#and so far the fun parts have been sketching a portrait of a pretty woman; putting flat colors down; and rendering her eyes halfway

[invinciblerodent]

it's been a while since I've picked up my tablet, but I tried to doodle a bit today, and so far this is the most Iona-Iona that I've ever managed to get on the page! (Now that I have a PC that can actually handle it, it might be fun to try to learn digital painting again ❤️)

[carewyncromwell]

Cinderelly, Cinderelly, night and day, it’s Cinderelly~... ^.^ Okay..before I jump into the next part of the Cinderella AU, here’s your usual appetizer of random historical/etc. notes!

Although carriages were developed centuries earlier, actual coaches like the kind we think of from Cinderella stories were first developed in the late 16th century in Hungary, specifically a little town called Kocs. (The word “coach” and its alternatives in other languages, such as the German Kutsche and the Spanish and Portuguese coche, are thought to have been derived from the Hungarian kocsi, meaning “of Kocs.”) They then really caught on in the rest of Europe after Queen Elizabeth I of England started using them in the 1580s. The terms “coach” and “carriage” are often used interchangeably, but if one wanted to pin-point the advancements coaches specifically made in contrast to carriages of the past, there are a few differences one can pick out in how they’re built. Coaches generally are four-wheeled enclosed vehicles with doors and/or windows (glass was added in later centuries), and often include a “boot” seat on the outside for a footman and/or luggage to sit on. Coaches also generally have a reputation for providing a smoother ride than previous modes of transport because they’re suspended between the wheels rather than directly over or beside them. After the invention of the coach, one can find carriages (royal ones, in particular) adopting some of these same attributes.

Sadly wheelchairs really weren’t a thing in the 16th century. The first self-propelled wheeled chairs were developed in the mid-17th century and refined in the 18th, with sedan chairs or litters (A.K.A. chairs you carried) generally being used by the nobility prior to that. But there’s no way in Hell I’m not going to give McNully the independence he deserves, so I used a completely anachronistic design inspired by this antique wheelchair I found online, made circa around the 1840′s. Hey, this is a fantasy world anyway, so bleh. :P The flower detailing on the wheel is supposed to evoke an emblem I see being on Florence’s green and gold coat of arms (get it? “Florence?” “Flora?”). You might also notice that McNully has little Snitch-like “wing” frills on each of his buttons! XD

Another fun thing I learned while doing research -- although cloaks were often worn for warmth during the medieval period and beyond, in England during the Elizabethan era, their use was actually actively discouraged and even prohibited, as they were associated with criminals and rebels! Therefore it was common for a lot of English noblemen and women to wear thicker clothing made of wool and accessories like muffs, gloves, and even jackets for warmth instead. I tried very, very hard to find historically accurate examples of period-worthy jackets and capes for women around the time of the Renaissance, and was very frustrated to find a lot of fantasy-esque costume pieces or historical clothing from later eras that were simply mislabeled -- but I did find one lovely recreation of a 16th century wool jacket, so that’s what I used as reference for Carewyn’s jacket in this sketch, though I personally imagine it as a dark red, so as to better blend with her burnt orange and beige servant’s uniform. Bill’s uniform is based off a real castle guard uniform from early 16th century France, though with a much simpler color palette (I see Royaume’s colors being blue and red). Like with McNully’s chair, there’s a crown on the chest of Bill’s uniform, which I see being on Royaume’s coat of arms (“royaume” is literally French for “kingdom”).

In her canon, Carewyn was born when Jacob was nine years old. Although in most of Carewyn and Jacob’s canon post-Portrait-Vault, they end up being only two years apart in age, that’s only because Jacob stopped aging while trapped in a Portrait for seven years. From Carewyn’s fifth year on, Jacob and Carewyn in canon therefore act much more like contemporaries, even though Jacob actually kind of ended up partially raising Carewyn alongside their mother Lane.

Previous part is here – whole tag is here – Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee and I hope you all enjoy! xoxo

x~x~x~x

Every day over the next week, Carewyn met Orion at the gate of the palace of Royaume, and the two would spend an hour or so together. Orion would ask her about life at the palace, Carewyn would playfully respond, and sooner or later, they’d end up getting diverted and talking about something else completely, whether the upcoming Winter Festival, the language of flowers, art, poetry, the meaning of life, music, fencing, or (after seeing a rather beautiful eagle flying overhead) what it might be like to fly. Carewyn honestly wasn’t entirely sure what Orion got out of their meetings besides entertainment, and naturally she couldn’t afford to indulge in such entertainment too long, when she had so much work to do around the castle and she still had to find out where Jacob was positioned. But she had to admit, with the King and Queen having invited Iris over to stay in one of the guest suites at the palace for the remainder of the month, Carewyn didn’t mind having an excuse to stay far away from her cousin. Lately Carewyn had actively planned her days so that she could clean the guest suites at teatime, when Iris would be in one of the foyers with the King, Queen, and Prince on the opposite side of the palace. She did not want a repeat of the other day, after all...particularly since she’d also need time to change out of the nicer, collared dresses she’d wear when spending time with Orion.

Orion, meanwhile, was of course getting a bit more than entertainment out of his and Carewyn’s meetings. Through speaking with Carewyn, he’d sussed out some very helpful information about Royaumanian culture, the dynamics within Royaume’s royal family, and both their and their country’s financial state. One day he told his closest confidantes at court, Skye and McNully, some of what he’d learned...but Skye didn’t react quite as favorably as Orion had expected.

“...I gave Lady Cromwell a copy of the sheet music for ‘No One is Alone’ last week -- you remember the song, of course? And from what I understand, Prince Henri and the castle staff have quite taken to it. Not that I’m surprised -- Carewyn has a very soothing voice. I’m sure she performed it very well. But the Prince listening to the words at all is a good sign -- I even asked Carewyn if the Prince enjoyed them, and she said she believed so. She also found their message meaningful...one of Florence’s best-loved anti-War songs, and one about looking through another’s eyes and forgiving past grievances, no less! That can only be a good sign, for Royaumanians to take heart in it. It surely must have been fate that Lady Cromwell and I collided at the market -- I had a feeling we were kindred spirits, when she came to my aid, but now I am most assured of it. I might hazard a guess that she wishes for peace just as much as I -- for the sake of her brother fighting in the field, yes, but also selflessly for the sake of others, not wishing to see any other person in pain...”

“She sounds like a perfect knight in shining armor,” said Skye, her voice oddly cutting.

Orion looked up at Skye, startled by her tone. Her arms were crossed over the chest of her faded blue linen dress.

“Anything else you want to tell us about the fair Lady Cromwell,” she said rather icily, “or are you actually ready to talk about how you plan to end this War?”

Orion blinked slowly. “...I thought that we were already discussing that.”

“Really?” scoffed Skye. “‘Cause it sounds to me like you were busy gushing over your new conquest.”

“Conquest?” Orion repeated. His confused tone then melted into something more soothing and indulgent, “Oh -- no, Skye...you misunderstand me. I have no interest in courting Carewyn -- she’s just my contact point, with the palace.”

Skye gave a very loud, disbelieving snort. “Ha! Right, of course she is -- that’s why you can’t stop gushing about ‘Carewyn this’ and ‘Lady Cromwell that.’”

“Skye has a point, Orion,” said McNully, though his voice was a lot less confrontational. If anything he sounded almost sheepish. “I mean, about 85% of your report was about Lady Cromwell. You used her name over ten times just in the span of a minute.”

Amazingly Orion’s calm, hard-to-read expression didn’t crack. His hands clasped lightly in front of him.

“Lady Cromwell plays an essential part in this strategy. I’m an outsider looking in, without her insight -- a ship sailing blindly, without the light from a lighthouse to give me direction.”

“A lighthouse for a lost ship -- oh yeah, those sound like the words of someone who’s focusing on winning a war and not swooning over a pretty face,” said Skye scathingly. “Maybe instead of always running off and playing dress-up, you could actually bother to do your duty and go help fight on the battlefield for once!”

Orion’s lips came together tightly, but it didn’t make his expression any less composed. McNully shot Skye an uncomfortable, faintly disapproving look.

“Easy, Skye,” he murmured. “You know Orion -- ”

But Skye didn’t seem to hear McNully. Instead she tore into Orion.

“Face it, Orion -- you just like being treated like a commoner again and being able to make believe that you don’t have any responsibilities or worries...well, guess what? You’re not a commoner anymore! You’re the Prince of Florence -- you reckon little Miss Knight-in-Shining-Armor would take kindly to that, when she finds out?”

Orion’s dark eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly upon Skye’s face.

“Carewyn’s not an unreasonable woman,” he said softly. “I’m certain she would understand the reason behind my secrecy.”

This, if anything, only seemed to make Skye madder.

“Of course she would,” she muttered sourly. “Little Lady Royaume can do no wrong in your eyes, can she?”

She turned on her heel and stormed out, leaving Orion feeling very resigned and confused. McNully gave a heavy sigh, before facing Orion with a more serious expression.

“She’s overreacting, as usual,” he said, “but she’s still 60% right. It’s risky enough for you to get this close to anyone right now, when your position as Crown Prince is threatened by the likes of Lord Malfoy. He’d frankly love to have something like that over you. But someone from Royaume? The granddaughter of one of the most powerful, wealthy, and feared noblemen in their country? Orion, that’s dangerous.”

Orion leaned his hands on the table, looking down at the map of Florence and Royaume laid out on top of it.

“McNully, I assure you...my objective has not changed,” he said very levelly. “Everything I have done is for Florence -- for peace and balance. I admit, Lady Cromwell is a fascinating woman, and certainly one to be admired...but I spend time with her to gather intelligence I can obtain nowhere else. That is all.”

McNully looked doubtful, but didn’t directly address it. Instead he said, “I understand she’s your eyes and ears inside the palace, and the intelligence you’re getting is valuable...but don’t forget, she isn’t on your team. She’s on Royaume’s. And right now, Royaume is kicking our tail out there, on the battlefield.”

