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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years ago

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Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

112 notes · View notes

snelbz · 4 years ago

Text

lovely {8}

a @tacmc x @snelbz collaboration

Find previous chapters here: Lovely Masterlist.

Feyre couldn’t do anything but stare across the room. The pure elation at seeing her art, a piece that she’d poured her heart into, hanging in a museum, was snuffed out as she found Tamlin and Ianthe across the room.

“Stay here,” she breathed, barely noticing as a petite dark-haired woman came up beside Rhys. She handed him her wine and was across the room before she processed what she was doing.

Her new friend’s eyes went wide as she saw her walking towards them, but Feyre ignored her, gripping Tamlin by the elbow. “Tam, can I talk to you for a minute?”

A look of sheer surprise crossed Tamlin’s face as he turned and found Feyre standing there. Any notion she may have had that this was planned and she released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. He blinked and said, “Sure,” before turning to Ianthe and saying, “I’ll be right back.”

When she glanced over at her, the friendliness in her eyes had been replaced with ice.

They stepped off to a corner and before he could say anything, she said, “She’s not a good person, Tam.”

He blinked, grass green eyes wholly confused and asked, “Ianthe? How do you even know her?”

“I feel like I should be asking you the same thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glanced across the room, thankful to see Ianthe hadn’t noticed Rhysand. Yet.

Tamlin hesitated, then began rubbing his temples. “Feyre, not that it’s not a joy to see you, but last time we were near each other it didn’t turn out great, so if you’re stalking me-.”

Feyre barked a laugh. “Seriously? You think way too highly of yourself, asshole. Do I need to remind you that you were the one that fainted on my porch not long ago?”

He grimaced as he looked away.

“I’m...here with a friend,” Feyre said, at last.

Tamlin’s lips thinned. “Rhys, then?”

“You need to get rid of Ianthe,” she said, arms crossed, ignoring his question altogether.

To her surprise, Tamlin laughed. “Let me get this straight. You break up my date, while you’re on a date, to tell me that I should get rid of my date...even though you have no feelings for me, whatsoever?”

Feyre blinked. “Yeah, she’s aw-.”

“What gives you the fucking right?” he snapped, his eyes narrowing.

“She has a baby,” Feyre hissed. “And it’s….not a good situation. It’s complicated.” Oh, and by the way, the father is my sister’s boyfriend, and my boyfriend’s best friend. How’s that for complicated?

Tamlin just shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I hear the baby daddy is a little asshole.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice was cold.

He snorted. “Is it Rhys? Wouldn’t surprise me if he couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

“Is there a problem over here?”

Her voice wasn’t nearly as sweet as it had been in the bathroom earlier. Now it was sickly and reminded Feyre of artificial sweetener.

“No, Feyre was just getting ready to leave,” Tamlin said, not taking his eyes off of her.

“You’re making a mistake, Tam,” she breathed.

Ianthe asked, “Wait, this is Feyre?”

The tone made Feyre pause and she turned to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The smile on her face was cruel as she said, “I shouldn’t be surprised. The best gold-digging whores are always the prettiest.”

Feyre wouldn’t have been able to stop the words if she tried. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

One day, when Feyre needed to paint a model of rage, she’d use memory of Ianthe’s face.

“Everything okay, Feyre, darling?” Rhysand’s hand settled low on her back, fingers wrapping around her hip, and she knew that he knew Tamlin was watching.

This has become a dangerous game, and while Feyre didn’t want to make a scene, she couldn’t remember a point in her life where she’d been so angry.

Ianthe’s eyes dragged to Rhys and she said, “Oh, look who it is.”

Rhysand ignored her completely. “Tamlin.”

Tamlin nodded to Rhysand, although he wasn’t happy about it.

Rhysand, though, wasn’t phased. His smile was radiant when he said, “Feyre and I have a reservation, we really should be going. Great seeing you. I-.”

“This is your boyfriend?” Ianthe asked, looking from Rhysand to Feyre. “You went from Tam to this piece of trash?”

Feyre’s body stiffened, and Rhysand’s hand around her waist tightened. His voice was still light when he said, “Wasn’t Az supposed to drop Ash off to you tonight? Or, did he just drop him off to your parents, since they’re basically the ones raising your kid.”

The only thing that brought Feyre back down to earth was the look of pure hatred in Ianthe’s eyes as she took a step closer to Rhysand. Even Tamlin reached out a hand to stop her.

