#MAY have poured the cream in a touch hot cos i was looking at boy images

[chelemlem]

broke out the vanilla beans and the le creuset for celebratory 1-2 creme brulee. we're cooking or wtvr

[damnedparker]

sunburnt

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x reader (gender neutral; no y/n)

warnings: none i think! some tension and some fluff

summary: turns out obi-wan is susceptible to sunburns... among other things.

also posted on ao3

this started out as a simple blurb for an established relationship but i decided to spice things up with a bit of yearning. i love flirty obi-wan. let's pretend sunblock exists in star wars (i couldn't find evidence that it doesn't). enjoy.

Tattooine was hot.

That was the main information you had gathered from your short stint to the desolate, sandy planet alongside Obi-Wan. He’d been there before, back when his padawan was just a boy, but this was your first time visiting the planet, and you hoped it’d be the last. Sweltering heat from two suns was not your cup of tea, especially in thick Jedi robes.

Now back on your ship, and thanking the Maker for the coldness of space, you took time to relax, soaking all the events of the day. You had been sent to collect information on a bounty hunter the Council had taken interest in, and unfortunately came back with little that would help in their search. You had done all you could, though, and that was enough to set your mind at ease for now. The exhaustion had begun to set into your bones, and all you really wanted to do was crawl into bed for a good night of sleep. You had seven hours of the trip back to Coruscant, so you supposed you’d only get a few hours for a nap at most.

As you settled into the co-pilot seat for the trip back, your eyes wandered over to your partner’s, which was currently focused on making the jump into hyperspace. Obi-Wan wasn’t fond of flying, no, but he could feel your weariness beginning to creep in and took over the job without mentioning it. Always so thoughtful. You smiled as your gaze traveled over his form, affection radiating from you.

“See something you like?” Your partner commented, throwing a playful smirk your way.

“Perhaps,” you paused, holding back a snicker once you realized how red his skin had become. “Although I must say, I prefer my men medium rare rather than well-done.” Obi-Wan scoffed at your joke, clearly not amused at all, probably because of his burnt state.

“How is it that you’re completely fine?” He tossed you an accusatory glance, crossing his arms, bringing a smile to your lips. A strand of hair fell in front of his face, something which he was far too annoyed to fix immediately, refusing his hands to fall back into their common tick of running through his golden, shaggy locks. Despite it all, he looked so effortlessly handsome in his grumpy state.

“I did offer sunblock, but somebody was too stubborn to take it,” you shrugged. “And you’re quite gingery. Comes with the genes I suppose.” Obi-Wan grumbled under his breath and slid back into his seat, tossing his head away from you. The ship went quiet, the rumble of the engine the only thing breaking the silence until you spoke again.

“Oh, Obi, don’t be like that,” you cooed, rising from your seat to stand by him. You placed a gentle hand against his cheek, some of the tension melting off him at your touch. Your self-control was slipping, and you were slowly falling off that cliff, beginning to drown in all the affections you held deep in your heart for the Jedi. Basking in his returned warmth, you could feel it radiating off of his aura. His Force reaching out to just brush yours. It made you shiver, pulling away. “Some bacta cream should ease the pain, I’ll grab the med kit.”

As you busied yourself, trying to push down all the feelings threatening to swallow you up, you fumbled and dropped the med kit on the floor. You sighed, screwing your eyes shut in a futile attempt to center yourself. Harmless, light-hearted flirting? You could handle it. It was some of your favorite banter with Obi-Wan, the closest you'd get to what you really wanted. However, battling internally with this deep-set attachment to your dear friend was not any easier when he gave off little emotions like just before, only confirming he felt the same as you. So badly you wanted to give in, confess all the little things swimming in your brain that had to do with Obi-Wan, but there was the fear attached to it. The little pocket of fear that held on for dear life to all your fantasies, wondering what if what if what if. Although over your training and knightship you had found several qualms with the strict Jedi code, you had simply pushed it all down, because that’s what Jedi were meant to do. Even if you didn’t like it. That’s the sacrifice you were sworn to make.

It felt like ten years had passed after you packed the med-kit back up, having retrieved the cream and returning to the cockpit. You found that Obi-Wan had set the ship to autopilot for the long trip back, leaning back in the pilot chair, his eyebrows drawn together, surely at the perpetual heat on his face. As you made your way in front of him, he simply spread his legs to make room for you in front of him. It was your turn to have heat settle on your cheeks. One of his eyes popped open, a cheeky smile overtaking his face. You could've passed out.

