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imherongraystairstrash · 6 days ago

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The Late Hours

Cassandra Clare is taking too long to come out with "A Sea of Change" so I've decided to take manners into my own hands, because I'm desperate for a Matthew love story. Let me know if it's interesting enough to continue writing! Also, I need title recommendations, idk what to name this fic lol --Ana

Chapter one: Paris

It was good to be back in Paris, Matthew Fairchild thought to himself as he walked down Avenue Victor Hugo. There was something magical about Paris, as if every street were a painting, crafted by the most gifted artist. These streets held something that London didn’t lacked, though he couldn’t put his finger on what that something was. Perhaps it wasn’t a something at all, but rather a combination of many somethings that made this city so wonderful.

Even if one closed their eyes, Paris persisted in being mystical. The city itself were perfumed with the most incredible scents; buttered Croissants and coffee from Patisseries; roses, the occasional whiff of a passerby’s expensive perfume. And though Paris was plagued with the same gloomy weather of London, Matthew always thought that Paris wore it better. The gray skies weren’t as imposing as they were back home. Though, perhaps it was because there were so many sights to see below that demanded Matthew’s attention, that there was no reason to look up at the weather, which is why it probably didn’t bother him so much as it did in London.

Truth be told, Paris had always beckoned to Matthew. It was as if his heart were tethered to the center of the city. Nothing could ruin Paris for Matthew. It was a city filled with dreams that could not be tainted, even by the worst of memories. Matthew thought of his last visit with Cordelia, and though it had been a disaster, he was surprised to find that since he arrived, he hadn’t been reminded of the visit.

Thank the Angel, he thought. He didn’t think he could bare the thought of never being able to visit Paris again, because of one very unfortunate experience. He rounded the corner of a particular alleyway—which didn’t look very friendly in the the shadows of the night, but was a shortcut he’d always taken to get to the Seine) when, much to his dismay, he found that he was suddenly face to face with a crowd of Croucher demons.

“Oh bother,” Matthew said, rolling his eyes. He hadn’t planned on fighting an ordinary demon tonight, much less more than half a dozen Croucher demons. While they weren’t exactly the most difficult demon to dispatch, but the fact that they attacked in large groups made it quite a challenge for a single Shadowhunter to slay.

“All right then,” Matthew said, pulling out a dagger, the only weapon on his person. “I suppose I better get this over with.”

He managed to kill two Crouchers before one of them snuck behind him and slashed out at his attacking arm. It managed to cut a large gash on his shoulder and only years of training prevented Matthew from dropping his blade at that second. He bite back a cry of pain as he tried to push past the pain and stab the demon in it’s sensitive underbelly. He managed to kill it, but the pain was enough to make him dizzy with nausea. Matthew switched the blade to his left hand, the right-handed grip feeling stranger in his opposite hand than he cared to admit.

He was able to kill another demon before the force of a particular blow left him unbalanced and exposed. It was enough of a compromising position that the demon to his right only had to lunge at him to end his life.

Just when Matthew realized that he was about to take his last breath, seeing the demon sink back on it’s haunches, poised to attack, and arrow whizzed only a hair’s distance from Matthew, and sunk straight into the demon’s chest. Matthew lunged forward, and with a lethal blow of his blade, the demon faded into ashes. Matthew squinted up to catch a glimpse of his savior, but saw nothing.

He heard a soft, barely audible thump beside him, and deducted that it was the person who had helped him. He could see that they were a shadowhunter, given the gear they had on, and that she was a girl, since she was wearing feminine gear. There wasn’t time for introductions, though; that would have to wait until later, once the demons were dispatched. The female threw a seraph blade at him, and he caught it with one hand, quickly thanking the angel that this particular woman was left-handed, and named the blade. Matthew swung his blade at another demon, rolling on the ground to avoid a swipe of it’s talon, his shoulder screaming in pain. They engaged in combat for a while before Matthew managed to drive his Seraph blade into it’s chest. The demon screeched and disappeared, just in time for Matthew to see that the amount of demons had reduced significantly.

He glanced in his partner’s direction to see if she was in trouble, though the young shadowhunter seemed to be fairing quite well as she bashed at a demon’s head with the wooden curve of her crossbow, notching an arrow to shoot another demon coming her way. Pulling out a dagger, she stabbed the first one in the stomach, sending it into a cloud of dust.

