explanation. In fact, I think we should all pretend I was never here to begin with.”

Katara backs towards the door, eyes flickering between the old man and the firebender. Her tongue mourns the untouched tea left on the table but she turns on her heel, a hand on the door.

A sword beneath her chin steals her breath. When the boy speaks, she can feel his breath in her hair. “Let me rephrase. My name is Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation and if my sister is in the city, I need to know.”

“Zuko!” his uncle hisses. “Let the poor girl go! We have nothing to do with the royal family anymore.”

“If she’s here, it’s only a matter of time before she comes for us too!” his voice is strained in his throat. “Tell us, waterbender.”

Katara laughs bitterly. “So not only are you a firebender, you’re literally the heir of the man causing mass genocide across the globe?” she slips the water out of her water skin discreetly. “I’d never tell you anything.”

He grunts, his breath unnaturally hot against her shoulder.

His exasperation is her distraction. In the seconds before his interrogation starts up again, she drops to her knees and sweeps her water backwards, knocking the firebender to the ground.

Katara rushes for the door and doesn’t stop running until she’s sure no lurking handsome firebender is on her tail.

~

Zuko huffs as Iroh flits from table to table, apologizing for the commotion. Though, most of their regular customers know well that some in the city don’t react well to Fire Nation within the walls.

As Iroh rushes around the shop, Zuko puts away his broadswords. While the exchange with the waterbender proved useless, he did find it satisfying to take out his swords every once in a while. It was the moments when he was brandishing his weapons that he felt less exposed, less vulnerable.

He mops up the water the girl had splashed across the floor, still sore from crashing to the ground earlier. He can hardly pay attention to the pain.

Azula is approaching Ba Sing Se and he has no idea how to process that. He knows if Azula catches wind of him and his Uncle, she’ll come. Come to taunt, to toy, to terrorize.

Zuko sighs. Just when he had accepted his fate as a banished prince with stupid useless royal blood, Azula has to come in and turn his mind into a storm.

“Uncle?” Zuko puts up the mop at the back of the shop where Iroh is storing away tea leaves.

“An interesting day it has been, right Prince Zuko?” he laughs heartily. “Who could imagine a waterbender in our humble shop today!”

“A waterbender who’s affiliated with Azula and the Avatar.” his hands turn to fists. “Don’t you remember what the Fire Lord had asked of me when I was banished? He wanted me to chase the Avatar! And of course Azula managed to find an Avatar that’s been missing for a hundred years!”

Iroh sighs deeply, placing a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “All I want is for you to let the past go, Prince Zuko. Does it matter what Azula is off doing?”

“She could find us! How could you not understand?” Zuko is more than tired of hearing about how he has to let the past go. He has.

“Do you fear seeing her, or do you fear her seeing you here, nephew? Be honest.” the lines etched into Iroh’s face seem to deepen, aging him. “Are you afraid of her seeing you honorable without a crown?”

Zuko steps back, eyes shut tight. “I have no honor. I’ve accepted that.”

“If that is what you think, then you have not accepted yourself, Prince Zuko.” Iroh sighs and turns away from him. “That is why your fire is dying.”

The blow throws him. He glances down at the palms that have been unable to produce a flame greater than that of a stovetop. His inner fire had flickered out months ago and he knew why. He knew it was losing everything he had, his mother, his home, his family, his title, his honor. Zuko has been stripped of his identity and his fire has been doused. “Regardless, Azula is on our heels now, Uncle.” Zuko takes a deep breath. “And I’m going to figure out how to keep us safe from her.”

Iroh nods. “If you insist on chasing Azula, I imagine this might help you.” he slides something out of his apron pocket and presses it into Zuko’s hand. Offering him a smile, he says, “I hope you find what you are searching for, nephew.”

Zuko stares at the Water Tribe pendant in his hand, the one that had been hanging from the girl’s neck. He nods. “Thank you, Uncle.”

He claps Zuko on the shoulder. “My teas won’t serve themselves.”

~

“Hey Katara! How did putting up posters go?” Aang waves from the couch on their Ba Sing Se home, fiddling with his staff.

Katara pastes a smile on her face, bending the sweat off her forehead. “It went great! I think we’ll find Appa really soon!”

She had decided not to tell the rest of the gang about the Fire Nation teashop. It wasn’t worth it to send the whole squad in to scope it out, even though that firebender had threatened her with a sword under her chin. And made her heart race like Azula was chasing it. But that’s just a silly irrelevant detail.

Besides, the elderly guy seemed nice enough. She isn’t worried.

“Something’s different about you.” Sokka squints, pointing a paintbrush at her from his dark oak desk. “Did you change your hair?”

“Yeah! It looks so much better, Katara!” Toph laughs, as she picks at her toes.

“Ha ha, Toph, you’re so funny.” Katara rolls her eyes, collapsing onto a plush green chair near Aang. “But no, I didn’t do anything with my hair.”

Aang gasps. “Your necklace is gone!”

Katara reaches for her neck, coming up empty. She mentally smacks herself. She must have left it on the table after it had broken at the teashop. “Oh,” she sighs. “It must have fallen off when I was, um, putting up posters.”