“Let’s go, Rhys,” Feyre whispered, her words still hard, but not wanting to start a full on fist fight in the middle of an art gallery.

Without another word, they turned and left, Rhys practically dragging Feyre. He was pulling out his phone, dialing before they’d reached the city streets.

“Who are you calling?” She asked, both of them pausing to breathe as they looked out over the Sidra.

“Azriel.” He put the phone to his ear. “This changes everything.”

—————

Cassian had offered Nesta a drink, but when he opened the cupboard, he found absolutely nothing. Naturally, that meant that a run to the liquor store was a necessity. There was one a block away from his apartment, so he and Nesta were walking, hand in hand, beneath the starlight. She was still wearing that oversized sweatshirt, her hair in a messy-bun on the top of her head, and Cassian was absolutely breathless.

“You’re walking slow,” she said, quiet laughter lacing her tone. She tugged on his hand, but he didn’t move any faster.

“I’m taking my time,” he said, grinning. “Slower I walk, the more time I get to spend with you.”

Nesta snorted. “True, but the faster we get to the store and back to your apartment, the quicker I get tipsy and loose.”

Cassian arched a brow. “Is that you telling me I’m getting lucky tonight?”

She rolled her eyes. “You act like you don’t get lucky every night.”

With a smirk, Cassian decided she was right.

The errand didn’t take long after that, and when they got back to the apartment, Nesta flopped next to Cassian on the couch and said, “I want to take a bath.”

Cassian made a face, which had nothing to do with the whiskey he raised to his lips, and said, “A bath? You want to sit in your own dirt water?”

She raised a brow and said, “I want to get naked, relax and drink wine.” There was emphasis on the naked part.

He bit his lip and thought about his dingy little bathroom. “My bathtub isn’t very big.”

Her lips tilted up slightly at the corners and she said, “Oh, are you taking one with me?”

He sat his whiskey on the table and dragged her on top of him. “You don’t just get to tell me you’re going to get wet and naked and not expect me to want to join.”

She giggled and kissed him before she sighed, “You’re right though. Your bathtub can’t fit us both.” He was about to suggest a shower together when she said, “The hot tub at your pool can.”

He snorted. “Can’t get naked at the pool though.”

“Says who?” She cooed, and stood. Walking back toward his bedroom. When he followed a moment later, he found her tying her bikini strap behind her neck.

He stopped in his doorway and lifted a brow. “You weren’t kidding.”

She quickly spun around, adjusting her top over her boobs. “I don’t kid about relaxing in warm water with wine.”

Cassian chuckled. “You’re not supposed to bring wine down there.”

“Just like you’re not supposed to get naked?” She asked, with an eyebrow raised.

“You’re feeling daring tonight,” he laughed.

She rolled her eyes. “Get in your swimsuit.”

When he emerged from his room in his trunks, Nesta was finishing pouring an entire bottle of wine into a large water bottle he kept for the gym. He laughed quietly and she handed him a cup of his own. He raised an eyebrow and she said, “It’s straight whiskey.”

With a chuckle, he said, “Of course it is.”

He grabbed a couple of towels and they walked down to the pool. At half past eight, in early autumn, Cassian was surprised that it was empty. While he picked a chair up and pulled it over to the hot tub, Nesta was already stepping into the bubbling water, a sigh of contentment leaving her as she settled in.

He joined her, sipping from his travel mug full of whiskey, and draping an arm around her. After about ten minutes, he figured she’d forgotten about her wet and naked claim when she looked around and lifted her hips from the built in bench. She dropped her soaked bottoms along the edge of the water.

Cassian raised an eyebrow and waited as she reached behind her back and untied the strap. The water was just high enough that when she dropped the wet fabric on the concrete, he still couldn’t see anything.

She looked at him and breathed, “Well?”

He blinked, then slowly began to shake his head. “You know, when I met you, I thought you were an uptight piece of work. Now? You’re a wild woman.” He reached into the water, shimmied out of his trunks, and pointedly plopped them down next to the scraps of her bikini.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she crooned, inching closer to him.

He grinned. “I never said that. I’m starting to come to the conclusion that you were a wild woman all along, and now I just get to see your true colors.”

With a quiet laugh, she climbed onto his lap and straddled him. “Our first night together was a drunken fiasco.”