No words were shared between the two of you, his annoyingly charming grin saying enough. You bit your lip and took his chin between your thumb and forefinger to tilt his face up to yours. He relaxed his features again and allowed your fingers to peruse his skin, gently massaging the cold cream in. The smallest of groans rumbled in his chest, and you involuntary squeezed his chin just a bit tighter in response.

“You are a life-saver, my darling.” He hummed, eyes opening from his relaxed state to watch you. Only a few seconds passed before you finished, his gaze inevitably meeting yours. You could’ve melted right then, and, in fact, it seemed as though your thoughts did, and came pouring out of your mouth.

“You get all freckly in the sun,” your voice was soft. “It’s cute.”

“You think I’m cute?” He tilted his head ever so slightly, chin now escaping your fingers. You didn’t reply, instead focusing very intently on wiping your fingers on the thigh of your pant-leg. Suddenly, Obi-Wan’s hand caught yours as it moved to screw on the cap lid. “My lips are feeling a bit dry, sweet one, if you don’t mind.” Words couldn’t make themselves known if you tried, utter putty in your Jedi’s hands as he took your thumb, pressing the smallest of dollops onto it, and bringing it to his lips. You took over, almost as a reflex, gently pressing the cream into his only slightly dry lips, not nearly suffering enough to need treatment. His eyes held your attention ever-so purposefully as he still held your hand, warm within his gentle grip. He pressed a kiss to the pad of your thumb, then kissing your knuckles, curling your fingers through the spaces between his. “I should make you blush more often, it’s beautiful on you.”

The tension between the two of you in the few moments of quiet that followed next was palpable, your auras so close to touching that the only possible reaction was to fully envelop each other in that warmth, in each other’s affections. Whatever bravery that was stored away for battles and enemies possessed you suddenly as you leaned forward and captured Obi-Wan’s lips with your own. He made a surprised, but clearly content noise, reciprocating the act almost immediately. His gentle touch travelled from your hand to both of his arms sliding around your waist, pulling you now onto his lap. Your own hands found themselves in his hair, tangled up in the golden locks you adored from only afar for so long.

Neither of you could tell how long it took until you had to come up for air, breathing heavily and looking at each other as you processed what had just occurred. The crinkles around Obi-Wan’s eyes appeared as he smiled, just taking you in and taking in the warmth of finally letting all the bottled-up feelings escape. It was cathartic. Comforting. How could attachment be so forbidden when it felt like this? Trying so hard to constrain your emotions was so stressful, responsible for quite the amount of tension that locked up your shoulders and racked your brain when you were trying to sleep. To be able to let the positive ones flow so freely released you of some of this, gave you some sort of relief and the most clarity you had felt in a while. Obi-Wan had already been your rock, your best friend for years, but this intimacy you had craved for so long felt like it could heal every aching bone in your body. Every aching hole in your heart after seeing years of war.

“What are you thinking about, angel?” The words coming from his mouth were sweet saccharine, swirling deep into your soul and soothing any nerves that may have been left over from moments before.

“You,” you paused reaching up to toy with the ends of his hair. “What this means for us now.”

“This,” he mused, tapping his fingers against your hip. “This means everything to me. And I will risk everything I have just to be able to have a taste of this once again.” He leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth, lasting just for a second before he chuckled softly against your skin. “If I had known that it took a sunburn for this to happen, I would have flung myself into the nearest sun a long time ago."

[hunnybby]

title: tally marks

pairing: yaku morisuke x fem reader

genre: general/fluff

word count: 3,200+

warnings: mentions of alcohol

a/n: happy late bday yaku! written for the HaikyuuCreations MPE August Event. prompt below:

2. International Hangover Day — August 8th is International Hangover Day, just a day after International Beer Day. The day previously was such a blast, though anyone can hardly remember it, but now your characters are suffering the consequences.

-

Time: August 7 on Friday, 20:17 PM Location: The bar, a few blocks down from the office Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 0, Beer- 0

“Just go inside, Yaku,” you plead, pushing your co-worker towards the door of the bar.