“Please don’t tell me we have to put up posters for the necklace now too,” Toph groans, falling back against the ground.

Aang touches Katara’s shoulder and smiles. “We’ll find it, don’t worry.”

Katara nods, brows drawing together. She knows exactly where to start.

[tiredandineffable]

A Proposal

Now I’m Very behind on fictober, as this is still entry #7 (prompt: “Can you stay?”; I had to adapt this one slightly). This one just ended up being an immense entry for me with so much I wanted to throw in. It’s also quite possibly the longest single scene I’ve written in a good while. 

This is a continuation of the past three entries (part 1, part 2, part 3). One part left, y’all!

A huge thank you to my amazing beta, @eunyisadoran, for all her amazing work! This chapter literally could not have been done without you!

Rated G.

Summary for the whole work: Aziraphale just wanted to get her parents off her back about her love life. She did not plan on falling in love with her best friend and fake girlfriend along the way. Nor did she plan on getting fake engaged. But such is life, she supposes. Ineffable wives, fake dating au that Escalates to fake engagement au. All around, a good time to be had.

..............................

2 Years Ago

“Did she say what she was looking for?” Mr. Eliot called, perching neatly on the stool behind the counter.

“Tolstoy. Zira dropped Sevastopol Sketches in the bath and she’s panicking because she teaches pre-Soviet literature this Monday, well before library hours,” Crowley explained, taking the stairs two at a time and all but throwing herself into the classic literature section. War and Peace, Anna Karinina, but where’s the rest? “Do you keep Tolstoy in Classic Lit, or is he under general fiction?”

“I’m afraid that whole second floor would be labeled classic literature if it contained everything I believed to be classic literature,” Mr. Eliot sighed. There’s the sound of another box of books landing on the counter and a smile tugs at Crowley’s lips. This place can’t fit any more books, but then he goes and buys them by the box full. “I keep popular Tolstoy works under classic literature, but Sevastopol Sketches is under politics. If it refuses to be found, I’ll come up. Can’t very well have you going home to Aziraphale empty handed, now can we?”

Crowley trailed her fingers along the spines, letting the warmth of the shop settle in as she worked her way to Politics. “Definitely can’t have that. I think the dissertation is already getting to her. You won’t believe how rude her advisor’s comments were. He claimed she was romanticising Oscar Wilde.”

When she found the book, the cover was torn and water damage had built up from what was likely years of reading in the rain, but it was legible and beggars can’t be choosers so close to a deadline. Knowing that nerd, she’ll probably just call it well-loved.

“Did the man not romanticize himself?” Mr. Eliot asked. “Was his entire life not one grand aesthetic movement? One decadence upon another?”

“Exactly!” Crowley wandered about the second floor, finding herself once again in classic lit. Victorian literature is comfortable, she realized, because it remains one of the only things she and Aziraphale share. She might never understand how a point in time so overstudied in literature could feel so personal, but it did, somehow. Ours, she thought, fingers trailing over a green spine with gold embossing.

“At times I wonder if this dissertation is about Wilde at all,” Aziraphale had said, closing her computer with the certainty of someone who has finished, but the sigh of someone who never will.

Crowley looked up from her book with a raised brow. “How is your dissertation on the translational history of Salome not about Wilde?”

“It’s so much more than that. The first English edition? Alfred translated it from Wilde’s French, even though Wilde could have easily translated it himself. To even accept its publication in Britain was to accept the censorship of its illustrations. It wasn’t true to the French version, the version Wilde himself had created. It was all a compromise,” she said. Aziraphale laid back on the carpet, short hair falling about her like a halo, and Crowley was acutely aware of the tightness in her own throat.

“But after Wilde’s death, Robert Ross took on the thankless job of purchasing back the rights on every one of Wilde’s works, including Salome," Aziraphale continued. "Cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars."

Crowley finally shut her book to lay beside her on the carpet, looking up to the ceiling to avoid staring right at her. Aziraphale was beautiful like this. Her usual perfect posture had been swapped out for a much more casual sprawl, a symbol of some unspoken trust. They'd seen the worst of each other, Crowley supposed, so letting her guard down made sense. "Seems like a lot of money to spend. Was he hoping for royalties?"

Aziraphale had lit up at the question, shaking her head and rolling onto her side to look at Crowley. "That's the thing. There was no promise the books would even still sell after the trial. But Oscar had hated some of the changes made for publishing and Ross decided to fix them after his death. Salome in particular. Robbie made sure the illustrations weren’t censored this time, confirmed that the cover was as self-indulgent in its beauty as Wilde would have wanted, took out Alfred's name. My dissertation focuses on the translation, sure, but it is a study in Ross’s choices, not Wilde’s.”

Crowley brushed her fingers along the cover, the floral pattern larger than life under her touch. A cover as decadent as Wilde would have wanted. The restored illustrations are in such direct opposition to turn-of-the-century rules of propriety that it's any wonder the uncensored form got published in Britain at all. From cover to cover, the only credit Crowley found was to Wilde; Alfred's ties to the play had been severed completely. Ross's choices.