Orion’s dark eyes drifted away from the table as McNully leaned his arms on the table himself.

“It’s getting bad again,” he murmured very seriously. “I know you said the palace of Royaume’s strapped for funds, but somehow or another, they’ve scrounged up enough to get more cannons, and their troops have been moving them around every couple of hours so that our men never know where they’re going to be firing from next. It’s been very effective. Whoever’s been giving Royaume’s King and Queen military strategy lately, they’re a bloody genius.”

McNully clearly was irritated about this, given the flash that shot through his narrowed eyes.

“Your father sent me a request for a counter-strategy this morning. You know it’s likely if the strategy isn’t one he can execute on his own, he may ask both you and me to join him there, on the front lines.”

Orion did not respond. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was something oddly detached and avoidant in his posture.

“I know you don’t want that, and you know I have faith in you,” said McNully, “but your strategy is a slow burn, Orion. It requires both patience and time...and we might not end up having as much of those as you think.”

Once again, Orion chose not to answer. McNully sighed again.

“You know I’ll be right behind you in a coach, if you need me,” he said tiredly. “Just...mind that you use your head as well as your heart, all right?”

Orion threw on his black traveling cloak and headed back to Royaume not long after, hoping to meet up with Carewyn for an evening stroll. There was a notable chill in the air -- if it got much colder, he thought that any rain might instead come down as sleet or maybe even snow.

When Orion arrived at the gate, however, he was met not by Carewyn, but by KC. She was dressed in a high-necked gown made of black velvet and holding a leather-bound book and a stack of parchment in her arms.

Orion tilted his head slightly to glance at the piece of parchment on the top of the stack, which had several “X’s” scattered over an oddly familiar map.

“Plans to bury some pirate treasure?” he asked pleasantly.

KC gave a lightly amused snort. “No, just military plans.”

Her lightly freckled face then grew a bit more serious. “I guess you’re here for Carewyn?”

Orion had been ready to ask more about the military plans KC was holding, but decided not to circle back to it when she changed the subject.

“Yes. Has she been detained?”

“I guess so...” said KC. Her lips twisted into a concerned frown as she looked out at the darkening sky.

Orion’s eyebrows knit together over his eyes slightly. “You seem concerned.”

KC bit her lip. “Mm...it’s just...well, you see, one of the royal carriages broke down earlier today, when the Queen was riding through the country with Lady Yaxley.”

Orion raised his eyebrows. “Lady Iris Yaxley, do you mean? Carewyn’s cousin?”

“Yes. No one was badly hurt, fortunately, but the Queen, Lady Iris, and the coachman and footman were forced to ride the horses back and leave the carriage behind. When they got back, they asked the royal carpenter, Charlie Weasley, to go fix it. Charlie said that he probably wouldn’t have the proper tools to fix it here at the castle, so Carewyn offered to ride out with him, so that their horses could drag the coach together to the Weasley family cottage, about forty minutes away. The problem is,” she said with a deepening frown, “they left over two hours ago, and they’re still not back yet. Bill headed out after them on his own horse not long before you got here...he’s Charlie’s brother, so he knows the route they would’ve taken...”

Orion’s dark eyes had narrowed significantly.

“Which road did Sir Weasley take after them?” he asked, his calm voice nonetheless touched with the faintest edge.

KC pointed. “Northwest -- toward the mountains.”

Orion nodded. “Thank you.”

And with this, he turned on his heel and rushed back toward where he thought he might find McNully’s coach. He needed to borrow a horse.

Setting one of the black horses free of the black coach, Orion rode off toward the mountains, his slightly-too-long dark hair flapping freely behind him. The road was well-marked, but it soon veered off into dense woods as it migrated up toward the mountains. Orion had never gone so far west into Royaume before, let alone far from Florence before. Despite himself, he had to acknowledge the beauty of the landscape. The views of the castle below were breathtaking -- it looked as tiny as a toy, and yet the infinite glass windows made it sparkle like some diamond-like beacon in the darkening sky. He wondered if his own palace in Florence looked so beautiful to others, at a distance. As much as he himself hadn’t been raised a prince, it was difficult for him to look at his own palace as anything other than a cage.

As he went further uphill and the sky darkened, it also grew colder. Orion was starting to see his own breath on the air. He thought of Carewyn alone in the cold, perhaps hurt, and had to take several deep breaths to sooth his nerves. He was never in a right state, when he let his thoughts run too wild or his fears chatter too loudly.

Finally Orion caught sight of two familiar ginger-headed men, standing by an overturned coach, covered in mud and missing one of its back wheels. One of the men was the tall, freckled castle guard from the other day who Carewyn called Bill, dressed in his high-collared blue and red patterned uniform tunic and matching white feathered, blue-velvet hat -- the other was much stockier, but no less freckled, dressed in a burgundy-colored tunic and loose brown pants and boots, and he wore his ginger hair in a ponytail not unlike Orion’s when he was at court. When Orion approached them, Bill immediately reacted with suspicion -- Orion explained what KC had told him and asked where Carewyn was, and was incredibly startled to hear her voice coming from over the edge of the cliff.

“I’m down here!”

Orion couldn’t help but feel a flash of concern. He raced over as if to look over the edge, but Charlie lashed out an arm in front of the taller man to stop him.

“Uh, I wouldn’t look over if I were you, mate,” he said, having trouble biting back his laughter despite himself.

He pointed at the broken carriage. Hanging over one of the doors was what looked like the burnt orange and beige skirt of a dress and several wool petticoats.

Orion blinked a few times in great surprise, his tanned cheeks darkening with a faint blush. Bill, however, reacted with anxiety.

“Carewyn!” he shouted over the ravine. “Are you in your underwear down there!?”

“Ugh -- well, I couldn’t very well climb down into this briar patch and wrench this wheel loose in my dress, could I?” Carewyn called back up rather haughtily. “At least my bloomers are slightly akin to the sorts of trousers you all wear.”

“You’ll catch a death of cold out here!” said Bill.

“I’m all right,” Carewyn reassured him. “Ulk -- ugh -- I have the wool jacket Andre made for me on...”

Charlie took a step forward, his eyes moved up toward the darkening sky pointedly so as not to look over the edge as he called down,

“Bill’s right, though, Carewyn -- it’s getting colder by the minute...and it’s getting dark too. Are you sure you can lift that thing up and over all by yourself?”

“Ugh...I admit, it’s a bit difficult!” she called back. “But I think I can manage.”

Recalling Carewyn’s blatant refusal of help in retrieving her horse, Orion -- still fighting back a slight blush -- called over the ravine himself.

“We do not question your capabilities, Carewyn,” he said patiently, “but would you like our help?”

“Ugh -- don’t be silly,” said Carewyn, sounding faintly haughty. “You, Charlie, and Bill would break your necks, climbing down here. And I’m still in my undergarments -- I have no interest in anyone seeing me prance around without proper clothes on, thank you.”

“It’s no use,” Charlie muttered under his breath, “I’ve tried to offer her help for the last hour, but she keeps putting me off, saying she’s fine. I don’t get why she feels like she has to do everything by herself...”

“Probably because she’s always had to, Charlie,” said Bill quietly. His voice betrayed a lot of sympathy and sadness as he exhaled through his nose.

Orion’s black eyes deepened with some compassion for Bill as he called back over the ravine to Carewyn,

“Your points are well made, my lady...but we’d still like to help you.”

“Ugh -- you can help me by leaving me my dignity and not looking over while I’m only half-dressed...ack...”

“Would you accept us doing more than that?”

“Urgh -- I am...sorry to have made you and Bill come out all this way -- but I’m all right, really.”

Bill glanced at Orion out the side of his eye, and then back at the cliff. Despite his distrust of the man, the eldest Weasley was sort of glad he wasn’t the only one who disliked how reticent Carewyn was to accept help.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said earnestly. “I was -- we were worried about you, Carewyn. You and Charlie.”

He and Orion glanced at each other. Bill wished the other man’s expression wasn’t so hard to read. The castle guard tried to twist his uncomfortable frown into a smile that Carewyn would hopefully be able to hear over the edge of the cliff.

“Come on...let’s get you and that wheel up and over so you can get back into your dress.”

There was a silence. Then Carewyn said a bit more quietly,

“...You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Wha -- oh, come off it, Carewyn!” said Charlie exasperatedly. “To hell we do! You think I was mucking about, calling you my pal and saying I needed to figure out a nickname for you? Now let us help you, or I’ll consider making that nickname an irritating one!”

There was another silence. Then Carewyn sighed very loudly and tiredly, and Orion couldn’t help but grin, because he could tell she’d finally given in.

“Oh, all right,” she said begrudgingly. “But I don’t really know how you’re going to help, when you can’t look at me.”

Orion closed his eyes.

“Describe your surroundings, Carewyn,” he said. “Paint a picture for me, with your words.”

“...Well, I’ve gotten the wheel out of the briar patch. I’m trying to roll it back up, but it’s as large as me, and the downward slope and the ice is making it difficult. Plus the wheel isn’t in great shape -- all of its spokes are broken, so there isn’t much for me to push up on, while rolling it uphill.”

“I would’ve told her to just forget it, but it’d be much easier for me to carve a new wheel if I have framework from the old one,” Charlie explained. “I’m already going to have to make the new spokes and hubcap completely out of wood instead of using any gold or metalwork, but it’s still going to take a lot of time...even more so if the old wheel framework can’t be saved...”

Orion considered the matter, visualizing the set-up down below on the inside of his eyelids. “...What’s left of the wheel...is it made of metal or wood?”

“Wood...but there seems to be some sort of metal lining around the rim, held on by nails.”

“That’d be for durability, I reckon,” said Charlie. “Wood alone would get chaffed badly on the ground, moving in a constant circle down cobblestones or over anything rocky.”