The bouncer eyes you both as you take Yaku’s wallet from his pants pocket, sliding out his ID and placing both yours and his in the palms of the man acting as a barrier between you and a few drinks and some dancing. With a nod, he hands the ID’s back, and moves a bit so that you could squeeze by, a passing “Happy birthday” coming from him. Yaku ignores it, thinking to himself that his birthday is the next day so he shouldn’t have to say thank you.

He hates his birthday. But every year since the year you met him, you’ve insisted on celebrating his birthday. And every year since the year you met him, he’s agreed (even if it was after hours of you whining that birthday’s only come once a year and you’ll only be this age once!).

But when you make your way towards the counter, and he hears you order two shots of vodka and a pineapple juice chaser for you to share, his eyes widen and he shakes his head abruptly. “Absolutely not,” he tells you, backing up slowly before bumping into a man dancing his butt off. “No shots. We have work tomorrow.”

You don’t look at him, but he sees you raise an eyebrow. “Oh? No work tomorrow?” you question, your tone dancing between curious and mock-disbelief.

His shoulder’s drop, he feels defeated. “Yes.”

You give a polite nod to the bartender and slide Yaku his shot, setting the pineapple chaser in between you two, “Tell me, Yaku, what day of the week is it today?”

The day dawns on him, and he runs his freehand down his features, “Friday.”

You give him a toothy smile, “Friday. Just this one shot, and a few beers and we can get out of here, yeah? It’s a double celebration- International Beer Day and Yaku Morisuke’s birthday!” you suggest, raising your glass to him, waiting for the clink. And when he taps his shot glass to yours, you cheer and the night finally begins.

Time: August 8 on Saturday, 11:27 AM Location: Your living room floor

Yaku jolts up from the sound of a toilet flushing, and he regrets this action immediately. He has a headache- the annoying kind. The one that he knows he will linger throughout most of the day. He has a funny feeling in his stomach- nausea. His entire body aches.

He’s thankful that the room is still dark, thankful that he decided to buy those blackout shades to keep the daylight out- wait.

He doesn’t have blackout sheets. And if his memories serve him right, he doesn’t remember getting an extra firm mattress.

“Hey, birthday boy,” you drone with a hoarse voice. He can tell that whatever he’s feeling, you’re feeling too. Your footsteps sound slow and methodical- you probably don’t have any contacts or glasses on. “Sorry my floors not too comfortable, but you wouldn’t let me take you to bed,” you say, handing him a glass of water.

He doesn’t have the energy to flush, but your words are embarrassing him. “Don’t say things like that.” He takes the water, and chugs it down immediately. And immediately, he regrets it. His stomach is telling him to drink things slower. “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

You sit on your couch and tuck your legs under you. You look down at Yaku, who has already positioned himself back comfortably on your floor. “Do you remember what happened last night?” you question him, a sly smile gracing your lips. “Or do you want me to tell you?”

Yaku makes a face, and looks up at the ceiling fan. What did he do last night? He doesn’t remember much- the last thing he really remembers is you challenging him, saying that you could match whatever he drinks.

Time: August 7 on Friday, 20:43 PM Location: The bar, a few blocks down from the office Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 1, Beers- 2

“It’s a marathon not a race, idiot,” Yaku scolds you, speech not yet slurred. But that red fanning his face is a dead giveaway that he’s about to have some fun real soon. “Besides, I’m bigger than you. I’d drink you under the table.”

You laugh and can’t help but agree with him, “I guess you’re right. But you aren’t that much bigger than me. I bet I could match you if I tried.”

The strawberry blond (in your head, you’re thinking ‘the cutest strawberry blond’) takes another swig of his beer of choice. “Don’t,” he sets his beer down. “I don’t wanna carry you out of here.”

He misses the way that your eyes travel to his beer. The smile on your face grows a bit wider, “How about we just drink like normal people do then? To you, Yaku!”

Time: August 8 on Saturday, 11:36 AM Location: Your living room floor

You push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “You didn’t do anything embarrassing,” you admit, “but I wish you did!”

Yaku groans, and the small action is still enough to exacerbate the banging he’s feeling on his head. “So, we had a few beers- that’s it right? That doesn’t explain why I can’t remember anything.”

“I had a few beers. You had a few more than I did.” You gesture towards Yaku’s arm, and he has to bring his arm up to his face because he can’t bear to move his head right now.

“It was pretty impressive- the way you just put it all away so fast.”