Just as she was straightening, a demon tried to attack her from the back. Matthew lunged, lashing out at the demon just as it wrapped it’s arm around the girl’s leg. She cried out as it pulled her to the floor, her head banging against the cobblestone. Matthew plunged his blade into the demon, managing to kill it before it could harm his companion any further. And just as his did so, the alley was engulfed in the eerie quiet and stillness that typically followed the end of a battle. Matthew, looking around to make sure all of the demons were gone, he made his way over the girl. She had pushed herself up to her elbows, and Matthew got his first real look at her; she had dark brown hair that was coming undone from the twin braids she had pulled it back into. She had a splatter of faint freckles across the bridge of her upturned nose, which was scrunched up, due to from what must have been the tenderness of her hip, which she currently massaged.

“Mademoiselle,” Matthew said, as he extended a hand to the girl on the floor.

The girl opened her eyes and stared at him in wonder. Matthew was taken aback by their peculiar largeness. She looked tired, though he wasn’t sure if it was because she’d just woken up or because it was the natural shape of her eyes that caused that effect. He also noticed their peculiar color: they were not quite green and yet not quite blue either. She blinked up at him for a moment with those extraordinary eyes. Then, as if suddenly seeing his hand, the girl took it hastily.

“Merci,” she said, wiping dust from her gear.

“Are you all right?” He asked her in French. “You took a ghastly hit to the head.”

“Oui, oui,” she said, with a wave of her hand.

Matthew looked down at her, and couldn’t help but smile at how much smaller she was than him. He could almost reach out and pat her head. She suddenly looked up and Matthew, forcing himself to not blush, flashed her a friendly grin.

“You’re not from here, are you?” She asked, her voice as delicate as her bone structure.

“Is my accent so terrible?”

The girl—who was really a lady, as she didn’t seem much younger than Matthew at all— smiled. “No, it’s quite good, but I can still tell you’re not French.” She flashed him an apologetic look. “Also, I’ve never seen you at the Institute, so I’m assuming you have come for a visit?”

“You are right to assume. I’m from London.” Matthew said. “Though I come here quite often. Your city definitely speaks to me.”

“Oh, how unfortunate we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, then.” The girl extended her hand with a smile, “Amélie Auclaire.”

“Matthew Fairchild.”

Amélie startled and then smiled. “Do you happen to be the son of a certain consul?”

Matthew shrugged and then winced. It seems that in his brief conversation with Amélie, he had forgotten about his injured shoulder. The sudden memory of it brought with it a fresh wave of pain.

Amélie’s eyes darted to his shoulder. “You’re wounded.” She said, worriedly. “Come, we shall go to my flat and I’ll clean it up for you.”

“Oh, that’s all right, you needn’t fret.” Matthew said, half hoping she would insist. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he was quite intrigued by her, and his really didn’t want to part from her so soon after having met.

“It’s no trouble at all,” she said, taking his left hand and gently pulling him along behind her.

Matthew stared at the back of her head, unable to wipe the grin off of his face as they walked to her flat.

…

They quietly made there way up the rickety staircase to the third floor, where Amélie’s apartment was located. Matthew had the strangest sensation come over him; the air was filled with some thing that filled him with anticipation, as if they were going to do something exciting, and not going to her flat to have him merely bandaged up. Amelie had a light, noiseless step as she climbed the steps, her delicate long fingers trailing the stairwell railing, providing her support he was sure she didn’t need. Finally, they reached the landing and came to a stop. Matthew looked at the green doorway as Amelie pulled a key out of one of her gear pockets. He looked at the door number an huffed a small laugh to himself.

“What’s the matter?” Amelie asked.

“Your apartment number. It’s the same as my birthday.”

Amelie looked up at the ‘126’ printed on the door and smiled. “The 26th of January? Or the 12th of June?”

“The former."

She managed to get the handle to open. “Ah,” she turned and made eye contact with him while she walked inside. “An Aquarius.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Amelie only shook her head with a knowing smile as she grabbed a stool, seemly out of nowhere. “Some of my usual nonsense.”