It's a tribute, Crowley realized. In her hands is a testament to Ross's self-sacrificing love. It is the product of countless fights against King, country, and publishing houses until Ross was sure Wilde would have been pleased. All this done in the memory of a man who had never loved him back. A man who never would.

An act of self-sacrificing, unrequited love.

She paid for both books quickly and tried not to read too deeply into the purchase on the walk home.

……………….

Present day

“Don’t see why this couldn’t have waited,” Aziraphale said, brow raised to emphasize the edge of doubt in her words. Part of the benefit of their agreement was that they could toss ideas for their theses back and forth without having to worry about classes the next morning or Crowley’s commute back to her own apartment. That’s where they should be, sitting on Aziraphale’s bedroom floor, brainstorming or complaining about whatever it was they had to write next.

Instead, she’s sitting at the front door, straight-backed despite her exhaustion and tugging on her boots for an excursion that is likely not appropriate for the time of night. “It’s nine PM, Crowley. The bookstore closes in less than an hour and I am very certain that you can simply download Jekyll and Hyde online instead of harassing the bookshop owner who, quite frankly, is likely already at his wits’ end with regards to our visits. And it’s very unlike you to go out of your way to purchase a book.”

Crowley rolled her eyes, reaching over Aziraphale for her bag. “Firstly, download? What kind of English student are you? There’s no romance in sitting around with my eyes burning, reading on my computer like some amateur. There are notes to be made through the margins, stolen glances to be had over the top.”

“This isn’t Dead Poets Society, Crowley. I’m rather certain your romanticism is not worth the trouble to Mr Eliot.”

“He likes us, Zira. He’s probably bored. It’s why he always asks us about our theses and gives us discounts when we go.” She pauses then, squinting down at Aziraphale as she tugs on her sweater. “Wait. Are those my boots?”

Aziraphale considered it, looking down at the boots before getting up to smooth her skirt out. There are so many things she’d borrowed and so many things Crowley had borrowed in turn. “Likely. I don’t believe I remember buying them. Although that sweater is mine, so I’d say we’re evenly matched.”

Crowley shrugged, lips curling up in a way that leaves Aziraphale’s chest aching with fondness. She’s fond of the way Crowley turns and steps through the door, swaying as if she has both too many bones and not nearly enough. She’s fond of how Crowley all but swims in that sweater, of how she’s rolled the arms up neatly to the elbows in order to compensate for the size. Most of all, she’s fond of the unspoken intimacy they’ve cultivated over the years. She rarely lets herself dwell on that last part; no sense in misconstruing friendly actions for romantic ones when her feelings are so clearly not reciprocated.

The sweater suits Crowley, she supposes.

God, Zira, don’t focus on that either.

……………….

She stepped into the bookshop and immediately forgot why she had protested this book run. It is utterly deserted and blessedly quiet, filled only with the dusty scent of well-loved books. She has spent countless hours sitting amongst the books with Crowley, debating the potential symbolism of some minutiae of Atwood’s latest novel or the relevance of Orwell in modern society. The bookstore holds both her most infuriating and most beloved memories of Crowley, tucked comfortably between its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

In the middle of it all, Mr Eliot sits perched behind the counter, passively accepting the shenanigans and arguments with learned patience. He looks up as she and Crowley step in. “Ah, such illustrious visitors at such a late hour,” he says, looking up from a pile of collectible Beatrix Potter paperbacks. “May I help you find anything?”

Aziraphale shakes her head automatically, speaking before Crowley can start up an inevitably long conversation. There’s no sense in holding up Mr Eliot more than they already have. “No, no. Crowley simply forgot a book and insisted she needed it tonight. Apologies for the late hour. I assure you, we won’t be a bother.”

“Nonsense. You two are always welcome to come in,” he insists, returning his attention to the books, while Aziraphale turns hers to Crowley.

Crowley, to her credit, has made no move to engage Mr. Eliot in literary conversation. Rather, Crowley is already halfway up the steps, bounding up the stairs two steps at a time. How could anyone still be so enraptured by the subject of their dissertation after so many years? Aziraphale sighs, ignores the pang of jealousy, and ascends the stairs at a pace better suited to individuals who were not long-legged beanpoles. Maybe I should have focused on Victorian horror too.

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale as she finally reaches the top, a handful of books already in her lanky arms. All are clearly too large to be the sought-after Stevenson novella.

“How are there no copies of Jekyll and Hyde under classic lit?” Crowley asks, her shoulders back, and hips tipped a little too far forward. Forced nonchalance. Crowley’s tension is clearly the result of far more than just a misshelved book. Between the kiss and the proposal, Aziraphale has put too much on her shoulders and this is the result. Guilt settles into Aziraphale’s chest, stamping out the bookshop-induced calm.

“You check horror and I’ll check general fiction? It has to be here, Zira. I have to get this shit emailed to my advisor by the morning or he might literally crucify me.”