“Oh, I remember it well,” he said, eyes bright, as her arms wrapped around his neck. “But you also bitched at me for ruining your shoes the first time I met you, so my assumptions were valid.”

She scoffed. “They were a one-hundred-and-sixty dollar pair of boots.”

“There’s your problem,” he murmured, leaning up and brushing his lips against hers. “You spent too much on your shoes.”

She snorted but let him pull her into the kiss, lost herself in the way his hands gripped her hips, in the way he tasted like whiskey and how kissing him made her light-headed.

The pool gate creaked and then crashed closed and both Cassian and Nesta jumped slightly, looking towards the sound.

Another couple entered the pool, though they went to the pool, thankfully, rather than the hot tub.

Nesta breathed, “Shit,” and took a large drink of her wine. She reached for her suit, but Cassian grabbed her hand, pulling it back under the water. “What are you doing?”

He smirked and said, “I thought you liked baking a wild woman.”

Her eyes went wide and she warned, “Cass…”

He gripped her hips and ground her into him. The whimper that left her had him grinning.

“Stop it,” she whispered, although her eyes were humored.

The couple was nearing-elderly. If they even knew what was going on, they probably found it romantic, or appalling - either way it could have been worse, but Nesta was still pushing against his chest.

“You got yourself into this mess,” Cassian mumbled. “Now I’m tipsy and too far gone.”

“You’re impossible,” she warned, her fingers running through his hair.

He shook his head, grinning. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait until they’re gone to stick it in you.”

“Stick it in me?” she laughed. “How romantic.”

“Oh, I’m very romantic.” His hands wandered down to her ass and grabbed her, possessively, which made her laugh out loud.

“You know, I’ve had fantasies like this,” she said, feeling that wine coursing through her body, making her lighter, more daring.

“Is that so?” he asked, his hands moving up her sides.

“Yes,” she whispered, cocking her head to the side.

“And what does this fantasy of yours look like?” he asked, quietly.

“Sort of like,” she sat up slightly, gripping him in her hand and sliding down his length. His eyes fluttered shut and she breathed. “You fucking me and me trying my hardest not to get us caught.”

“Nes, they’re, like, a hundred,” he grunted, explaining why they shouldn’t, but gripping her hips and rocking her back and forth regardless.

She didn’t say much else as he head fell into the crook of his neck and her lips found his pulse point. His eyes fell shut and he gripped her ass, urging her to move quicker.

As long as she rocked and didn’t bounce, they should be fine. He was listening to the couple, not really hearing them, but making sure they weren’t suspicious. They should be fine, Nesta was getting close, he could tell by the way she was whimpering quietly and squeezing his cock. But as long as she didn’t bounce, they’d be-.

She reached back and he felt her cup his balls and he couldn’t stop the thrust he slammed up into her or the hiss that left him.

Nesta cried out and he immediately wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her to him. He didn’t look over to the couple, he knew they’d be staring, so instead, he buried his face in her shoulder. He was hoping to make them so uncomfortable that they’d leave, and just a minute, later he heard the gate opening again.

As one they turned, finding the pool empty again and Cassian pinned Nesta’s hands to her sides before she could do anything. He slowly pulled out and pushed back into her, breathing “Let’s discuss the fantasies before we act on them next time, yeah?”

A little smirk appeared on her lips. “But what fun would that be?”

His laughter was quiet as he thrust himself up into her. Nesta’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting.

“At least then I’d know what I’m getting myself into,” he muttered.

“Is that a complaint?” She asked, breathlessly.

“Absolutely not,” he whispered. “You’ll never hear a complaint from me.”

The bouncing began, Nesta holding onto his shoulders, him holding onto her ass. Cassian’s head fell back against the concrete, his eyes falling shut.

It didn’t take long for the whimpers she’d been fighting earlier to become full-on moans and groans now and he was so thankful the couple had left as he lifted Nesta and pulled her nipple between his teeth.

She hissed through her teeth. “You can’t properly fuck me out here,” she whined.

“Should have thought of that before you jumped on my cock,” he said, face between her breasts.

“Your apartment is twenty yards away,” she groaned. “Pull your cock out of me, wrap it in a towel, run upstairs and then fuck me against your kitchen counter.” She tried to stand, but his hands held her down.

He smirked. “Is that another fantasy?”

“Not getting arrested for indecent exposure when when they come back is,” she said, pushing against his shoulders.