She beckoned and Matthew walked towards her in a near dream–like state. Once he was near enough, she sat him down on a stool with the gentle yet firm manner of a nurse. Though he had just met her, Matthew felt the sudden urge to pull her towards him, to hold her lean body in his arms. He quickly stifled the feeling, not sure where it came from. It horrified him a little, to think that his impulses told him to seize hold of this kind stranger for no discernible reason.

Amélie turned and put a kettle over the small stove in her kitchenette. She hummed to herself as she grabbed supplies from a cabinet, standing on the very tips of her toes to reach the bandages. Matthew tried not to laugh as she got a wooden spoon to nudge a small bottle of ointment (that was a little too far for her to reach) over the edge of the cabinet, catching it with her other hand.

“You could be a ballerina,” Matthew said, nodding his head in the direction of her feet.

Amélie flashed him an easy grin, “I was actually,” she said. “Until the age of fifteen. I’m a little out of practice, but I can still pirouette better than anyone in France.”

“Really?”

Amélie snorted, “No, I’m only joking. But, I was did dance ballet and I was quite good, if I do say so myself. I begged my parents to let me, and they accepted, only because my father thought that having such control over my body would be practical in battle.” She said, setting the supplies on the windowsill behind Matthew. She considered him of a moment. “I didn’t really care, I only wanted to dress up and dance. Now, you may want to unbutton your shirt so I can tend to your wound.”

Matthew raised his eyebrows at her. “You waste no time, do you? Pray, we only just met!”

Amélie rolled her eyes, “This is Paris, Monsieur Fairchild. There is no time to take things slow. We are here for a good time, not a long time.” She said with a wink.

Though Matthew knew they were only joking with one another, he could help but feel his heart pull. There was something about Amélie that made him feel unusually light, something he hadn’t had the pleasure of feeling in quite a long time indeed. He began unbuttoning his shirt, per Amélie’s request, as she leaned towards the windowsill. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume and though he couldn’t quite put his finger on the exact fragrance, it smelled awfully nice.

Matthew shrugged off his right sleeve with some difficulty, but managed to do so on his own. Amélie straightened, a damp cloth in hand and Matthew saw her eyes widened as she looked down at him, as if taken aback. He saw her visibly swallow as she shook her head and looked at his wound.

“This may hurt,” She said, putting a little bit of ointment of the damp cloth.

Matthew heard what she said, but didn’t exactly register it. He only nodded absentmindedly as he saw her eyes narrow on his shoulder. He stifled a gasp as she dabbed the cloth over his cut. She looked up at him from under her long, dark eyelashes, causing Matthew to hold his breath for an entirely different reason.

“I apologize,” she muttered.

Matthew shook his head, dazed. “It’s all right.”

She continued to clean the wound until she said, “That should do it.”

As she straightened, they stared at each other for a long moment before they were both startled by the kettle screeching. Amélie blinked and lifted Matthew’s left hand, putting it over the damp cloth, so he held it in place, before rushing over to the kettle.

Matthew took a deep breath and let it out shakily. What was happening to him? Why was he acting so strange? He’d been sober for six months now, and he was beginning to regain his normal personality, not so focused on the urge to have some sort of alcohol that he could barely register what was going on around him. It had been a while since he was so caught off guard that he couldn’t make sense of how he was acting.

“Do you like peppermint tea?” Amélie called out from the kitchen.

“Yes,” Matthew said, trying to form a coherent train of thought. He suspected that he would have answered affirmative even if Amélie had asked if he liked tea made out of moss. She brought a tray with two tea cups and a pot, and set it on the nearest table before coming back to stand beside Matthew.

She lowered his opposite hand and lifted the, now bloody, cloth from his shoulder. She seemed satisfied and only wiped the skin around the wound before setting the it down and picking up her stele. Matthew watched as she etched the neatest Iratze he had ever seen, into his skin. She waited to see them work their effect before walking over towards the kettle and looking inside. She must have deemed the color of the tea proficient, as she busied herself with the task of serving it. Matthew tried not to look at her, for fear of seeming unsettling and instead turned his gaze to his surroundings.

The apartment was small. Too small, it seemed, to keep up with Amélie’s reading habits. The bookshelves were filled to the brim with bound books, so much so, that there were neat piles of books stacked from the ground to about waist level. Amélie seems to use these piles of books as tables, since he could a variety of everyday objects resting on the top books. There was a pair of reading glasses on top of a book by Nietzsche, a glass filled with a strange sort of brown liquid with what appeared to be a paint brush inside of it, on top of Dostoyevsky.