Orion opened his eyes and looked over the broken coach. His gaze lingered on the thick leather straps coming off of the front that no doubt would’ve attached it to their horses. Then he abruptly got up, rushing over to undo the straps from the carriage.

“What are you doing?” said Bill, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Orion quickly knotted the long, thick leather straps together with several complex-looking and strong knots.

“Carewyn,” he called over very calmly, “I’m going to lower this down to you -- use the buckle and loop it securely around the inside rim of the wheel, so that it’s tight. Give it a light tug when it’s secure.”

He blindly tossed one end of the rope made out of leather straps over the edge of the cliff. After a minute, he felt a light tug at the end.

“Gentlemen,” Orion murmured to the Weasleys, “I’ll need you to hold this, for just a moment. Carewyn,” he added, as Charlie and Bill both grabbed the end of the makeshift rope and he let go, “I’m going to need you to step onto the wheel yourself and hold on.”

“What?” said Carewyn. “Orion, you can’t lift both me and the wheel -- it’s far too much! I’ll climb up and out myself -- ”

“Not to worry, my lady -- none of us will be doing the lifting,” said Orion serenely.

He led both his black horse and Bill’s chestnut horse over by their reins, and -- taking the makeshift rope from Bill and Charlie again -- he looped the end under the straps of both his and Bill’s saddles. He gave several tugs at all of the connections to make sure they were tight and secure before mounting his horse.

“Sir Weasley, if you would assist me.”

Catching onto Orion’s idea at last, Bill rushed forward so he could jump up onto his own horse.

“Mr. Weasley, you may want to have your hands ready to help Carewyn climb out when she gets close to the top,” said Orion over his shoulder. “Sir Weasley, together now.”

With a lot of effort and strain, the two horses were able to lift Carewyn and the broken wheel up and out of the ravine. Once Carewyn was out, all three men averted their eyes so she could put her dress back on. Once she was suitably redressed in her orange-and-beige dress, snood, and dark scarlet wool jacket, she, Bill, and Orion helped Charlie secure some makeshift posts he’d carved out of some nearby tree branches under the broken coach so that their four horses could lift it up off the ground and help support it without its second back wheel. Then the four hobbled the coach up the mountain the rest of the way to the Weasley family cottage.

The home of the Weasley family, affectionately nicknamed “the Burrow,” was built up against the side of a hill. Attached to the house was a large farm with sprawling pastures and short, rustic wooden fences. Its roof had clearly been patched up multiple times over the years with whatever kind of wood was on hand, making it resemble a patchwork quilt.

When the group arrived, Bill and Charlie’s youngest sibling and only sister Ginny immediately ran out to greet them -- she’d seen them coming up over the horizon and was beyond thrilled to see that it was her eldest brothers. Bill and Charlie’s teenage brothers Percy, Fred, George, and Ron soon followed along after. Fred and George -- who were identical twins -- were quick to crow that Charlie had brought them an early birthday present (namely, the coach), and Percy scolded them that clearly it was for work and they should let it alone. Orion and Carewyn ended up staying back at a distance, both faintly baffled by the amount of warmth and noise emanating from the seven siblings as they chattered amongst themselves, constantly stepping on each other’s feet and interrupting what everyone else was saying. Neither of them had ever encountered a family quite like this before. When Bill and Charlie’s parents, Arthur and Molly Weasley, emerged from the house, however, Molly very quickly bustled every last one of them inside, including Orion and Carewyn.

“In you go, the lot of you,” she said in a forceful, but very warm tone of voice. “You all look like you need some supper-- ”

“Oh -- no, Mrs. Weasley,” said Carewyn very quickly, “I couldn’t impose -- ”

“Nonsense, dear!” said Molly, as she took Carewyn’s hands and led her inside. “Why, you’re positively freezing! To think, you came all the way out here without a proper muff for your hands...”

“I had to help Charlie with the carriage,” Carewyn said, her eyes drawn away awkwardly rather than looking at Molly, “I couldn’t hope to have my hands free, using a muff...”

“Then both of you should come inside and get warm,” said Arthur, startling Orion with an amiable clap on the back. “Any friend of Bill and Charlie’s is a friend of our family.”

Carewyn had never been the subject of such coddling and generosity before in her life. Her mother had always taught her to treat people with respect and compassion, of course, but she had been a soft-spoken and understated person, and their family life had always been very quiet. And of course at the Cromwell estate, it had been less modest and quiet, but far less affectionate as well. Never had she ever visited such a loud, crowded, and faintly uncomfortable place that still nonetheless felt like a home, full of warmth and love.

Even Orion found himself feeling a bit unsettled by the Weasley family’s overwhelming hospitality. He’d been in plenty of unruly, crowded, and loud settings like this before -- but none of them had ever been quite this...well, jovial. It made it so that Orion yearned for peace, quiet, and returned distance, and yet also couldn’t help but marvel at the positive vibes that rippled off of this family and how much they could give, despite clearly having so little. When dinner was served, Orion had to politely decline a bowl of beef stew because he didn’t eat meat, and Molly Weasley immediately handed the bowl off to Ron so she could set about making Orion his own plate, piled high with cheesy mashed potatoes, sauteed mushrooms, and roasted cauliflower seasoned with garlic and chives.

The Weasley family and their guests sat in an uncomfortable, messy half-circle around the large brick fireplace, laughing and talking as they ate. After supper came the dessert of hot, fresh apple dumplings, and after dessert came some hot tea and scones. After all, said Molly Weasley, having guests over was a rare treat, so they were going to celebrate appropriately. Neither Carewyn nor Orion could remember ever having felt so full in all their lives.

As everyone enjoyed their scones and tea, stories and songs were swapped around the fire. At one point in the evening, twelve-year-old Ginny -- who was perfectly thrilled to have another girl around, for a change -- begged Carewyn to sing for them. Apparently Bill had told his family all about her lovely voice. So, with some encouragement from Charlie, Arthur, and Molly, Carewyn bit back a broad, amused grin, took a deep breath, and started to sing.

“Mother cannot guide you...now you’re on your own.

Only me beside you -- still, you’re not alone...”

Orion had thought to himself that Carewyn must have done the song from his youth proper justice while singing for the Prince, but hearing her sing it in person, seeing her smile at him and her eyes sparkle as she did so...it was a completely different matter. As before, Orion felt all of the tension in his shoulders ebb off of him, as easily as dirt was washed away in warm water. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, tilting his head a bit so that he could hear her better, as his breathing and heart rate slowed. Even with his eyes closed, he could hear a smile in every word Carewyn sang...even when she likely wasn’t smiling at all, he thought. How could she be smiling, when lines like “sometimes people leave you half-way through the wood” and “people make mistakes -- fathers, mothers” rang with such emotion and pain? Was that pain visible on her face? Orion thought not, given Carewyn’s sense of grace and composure...but he heard it, all the same. He felt it -- her heart, aching with a kind of deep, blazing empathy Orion had never encountered in anyone else before.

When Carewyn came to the end of the song, Orion opened his eyes at last. The Weasleys all clapped, delighted, but he barely heard them as he turned to Carewyn.

“...That was remarkable,” he murmured.

Carewyn smiled. “I’m glad you think I did it justice.”

“Mm,” said Orion. “I’ve...never heard anyone drown like that, before.”

Carewyn couldn’t bite back a laugh. “Perhaps I didn’t do it justice then, if I sounded like I was drowning...”

“You were drowning in the words’ meaning,” corrected Orion. “Enveloping and submerging yourself in them -- allowing them to pull you in and take your breath away.”

He smiled, his black eyes very soft upon Carewyn’s face.

“It was...very moving.”

Molly’s face spread into an indulgent smile as she reached forward and patted Carewyn’s hand. “It was absolutely beautiful, dear.”

“Orion’s right, Carewyn,” agreed Arthur. “Your feelings really came through. I could tell the words mean something to you.”

Carewyn offered a polite smile, even as her eyes drifted away. “...I suppose they do.”

“It sounds like a lullaby, sort of,” mused Ron. “Even if it talks about your mother not being around.”

Ginny tilted her head toward Carewyn, Ron’s words prompting concern.

“...Do you not have a mother, Carewyn?”

The rest of the family went very quiet -- some like Percy shot Ginny warning looks, while others like Molly and Ron couldn’t help but glance at Carewyn in similar concern.

Carewyn’s gaze had drifted off onto the fire. Although she was turned away and her face was stoic, however, Orion could see her eyes rippling like turbulent ocean water, before she closed them solemnly.

“...I had one,” she answered softly at last. “She died when I was twelve.”

“Was she sick?” asked Ron, very hesitantly.

Carewyn bowed her head and gave a single, silent nod. Everyone in the room knew what that meant. The Plague had swept through both Royaume and Florence several times, over the span of the War -- one of the worst years was about nine years ago now...probably the same year Carewyn had lost her mother.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly upon her face. Molly looked like she wanted to envelop Carewyn in the biggest hug and was only holding back the urge because of her husband’s tight, reassuring squeeze to her hand.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she murmured.

Carewyn raised her head at last, her expression once again touched by a small, resilient, pretty smile.

“It’s all right,” she said gently, her eyes only briefly grazing each of the Weasleys’ faces. “I’ll always miss my mother...but I’m getting along all right. And I still have Jacob.”

“Your brother?” asked Percy, and Carewyn nodded.

“He left for War the same day he and I moved in with our grandfather,” Carewyn explained.

“Your brother must be quite a bit older than you, then,” said Orion.

Carewyn glanced at Orion out the side of her eye, smiling slightly. “Nine years older, yes. You know...you actually remind me of him, a bit.”

Orion raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Carewyn was forced to stifle a giggle behind her hand. “Jacob is also the sort to do things in his own clever way. Only he’s a lot more aggressive than you -- and more talkative, and arrogant, and overprotective...”

“And uglier,” inserted Fred.

“And smellier,” added George.

“With a long crooked nose and ears like a bat’s.”