“You’re talking like we’re teachers or something,” Cassian grinned, then it faltered, as he was second guessing himself. “Fine. But when we get to my apartment, all rules are out the window.”

Nesta’s grin was devious when she whispered, “Fine.”

She settled down on him all the same, nestling in as low as she could go. Her eyes were wide, not batting for a second as she eyed Cassian. “Take me upstairs, then.”

“Okay,” Cassian breathed, his hands still resting on her hips as she rocked, back and forth.

A moment passed before Nesta whispered. “We’re alone.”

“Yeah,” Cassian breathed. “We are.”

Nesta groaned and finally stood, quickly grabbing one of the towels and wrapping it around herself, as well as her wine and hurried towards his apartment. He chuckled and did the same, remembering to grab their swimsuits, and when he entered the apartment, indeed finding Nesta lying back on his counter with her legs spread, he locked the door and continued fulfilling any and every of Nesta’s fantasies she would share with him.

~~~~~

Azriel had already closed up his shop for the day. The front door was locked, the open sign had been turned around, and it was only him and Elain, who was sitting in the chair at his station, watching as he finished prepping.

“You look nervous,” he said, glancing up at her through his dark lashes as he put on his black, latex gloves.

She cleared her throat. “I’m...not.”

“You’re a horrible liar,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He asked her to unlock her tablet and one last time, they looked at the tattoo she’d fallen in love with all those weeks ago. “So we want the flowers and the pearls, but no watch? Right?”

Elain looked down at the stencil on her shoulder. She ran her finger along the curve of her arm, of the fall down to the upper arm. “Yeah, but shouldn’t it come down lower?”

He smirked. “What did I say about biting off more than you can chew?”

She blushed as she remembered his words in bed that morning. “I’m not,” she murmured. “I just know I want it on my shoulder and my arm.”

He pressed a kiss to her exposed shoulder, beneath where the stencil ended, and said, “Next session, baby.”

She sighed and nodded, sitting back and staring at her shop across the street. Elain heard a couple of loud buzzes and then Azriel’s gloved hand settled on her shoulder. She glanced up at him and tried her hardest to look brave.

When he snorted and asked, “Ready?” She knew she’d failed but she nodded none then less.

She gasped when the needle touched her skin, and her cringing was so evident that Azriel asked You okay? every thirty seconds. After about half an hour or so, though, her shoulder was numb, and she was finally able to relax.

She watched him as he worked. She could tell he took pride in what he did, and he was amazing at it. His brows were furrowed, the lines of his face hard as he concentrated. Every now and then he would look up at her, just to give her a little smile, before getting back to work.

“Will your sisters be surprised?” He asked.

“Probably,” she confessed. “I’ve never exactly been the type to do such a thing. I was talking to Lucien on the way here and he wouldn’t stop asking me if I was serious.”

Azriel chuckled and they fell into a comfortable silence, Azriel’s music playing on his phone behind them. Every now and then, one of them would ask a question and after a couple hours, Azriel was handing her a mirror. “What do you think?”

Elain pulled the strap of her camisole out of the way, though it had been pushed to the side the whole time. “Oh, that’s weird,” she breathed.

Azriel chuckled and asked, “Good weird or bad weird?”

She tilted her head to the side and said, “I like it. How does it look?”

Shaking his head, he began to clean up and said, “I’m a bit partial, but I think it’s one of the best pieces I’ve ever done.” He snapped a few pictures before carefully wrapping it.

“I’ve got a tattoo,” Elain breathed, standing and walking towards the full length mirror hung on the wall.

“You do,” he smiled, coming up behind her and wrapping an arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her neck, on the side that wasn’t throbbing currently. “You look pretty damn sexy if you ask me.”

“Is that so?” She asked, smiling faintly at their reflection.

He nodded, his kisses trailing down her shoulder. “It suits you.”

She turned to him, her hands sneaking behind his neck. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he whispered, and kissed her, softly. “Let me shut everything down and we can grab a bite to eat?”

“Can it wait five more minutes?” She asked, pressing her body up into his.

His grin was radiant as he picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, and took her to his desk in the back where he plopped down in his spinning chair and kissed her, slowly, sweetly.