Lifting his gaze, Matthew saw white cloths covering what seemed to be various rectangles. Only then did he notice the numerous pictures before him that were not covered with cloth.

“Do you collect art?” He asked Amélie, as she came with the tea tray, utterly fascinated by the canvases. If she had chosen them, she certainly had an incredible eye for art.

“Hm?” She asked, passing him a cup of tea. She followed his gaze to see what he was staring at. “Oh, no. Those are mine.” she said, absentmindedly.

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I painted them.” She said, sitting on the window seat beside him, clearly more interested in cleaning off a patch of ichor from her gear with a towel.

Matthew looked at her in shock. “You painted them?”

Amélie looked up at her paintings and frowned, crinkling her nose. “Unfortunately. They are horrendous things, are they not? But recently, everything I paint is a disgrace. It seems I’ve lost my artistic touch; I haven’t painted anything worth seeing in ages.”

Matthew gaped at her. Horrendous? How could she say such a thing when those painting were the most breathtaking images he’d ever seen?

“Are—are you blind?”

Amélie laughed, “Only a little, I use glasses to read.” She stopped laughing when she saw his face. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

Matthew stood up to investigate the painting. “Why, only that these are spectacular!” Spectacular didn’t even begin to describe the paintings. Matthew had always loved art; he’d loved that an artist could pour all of their feelings into a piece and that when the spectator looked upon it, they too could feel what the artist was feeling. But this was the first time Matthew had ever felt he resonated deeply with a piece. He could feel the pain in the works, even if he didn’t know Amélie’s pain himself. He could empathize with it. He gawked at each piece that was on display, trying to dissect each and every one.

“Oh, no, please don’t look at them,” Amélie said, standing of quickly and dashing to his side, “It’s mortifying.”

Matthew ignored her, stopping at one that looked familiar.

“This is London.” he said, incredulously. “Last winter. During the Watcher battle…”

“I was called to partake.” Amélie said, taking notice of the change in Matthew’s tone of voice, and softening her own. “I’d always wanted to go to London. My parabatai and I were so excited when we received the message that we didn’t hear the second part, in which they explained we were going there to help defeat an actual Prince of Hell.”

Matthew huffed out a laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

Amélie shrugged. “I was quite excited.”

Matthew turned back to the work and realized there was more than one. There was the piece in which they were still in the thick of battle, but there was a collection of others that depicted reunions between loved ones. Matthew laughed in amazement as he saw familiar faces on the canvases. There was one of Gabriel and Anna embracing, the background muffled.

“That one’s my favorite,” Amélie said quietly. She seemed to have gotten up at some point and was now standing beside him. “I prayed that they would remain like that long enough for me to sketch it well enough in my sketchbook. I never wanted to forget that image for as long as I lived.”

“That’s my uncle Gabriel and cousin Anna. My cousin, Christopher, had died before the battle, when Gabriel and my aunt Cecily were under trial in Idris. Anna was with us. That was the first time they saw each other since it happened.”

Amélie’s eye softened as she nodded, “There was something about them that was so filled with sorrow. But it was refreshing to see them take comfort in one another. I made me think of my own dear Papa, and how much I miss him.”

Matthew looked into her sad eyes for a moment. He wanted to ask if her father had passed away or if they had simply had a falling out, but he didn’t think now was the right time. He only had to look at her wistful eyes on the portrait to know that he should drop the subject.

“I’m shocked at how well you managed to capture their essences. I find it hard to believe you were able to do so without knowing them at all.”

Amélie shrugged, “I’ve had practice. I’m constantly drawing people.” She pointed to the overflowing bookshelf. “Those are my sketch books from throughout the years. I’ve been meaning to throw some away, but every time I sit down to sort through them, my stomach begins to hurt unbearably.” She shrugged. “I’ve always said I like to keep the past in the past. I close chapters with the intentions of never rereading them again. And yet, I can’t seem to bring myself to disposing of them so easily.”

Matthew felt himself nodding. He often found himself wishing he could do the same. His past haunted him.

“What a pleasant surprise that you know these two.” Amélie said with a smile. “I would offer you take it back to them, but you know what they say: ‘never gift your art to someone.’”