“We’ll find it, Crowley.” She bites her lip as she walks through the bookstore, finding her way through on muscle memory alone as she worries. Crowley had insisted it was fine, even talking her into the not-proposal. But Crowley always did this, sacrificing her mental health to save Aziraphale, and in the grand scheme of that week, it all made sense. Crowley had listened to the “80’s Songs for Self-Pitying Dumbasses” playlist no less than 14 times in half as many days on their shared account and Aziraphale, perhaps the true dumbass in this whole situation, had assumed Crowley was beating herself up over her latest publication draft. Aziraphale has to call this off. She can’t keep taking advantage of Crowley’s kindness.

Book first, sort-of-breakup second.

Stevenson should be an easy find. She brushes her fingers along the spines as she moves through the horror section. Jackson, Lovecraft, Poe, Rice, Shelley, Wilde.

Wilde?

She looks curiously at the misshelved book, running her thumb over gilded letters. Salome. The warm bookshop lighting illuminates the delicate gold floral pattern of the cover, brightens its soft green background, and Aziraphale’s hands shake not out of anxiety but out of overwhelming excitement. She flips through it with quick, light touches to the first few pages and inhales the words just as she exhales the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She skips over decadent illustrations, over publication details. And, impossibly, there it is.

A Note on “Salome” by Robert Ross.

“Crowley!”

“Did you find it?”

Something drops out as Aziraphale flips through the book, and she reaches for it just as Crowley turns the corner. She looks...hopeful, worried. Aziraphale looked down at the small envelope and then back up to Crowley, tears forming in her eyes because this is it, isn’t it? The proposal, ineffably cruel in its perfection.

Because it is perfect. It’s intimate and thoughtful and literary. She has no idea where Crowley would have found this edition in such perfect condition, nor does she have a clue how Crowley would have been able to afford it.

And then there’s the bookshop itself. It has borne witness to their very history, from the earliest days of whatever this is, cataloguing every laugh and shelving every fight. If this were real, if Aziraphale and Crowley had actually been together for three years and Crowley had proposed right then, things would be fine. Because the library would have been theirs. Ours.

It’s where I fell in love with you. With your red curls and your too-loud laugh and the way you complain about books with bad covers. Its where I realized that every bookshop felt too quiet without your commentary. Did you notice how I dragged you here whenever I felt like shit, because I wanted my favourite person in my favourite place? How I snuck glances at you while you read because I’ve spent every school holiday over three years just fighting the urge to kiss you against the shelves? I have ached and I have ached and I have ached for any of this to be real, for you to feel even an iota of the love I do for you. I have done so amongst these books, these shelves, and these words.  

And now you mock me with it.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sounds about ready to break and she knows it. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Watching Crowley’s face in that moment is like watching a person simultaneously go through the five stages of grief. She wets her lips, parting them to say something but seemingly not finding the words, her brows furrowing only to smooth out. Instead, she stands frozen, sharp edges barely held together, quiet as if deciding how to act without pushing Aziraphale any further. She finally takes a step, tentative and awkward with stiff knees, looking down at her feet.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Aziraphale almost laughs despite the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Dearest Crowley, how the hell was it supposed to be, then? Had you intended to hurt me more, to make things worse? Was there some silly detail you missed that would have truly put the nail in this coffin? I can’t imagine there’s much else you can do to toy with my emotions. You truly did your homework, checked all the boxes. Bravo. Perfect show. You outdid yourself with this one.”

“Is that what you think this is? Do you think any of this has been easy for me?” Crowley’s entire demeanor has changed, her shoulders rising not with their usual anxiety but with the frustration that comes with years of suppressed hurt, exploding all at once. “I almost drove home three times this week because the thought of doing this and seeing you react the way I had imagined was excruciating.” Crowley reaches for the envelope on the ground and pockets it, not looking back as she walked down the stairs. “Congrats on somehow making it fucking worse.”

“Can’t you stay and address your mistakes like an actual adult?” Aziraphale calls back. She won’t give her the satisfaction of running after her.

“My mistakes?” Crowley stops on the last step at the bottom of the stairs. “Want to hear about my mistakes? I fell in love with you. Not even a year into this. I stayed because it wasn’t fair that you’d have to deal with your parents just because I got a crush. Then I stayed because I couldn’t risk losing my one shot at doing all the dumb little romantic shit that I wanted to do with you, even if it didn’t really mean anything. Then I stayed because I thought maybe, one day, it might actually mean something.” Crowley sighs, tugging her coat on a little tighter with her hands clenched in the fabric, her voice too thick. “So no, I won’t stay.”

“Would you stay if I said I did too?” Aziraphale doesn’t know where those words came from, how she spoke them so confidently despite her wet lashes and shaking hands. She takes a breath as she slowly works her way down the steps, leaning on the hardwood railing. Now she’s the one being overcareful, stopping a few steps short of where a tightly wound Crowley still stands. Aziraphale is suddenly very aware of how ready Crowley is to run.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, angel.”