He took a hell of a lot longer than five minutes.

_____

As Rhys and Feyre we’re pulling up in front Elain’s house, Nesta was climbing out of Cassian’s truck. He walked around to the passenger side and waited with her, talking quietly until the other two reached them.

“I know that we’re the least likely daughters he’d explain things to,” Nesta mused, “but do you have any idea why we’re having a good, old fashioned, family dinner tonight?” She quoted the text Isaac had sent to his daughters, asking them to meet him at Elain’s and to bring their significant others, if they had one.

“I have no idea,” Feyre mumbled, as they began to walk towards the door. “But Elain texted me twenty minutes ago. Az had to bring Asher, Ianthe dropped him on her last minute.”

“Dad’ll have a field day with that,” Nesta muttered, as she walked up the porch with Cassian, the others just behind them. She didn’t bother knocking as she pushed open the door, falling into the living room, where Azriel was lying on the floor, talking to a babbling Asher. He looked up as they all entered and slipped off their shoes.

“Hey. Elain’s in the kitche-.”

“It’s about time!” Isaac swept into the room, cutting off Azriel’s greeting. He went to Nesta and gave her a hug, then Feyre, both of whom stood there half frozen. They definitely noticed that Isaac completely ignored Azriel, and when he caught sight of Cassian, Isaac’s head cocked to the side.

“You work with my daughter,” he said, plainly.

“I do,” Cassian said, holding out his hand. “I’m Cassian.”

Isaac slowly looked down at Cassian’s hand and blinked, dismissing it completely. “And you must be Rice?”

Feyre’s eyes slipped shut and she sighed as he said, “Rhysand, actually, but most people call me Rhys.”

Nesta was already walking away from the door, heading straight for the kitchen, though for Elain or the wine he knew was chilling in the fridge, Cassian wasn’t sure. He sidestepped Rhys, clapping a hand on his shoulder as passed and headed for the living room.

Asher turned at the incoming steps and his face lit up as he beheld Cassian. “There’s my favorite little dude,” he crooned, picking him up and holding him against his chest. Asher continued to babble as he patted his chubby hand against Cassian’s face. He turned and reached toward Azriel, before turning back to Cassian, babbling some more. Cass raised an eyebrow and said, “Pretty sure he almost just said dada.”

Azriel nodded and stood, bending over to brush the fuzz and lint from his black jeans. “Yeah, we’ve been teetering right on the edge for about a week.” He stood and walked over to where Cass held Asher and said,“It’s okay though, because you know what he won’t say?” He looked at Asher, and in baby talk, said, “Ash, say dada.” The baby babbled excitedly, but couldn’t quite put the two sounds together. Azriel smirked and said, in the same playful tone, “Can you say mama?” Asher stared up with his big, hazel eyes and blinked. Cassian snorted as Az took his son and tried once more, “Say mama, bud.”

Cassian chuckled and said, “You get way too much joy out of that.”

“Nah,” Azriel shrugged. “I get just enough.”

“What is that?!”

Cassian’s head turned to the kitchen, to Nesta’s elevated voice. Azriel picked up the beer bottle sitting on the side table and said, “Well, I guess Nesta’s seen Elain’s tattoo now,” and put it to his lips.

Cassian lifted a brow as Feyre hurried into the kitchen, Rhysand joining them in the living room. “Elain got a tattoo?”

Rhysand halted. “Seriously?”

Azriel grinned as Asher grabbed onto his nosering. “Ow.” After gently removing his infant’s fingers from his jewelry, he said, “Yeah, gave it to her last night.”

A throat was cleared and all three men turned around, where Isaac stood, watching them. “You did that to my daughter?”

Azriel hesitated. “Yes. I’m a tattoo artist.”

There was a few seconds of silence as Isaac looked at Azriel’s arms, his hands, his neck, all covered in ink, and then he said, “Of course, you are.”

Rhysand’s eyes met Cassian’s, then to their own skin, which bore nearly identical markings to Azriel’s. And rightfully so, seeing as his own scarred hands had done all of the work on Cassian and Rhys and most of his own.

Azriel was going to let it go, was going to keep the peace for Elain’s sake, just like he’d done when Rhys had called him on the way home last night. But he couldn’t do that.

Clearing his throat, Rhysand asked, “I’m sorry, but what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Azriel’s voice was quiet, but the hard warning was there. “Rhys.” Drop it.

Isaac scoffed, gesturing to him. “I don’t think it needs explaining.”

“I think it definitely does,” he said.

Azriel tried once more. “Rhys.” Let. It. Go.