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows. “Who says that?”

“Everyone,” Amélie said. “And by that I mean my mother.”

“Why would she say that?”

Amélie sighed. “Because, Matthew. If they hate it, they’re going to have to hang it in their home. And every time they want to throw it out, they’ll just feel bad and have to keep it out of personal obligation. And then they grow to resent it and—”

“Trust me when I say that Gabriel and Cecily would love to have this. I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t.”

Matthew was pleased to find that Amélie’s cheeks turned a bright pink color before she turned her head from him and promptly walked towards another canvas. Matthew followed, looking at the next one.

“Angel Square,” he said, amazed.

“Oh, I see you’re acquainted with Idris as well.”

“Yes well, as the Consul’s son, I did live there as a child.”

“I used to go to Idris ever summer with my family. We lived quite far from Angel Square, but my father would sometimes go into town to buy weapons, and I would stay outside and stare and the Raziel monument. Oh, being the Consul’s son, you might know the answer to a question I’ve harbored since I was a young girl. Might you know who carved the statue?”

Matthew looked at her blankly. “I haven’t but the slightest clue.”

“Oh, that’s most unfortunate. I was hoping I would finally find out.”

“I’ll ask my mother in my next letter,” Matthew said.

“Will you?” Amélie said, her eyes lighting up. “I would be most grateful. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Of course I don’t mind. It’s nothing really.” Matthew said, as they walked on to the next canvas.

“Madrid?” Matthew asked. Had he not visited just a couple of weeks prior, Matthew was sure he wouldn’t have recognized it. “My cousin went to Madrid a short while ago. For his travel year.”

Amélie perked up. “Who might your cousin be?”

“His name is Thomas. Thomas Lightwood. He’s very—”

Matthew was cut off by Amélie’s high pitched scream. “Thomas? Very tall and ridiculously handsome?!”

Matthew looked stunned. “Erm…I think so?”

“Oh I love Thomas! Only, we’d called him Tomás, because everyone else felt so silly pronouncing it as ‘Thomas’.” Amélie clapped her hands together. “I cannot believe he’s your cousin. Oh, we had the greatest time in Madrid—when he wasn’t suffering growing pains, that is. Being new to the city, we acted as proper tourists would have, finding each and every landmark there was to be found in Madrid. I would have fallen madly in love with him, had it not been for the fact that he’s—” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

Matthew grinned at her. “He’s what?”

“Oh nothing,” she said, looking horrified. “It’s just a speculation of mine, but it means nothing. Under no circumstances would I subject dear Thomas to gossip. Oh, but you must tell me how he’s fairing! I’m afraid we’ve fallen out of touch ever since October. He hasn’t replied to my last letter, and I forgot to send another, in case the first got lost in the post.”

Matthew thought about her question for a moment. Since Thomas had come back from his travel year, he’s lost a sister and a cousin who Matthew would say had been closer to Thomas than a brother. But he’d also reconciled and moved in with the love of his life. And now his loved ones finally knew about something Thomas had kept a secret his entire life, for fear of what they might think. “He’s suffered greatly since you last saw him, but he’s also incredibly happy.”

Amélie looked at Matthew sadly, “I’m sorry he had to suffer. He is so kind-hearted that it hurts to know that life wasn’t a bit more forgiving towards him. Though it rarely ever is for us Nephilim, is it?”

Matthew nodded and Amélie turned a piercing gaze at him, her eyes softening as she seemed to read something in Matthew’s face. Whatever it was that she saw in his expression, it surely wasn’t something Matthew was intentionally trying to display. He turned his lips up in a blinding smile, hoping it would be enough to divert her attention to something else, but Amélie shook her head as if she could see right past his facade.

She didn’t say anything as she stared at him for a second longer before a clock on her wall chimed.

“Oh, it’s already midnight,” she said, both snapping out of their daze. “I swear I don’t know where the time goes in summer.”

Matthew looked at her regretfully, “Unfortunately, I should be taking my leave. My retriever is back at the hotel and he will start tearing up the pillows if I don’t return shortly. He’s quite clingy.” Matthew added as an afterthought.

“You have a retriever?” Amélie’s eyes lit up, as she handed him his coat. “What kind?”