Aziraphale laughs, short and bittersweet. “We were here one night, just upstairs. Mr. Eliot said we could stay as late as we wanted so long as we locked up before going home. You wanted to power through, finish up some presentation in time to get comments from your advisor because you insisted we should get some time to ourselves on this trip. So you sat there and you worked, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, really, because I kept thinking of what it would be like to crawl over and just kiss you. Which is ridiculous, because we’d kissed a handful of times that day for show. But I wanted…” She feels the curl of her lips, a breath escape between words. “I wanted to kiss you until you forgot about that presentation entirely. Until it meant something to us both.”

Crowley turns a bit towards her, wiping roughly at her face with shaky hands and God, even looking like an emotional wreck, Crowley is somehow the most beautiful person Aziraphale has ever seen. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You could right now,” Crowley says, looking into the otherwise empty shop beside her in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact. The soft hiccuping breaths, a remnant of some shouting they’ve both come to regret, have squandered any attempts at looking cool and collected. Crowley is trying all the same. “Kiss me, I mean.”

“Could I, hmm?” Aziraphale steps forward, her pinky reaching for Crowley’s own. Crowley, to her credit, takes her whole hand instead.

“Better do it fast or-”

There’s a little choked sound from Crowley as Aziraphale finally presses in, letting her hand tangle up in Crowley’s curls, pulling her in as she’d only dreamed of doing for...God, too damn long. Her lips press in hard, a little too eager, but neither of them is up for complaining when this is so long overdue, and it’s all more than smoothed over by Crowley’s tender brush of a thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. She had imagined how this might feel before, extrapolating from the limited data of their meaningless embraces, but she’d never before noticed the little things: the cherry taste of Crowley’s lip balm, the way she somehow eternally smells like coffee, the way she miraculously manages to be tender and hurried all at once. Too much and not enough.

She pulls Crowley in tighter but miscalculates the trajectory, accidentally bumping their glasses together. They’re both laughing by the time they pull apart.

“Wanna get out of here?” Crowley asks. She’s a little a little dishevelled and a little breathless, but she’s still brimming with her trademark teasing and Aziraphale wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Aziraphale hugs the book to her chest. “Wherever you want to go.”

[astrofireworks]

if you could assign your mutuals/non mutuals with fanfic AUs what would they be (ex soulmate au, flowershop au, etc)

thank you for the ask omg hOOOO boy here we go this is a long post

@jinwoostro

CONSIDER THIS LANNA CONSIDER THIS: 

soft lanna with gold, round glasses and a sunflower tattoo on the inside of her wrist

mostly she’s busy behind the coffee machine but sometimes she sits by the window of the cafe she runs when there aren’t any customers

but at five minutes past four o’clock every day she sees the door of the bookstore across the road swing open and a boy with silver-gold hair and the sweetest smile exit

wait if i do it like this this is gon be too fuckn long i’m gon

he pauses the moment before he enters the cafe and wonders if she might think him weird for getting coffee every day at the same time, but he goes with eunwoo’s advice anyway and swings the door open

and she’s sitting there, brown apron neatly tied around her waist and chin in her hands, looking at him like she’s wondering what a boy like him is doing in her cafe 

and he knows he should be feeling more self-conscious about the way she’s looking at him but her face is lit up by the afternoon glow of the sun off the pavement and he isn’t sure if his heart might last the visit

“i always come here for coffee and um, i always see you and uh, this book kind of reminded me of you and i think i’d like you to have it.” 

@vonseal

seal the history buff !!! 

it’s nice that the old newspaper archives are always empty, she thinks

this way she can read the microfilms in peace, details on the black and white strip of film appearing slightly blurry against the wall but painting clear scenes in her imagination

until he started coming down to the archives, bright smile and loud laugh and all, backpack hitched high on his back and pencil behind his ear

she doesn’t really mind - he’s cute and he always has a smile ready whenever they bump into each other and all in all, he isn’t that bad a companion to talk to 

it’s a cold and windy day outside when he sweeps into the archive room, bringing traces of a light drizzle in with his boots and the electric smell of an oncoming storm in his hair and a story about a dog he met on the way on the tip of his tongue

and he sees her, head pillowed in her arms on the table in the middle of the room and fast asleep

slowly, he shrugs off his jacket and swings it softly over her shoulders - there might not be any conversation today but at least this way, when she wakes up, she’ll be as warm as he feels on the inside 

@ongwu

let’s be real if aroha all went to school together mare would be the queen of the Popular Kids

he doesn’t really enjoy group projects; the time it takes to get to know his partner and to organise meeting times is time that could have gone into writing the report or brainstorming a way to tackle the requirements

also you can never really tell what your partner is going to be like or if they’d do any work, so it’s always a wild card he’s not entirely happy with, especially after the time he had to work with moonbin

he nudges his glasses further up his nose and looks quietly on as the teacher reads out names of the partners

and when his name is called in conjunction with hers, all eyes swing to him and back to her, brains no doubt calculating the probability of the class president and resident popular girl getting along and working well together 

she takes a seat next to him and he immediately turns to her, ready to discuss times during which he’s free to meet 

but he’s stunned into silence as he takes in the notes scribbled along the margin of her project brief, most of which correspond to his own ideas, and her free times neatly pencilled in at the bottom of the page

perhaps this group project might go smoothly after all

@puppycat-eyes

ok but dasha LOOK FLOWER SHOP AU

there are seasons when she sits in her flower shop, snipping tips off the stems of roses in relative peace

and it’s nice and quiet, most of the time, unless it’s when sanha screeches and accidentally knocks a thankfully plastic vase over 

and then there are seasons during which people scramble to get flowers for some reason or another and she’s on her feet nearly all day arranging nearly the same bouquets for those who forgot to get presents for their mothers or significant others

and so when he comes in, looking vaguely confused and panicked at the end of the day she delivers two curt questions without looking up: “significant other or parent? apology or thanks?” 