The older man looked around the room at the three of them, made a decision and said, “The tattoos, the piercings, he’s a single father, and a tattoo artist? Because that’s what a man dreams of for his daughter one day.”

“Listen, you can dislike the way he looks without being a dick,” Cassian began carefully.

Isaac turned to him, and he knew immediately where Nesta’s short fuse had come from. “Oh, this is coming from the one who apparently has sex with my daughter at her - and your - place is employment?”

Cassian really wanted to make a joke about listing all the places he’d had sex with Isaac’s daughter, but decided the list was too long. Instead, he smirked and said, “If that’s the reason you hate me, that’s fine. But calling me out like that isn’t going to rile me up. Good try.”

Isaac opened his mouth to say something, but then Elain was calling from the kitchen, “Food’s ready! Everyone in the dining room!”

The men all stared at each other for another moment, the silence stretching on, but then Asher started fussing.

“Excuse me,” Azriel muttered, before hurrying into the kitchen to make Asher a bottle while the others went into the dining room, where the three sisters were piling dishes filled with food on top of the gray tablecloth.

The tension must have been clear, because all of their smiles faded.

“What’s wrong?” Elain asked. “Where’s Az?”

“Kitchen,” Rhysand mumbled, looking down at his empty plate as he sat. “Asher’s hungry.”

She nodded, looking at each of them, before backing into the kitchen.

She found him stirring up the contents of the baby food as Asher sat in his chair, holding his bottle, as he drank from it. He was gazing at Elain as she walked closer.

“Hey,” she breathed, running her fingers first through Azriel’s dark shaggy hair and then Asher’s. “What’s wrong?”

Azriel shook his head, taking the bottle from Asher’s chubby hands and holding the spoon in front of his mouth. He took a tentative bite and shook his head, reaching for the bottle that was sitting off to the side. “Sorry, Ash, I know you hate them, but you gotta eat them.”“Here, let me,” she said, sitting next to him and smiling. She held her hand out for the spoon.Az glanced from her waiting hand to her face and then back to Asher. “It’s fine, baby. Go eat with your family.”Elain could still see the look on his face, she could still tell something was wrong. She tried to make a joke. “Az, we both know I’m better at feeding your kid than you are.”He scoffed. “Great, he’ll think I’m a shitty, deadbeat dad, too. Add that to the list.”With a blink, Elain asked, “List? What are you talking about?”Azriel sighed and handed Elain the spoon. “Your dad is a dick,” he said, quietly, while Elain miraculously got Asher to eat his mashed peas.She sighed, refusing to meet Azriel’s gaze. “I knew it. He said something to you, didn’t he?” Azriel didn’t answer, and Asher was oblivious to the tension as he blew a raspberry, spewing peas down his chin. Elain looked over at him.“He talks without thinking,” Elain said. “And he’s judgmental. It won’t be a long night, okay? But, he seemed excited about this dinner-.”“He hates me,” Azriel interrupted. “He hates all of us. You should’ve seen the look of utter disgust when he found out I’m a tattoo artist. Then, of course, Rhys had to say something, and then Cassian got in trouble for fucking Nesta at work-.”“What?” Elain asked, trying to follow what he was saying as she wiped the food off of Asher’s chin. Just as Azriel was about to go on, Nesta peeked her head around the corner. “You two coming? It’s awkward, and we’d really love to shove our mouth’s with food so we have something to do aside from sit in silence.”

Elain nodded. “We’re coming.” She turned back to Azriel as Nesta disappeared. “Az-.”

“It’s fine,” he sighed, taking Asher out of his seat and holding him close to his chest with one arm, the other picking up the chair. “Carry his food for me, please?”

She wanted to talk it out, to ease his worry, lift his mood, but she only nodded.

Elain followed behind him, trying to listen into the conversation coming from the dining room. Only to realize there was, indeed, nothing but silence.

Azriel saw that the only seats open were to Isaac’s immediate right, which meant Asher would have to sit between the two of them. Or so he thought.

Elain stepped around him and took his son, re-situating the chairs so Asher’s high chair could fit snugly between their own chairs, as long as Elain sat next to her father.

Cassian cleared his throat. “El, that tattoo looks badass.”

Nesta and Azriel both closed their eyes and sighed, knowing Cassian always had to poke when he knew he shouldn’t. Rhys was smirking.

Elain’s cheeks turned the softest shade of pink. “Thanks.”