Time: August 7 on Friday, 21:01 PM Location: The bar, a few blocks down from the office Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 1, Beers- 3

You watch Yaku finish his beer, chugging it down and taking his lips away with a satisfying ‘ah!’

Your eyes light up, and you take a sharpie out of your purse, “I have an idea.” Before Yaku can ask, you’re grabbing his arm and rolling up his sleeves, “Let’s see how much you can drink.” He feels the tingle of contact when you glide the sharpie on his skin, drawing four tick marks.

He’s at the stage of tipsy where he doesn’t mind that you’re in his personal bubble. “That’s a stupid idea,” he fights, but he doesn’t pull away. “You’ll forget to mark it. Probably be too busy dancing.”

“Not if you agree to dance with me,” you wink at him.

Time: August 8 on Saturday, 12:52 PM Location: Your kitchen

“Do you take your coffee with anything? Cream, sugar, or whatever?” you ask, shuffling through your pantry and fridge while the coffee brews. It probably has another minute or two before it’s ready.

The good thing is, Yaku has finally dragged himself up and to your kitchen. The brightness in your kitchen, however, is not doing him any favors. If anything, it makes the banging in his head louder, harder. He thinks that maybe sugar will make him feel sicker. “I’ll take it black.”

“Suit yourself, then.” You sneak some sugar and milk into your coffee cup before pouring the coffee in.

You settle the coffee in front of him, and he gladly takes it. The smell alone helps the drums diminuendo slightly. “That doesn’t sound bad, but I still can’t remember. Are these tally marks even accurate?”

You roll your eyes. “I may not work in the finance department, but I know how to count.”

Time: August 7 on Friday, 22:14 PM Location: The bar, a few blocks down from the office – the dance floor Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 1, Beers- 5

“Stop being so stiff!” you cackle, hunching over slightly to hold your sides. Everyone knows Yaku isn’t the best dancer, but you’ve never seen it in real time. “It looks like you’re doing the robot.”

You think he’s still okay but the droopiness of his eyelids and the slur in his speech tells you otherwise. “I don’t dance, Y/N,” he says again for what feels like the 30th time tonight.

He puts his hands on your hips in an attempt to steady you. “Let’s go sit back down, I feel goofy,” he replies into your ear. If it weren’t for the loud music and the way he breath smells like beer, you would have swoon. But your skin still feels hot under his touch. The bodies around you aren’t helping, either.

You think you want to run your hands through his hair, but instead your hands find his tie and you loosen it up for him. You hesitate for a split second before deciding to also unbutton the first button of his shirt. Your hands hover over the second button, but you push that option from your mind. He needs to relax, but you don’t think he’d be comfortable with an undone shirt.

“Just hang onto me,” you instruct next, bringing his hands slightly higher so they rest right above your hips. “And move!”

Time: August 8 on Saturday, 12:57 PM Location: Your kitchen

Of course, you leave out the part where his hands are on you. You can tell him that later, when he isn’t feeling like dying. But you make a theatrical reenactment to show his moves.

His eyes mimic saucers. “You got me to the dance floor?” He leans back on the chair, and uses one hand to cover his eyes. “Why? How?”

You shrug, hiding your coy smile behind your cup as you take another sip of coffee. “You seemed to enjoy it though.”

He’s shaking his head. “I rarely enjoy dancing.” He leans forward again, taking another gulp of coffee.

The caffeine seems to be helping, and he’s learned his lesson from the water that he shouldn’t be inhaling his drinks. It won’t do him any good. But, he feels less nauseous the more he drinks, and he’s grateful that he’s in your apartment and not in his. He knows he would have spent a little longer laying around moping.

“You really just danced,” you tap on your chin, thinking about the night and his actions, “and you were having a good time!” As an afterthought, you add, “We should’ve invited our coworkers.”

Time: August 7 on Friday, 22:30 PM Location: The bar, a few blocks down from the office – the dance floor Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 1, Beers- 5.5

Yakus’ tie is completely gone now, lost in the depths of your purse. The grip around your upper waist tightens just a bit, bringing you closer to him. You look up at him expectantly. And you think that maybe you’re too easy to read when you’ve also had a few drinks, because even inebriated Yaku can tell you’re thinking about something.