The younger Weasley siblings were all laughing now. Carewyn had to cover her mouth to stifle her giggling.

“No!” she choked. “I don’t mean it like that! He’s wonderful, really. He’s just...well, an absolute idiot about how to interact with other people. He’s completely brilliant, mind you -- he could give you whole lectures about anything from geography to mathematics to physics...but coming up with spontaneous gifts for no occasion at all, just based on someone’s interests? He’d need some prodding, to do something like that.”

She smiled at Orion, who couldn’t help but grin fully in return.

“It was truly nothing at all, Carewyn,” he said. “With your love of music, it felt like that song would be something you would appreciate.”

Arthur glanced at Orion curiously. “Where is that song from, Orion? I’ve never heard it before.”

“I learned it as a boy,” Orion answered. “I would hear it sung outside the window of the workhouse, sometimes.”

Molly looked very troubled. “Workhouse? Orion dear, you don’t mean to say you grew up in one of those terrible places?”

Orion felt Carewyn’s gaze on him. When he looked back at her, her almond-shaped blue eyes were rippling with concern as well, though much gentler and more empathetic than Molly’s. He tried to offer her a smile.

“Let’s just say the words spoke to me as well, at the time,” he said lightly. “Not just to me, either...all of the boys there, one way or another, were where they were because of other people’s ‘terrible mistakes.’”

Orion’s gaze drifted down to his own hands as he lightly clasped them in his lap.

“...The War doesn’t touch you the same way here, but...the closer you are to Florence...the more the reality of it hits you in the face, every day. Even when you’re not on the battlefield itself -- even when you’re just at the border -- you, and the ones you care for, run the risk of getting caught in the crossfire. And on the border of Florence and Royaume...in those towns where it’s hard to tell where one country starts and another begins...tensions are like gunpowder. One spark from the tiniest match can set it ablaze -- can make everything implode, and force you to start all over again.”

His face was unreadable, but his black eyes were endless, rippling with the recollection of the fire and smoke -- the red and blue colors of Royaume, on the saddles of horses -- the life leaving his mother’s eyes -- his own heavy, terrified hyperventilating...

He closed his eyes and took several very deep, measured breaths before continuing.

“In such a place...one can find people desperate enough to want to lash out at others, to avenge their pain,” said Orion solemnly. “But there was one sweet old woman who owned a flower and herb shop near the workhouse. She’d had to rebuild her establishment several times over the years, and from what I understand, she finally had to leave town not long after I did...but every time she caught wind that the army was coming to town, looking for new recruits...she’d sing the song just loudly enough that we boys could hear it through our window.”

He absently played with the crudely carved circular charm on the cord around his neck in one hand.

“And although there were those who still enlisted afterwards...many others did not.”

Carewyn’s eyes widened.

“‘While we’re seeing our side,’ ” she sang again, more softly, “‘maybe we forgot...they are not alone. No one is alone.’ ”

Orion’s lips spread into a smile as he looked at Carewyn, his black eyes rippling gently as he nodded.

“So it’s against the War, then,” murmured Charlie. He glanced at his parents, who both looked concerned.

“Did that woman with the flower shop give you that?” asked Ginny curiously, indicating the charm around Orion’s neck.

“Yes,” said Orion. “She gave it to me one night when I tried to run away, to soothe my nerves. Its effects wore off by the next morning, but I’ve never really had the heart to throw it out.”

Percy sputtered, looking very pale. “Th-then she was a witch?”

“Whoa,” said Fred and George, looking almost too eager.

“Did she turn all the army into pigs?” asked George.

“Did she lure you in and try to cook you in a soup?” said Fred.

Orion smiled indulgently. “Of course not -- ”

“Well, thank Heavens for that!” said Molly, shooting the twins a very reproachful look. “Magic isn’t something to make fun of, you two -- it’s frankly a wonder you weren’t hurt, dear...”

Orion frowned. “There was no danger, Madam Weasley, I assure you.”

“No danger! Orion,” Molly scolded him indulgently, “I applaud your courage...but nature has its own way of things, and any magic that twists it out of shape is more dangerous than it’s worth.”

To the Weasley family’s surprise, Carewyn actually spoke up.

“Mrs. Weasley, men tend fields, plant seeds, domesticate horses and dogs...treat illnesses and injuries...cut hair and wear makeup and put on heeled shoes to make ourselves appear taller. Would that not also be twisting nature’s intent?”

Molly actually faltered somewhat. “Well, yes, but...that’s very different from magic, Carewyn! Magic is...well, it’s wild. Uncontrollable.”

“It’s untamed chaos,” said Arthur more levelly than his wife. “A kind that’s done a lot more harm than good.”

“But it still can be used for good,” said Carewyn very firmly. “And if it has that potential, why must we treat it as though it and all of its users are inherently reprehensible? If magic can be used to save lives, or heal the sick, or even just calm a scared boy down after something horrible...”

She glanced at Orion out the side of her eye.

“...Then it seems to be like any other weapon or tool, or even any other person -- something that could protect or hurt.”

Orion felt like his heart was being flooded with warmth, and his entire expression melted with pride and something like affection as he stared at Carewyn.

She truly is a woman to be admired. The memory of Skye’s irritation and McNully’s warning rippled over Orion’s mind and he found himself faltering. Admire...yes. Anyone could grow to admire such a woman, couldn’t they? To respect and esteem her...to...grow an attachment, to her... Even I? Could I...?

The Weasleys exchanged uncertain looks amongst themselves.

“Come to think of it,” said Ron thoughtfully, “wasn’t there that old myth about fairy godmothers who grant you wishes?”

Fred brought an arm roughly around his younger brother’s neck and put him in a rough choke hold. “Aww, ickle Ronnie wanting a pwetty new dress?”

“‘Oh fairy godmother, I just gotta have a new dress for the Winter Festival!’” said George in a high-pitched squeal.

“Geroff!” growled Ron, as he pulled free.

“Oh, but that would be fun!” sighed Ginny. “Dancing at the Winter Festival, in the prettiest dress you’ve ever seen...you’re going to the Festival, aren’t you, Carewyn?”

“Probably not, Ginny,” said Carewyn gently, “I’ve got so much work to do...”

“Oh, but you have to!” whined Ginny. “The Festival’s tradition! Right, Orion?”

“So I’ve heard,” Orion said modestly, “but I’m afraid I’ve never attended a Winter Festival either.”

“What?!” said all of the Weasley children except Bill in thoroughly aghast unison.

“It’s the biggest celebration of the entire year -- ”

“Everybody in town will be there -- ”

“ -- well, aside from the noble tarts -- ”

“ -- but hey, who needs them?”

“Everybody makes the best mince pies and hot apple cider -- ”

“There’s dancing and singing and games and gift-giving -- ”

“You just can’t miss it -- ”

Before long, they’d completely gotten off the topic of magic all together, so the Weasleys could tell Orion all about the Winter Festival. Carewyn took the opportunity to start carrying dishes into the kitchen so that she could help Molly clean up. While she did so, Bill pulled her aside.

“Carewyn...can I talk to you? Alone?”

Carewyn blinked, but nonetheless put down the dishes she was carrying and followed Bill off into a secluded corner.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in concern.

Bill bit the inside of his lip, his brown eyes drifting over in the direction of the fireplace where the rest of his family was sitting with Orion.

“Carewyn,” he said slowly, “who is that man, really?”

Carewyn’s eyebrows knit together. Bill ran a hand over the undone collar of his tunic absently.

“He’s hiding something, I know it. And I’m sure you see it too. He dodges questions he doesn’t want to answer, and as much as he’s even told us tonight about himself, he never gives important details. He lived near the border, but he didn’t mention what town he’s from. He lived in a workhouse, presumably after losing his parents, but he never said what he lost them to.”

“Those things might not be easy for him to talk about, Bill,” Carewyn said softly.

“Yes,” said Bill in a bracing voice, “but he also hopped the walls of the palace, completely ignorant of how tight royal security is and why, has enough time to chase after you most every day, and gets paints from people he can’t identify and learns songs from people who, from the sound of things, practice witchcraft.”

Bill crossed his arms. He clearly was trying to be considerate to Carewyn’s feelings, but couldn’t hold back his concerns.

“Look, I...I understand you like the man. And I understand why -- Ginny and the others seem to have taken to him pretty well, too. But there’s no reason for someone to hold back that many secrets, unless they’re up to no good. He could be a cad, or a criminal, or maybe even something worse. Judging by his stance on magic, he could even be a magician himself...”

His brown eyes narrowed slightly upon Carewyn’s face.

“I’m just...worried about you, that’s all,” he said lowly.

Carewyn considered Bill for a long moment. Then, reaching out a hand, she gently took hold of Bill’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Bill...I understand how you feel. And I’m grateful, truly grateful, for your caring. I hardly deserve it, and it...it means a lot to me.”

Bill frowned deeply, ready to say something, but Carewyn cut him off.

“But believe me when I say that people don’t just keep secrets because they mean to do harm. Sometimes -- for some people -- they’ve had to learn to hide themselves and shield their hearts...so much so that even when they encounter good people, it’s hard for them to let their guard down. Sometimes they’ve known so much pain that, even though they’re kind people, they’ve numbed themselves to a degree, just to protect themselves. Lied so much...that it becomes second-nature. Or worse, lie because they don’t know who they can really trust...because so many people have hurt them that they don’t know what trust even feels like anymore.”

Bill’s expression lost some of its edge, though it still looked wary.

“...And if he is a magic user?”

“Then he’s one of the good ones,” said Carewyn firmly.

Bill still looked a bit unsure. Carewyn squeezed his shoulder a bit more tightly, her eyes resting there instead of on his face.

“Bill, my brother is only alive, thanks to magic.”

Bill was startled.

“The Plague swept through our whole house,” said Carewyn lowly. “First the landlord and his family -- then my mother...and then Jacob. We were living hand-to-mouth, and I didn’t have anyone else to go to...so I went to the Cromwell estate.”