“Golden,” Matthew said, his lips turning up at the thought of his beloved canine companion.

“Oh, that’s the best breed of dog,” Amélie said, with a wistful smile. “My neighbor from childhood had one. Her name was Canoli.”

“Mine’s called Mr. Oscar Wilde.”

Amélie blurted out a laugh. She had a wonderful laugh, Matthew thought absentmindedly, like the sun coming up over the horizon after a cold and bitter winter’s night. “I take it you’re a fan of Wilde’s works.”

“No, I find them repulsive.”

Amélie giggled again, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

“Did you have any pets growing up?” Matthew asked as they walked down the hazardous steps. Matthew had insisted that he could find his way out, but Amélie had waved him off.

“Yes, I had a Dachshund.” She said, her voice sounding faraway, “She was light brown with a long coat and an absolute nightmare. Never did you see a dog so badly behaved.” She grinned fondly. “She was the best dog I could have ever asked for. I miss her company every time I’m alone, which is most of the time.”

Matthew looked down at his shoes. He hated to think of the day that Oscar would no longer be with him anymore. Oscar had been by his side throughout the worst moments of his life, and he was certain that without him, Matthew’s life would have been significantly darker. Knowing the life span of the average Golden Retriever made Matthew’s heart seize.

“Well, I suppose this is where we part ways.” Amélie said, as they exited the lobby.

Matthew looked around. Suddenly, he found that he didn’t want to walk the streets of Paris by himself anymore. He would rather stay in Amélie’s little flat drinking tea and looking at more of her paintings, if he was being honest.

“I rather enjoyed this evening spend together, Amélie.” Matthew said. “You make wonderful company.”

Amélie smiled brightly at him. “Likewise, Mr. Fairchild. Today was made brighter thanks to your presence.”

Matthew bit his lip as he looked down at Amélie. She shone like moonlight and he wanted nothing more than to lean down and press a chaste kiss goodnight on her forehead. Of course, that would be very strange, seeing as they had just met.

“Well,” He said, snapping out of his fantasy, “We must meet again so you can become acquainted with Oscar.”

“Ah, I would love that,” Amélie said, her eyes brightening. “Perhaps we an arrange to meet somewhere? I have no errands tomorrow, nor the day after, other than training.”

They quickly made plans to meet the next morning at a Café that was conveniently halfway to Amélie’s flat and the hotel Matthew was staying at.

“Well, until tomorrow, then,” Matthew said.

“Yes,” Amélie said as she backed into the lobby once more. “And don’t forget to bring Mr. Oscar Wilde!”

Matthew chuckled as the doors closed behind her. Once he’d made his way back to his apartment, his cheeks began to hurt. It was only then that he realized he’d been smiling the entire walk back.

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imherongraystairstrash · 25 days ago

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Fourth Wing Boys Head Cannons - Accidental/Unplanned Pregnancy

These are based around the battle at the end of Iron Flame. So if you have not read Iron Flame, the below will contain spoilers for some of our boys.

Masterlist | Support Me

Garrick

He would be as still as a statue. You aren’t even sure he’s even breathing as he looks down at you wide eyed. You were both on the tonic, but clearly there must have been a faulty batch. The healers were adamant. You were pregnant.

After a few moments he’d snap out of it, brow furrowing as he thinks everything over in his head. “Are you sure? Did you get-“ you cut him off with a nod, which is all he needs to shut his mouth and nod.

You could tell what he was thinking. This was no time to be having a child. Not in the midst of a rebellion. Not a rebellion you both had prominent parts in. Not when Xaden needed him.

After a few tense moments of Garrick being stoney faced and reserved, a small smile would start to pull at the corners of his mouth. Which honestly surprised you. Before you Garrick wasn’t really the relationship kind of guy. You even falling into that category a few times till another rider had showed interest after you were both sent to Samara.

“Really picked the perfect time to fall pregnant didn’t you?” He teases before to swat his arm, his usual booming laugh breaking through the tension that was now nowhere to be seen.

Despite the teasing joke you could tell he was nervous, worried and unsure. Especially as he pulls you against him, resting his head atop yours as it rests against his chest. His heart beating erratically underneath, a start contrast to calm demeanour he was trying to output.

Bodhi

He drops whatever he was holding, staring at you with shock as he goes utterly still. Wide eyed, mouth open as he just looks at you.