He looks around briefly, then settles his eyes on you once again. “People keep bumping into us. It’s better if we stay close,” and the Cheshire-like smile you sported when you took your first shot is now making an appearance on Yaku’s lips. “Is this okay?”

You nod dumbly, swallowing hard and clinging onto him even harder. The atmosphere takes another shift when you find yourself laughing again as he swings you both around in a clumsy stilled-tango, “Why’re you still so awkward?! Move your feet!”

He lets go of you then, then starts exaggerating his movements. “Like this?” He’s flailing his arms and flapping his feet. He whacks a guy behind him, but he’s probably as lost as Yaku and doesn’t react negatively in the slightest.

You grab his hands, holding them to his sides and dragging him away from the dance floor, “That was perfect! I have another idea now.”

He lets himself be led by you, freeing himself from your grasp to down the rest of his beer.

Time: August 8 on Saturday, 13:16 PM Location: Your kitchen

“You kinda looked like a chicken,” you point out, grabbing the empty cups and setting them in your sink, running the water to begin washing them right away. “It was cute.” Then, after a second to think about it, “It was like watching a toddler learn how to move their limbs for the first time.”

He pouts. This does nothing to help his case. Then, looks at his arm again. “So why does my arm have 8 marks?”

You rinse the dish soap off the last cup you are washing and roll your eyes in what you think is a playful manner. “Because we took one more shot. Duh.”

He raises an eyebrow, trying so hard to remember last night. “We did?”

The sound of dishes clicking together on the drying rack fill the air as you place them carefully next to each other. You grab the nearest kitchen towel to wipe down at your counter and your sink. “But just one more.”

Time: August 7 on Friday, 22:30 PM Location: The bar, a few blocks down from the office – the dance floor Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 1, Beers- 6

“Two birthday shots!” you shout out to the bartender, waving your arms to grab their attention. Yaku stands behind you, waving his arms in sync with you. His other hand somehow finds its way to your waist again, but you don’t mind. Your mind drifts to the thought of having his hand there forever, and you smile harder.

“Last one?” you ask, bringing your shot glass up to him as an offering.

“Last one,” he replies, bringing his glass up to yours before downing the shot in one go. It’s sweet, but Yaku still makes a face from the taste. “Remind me to never take that shot ever again,” he says, placing the glass on the table and leaving his hand there for support. “It’s too sweet.”

“You’re sweet,” you say as a way to insult him.

And when you’re stumbling out of the bar at 23:00 PM (too early, you think. But it’s been awhile since you’ve even been out), you have Yaku clinging to your arm as you squint your eyes to look out for your Lyft drive.

“You’re sweet, too, I guess,” he mumbles, more to the ground than to you. And it takes you a moment to realize that he was responding to your earlier comment.

The cool breeze of the night helped with the warmth you felt on your skin, but it’s all been for naught with his comment. Now, you feel the heat come back.

A quick glance at your phone shows you that your driver is 2 minutes away. This gives you enough time to position Yaku straight (or as straight as he could possibly stand).  “You don’t know what you’re saying right now, Yaku,” you grin at him. He still isn’t looking at you.

“You’re very pretty. Sometimes I go to the payroll office to see you. I know you hide by the printers there,” he admits.

You bite your lip. “That’s sweet, but please don’t tell anyone where I hide.”

“And I really…” he trails off, the sentence mixing with the breeze you feel.

This piques your interest, so you turn to him. And he’s finally looking at you again. “Really…” he continues.

But your Lyft arrives.

And Yaku upchucks on the ground.

Luckily, it doesn’t get on you. And luckily it doesn’t get in the Lyft either. It’s better he lets it out now. You wouldn’t want to ask him for $300 on his birthday.

Time: August 8 on Saturday, 13:24 PM Location: Your living room couch

Of course, you leave out where he compliments you before he blows chunks. That is also something you can tell him later on. But you don’t leave off the chunks part.

He’s groaning next to you, his left knee slightly brushing your right knee as you both sit cross-legged on the couch. “I threw up? In front of you?” He looks at his arm again, “I didn’t even have that much to drink.”

“You drank it so fast- guess you were sprinting, rather than marathon-ing,” you chuckle, repositioning and bringing your knees close to your chest. “But, you got it on the ground! I think I would’ve killed you if you threw up in the Lyft.”