and he stands there, gaping like a fish, because while he definitely knows how to respond (“sister, apology for missing a recital!”) all he can see is her and her hands deftly picking flowers and pressing them into place and the way strands of hair has escaped her ponytail and frame her face in just the right way and the way she’s focussed on folding the tissue paper at the right angles 

and when sanha’s ringing him up he keeps sneaking glances at her until sanha snorts and charges him for an extra rose and tells him to give it to her and ask her on a date already 

@parkjinchu

best friends to lovers for sure mary you’re so soft sdjhlfajk

also so many of my mutuals are jinjin stans im laughing

when she suggests meeting at their usual spot, he doesn’t question it

it’s nearly sunset by the time he gets there, settling down on the rocks beside her - she has her sweater sleeves pulled over her palms, arms wrapped around her knees and gaze panning out over the waves

it’s peaceful like this, companionable silence settling over their shoulders like pink-gold spun clouds resting on the horizon

and it’s weird, he thinks, but there’s something about the way she looks when he glances over, with her hair spilled over her shoulders and coloured orange by the sun; he thinks he’s never met someone this soft, this close to his heart 

he glances away as she moves her head to look at him - one day, he’ll gather the courage to let her know how much she means to him but for now, he’ll enjoy the way his arm bumps against her and the way her eyes shine and the way his heart revolves around her

@jakganim

listen buddy you’re a space pirate i know you are stop hiding it!! 

they both aren’t sure why it was that they ran away the first time- he just turned up one day with the keys to one of his dad’s many spaceships and yelled to them to pack their damn bags, we gotta go right now

it’s five years on, but they still aren’t sure if he was being chased by the police or the mafia or if he was even being chased at all, but to get to see this? 

to get to see the entirety of space sprawled out before them, stars sprinkled into the fabric of the universe and planets lumbering their way into the void? to get to wander around and see the stars without the heavy mass of responsibilities?

it’s worth everything, they think, even with the occasional bank heists they have to pull off and having their names on the intergalactic most wanted list

it’s worth everything to have someone like him by their side, fingers drumming against the steering console and singing at the top of his lungs with a smile brighter than both the suns in their universe combined 

also they occasionally visit lanna’s cafe on earth because she’s cute and jordan likes coffee 

@nataliekaytbh @izwing

I know this was supposed to be an AU but consider this: internet friends AU turned roommates AU in which the three of us stop being physically separated by sea / land masses and actually live in the same house

iz hides the cereal boxes in all the top cupboards and i have to climb to get them while nat cackles in the background

nat makes pancakes in the morning but i don’t actually wake up until dinner time and iz has eaten all my pancakes

nat and i cry together during comebacks as iz looks on in exasperation

unless it’s seventeen, in which case i will silently pat iz on the back as she tracks jun across the screen with very fierce eyes 

nat and i also wallpaper the living room with bts posters when iz is out and iz tears our heads off when she gets home

we go out to get groceries then realise only after we arrive home that we forgot to buy the most important thing on the list

we sit in soft soft soft oversized hoodies and glasses and have hot tea on rainy days and listen to iz read harry potter out loud in an aggressive british whisper because that’s the only proper way to listen to harry potter

a good concept!!!!

[newrageinc]

Day 5: Kleptomaniac

Part II of high school AU continuing on from Day 4. Not much on actual kleptomania but it’ll crop up again tomorrow for Library.

“I heard you had an interesting day at the office the other day, Hinata.”

Hinata bit back a groan and sank lower onto her desk. Ino leaned towards her, blond hair falling over her shoulder and pooling at her lap. Her smirk apparent from the song on her voice, though Hinata didn’t dare turn her way in fear of giving away her embarrassment by the blush that was surely sprouting across her face.

She had done her best at avoiding the topic of last weeks’ career day. She had turned her report in quietly and averted her eyes when Iruka had asked for volunteers to share their experiences.

Neji had delivered a gentle scoldings all the way to her father’s office where he’d let the older man take over. Hiashia Hyuuga had never been one for many words. Conversations with her father had always been short and to the point. This conversation was just the same as the others.

“I expect better from you in front of our clients, Hinata.”