Bill’s brown eyes became a little smaller, darkening with grim understanding.

“...You went to your grandfather.”

Carewyn nodded. “He disowned Mum long ago, but he was still our family, so I thought he might be willing to help us. He agreed to take Jacob and me in and nurse Jacob back to health, so long as we paid back his generosity. Grandfather then tracked down a witch who could cast a spell to save Jacob’s life.”

Bill’s eyebrows furrowed. “Lord Cromwell hired a -- ?”

“Do not repeat this, Bill!” Carewyn said very sharply and urgently. “To anyone, do you understand? No one.”

Her eyes then softened visibly, becoming grimmer and sadder.

“Jacob was dying. There was no other option.”

Bill looked like he was in pain, just hearing this second-hand. He swallowed, and then gave a nod.

“So that witch saved your brother’s life,” he said quietly.

Carewyn nodded, her eyes full of emotion despite the stoicism of her features.

“The spell she cast bound Jacob’s life to Grandfather’s will. Jacob was brought into the house on a stretcher just after dawn, and within a half-hour...he was up on his own two feet again.”

Carewyn closed her eyes. She could still remember Jacob’s blazing, relieved smile as he barreled down the stairs and threw his arms around her, cradling her like a baby.

“My Wyn -- my sweet Wyn -- ”

Not long after that, though...Jacob’s arms were yanked away -- all of him was yanked away -- held back by Blaise and Claire and Pearl’s husbands, who all had work to together just to restrain Jacob as he fought to reach her, screaming and raging like a mad man --

“WYN! NO! GET OFF OF ME -- WYN! I WON’T LET YOU -- CAREWYN!”

Carewyn opened her eyes, the soft longing fading from her face completely and leaving a much more stony expression behind.

Bill himself, however, looked more troubled than ever.

“You said your brother left for War the same day you and he arrived at the Cromwell estate,” he whispered shakily. “Do you mean that, right after saving your brother’s life...Lord Cromwell immediately sent him off to War -- all while knowing how few men return home alive?”

Carewyn’s lips came together tightly.

“Grandfather sent him to the front, so that Jacob could start paying back the debt I owed him,” she said, her voice very soft and oddly distant. “After all...a man who wouldn’t die, so long as he willed it...would make an excellent soldier.”

Bill looked horrified.

“Then...” he whispered, “...then Jacob’s only alive because your grandfather decides whether he lives or dies? You only know your brother’s still alive after so many years at war...because Lord Cromwell is bound to him through magic, and he’s holding his life over your head?”

Carewyn withdrew her hand from Bill’s shoulder and turned away.

“Carewyn...that’s monstrous!” said Bill, and he was unable to keep his voice from rising. “I didn’t even know magic could do something like that -- but -- but that’s nothing, compared to...”

He couldn’t restrain himself. He actually threw an arm around Carewyn and pulled her into a hug from behind. The small ginger-haired woman stiffened like a startled cat.

“Bill?”

Carewyn looked up at him -- were those tears, in his eyes?

“Have you...never told anyone else, about this?” Bill murmured.

Carewyn tried to turn around, her blue eyes welling up with regret and pain. “Bill...”

She brought a hand through his hair, trying to soothe him the way she used to for Jacob.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I -- I didn’t mean to upset you -- I only wanted to explain why I’m not scared of magic...please forgive me.”

Bill closed his eyes to try to hold back both his righteous anger and his tears.

“Forgive you?” he repeated in a choked voice. “For what, trusting me with the truth?”

“For making you worry unnecessarily,” Carewyn said forcefully, trying to ignore how uncomfortably her stomach was squirming.

Bill opened his eyes, looking both flabbergasted and more upset than ever. “Unnecessarily?”

He roughly grabbed both of Carewyn’s shoulders and forced her to look up at him.

“Now you listen here, Carewyn Cromwell,” he said, taking on the sort of tone he only ever used with his younger siblings when they were being rowdy, “you may get to decide if you want to interact with me or not, or rely on me or not, or accept my help or not. But you don’t get to decide whether I worry about you or not. And from here on out...”

Bill’s brown eyes were blazing with resolve.

“...I’m going to worry about you. Because I hate the thought of someone feeling like anybody else worrying about them is somehow a problem.”

Carewyn was left speechless.

Bill’s face broke into a broad smile through his tears. “Until your brother’s back from the War, Carey, I’ll be looking after you for him -- no arguments, no dismissals, no saying you’re fine on your own. Got it?”

Carewyn looked at Bill, perfectly stunned. Then her gaze fell away toward the floor.

“...It sounds like...I really don’t get a choice in the matter, then,” she whispered.

“Nope,” said Bill, grinning broadly.

Carewyn was unable to fight back the weak smile prickling at the sides of her lips, nor the emotion flooding her eyes, even as she kept her face turned away.

“...And I suppose ‘Carey’...is a suggestion of a nickname you plan to give Charlie, for me?”

Bill’s eyes sparkled fondly. “Well, every one of my siblings has a nickname, in case you haven’t noticed.”

[hazellvesque]

Some Kind of Miracle - Chapter 8

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: G

Pairing: Adrien/Marinette

Summary: If Marinette had her way, she would have had nothing to do with Alya’s latest celebrity crush. So how did she get roped into stalking him around Los Angeles? When fashion icon Adrien Agreste quite literally crashes into Marinette’s life, they have no choice but to put up with one another or risk ruining both of their potential careers forever.

An AU based on the iconic Disney Channel Original Movie, Starstruck.

Read on Ao3

Chapter 8 - Soul

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The remainder of Marinette’s evening passed in a swift, dreamlike blur.

After leaving Adrien - and making a pit stop to the nearest restroom to wash the ink from her hands, though not before making sure to try to commit his phone number to memory - she found her way back to Alya’s side in record time.

It took every ounce of her self-control to stop from fidgeting, lest she draw attention to her flushed face or the faint black smear she couldn’t quite seem to wash away.

Alya, being none-the-wiser, completely believed Marinette’s “oh silly me, I must have gotten lost” excuse and suspected nothing, to Marinette’s relief. The last thing she needed was Alya finding out about where she’d gone and who she was with.

It all felt a bit exhilarating - to be sneaking off and keeping secrets. It was so unlike Marinette to even think about behaving in this way; she and Alya didn’t keep secrets from each other, especially not something that the other would be so incredibly happy to know about.

Yet, the thought of having an entire side story of her life happening without anyone knowing excited her in ways she couldn’t quite understand.

The entire taxi ride back to the hotel was spent fidgeting anxiously in the backseat while Alya chatted up a storm with the driver. Pure adrenaline still coursed through Marinette’s entire body enough to make her fumble while opening the hotel room door, having to make multiple attempts with the key card before finally unlocking it.

Mme. Césaire glanced up from her newspaper, lowering her reading glasses and smiling widely. A small part of Marinette wondered if the woman even understood the articles she was reading. Perhaps she was just skimming the advertisements in an attempt to keep herself busy. Whether she’d admit it or not, she had the same concerns any rational parent would have while sending her teenage daughter off to explore an unfamiliar city. “How was the mall?” she asked, playing a little too casual.

“Expensive,” Alya dramatically flopped down into the large sofa in the middle of the room. Marinette followed suit, though she was itching to get back into the bedroom and at the very least write down the digits that were already fading from her mind and hide them in a safe place.

Mme. Césaire hummed low under her breath. “I suppose we should have expected that. You still had fun though, right?”

As Alya and her mom chatted, Marinette’s food bounced impatiently. She cursed herself for being so fidgety - it wasn’t that big of a deal. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself of. Still, nervous energy coursed through her at the mere thought of being found out.

Paranoia was all it was, really. There was no way she’d get figured out. It wasn’t like he was going to blow her cover. He couldn’t even call her first - her cellphone was useless for making calls due to the lack of service, and she hadn’t given him the hotel room’s number.

Of course, he could still call if he wanted to. He knew where she was staying since he’d dropped her off that night, plus he had a direct line to her through Mme. Césaire’s hiring.

But no. He wouldn’t do that. He wanted this to stay a secret just as much as Marinette did.

At least, that’s what Marinette told herself to calm down.

In retrospect, his decision to put the situation in her control had been smart. He had no way of knowing if his outgoing call might reach the wrong person, but Marinette already knew that his phone was always silenced, and her unknown number could easily be excused as a spam call and brushed off to anyone who would question him.

He’d probably been sneaking around and keeping secrets for years. Marinette didn’t blame him - it was the only way he could have the tiniest bit of privacy.

Still, the sinking feeling that this would all eventually blow up in her face wouldn’t quite escape from the back of her mind.

Alya finding out would probably be the worst. Sure, her parents would be ashamed of her sneaking off with a strange boy and disregarding their rules about safety, and she’d probably get grounded for weeks; but if Alya knew that her closest friend and confidant was keeping possibly the most major, exciting secret in the world from her? She’d be crushed, for sure.

Was destroying that trust really worth it? Marinette supposed that one way or another, she would have to tell Alya the truth. How she could do that, exactly, without hurting anyone’s feelings, would be a bridge she’d cross another day.

“What about you Marinette?”

“Huh?” Marinette jerked back to reality, nearly choking on air as she tried to speak.

Mme. Césaire’s eyes narrowed in concern, but Marinette played it off with a smile she hoped wasn’t too fake-looking.

“Did you have fun today?” she continued.

“Oh, uh, I’m fine. It was fine. I mean fun, I had fun!”

Alya buried her head further into the couch pillows, getting cozier each moment. If Marinette was lucky, Alya would fall asleep for a nap and leave her to her own devices for a bit.

“The rich people here are like a whole different brand of fancy,” Alya mumbled, her voice muffled. “At least they dress nice. You should have taken some pictures or something.”

For her sketchbook. Right. One of the main reasons she’d come all this way. One of the things that had sparked this insane situation she’d found herself in. How could she possibly forget?