And you both sit in silence for a bit, basking in it. Yaku especially, since his headache is finally going away completely. Something about your apartment is helping him through this hangover. He thinks that maybe it’s because of your blinds. He really needs to get some. Maybe he’ll ask you where you got yours later.

“So, what do you wanna do for your birthday?” you ask. Somewhere in the quiet, you’ve shifted your body, resting your back on the armrest of your couch with your feet at his thigh, pushing slightly to catch his attention. “We can get some brunch? Mimosas?” you joke, lips curling upwards when Yaku makes a disgusted face.

He can’t even think of alcohol right now. He might drink too fast again. “Absolutely not. We celebrated last night, didn’t we?”

“Stay then,” you offer sheepishly, “I’ll order food and we can watch a movie.”

Time: August 7 on Friday, 22:42 PM Location: The Lyft, on your way to your apartment Yaku’s Stats: Shots- 1, Beers- 6

Yaku fights, not wanting to crash at anyone else’s place. “I wanna go home. I want my bed,” he slurs, clinging to the passenger door and clicking the window button up and down. He doesn’t know if he wants cool, fresh air or warm, car air. Maybe he should ask you to ask the driver to turn on the AC.

“You can go home tomorrow. Crash at my place,” you tell him again for the 3rd time. “I live closer anyway. You don’t want to do a sleepover with me?”

He snorts, “Are we in middle school?”

You look out your window to keep yourself from smiling to hard at him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this drunk; you also don’t think you’ve ever seen him drink so fast.

“It’ll be fun,” the car stops in front of your apartment building, “come on. You can take my bed.” You tug at Yaku’s arm and let him sling it over you.

“Will you be there, too?”

As appealing as that sounds, you shake your head. “I can take the couch.”

He visibly pouts, jutting his lips out to exaggerate his disappointment.

It’s a struggle to get the key into the door, but when you finally do, Yaku makes his way straight to your couch. He doesn’t land perfectly, because you see him slowly roll off to the ground. You have to stifle a laugh when he starts snoring immediately.

You stare at him a bit, deciding if you should wake him up, drag his limp body to the comfort of your bed, or just leave him there on your floor. Ultimately, it’s better to not touch someone who’s knocked out within seconds.

You open your mouth to say something, but shut it after. There’s no way he’d be able to hear you saying thank you. You’ll wait until the morning to bother him again.

-

tagging: @kingkags

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #29 - Paternal

set the night before last year’s fill #27, “palaver.”

AO3 Link HERE

=========================

Eighty-nine. Ninety.

The bristles dragged through her hair in a soothing rhythm, marking a routine she'd once kept daily and all but forgotten.

She'd been lulled into a half-dozing state by the sound of the wind as it whistled around the eaves of the manor - it was very cold but there was no snow or ice for once - and every northerly burst made her feel as though she'd stepped back in time a good ten years.

A knot from one of the logs popped in the hearth-fire. She started and exhaled, then raised the brush again.

Ninety-one. Ninety-two.

There were differences, of course. No rattle from a nearby ceruleum space heater, and no worry that her aunt might come knocking for one of her talks. But she was no longer that girl of eighteen summers and this was not the borrowed guest-chamber her aunt and uncle had assigned her in the family compound in Garlemald. This was Ishgard and over a decade had passed since she had been that girl. If anyone in her family spoke her name now it was to curse it for the shame her actions had undoubtedly brought upon them.

But she had no regrets. Things had happened that no reasonable person could have foreseen, and she had done the best she could under the circumstances.

Ninety-three.

When one thought of it in that light, Aurelia supposed she hadn't done so poorly. Granted, hers was something of an extraordinary case, but even Warriors of Light weren't invincible and before all of this had started, she had just been a normal woman no different from any other on the star. If she had known what she-

A rap on the heavy door.

"Mistress Aurelia? Are you awake?"

She set her brush down. "I am," she said. "What do you need, Saulette?"

"The Co-- er, Lord Edmont's asked for you."

"Give me one moment." Aurelia reached for her soft house coat and stepped into her slippers, then made her way to the door. It opened with a creak and the girl on the other side looked distressed to see that she was still fumbling with the belt at her waist.

"Oh, miss, you should have said-"

"It's fine," she said, smiling. "I hardly need assistance to put on a robe, and Lord Edmont will likely have been winding down himself. Where is he?"

"The parlor, miss."