“I, personally, think you’re too pretty for tattoos,” Isaac said, plopping potatoes onto his plate.

“Pretty girls don’t usually get tattoos?” Cassian asked, taking a bite of chicken.

“No,” Isaac answered, simply.

“Can we just,” Nesta began, angrily cutting up her chicken, ��eat in silence?”

“Family dinners aren’t meant to be silent,” Isaac said, shaking his head. “Besides, your friend there has a big mouth. I doubt he knows how to be silent..”

Cassian only grinned.

“That’s true,” Nesta muttered.

“So,” Feyre began. “How long are you in town for, dad?”

“Not long,” he said. “A month or two, maybe. It all depends.”

Rhys muttered something about leaving as soon as possible under his breath and Feyre stepped on his foot under the table.

Asher began to fuss and before Azriel could put his fork down to do anything, Elain was handing him his bottle. “Here, buddy. You can handle that while we eat, right?” He grinned up at her, chewing on the nipple of the bottle as he cooed.

Azriel couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he watched her lovingly gaze at his son.

“So, Azriel,” Isaac began. Az glanced up at him, honestly surprised he knew his name. “I can only assume his mother isn’t in the picture.”

Azriel took a swig of his beer and said, “No, sir, she isn’t.”

“Might I ask why?” He asked.

The table grew uncomfortably quiet, but Azriel just nodded, slowly. “We just...didn’t fit together.”

Isaac watched Azriel for a moment as the rest of the table picked at their food. “How long were you with his mother?”

Azriel cleared his throat. “Um, not...long.”

“Ah,” Isaac began, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. “So, you knocked up some random, poor girl then?”

“Dad,” Elain snapped.

“No, it’s fine,” Azriel said, quietly, although his hands were clenched into fists on his lap. “Yes, I made a mistake, and she got pregnant. I don’t regret it or find shame in it, though. Asher’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Hmmm.” Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you don’t get to spend a lot of time with him.”

It wasn’t necessarily his words, but the way he had said them.

Elain’s face was in her hands.

Azriel’s words were hard as he said, “No, sir, I don’t. But I take advantage of every spare moment I get with him.”

Isaac opened his mouth to say something else, but Feyre said, “That’s enough, Dad.” He turned to look at his youngest daughter. “We came here to all have a nice family meal, but all you’ve done is...harass our boyfriends and make them feel extremely unwelcome.”

The smug look on Rhysand’s face, his arm draped around Feyre’s shoulders. It infuriated him.

Isaac slowly set down his fork. “I’m just making sure my daughters are well taken care of.”

“Oh, they are,” Cassian said, unable to stop the words as they flowed out of his mouth, unable to stop the sensual tone that went along with it.

Nesta jabbed him in the ribs. “You’re no help.”

“We’re grown women, dad,” Feyre said, ignoring both comments from across the table. “We can take care of ourselves and make our own decisions.”

“Is that so?” Isaac said. “Because last time I was here you were dating Tamlin, who was incredibly successful, if I may add, and you two were planning a future together. Now? You’re dating this…” He gestured to Rhysand, who only lifted a brow. “Bar-owner covered in tattoos who thinks far too highly of himself. Nesta is with that manwhore, and Elain…” He shook his head, looking over at his middle daughter. “A single dad? Tattoo artist? You’re getting tattoos! You, Elain! Is this really the best you can do? What happened to Graysen, huh? Clean-cut, well-educated, making six figures!”

Azriel’s body tensed as the room fell into silence. For a moment, nobody said a word. Then, with shaking hands and in a tone he’d never heard from her, Elain said, “You cannot come into my house and say-.”

Isaac began to cough, cutting off her words, and then it became uncontrollable, that cough. His hand gripped the edge of the table, the other pulling the napkin off his lap and holding it up to his mouth.

“Dad?” Elain breathed, her eyes going wide as the napkin became splattered with blood.

Seconds passed as Isaac tried to calm himself. Everyone was watching him, waiting, all anger and frustration and sarcasm fading away.

“Dad?” Elain repeated, quietly.

Isaac cleared his throat, crumbling the napkin in his hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure when a good time to tell you all was, but I guess this is it.” He picked up his glass of water and took a sip before continuing, quietly. “I’m sick, girls. And they caught it too late.”

#lovely #snacmc lovely #snacmc #tacmc snelbz collab #elriel #nessian #feysand

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