He goes to talk multiple times but keeps shutting his mouth, clearly unsure what to say. Eventually starting to pace back and forth till you grasp his hand.

His eyes snap to yours, some of the panic dissipating ever so slightly as he relaxes at your touch, the small circles you rub onto the back of his hand with your thumb grounding him.

His free hand comes up to run through his black wavy hair. “You’re sure? Like 100% sure?” He asks nervously.

You nod up at him, his eyes going wide again, but you note the corners of his mouth pulling up. You know the nervousness and panic comes from the rebellion. It’s not ideal timing. But now there’s not much you can do.

Panic flares again in Bodhi’s eyes, his hand tightening around yours. “Xaden’s going to kill me”

Xaden

it’s not often you see Xaden caught out or surprised. In fact you can’t remember ever seeing him like that. And yet here he is, staring at you, still as a statue. Not a single emotion or reaction detectable on his face. Almost like he was expecting the news.

“Fuck.” He finally says before walking over to you, his eyes glued on your stomach which currently shows no signs of the baby inside.

You can see him thinking over everything in his head. Every possibility and scenario playing out.

“You have to promise to not be reckless anymore. I can’t risk loosing you two. Ok?” His words coming out almost like a command, but there’s that slight hint of worry that softens his words. You know he just wants to protect you, and that you’ll definitely be tacking a back seat going forward.

Brennan

He pinches the bridge of his nose, pacing back and forth as he mutters to himself. It reminds you so much of Violet and how she recites facts to calm herself and focus.

Back and forth, back and forth, you’re sure he’s going to wear a track in the floor at this rate. You reach out and grab his hand to stop him.

His amber eyes instantly soften as he looks at you. “I was doing the thing, wasn’t I?” He asks as he purses his lips, knowing he slipped into planning mode. You nod at him and smile. “Yeah, you kinda did.”

He smiles down at you, and instantly you feel like everything is going to be ok. Is it good timing? Gods no. Especially with the Venin advancing on Navarre. And especially now they know Brennan is alive.

“We’ll make it work. We always do.” He tells you softly, reaching up and caressing your cheek.

Dain

This man is in denial. How could this happen? You were both on the tonic. And that tonic has never failed. Every logical situation runs through his head. There’s no way this could have happened. Unless….

“Did you stop taking the tonic?” He asks, tones almost accusing as he walks up to you, a hand raised towards your face. He lowers it wicking when he sees the anger on your face, answering his question immediately.

He would be spiraling. In a matter of weeks he’s gone from being the golden child, helping to get rid of the marked ones. And now here he was in Aretia, fighting against everything he’s always known, and now you’re pregnant.

He reaches out and takes your hands, grasping them in his as he lets out a shaky breath. “Really took disappointing my dad to a whole new level didn’t I?”

Sawyer

He would be shocked, looking at you like he doesn’t believe you. Like the words didn’t just leave your lips. But they did. You were pregnant with his child.

Despite the seriousness of the situation you were all in he would embrace you immediately.

“You’re not mad?” You ask him as he pulls away. “Gods no. Is it terrible timing? Probably, but we’ll make it work.”

Which feels like it won’t as you sit next to his bed, his leg now missing as you grip onto his hand like a lifeline. Everyone else had gone, leaving just you with him. None of them aware of what was looming over you.

He lightly squeezes your hand, your eyes snapping to his as he lazily smiles at you. You engulf him in a hug, completely forgetting about his injury. You start sobbing all the thoughts tumbling around your head. Sawyer just embraces you tighter, whispering you’ll make it work. It has to. Especially with the ring he wears on a chain around his neck. Waiting for the perfect moment.

Ridoc

He literally thinks you’re joking, trying to pull some prank on him like he does to literally everyone else. But once he sees the way you’re looking at him he goes silent. Ridoc who is never silent. And yet here you are taking the words right out of his mouth.

“Holy shit you’re not joking are you?” He finally asks you. When you shake your head at him he gets so excited.

It might not be the best time with everything going on, but he’s too excited to care right now.

He runs out the door to find Sawyer screaming “I’m going to be a dad!”

So much for keeping that quiet. The whole of Aretia knows with how louds he’s yelling and screaming.

#so cuteee!!!#I love these!!

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