She padded down the hallway and up the stairs at Saulette's heels. The young maid opened the door and bowed, stepping aside to allow Aurelia entry. Edmont de Fortemps sat in his customary chair, warming himself at the hearth and dressed in bedclothes of his own, careworn features drawn and pensive, silver-streaked dark hair perhaps a touch less neat than he might have allowed during daytime hours. It was a rare look at a man who was as controlled and dignified as her own father had been.

"Mistress Aurelia, my lord."

"Thank you, Saulette. Pray excuse us. I would like to speak with her alone."

The girl bowed. "Of course, my lord."

The door clicked softly shut at her back. Lord Edmont was smiling at her in a way her own father had never done, and gesturing at the chair nearest him.

"Well, come in, my dear," he said. "It's too cold to stand in the stairwell, you'll catch a cold from that draft." She smiled in return, drawing closer to the fire and curling up in the plush upholstered chair. "Are you nervous?"

"About tomorrow? A bit, but in that public speaking sort of way, you know."

"I do know, as it happens! Between you and me: that is the one bit about being the official head of the House that I have not missed." He reached for a porcelain teapot sitting on a tray at the nearby end table. "All the heres and wherefores and endless worry about my public image and how it might or might not reflect poorly upon the family as a whole."

"Indeed."

"I wish Artoirel joy of it. He's been chomping at the bit but I suspect reality will set in soon enough."

"I think he'll do well," Aurelia said, watching him pour the cup.

"He will. I love the boy, you know. Very much his mother's child. A bit stuffy at times, but he's a good man with a good head on his shoulders, and he's not mired in Church politics the way some of his peers are. He'll do the Fortemps name justice, I think." Edmont's dark eyes shone with cheer as he lifted the filled teacup and offered it to her. "...You had a great deal of influence there, you know."

"You give me far too much credit that I cannot claim, Lord Edmont. Artoirel is his own man."

"So he is. But you've always led by example, and you taught him some valuable lessons I think he might not otherwise have learned. Cream and sugar?"

"Just a bit of cream. And one lump." She paused, cup halfway to her lips. "...You really don't miss it at all?"

"There are some habits I miss. But it's rather like losing a tooth, you know. Strange at first but then everything falls into place over time and you barely notice that part of the routine was ever missing at all. No," he said, watching her sip, "I think it will be no great effort to make the adjustment. Being a private citizen does have its perks. And I'm still the family patriarch. That hasn't changed."

"No," Aurelia smiled over the rim of the cup. "No, it hasn't."

"Which brings me to the reason why I had Saulette bring you to me."

"What? Oh dear. That sounds rather serious," she said, trying to keep her tone lighthearted as she set the cup aside. "Tataru didn't ring you in the middle of the night for some emergency or other, did she?"

"Fury forbid!" he guffawed. "No, nothing like that. I have something I want to show you, but first I must beg your forgiveness."

"What? Why?" Aurelia was honestly curious. He set his cup aside and reached for a small, varnished spruce box sitting upon his ottoman, grunting softly with the effort. "Why would you need to apologize to me for anything?"

Edmont paused, one hand caressing the grain of the wood. That pensive expression had returned to his face, the one she had caught just before Saulette had announced her presence.

"I've little idea what to do for something like this. I only ever had sons, you see," he said. "I have loved all three of them. Now I don't delude myself into thinking I have been a perfect father, or even a particularly good one, but I like to think I have done well enough by them. ...Two of them, at least. At any rate, I'm told that in Garlemald, the tradition is for the bride to take with her into the ceremony something old, something new-"

"-something borrowed, and something blue," Aurelia finished. "Yes, it's an old wedding custom the Empire never saw fit to dismantle. Just a sort of mnemonic, for good luck. But I would hardly say it's a requirement."

"Be that as it may," he said, his fingers working the catch on the box open, "I would very much like you to wear these tomorrow."

Within the box lay a delicate lace-trimmed handkerchief of sky-blue linen, faded and discolored in places with age, folded into a neat triangle and lying atop what appeared to be a bundle of old letters. Edmont unfolded the corners with as much care as if the cloth was some priceless artifact, and within lay a small, simple pendant, an aquamarine cut into the shape of a teardrop. Firelight reflected upon the individual facets until the jewel sparkled.

"It's stunning and I'm honored that you would trust me with it. Did these pieces belong to the late countess?"