The simple reprimand had almost been enough to break her completely, though she failed at keeping her tears at bay, she had been stifling her sobs and sniffling. She would have sobbed freely then if she weren’t so determined to avoid a second lecture on keeping her emotions in control. She knew with her tears alone she was walking a thin line on receiving that. She had merely nodded numbly and done her best at maintaining what was left of her composure until she was able to escape to her room.

She had thought Sasuke wasn’t the type to gossip and had been fairly certain she’d be free of the topic coming up again until Ino had brought it up.

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” she grumbled into her notebook, doodling a flower in the margin.

“Don’t be like that Hinata! Spending the whole day with the school’s hottest boy-“ Ino stopped short and a strangled noise escaped her mouth. Hinata scrunched her face, wrinkling her nose as she glanced up at the door already knowing who she’d see.

Naruto came through the threshold with Sasuke at his shoulder. They appeared to be in a heated discussion, not an uncommon sight, especially with Sakura bringing up the rear mid eye roll. The two had been thick as thieves since middle school and Hinata stomped down the wave of jealously that threatened to boil over as they made their way to the desks in front of her and Ino. Naruto took his usual place right in front of Hinata, swiveling around as soon as his butt touched the seat to lean an elbow on her desk.

Even after she’d made a fool of herself last May he still made it a point to be friendly to her.

“Hey, Hinata, why didn’t either of you tell us you’d be doing career day together with Sasuke? I would’ve wanted to go too!” Sasuke heaved a sigh but didn’t bother turning around from his place in front of Sakura. He leaned his elbow on his desk and perched his head on his palm.

“I already told you, stupid, we didn’t plan it.”

Sakura rolled her eyes again and jabbed her pen into Sasuke’s shoulder. “Okay, we got that,” she pointed her pen at Naruto as he was about to interrupt, effectively stopping him before he could speak. “What I’m getting it is why didn’t either of you bring it up after? It’s been over a week.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly at the pair, turning her head back and forth, alternating her look between Hinata and the back of Sasuke’s head. Hinata slid herself further down her desk, continuing her idle doodling.

When they both didn’t respond, Sakura hummed thoughtfully. She shifted her body around to sit correctly when Shizune started calling the class to attention. Ino shifted as well, snickering into her hand as she went. “The way you two are acting,” she said in a stage whisper, “it’s almost like you’re hiding something. What’d you guys do? Make out in the break room?”

There was a resonating snap as Sasuke broke the pencil in his hand and Hinata flailed in her seat. She felt like her face was on fire as she rounded on Ino.

“Ino, please!”

“It’s none of your business.”

The room had gone silent.

Sasuke had jumped up from his seat and was glaring at Ino, broken pencil still gripped in his fist. Hinata pressed her lips together.

“Are you three done? Is it okay for me to start the class? Or should I ask the head master their opinion?”

The group muttered an apology and settled in for class. Hinata didn’t miss the knowing look Sakura shot over her shoulder at Ino before dutifully flipping through her notes.

What the two girls thought they knew, Hinata couldn’t say.

When people had first started asking her how her day with Sasuke had been she was quick to think he must have shared this information freely and it started going around. She should have figured that wouldn’t have actually been the case. Sasuke hardly exchanged words with anyone aside from Naruto and Sakura. The three of them had a rare connection and were very tight knit so if he’d shared anything with them it would’ve stayed in their group. Based off of Sakura’s statement, it did seem as though they hadn’t learned about their adventure through him and he’d kept it to himself.

So… How did everyone find out?

And why hadn’t he told his two closest friends? If nothing else it made for an interesting story…

Hinata knew why she had kept the secret. She hated getting into trouble and the less she had to relive that moment in her life the better. Not only that, but she had also said some nasty things to Sasuke and she’d spent a lot of time in the last week dissecting their interactions and coming up with better ways to handle the situation.

“So it’s that time again.” The class’s collective groan drew Hinata from her thoughts. She lifted her face from where she had cradled it on her arm.

Shizune stood at the front of the class with two boxes in her hands that appeared to be filled with slips of paper. She grinned as she shook the boxes, paper rattling in the quiet of the class. “It’s midterm project time. I’m tired of logical partnerships.” The class perked up at that, hopeful that she’d allow them the freedom of choosing their own partners. Shizune’s grin turned wicked. “So I’ve decided to make it interesting. In my left hand is a box of everyone’s names. I’ll pick the first name and that person will draw for their partner. Then you’ll pull from the box in my right hand, which has project topics.”

She stepped up to the first row and placed the topic box on Kiba’s desk. She gave the name box a good shake before reaching in and digging out the first name. Her face lit up as she read the name aloud.

“Well, well, well Uchiha, looks like it’s your lucky day. You get first pick of partners and topics.”

Hinata watched as Sasuke’s shoulders rose and fell in an inaudible sigh. Shizune come over and presented him with the name box, shaking it as she went. He kept his chin perched on the palm of his hand and used his free hand to reach for a name.

Hinata felt the whole class hold their breath. Sasuke was known for being grouchy on most days and aloof on better ones. He was hard to work with in group projects unless Naruto and Sakura were around to keep him in check (this she knew only from second hand accounts).

“Hyuuga,” Hinata cringed at the gruff way Sasuke spoke her name.