(She had a pretty significant distraction. That’s probably how.)

“It’s all pretty fresh in my mind,” Marinette said. “I’ll be able to remember enough to get some ideas. I should probably jot some ideas down before I forget.”

As good of an excuse as it was, it hadn’t been necessary. Alya’s breathing was already slowing as she drifted off, her glasses pressing awkwardly into the side of her face as she sank further into the plush cushions.

Mme. Césaire tutted and pushed her own glasses further up the bridge of her nose, turning her attention back to the newspaper. “You girls can relax,” she assured Marinette, “I’ll call when dinner’s ready.”

“Merci,” Marinette nodded as she left the living area, careful to close the bedroom door quietly behind her.

Silence. Solitude. A single, gracious moment to breathe and pull herself together before her fingers started to itch at the temptation to pick up the hotel room’s landline. It’d be so easy to dial those numbers that had been dancing at the back of her mind all evening.

It’d also seem just a little desperate to call so soon. Even if it were just to confirm that the number was right, or to let him know that she was very much still wanting to keep up contact with him.

God, she was acting like a child with a schoolgirl crush.

In her mind, she fought hard to convince herself that she wasn’t heading down that path.

It wasn’t very convincing at all.

Her only option now was force her runaway train of thought to head down a different path. Ignore the boy and focus on something else. Rearrange her priorities. No more lies or sneaking around or excuses for today.

Besides, with the excitement she’d had over the past 48 hours, it’d be therapeutic to get all of her jumbled thoughts out of her head.

Marinette leaned comfortably back into the pillows she’d propped up on her bed. Taking out her favorite pencils and opening her sketchbook to a fresh page, she began to draw.

The soft graphite of her pencils wore down to dull points more than a dozen times during her session. Her right wrist ached but she couldn’t seem to stop. Every time her eyes drifted to the phone, she forced herself to fill another page.

In her flurry of fashion inspiration, she’d sketched out Adrien’s likeness only once. She hadn’t even meant for it to happen.

It was a simple portrait - he sat cross-legged on the floor of a bookstore, entirely too engrossed in a trashy teen magazine, the edge of his relaxed smile just visible. The drawing took nearly a whole page, the clothing aspect almost entirely ignored in favor of Marinette’s odd inclination to sketch in the surrounding scenery of bookshelves and vaulted windows behind him.

Adrien’s sketch stayed hidden, sandwiched between half a dozen mundane pages of black and white dresses and skirts and scarves on nondescript, dull mannequins. If she pretended hard enough that it wasn’t there, it was like she hadn’t even drawn it.

After all, drawing Adrien was what had gotten her into this mess. She still couldn’t decide if she regretted it or not.

The room fell dark as the sun set out beyond the palm trees. Marinette reached out and turned on the lamp at her bedside table. The bright light illuminated the room harshly, triggering a sharp pain at the back of Marinette’s head. Another souvenir from her recklessness, the worst one by far.

The headache hadn’t quite fully subsided at any point since it first arrived, when she’d first run into Adrien. Or rather, when he ran into her. Painkillers and rest dulled it enough to be ignored, but throughout the day it persisted as a painful reminder of their clumsiness. She’d been sensitive to any bright light or loud noise for two whole days now. Her only moments of complete relief were when she was able to sleep it off.

Even when Mme. Césaire prepared one of her signature dishes that evening, Marinette excused herself from dinner early, having only barely picked over her meal. The earlier she could get to bed and stop her head from swimming the better.

Not even the sound of Alya entering the room and settling in for the night roused her. She drifted off effortlessly and slept deeply, not a single thought or dream disturbing her peaceful hours of darkness and silence.

Once again, someone just had to come along and crush Adrien’s good mood. He was lucky to avoid a lecture from Nino on the ride home, and Chloe hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, so he thought he was home free. He’d even gotten a decent night’s sleep, ecstatic to know that he’d actually gotten away with it this time.

And then he received a phone call while he was mid-cereal pour. From Nathalie. Who was asking him to come to her office immediately.

Nathalie Sancoeur sat intimidatingly straight at her desk, not caring to look up when Adrien entered her office, looking completely out of place in his pajamas among the polished, pristine furniture and the woman clad in business formal.

“You called me?” he asked, suddenly very aware of the way his own voice echoed through the large room. “It something wrong?” he lowered his volume.

“What have we talked about Adrien?”

He gulped. “Am I in trouble?”

Nathalie turned in her chair to face him, her face in its usual disapproving scowl. She didn’t have to say it - that look was enough to tell all.

“Who were you with yesterday?” she asked.

“Nino and Chloe…” he trailed off hesitantly. She was testing him. He had told her that he was leaving with them that morning, and both she and Adrien’s bodyguards were all very aware of their outing. They hadn’t even missed curfew or anything.

Nathalie’s scowl deepened as her shoulders dropped. “I suppose that other girl was digitally inserted into the photos that are making their way around the internet right now, then?”

What?

No. There was no way someone had gotten a picture. They had been so careful. Admittedly, he had let his guard down slightly, but they’d been in such a secluded spot that he hadn’t even spotted so much as a security camera nearby.

“Who is she?” Nathalie continued.

“No one,” Adrien blurted out too quickly, his voice too high. “Just a fan,” he corrected, “she just wanted an autograph, and she was so nice about it I couldn’t say no.”

“And where were your friends while this was happening? Because I have report from your bodyguards that you were out of their sights for half an hour, nowhere to be found.”

Never mind that Nathalie had secretly sent out bodyguards to watch him without his permission, that was a whole other issue he’d have to discuss with her when she wasn’t so pissed.

No doubt some vicious rumors had already started to spread, if the photo was already making its rounds online. He could imagine the headlines already. He was busted. Goodbye modeling contract, goodbye money, goodbye father’s approval.

Goodbye freedom.

Rather than dishing out Adrien’s prison sentence, Nathalie said, “Pick out something nice to wear tonight. We need to let your father see that you can socialize responsibly. I’ll call the caterer and pull something together.”

“What?” he stammered stupidly. Nathalie turned in her swivel chair to face her computer’s desktop and began typing furiously.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Nathalie was actually … covering for him?

Why, he would have never guessed in a million years, but she didn’t jump to punishing him right away so he wasn’t going to question her motive. She was giving him another chance. Relief flooded him.

“That is, only if you’re feeling up for a social gathering,” Nathalie drawled.

“Yes, of course,” he hesitated, “. . .thank you.”

“Just know that your father is watching your every move,” she warned. “There is only so much I can keep from him. I would be on your absolute best behavior from now on. He’s watching more closely than you may think.”

At that, Adrien held back a sardonic laugh. Gabriel had scheduled their next conference call for Friday, and it was only Monday. There was no way the man could fit anything else in his busy schedule. Unless keeping his eye on Adrien was such a high priority that he’d make an exception. Adrien didn’t doubt that, despite how preoccupied his father was, Gabriel Agreste was still keeping a vigilant watch on his every move. That, or at least he was paying someone else to do it and report back to him.

“There’s a lot at stake here, Adrien. I want to see you happy and successful. But we both know that what we want and what your father wants are two very different things.”

Not that he needed a reminder. If Gabriel Agreste knew what Adrien planned to do with the money from his new contract, he’d snatch the opportunity right from under his nose and the possibility of freedom would never see the light of day again. No way on earth Gabriel would be willing to let the revival of his fashion empire slip away so easily.

The man had spent years using Adrien to recover his reputation. Running back to Paris now would halt all of that progress in its tracks.

Besides, Adrien himself didn’t know for sure what he planned to do. He wouldn’t want to give up his job - despite his complaints, he did often enjoy the perks that came with his gigs. And he definitely didn’t want to leave Nino behind.

If he did go back to Paris, what exactly did he plan to do? Visit for a week or two? A month, a year? All he knew for sure is that he wanted a chance to see home again, to get a chance to say his proper goodbyes if he weren’t able to stay.

“Any requests for the evening?” Nathalie asked. “Food, music? Guests?”

His mind immediately jumped to the thought of Marinette. Having her company would be that much more beneficial to his mood. If only it were possible. On the contrary, inviting her along would be one the most irresponsible and idiotic ideas he’d had in a long time.

And yet his fingers still anxiously tapped at his jean pockets waiting for his phone to ring.

“Whatever the caterer wants to whip up will be fine,” Adrien attempted to push his intrusive thoughts away. “I’ll let Nino and Chloe know. They’ll be able to pull together a group of decent people, I’m sure.”

“This goes without saying, but dress nicely,” Nathalie continued. “I’ll phone the photographers and have them set up their equipment in a few hours.”

The evening was going to be a spectacle for the press more than anything else. Adrien had grown used to pretending to have fun under the watchful eye of half a dozen cameras, but asking his friends to do the same? Not only did it feel incredibly pretentious, but he was also forced to drag regular people like Nino into his ridiculousness. None of the photos of anyone else would be published - if anything, it’d be like they were hired to be background actors in the spectacle that was Adrien’s life, which was exploitative at the least and downright wrong at most.

This mess wasn’t anyone’s fault but his own, and now his friends and family would have to clean up after him. It wasn’t fair to anyone.

Though there was one small thing he could do for someone, if only so that he could feel a little better about this whole situation.

“Nathalie? That caterer you hired, she has a daughter. Could you put her on the guest list?”

Marinette awoke to the sound of Alya screaming, which did absolutely nothing to help her sensitive state. All she wanted at that very moment was to shove her head as far as possible into her pillow and sit in complete silence and darkness for the rest of the day, but evidently the universe had other plans.

At first, Alya’s shrieks could have easily been mistaken for pure terror, but upon further listening, it was clear she was giddily exclaiming whatever news had made her this ecstatic at 7am.

“Marinette, you’ll never believe it, you-” Alya burst into the room and promptly froze in her tracks, “-look like hell, what happened?”