His smile trembled. "No," Edmont said. "They belonged to Haurchefant's mother."

"Oh..."

"My wife would have destroyed all of it, so I concealed this box within my personal effects. I intended to give all of this to him when he married, but-"

Aurelia bowed her head, staring into her cup.

"It bears repeating," his tone was gentle, "that I do not blame you for his death. I have never blamed you."

"But-"

"I grieve him, as does any parent who has had to bury their child, but I have never blamed you. I would give anything to have him back. Yet I cannot deny my pride in having raised a son who would be selfless enough to-" He swallowed, the bob in his throat swift and almost violent in its movement. "...Well, we'll never get through this if I start crying. Take it."

He passed her the box. She stared down at the pendant.

"Lord Edmont, I-"

"No titles necessary, my dear. I think at this point we've moved well beyond formality." He cleared his throat and glanced into the fire. "Well, I'm certain your own parents would be very proud of you."

Oh hells. Her throat felt hot and tight and her vision blurred.

"I very much doubt that," she said, her voice even but only just. "Oh, I doubt that."

"Why so?"

Aurelia's fingers clutched the edges of the box until they dug into her palms.

"...I shouldn't burden you with this-"

"By all means, my dear. Go on."

"It's... my background is much like Haurchefant's, in truth." She sighed. "My mother was a musician and an actress. She had top billing in one of His Radiance's personal favorite troupes, in fact. She enjoyed a good deal of renown when she still toured the imperial playhouses. But fame or no, she came from common stock and my uncle wouldn't have the match. Father broke a betrothal and defied his family to marry her. He even left the capitol at their request."

Edmont had leaned against the armrest of his chair to listen, his expression patient and focused. She glanced into the mirror over the mantelpiece and saw her face, as ever, staring back. Her father's broad nose and high cheekbones and golden hair, her mother's eyes. No matter where she went, she could look in a mirror and always see her mother's eyes. Usually, it was a comfort, in its own way. Tonight-

She chewed on her lower lip.

"They didn't know about her weak heart until I came along. It took so much out of her, and she never recovered from my birth. To say that my father was unable to deal with the loss would be putting things kindly."

"I can well imagine."

"There were so many times over the years I would see him looking at me and the expression he had on his face when he looked away, it- ...I used to think that he hated me. Knowing what I know now, I can see his side of things better than I ever wanted to. He lost himself in his own despair and had no time for anything else. But I think that if he had been given a choice, he would have taken my mother without a shadow of a doubt. I'm certain I'm not the only child to have ever been in this situation, neither the first nor the last. But his greatest sin, his greatest failure as a father, was letting me know it."

Something hot trickled down her cheek but she forced herself to keep talking.

"He wasn't a father to me. How could he possibly have been a good father? The moment she left us he gave up on everything."

Edmont said nothing, and she could see nothing of his face through her tears. But she heard the sound of the chair scraping as he stood, and the tap of his cane upon the floor. A warm hand descended upon her shoulder and squeezed. Gently he plucked the box from her hands, set it on the table, and pulled her to her feet.

"Any parent should be proud to have raised a child like you," he said, "and I doubt your mother would have held any of your choices against you. You are an exceptional woman - not just by your deeds, but by your heart - and even if she had known beforehand what would happen to her I suspect that much like Haurchefant, she would not have changed a thing about her decision. Sometimes our sorrows are so great in scale and so close together we think the world will never be anything else. But there is joy, great joy, in living." He tucked a stray sheaf of her hair behind her ear. "And there is joy in the hope you bring to others and in your presence in their lives. Let that be her enduring gift to you- as you are to us."

Smiling, albeit with a great sadness in his eyes, he opened his free arm and let her come to him.

"Had I ever been fortunate enough to raise a daughter," he said, "I like to think she would have been a great deal like you. If you can ever bring yourself to say it, it would greatly honor this old man to be your father in truth as well as bureaucracy."

Wrapped in his embrace, she smelled cloves, coffee, aged paper, and the earthy sweetness of pipe tobacco. She inhaled on a choked sob and nodded, unable to speak. Tomorrow would be for joy and joy alone. Tonight, she wept for the father she had lost years before he had left her, and for the gift of another.

And before the warmth of the great hearth, basking in the warmth of the parental love she had always wished to know for herself, she let the last ancient tatters of her grief burn away to cinders.