“Excellent! A true power couple.” Shizune’s grin never faltered despite Sasuke’s impassive face and Hinata’s lack of reaction. “In the name of fairness and equality, care to draw the topic, Hinata?” Hinata took a shaky breath before nodding and standing from her seat. She pulled a paper from the box.

“Kleptomania,” she read out loud, voice tentative as she wasn’t sure if this was what she should have done. She shuffled back into her seat and covered her face with her hands.

‘It would just be my luck’

The room busied themselves, desks scraping against the tiled floor as everyone rearranged themselves to sit with their partners to brainstorm ideas.

Hinata had made it a point of keeping herself as far as she could from Sasuke despite the proximity of their desks. She had kept her gaze on the outline and grading rubric Shizune had passed out and Sasuke felt his palms begin to sweat at his discomfort.

He still hadn’t been able to get the image of her crying out of his mind. He’d spent most of last week thinking about Hinata. About all the things he knew about her.

And all the things he didn’t.

They’d been going to the same schools and sharing the same classes since they were toddlers. He’d watched her present school projects. Seen her during lunch breaks. Shared general space with her when commuting from class to class. They had even attended some of the same parties.

But to sit down and try to tell someone that he knew Hinata Hyuuga would have made him a bold faced liar.

The fact that he did not know Hinata had never bothered him. He had always been fine with assigning her the role of background character to his life. He had been fine with putting her in the category of stuck up and snobbish and also sort of a suck up if she ever did cross his thoughts.

She had confused him that day.

Career day had been the most he’d ever interacted with her and she had confused him with her responses and quips.

With her tears…

They forced Sasuke to realize that no, he did not know Hinata and yes, this did actually bother him.

What was further confusing was her distance. She’d obviously been put off by him and their impromptu misadventure to the roof as she’d continued on as business as usual when they went back to school on Wednesday. She avoided all eye contact with him and did not volunteer to talk about her day shadowing her cousin, though last year she been one of the first to volunteer.

Judging from the way she was keeping her distance from him he was pretty sure Hinata wanted to be anywhere but sitting next to him at this moment. This thought upset him more than he was willing to admit.

“Did you want to do the presentation or write the paper?” She asked, body shaking slightly from the effort of holding herself as far as she could from him in her seat without falling out of it. She was only just audible above the cacophony of their peers around them.

“No preference.” She hummed and shifted in her seat, hair falling from where she’d previously twisted it on to her shoulder and down her back in shimmering waves. He knew she’d only grown it longer after they’d gone to middle school. That decision probably had to do with the blond whose head was currently bent close to his own partner just behind them, he and Sakura somehow miraculously getting paired up. Why she kept it this way after what had happened last May he couldn’t begin to guess.

“W-would it be okay if we did the paper then?” She was pulling at the sleeves of her hoodie. She fidgeted a lot, he was coming to find. She continued to squirm in her seat, a rosy blush crawling across her features as she chewed on her bottom lip. “Ah, is there… something on my face?”

Sasuke blinked, realizing only then that he’d been staring. Hinata had put her sleeve covered hand up to her mouth and was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“No. Sorry. I was just thinking.” He took the assignment from in front of her and read over the paper’s requirements. Hinata usually avoided presentations so he wasn’t surprised she’d take that option despite the paper being more work. “The paper is fine.”

A silence settled over them. Uncomfortable as the murmurs of the class continued around them. Hinata toyed with the corner of some notebook paper. He sighed. “Listen, about last week…” Her body visibly stiffened. Her reaction threw him off guard but he continued, voice remaining low to avoid eavesdroppers. “I’m sorry people found out about it.  I think one of Iruka’s aids had let it slip since they graded our papers. I know it didn’t seem like you wanted anyone to know we were together.”

Hinata finally turned her face to look at him, blush subsiding slightly. He’d never noticed how pretty her eyes could look, dark lashes contrasting sharply against the paleness not only of her irises but of her skin. He cleared his throat as she continued to watch him.

“It’s not that I don’t want people to know we were there together,” she spoke quietly, voice a gentle caress. She licked her lips. “I just… I really don’t like getting in trouble and I’d really rather forget it happened at all…” She ducked her head, cutting her eyes back to the notes in front of her. “I also said some things that I-I may have regretted… after the fact.”

He felt his brows raise. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but some type of half apology was not one of them. Hinata seemed to be full of surprises.

“Well I wasn’t the nicest.” She snorted, a soft sound that came from the back of her throat.

“It was… a day. I’d just really rather not talk about it.” He hummed and watched as she started flipping through her notes, likely looking for the section where they’d covered impulse control disorders.

“I did want to say, before we move on from it, that I am sorry. I didn’t think you’d get in trouble… like that.” Her face fell slightly, hands stilling before coming down to rest on her lap. Her fingers dug into the rough fabric of her jeans for a second before she spoke.

“I appreciate that… Sasuke. But please…” He grunted, pulling out his own notes so that they could start on their outline and create an action plan.

Both of them were unaware of the curious looks they got from the groups behind them.