Marinette lazily lifted her head from her pillow and looked Alya in the eye. Her mouth was dry and her eyes were likely bloodshot from her restless night. “My head hurts,” was all she could muster before lying back down and pulling the blankets over her face.

“Mom got called in for an extra event tonight,” Alya continued, noticeably deflated.

“That’s great,” Marinette tried to sound enthusiastic, hoping not to ruin Alya’s good mood.

Alya crossed the room and sat at the foot of Marinette’s bed. “And you’ll never guess where it is!”

“Where is-”

“It’s at Gabriel Agreste’s house!” Alya was practically vibrating with delight. Marinette, on the other hand, was glad she still had her blankets partially covering her face so she could muffle her violent coughs from the air she’d just choked on.

“I mean, can you believe it?” Alya continued, babbling at a million miles an hour. “Mom says she got permission to let us come along and help serve appetisers. Maybe we’ll get to look around at the house, I bet it’s huge! And there’ll probably be so many A-listers and-”

Marinette managed an odd affirmative whimper from the back of her throat.

“Do you think Adrien will be there? I mean, obviously, it’s his house, but there’s no telling whether he’ll be out somewhere else or if he’s staying home for the night. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Marinette blurted out much too quickly, her voice cracking slightly. “Why would I know anything?”

Alya shrugged. “You’re just as clueless as me, girl. But isn’t this exciting?” She grinned super wide for extra measure.

For Marinette, it was anything but exciting. Nerve wracking and inconvenient was more like it. She pushed herself further down into her blankets, trying to exaggerate her point.

“I’m not sure, Alya, I’m really not feeling too well today.”

“Oh, come on! This is a once in a lifetime chance! You can’t leave me to do this all alone!”

Sure, once in a lifetime for Alya, but it would be the second time in as many days that Marinette had been inside the Agreste manor. That prospect wasn’t quite as exciting. For all she knew, she might get shoved into a closet again.

“You won’t be alone,” Marinette offered. “Your mom will be there. Besides, it’s a job. You’re not going there to party with all the models and designers.”

Alya frowned playfully. “You’re no fun. I guess if I meet Adrien I’ll have to just tell you later how beautiful he is in person. . .”

Just then, a startling image of his shining green eyes and gentle smile flashed in Marinette’s mind. There was no denying that even the most professional photography did no justice to how warm, welcoming, and downright charming he was in real life.

But this was no time to be thinking about that.

“I’m sorry I’ll have to miss it,” Marinette tried her utter best to sound disappointed. “Maybe you can manage to take a selfie with him. Post it on your blog.”

Marinette’s snark flew over Alya’s head; she was far too busy utterly losing her mind trying to decide what to wear.

Through the bedroom door, she could hear that Mme. Césaire was just as frantic as her daughter, if not moreso, as she rifled through her various recipe books she brought with her to prepare for this very last-minute event.

“You should go with the cupcakes again,” Marinette called out, hiding the knowing smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. “They’re a crowd favorite.”

What seemed like an eternity later, but was really only an hour or two, the two women were ready to leave and get a head start on their preparations. Alya stopped by Marinette’s bedside before they went.

“I’ll take thousands of pictures for you,” she promised. “Millions, if you want. And I’ll make sure maman leaves extra desserts aside for you. And if I meet any cute models I promise I’ll put in a good word and only show them you most flattering pictures. And-”

“Alya,” Marinette groaned, though couldn’t help but smile. “Go have fun. It’s okay, don’t worry about me.”

Alya reached over and squeezed Marinette’s hand. “You’re the best, girl.” She rose to leave, her excitement evident on her face as she practically bounced out into the hallway.

The front door closed with a resounding thud.

Marinette was alone.

As if it had a mind of its own, her hand was on the phone, dialing the numbers before she could stop and think about what she was doing.

It rang only once before a simple “Hello?” sent her heart fluttering.

She’d really need to work hard on that whole not crushing on him thing.

“Hi, Adrien,” she took a deep breath. “Uh, it’s me. Marinette.”

“I had my fingers crossed that you wouldn’t be a telemarketer trying to sell me something,” he joked. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to call. What’s kept you so busy?”

Her honest answer - lying in bed all day doing absolutely nothing - was probably the most boring thing she could possibly say.

“I’ve been working on my sketches,” she said. At least it wasn’t a lie.

“I’m sure word has gotten around town that I’m hosting a get-together tonight,” he hinted playfully. “It’s a shame you probably can’t make it.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Marinette didn’t hesitate to answer. “I can’t sneak around anymore. I’m already scared Alya is going to catch on any minute now. And we both know that would be a major mistake. Plus, I’ve already made a good excuse to her why I won’t be coming.”

He chuckled lightly, his breath making the phone’s speaker pop in a way that made him feel like he was right there next to her.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “It might just be worth it though, her finding out - maybe once the novelty wears off, she and I can conspire to get you to actually have some fun.”

Marinette rolled over onto her back, pressing the phone closer to her ear. “She blogs about you, you know. An entire website she made herself. Full of nothing but your face.”

“That’s nothing, you should see my dad’s office. At least there are no embarrassing childhood photos out there on the internet.”

“Oh, sure, not yet,” Marinette laughed. “But once you let her in your house I’m sure they’d find their way out.”

“Like I said, it might be worth it.”

“You’re not giving up on this, are you?”

“Nope,” Adrien said matter-of-factly.

“In that case, why don’t you just tell Alya personally? It’ll probably go over better than me confessing myself.”

“As tempting as that may sound, you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Did she know that, though? Hell, she barely knew him. Yet, she trusted him all the same.

Sure, his reputation needed to be protected, but Marinette was nobody. Exposing her secrets wouldn’t have as big of an impact compared to what he’d go through if the public knew any juicy details about his personal life. But he still knew, however mundane it may be, that choice to reveal her secret was hers and hers alone to make.

“She and her mom will probably be here any minute, along with the rest of the guests,” Adrien sighed. “I should probably get going.”

“Right,” Marinette tried her best not to sound dejected.

“Before I go, I do have a question for you though.”

Instantly, as if she’d just downed a cup of coffee, her entire brain perked up.

“How much longer will you be here?” Adrien asked carefully. She prayed her imagination wasn’t running wild, that she truly did hear a hint of hope in his voice. That one simple question implied a million more possibilities.

She counted down in her head. “Eleven more days,” she said after a moment, not quite believing it herself. Had it really only been three days since they arrived? And if she and Alya had already gotten into this much trouble so soon, she could only imagine what havoc they wreak with more than a week remaining in their trip.

“Well, if you’re ever in need of a tour guide, or if you want recommendations for the best beaches-”

“Or if I want to go on a surprise midnight joy ride through a stranger’s big fancy neighborhood. . .”

Adrien laughed, “Yeah, that too. You know where to reach me.”

“And you know that I could never get away with talking to you while Alya and I are staying in the same room. And this is the only working phone we have right now.”

“You don’t need cell phone service to use an app,” he offered. “You can text me on your phone using the internet. That way you won’t have to always wait to call.”

She hadn’t even considered that. Then again, Adrien probably knew lots of sneaky ways to get any tiny bit of privacy from his everyday life. It came with the territory of the career, she supposed.

“I’ll do that then,” she smiled.

“Great,” Just from the sound of his voice, she could tell he was smiling too.

They both stayed on the line for a half a dozen fleeting moments, Marinette not quite sure whether or not she wanted to be the one to hang up first. And in those few moments, a thought came to her.

Really, the thought had been pressing in the back of her mind for ages, but she supposed it was a good time to set it free.

“Okay, you got to ask your question, now it’s my turn,” she told him. “And I want a real, honest answer.”

“Of course,” Adrien replied.

“You’re being so nice to me. Spending all this time talking to me when you could be busy with your friends or family or. . . anyone, really. I don’t get it. Why me?”

“I like making new friends,” Adrien said. “And you seemed like a good candidate.”

“But you barely know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you better. If that’s okay with you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears through the silence.

After another moment, he asked, “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes,” she forced herself to answer, forcing down the violent butterflies threatening to burst from her chest.

“Good,” Adrien answered casually, as if he hadn’t just sent her mind on a whirlwind of emotions. “In that case. . . I’ll see you soon?”

Would he though?

“Maybe,” was the most honest answer she could give, and she hoped her response came out as more playful than downright rejecting. “Have fun at your party, Adrien.”

“Goodbye, Marinette.”

Adrien hung up first, leaving the sudden silence of the empty hotel room as Marinette’s only companion.

In the end, Marinette Dupain-Cheng could honestly say she really, truly tried not to fall for Adrien Agreste. But try as she might, there was no denying that, more than anything else, she was looking forward to - maybe, possibly, hopefully - seeing him again.

[doodlelolly0910]

Close Encounters of the Spiritual Kind

Summary: Emma Nolan spent a lot of time alone, and that was fine by her. Because one is never truly alone. She should know. She can talk to dead people. What she didn’t expect was one of these spiritual encounters to hang around, taking her down a rabbit hole of missing women, revenge, and, least expected, love. Can she save the day and Killian Jones? Is there even another choice?

Read it from the beginning on AO3 and FFN!

A/N:  New chapter! It's pretty much pedal to the metal from here on out, and I really hope you guys all like it! Sorry about the late update, I know the day is almost gone. I've been having internet issues lately and it's also the reason I haven't been able to respond to your lovely comments! I read them all, though, and I appreciate every one of you! Thank you as always to my fabulous beta @kmomof4 who did (and continues to do!) an amazing job with the @cssns and also find the time to beta this little project of mine :D and another HUGE thank you to @courtorderedcake who created the beautiful artwork for this fic. And thank you as well to everyone who reads this. It means so much to me that you guys are liking this so much! On with the show!

Chapter 11

"What's with the stupid warning on the door? Going for the ominous pirate vibe?" Emma said as he led her back into the office area. Milah’s presence had been near constant in the hours since she came face to face with Hook, but she had been mostly quiet, to Emma’s elation. The scent of jasmine had far surpassed bothersome at this point. She was exhausted and she could feel blood matting her hair at the back of her head where Hook had knocked her out. Everything ached. She just wanted a hot shower and to sleep for a year. But she had a job to do. Hook chuckled. "It's actually Dante, love. Divine Comedy?" he told her and Emma colored in embarrassment. Of course he was intelligent, charming, and sex on legs. He swept his hooked arm before him in a bow, beckoning her into the room, his good arm clutching her bag (now refilled with her things) and the binder, clipboard, and weapons he'd laid out on the desk before. "It's what he wrote as inscribed on the gates of hell." "And what are you? The devil?" She snorted as she walked past him into the familiar room. A rueful expression crossed his face for a brief moment as he shut the door behind them with his hip, but he recovered himself quickly. Emma studied him pensively over the brief glimpse of emotion he'd just displayed. Did he really think that lowly of himself? "I prefer dashing rapscallion," he replied with a cheeky grin and a salaciously raised eyebrow. She gave him a withering look and his grin dissolved into a flirty pout."Scoundrel?" he suggested instead. They entered the office, her face painted with a full on scowl now.

“Are you gonna tell me what I'm supposed to do for you or am I supposed to guess? ‘Cause I'm running out of time here.” She leaned up against the wall opposite where the shelves with the pictures were, putting herself as close as possible to the door. He smirked and laid out the objects he'd brought with them from the Fun Room (as Emma had snarkily dubbed it).

“You are the one who changed the subject, darling,” he reminded her before sitting in the chair behind the desk and reclining back in it slightly, a single brow quirked on his forehead. Emma rolled her eyes.

“Whatever, that’s not important. What’s important is if you need me to stay on Gold’s good side, I have,” she looked at the clock shaped like a ship’s wheel on the wall, “six hours and forty seven minutes to get whatever that thing is to him.” She pointed to the object that had very quickly become the bane of her existence sitting near his left elbow. He didn’t look at it, only continued to watch her directly. His gaze was unsettling, like he could see her very thoughts. Strange for someone who refused to believe what was actually going on inside her head.

Give him a chance, Milah’s voice murmured suddenly. Emma set her mouth in a line. She was not going to indulge the spirit in Killian’s presence anymore.

“You can have it,” Hook said with a simple shrug. There was a slight shake to Emma’s head as she looked at him in utter disbelief. She wouldn’t have been more confused if he would have said it in Chinese.

“Are you shitting me?” she nearly screeched, pushing off of the wall. “You- you- you knock me out, split my head open, actually, tie me up, threaten my life, all over me coming to get this thing and now you’re just going to hand it over? No questions asked?”

He stroked a thumb over his jawline and rubbed it over the thoughtful pout on his lips. “Sorry?” he offered, not because he actually was, but because he knew it was what Emma wanted to hear. Or maybe because he knew it would further enrage her. “If you'd rather I keep it…” he moved his good hand to the device and began to slide it towards the drawers Emma had initially found it in. Her anger quickly dissolved into panic.

“No, no, no, let's not be so hasty…” she said, taking the bait and reaching out to still his hand without thinking. His blue eyes shot to hers at the contact and she couldn't look away, her breath stilling in her chest.

“Well, if you insist,” he murmured, withdrawing his hand from underneath hers, drawing the knuckle of his forefinger down the middle of her palm and to the tip of her middle finger sending an electric spark up her arm. She pulled away, her muddled mind even more confused. One minute this guy was threatening her very existence, the next he was… well, whatever that just was.

He pulled the binder closer to him and propped it on his prosthetic arm, the hook of the device curving over the top edge of the plastic. He thumbed through a few pages and stopped on what he was looking for and turned it so Emma could see with a hard look on his face once more.

A photograph stared up at her, a smiling Killian Jones and a beautiful brunette, wrapped up in each other's arms, eyes bright, faces carefree. The swell of jasmine scented perfume around her only confirmed it as she studied the picture intently. This was Milah. She had seen this face before, she remembered, and her eyes drifted to the shelves to the side of the desk. The charcoal sketch of the same face was in the exact spot she recalled it to be. She smiled softly and looked back to Hook, his face a mask of calm despite the pain raging in his heartbroken blue eyes.

He tapped the photo with his hook, drawing her attention to the hand that was cupping Killian's jaw in the picture. There was a ring on that hand, nothing fancy, a simple silver band that twisted into a heart made of a Celtic knot.

“Since you know who Milah is, and her connection to me, I shouldn't have to explain much. She was wearing this ring when she-” he cut himself off with a firm set to his jaw before redirecting his words. “She always wore it. The bastard kept it, and I would like it back. He will keep it somewhere he has access to. He likes to use it as a tool of sorts. I tried meself to get it back once. It… did not go well,” he explained with a dark chuckle and his rap sheet immediately flitted through her mind. “You will get me this ring.” His eyes snapped up to hers. Emma studied the picture a moment longer.

She shouldn't do this. She should just take the device when he let her go and give it to Gold and work on taking him down from the inside. She could do it so easily.  If Hook would have turned out to be literally anyone else, she probably would have. But, despite her resistance to it and their less than stellar first meeting, Emma had found herself invested in Killian Jones. What was more, it made her actually contemplate doing this. More than contemplate.

She wished now more than ever that Graham hadn't gotten hurt. Would any of this be happening if he'd been by her side? Would it have gone worse? A chill ran through her as she thought of Graham and herself lying side by side on a concrete floor somewhere, eyes open and unblinking. In a way, she was glad she'd gotten tangled in this by herself.

Moving towards the shelf, Hook's eyes followed her as she studied the portrait of the woman whose presence she had come to accept as part of her every day. It was odd to think that someone she had developed such a strange relationship with was someone she'd never seen until now. Both she and Liam had been so adamant that Killian Jones was a good person, and she could see from her vantage point that all of his actions seemed to be fuelled by grief. Revenge was a powerful motivator, Emma knew. She raged and lashed out against everything and everyone when her parents died, and then again with Neal. If things had gone fractionally different in her life, she could be sitting where Jones was now. That thought alone, that she could bring him just a fragment of peace, made her want to at least try.

“So this ring,” she said, her eyes moving to the wood and glass case containing the flag next to Milah's picture. The dog tags laying over the top faced away from her, but she knew who they belonged to.

His mother's ring, Milah's voice whispered in her head and Emma frowned. She was not going to react. Subconsciously, she touched the line on her neck left behind by Hook's blade from the last time she'd brought it up.

“Let's pretend there's a snowball's chance in hell that I can even get close to it, what next? You just forget about all of this?” she continued, distracting herself from the lingering presence in the room with them.

It must have been the exhaustion setting in, or maybe side effects of the head wound she'd sustained. Because there was no other explanation for why she would do what she'd done next. Emma actively avoided touching anything that belonged to the dead, knowing what kind of trigger it was for her, and yet, inexplicably, she found herself reaching out to turn the dog tags over so she could read the inscription.

The encounter slammed into her like a lightning bolt as soon as her finger grazed the first piece of metal, hurtling her through time and space inside her head. She felt like her ear drums were about to burst with the amount of ringing echoing through her skull until voices and images started filtering through.

“We did everything we could, it was just her time. But she went peacefully,” a doctor told a stoic Liam (who couldn't have been more than 20 here) as he cradled his sobbing preteen brother in his arms. A woman with a bald head lay in what looked like tranquil slumber in a hospital bed nearby, except she was too still.

A flash of light.

“I'm so proud of you, little brother.” Liam was older now, uniform clad and clapping his similarly dressed brother on the shoulder, eyes brimming with affection.

Another flash.

“Liam, I realize that it’s a whole sodding mess, but I'm in love with her! How can I not get her away from that? She's in danger!” The passion in Killian's voice had Liam moving towards him and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Flash.

“Come on, Killian, she wouldn't have wanted this for you. I don't want this for you, and I'm still breathing. You have to stop this.” Liam hoisted a very drunk Killian up and slung his little brother's arm over his shoulders. Killian nodded on a sob and allowed his brother to lead him away.

Flash.

Red lights flashed all around, a klaxon blaring in the background. Men in uniform were running, shouting amongst the deafening sounds of explosions in the background.

“Somebody get a medic! God, no, Li, you're going to be okay, it's okay,” Killian reassured his brother as he attempted to drag his larger frame somewhere. Killian tripped over something and fell, taking the whole of his brother's weight into his lap. He quickly checked a spot on Liam's stomach that was saturated with blood and blanched, looking back up to Liam's own too pale face. Liam gave a feeble smile and shook his head.

“It's alright, little brother. You're going to be just fine,” Liam said weakly. Killian shook his head roughly, tears beginning to escape his eyes.

“Younger brother,” he joked and Liam laughed, which soon turned into a sputtering cough. He looked up at Killian, his face earnest and serious.

“I'm going, Killian,” he said softly.

“No!” the younger Jones protested on a choked sob. Liam smiled sadly at him.

“I'm so proud of you, brother. I love you very much.” Liam’s breath and words were labored now.

“SOMEBODY HELP US!” Killian screamed one last desperate time, but when he looked back down to his brother, it was too late. Liam's eyes were still open, now unseeing, the spark behind the blue orbs already extinguished. Killian let out a low bellowing moan more anguished than Emma could ever remember hearing from another person.

The scene melted into blackness this time and a familiar voice filled her head.

“It's not too late. A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.”

Emma was wrenched from the encounter by a vice like hand on her wrist. Killian's face swam into focus as the room settled back around her and she let out a shuddering breath. He looked thunderous.

“Do not touch anything in here,” he said, a dangerous undercurrent to his tone.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered and he peeled his hand off of her wrist, his face still clouded with simmering ire.

“If you’re going to be sick, there’s a trash can in the corner over there,” he said gruffly, making his way to a small cabinet behind the desk. It was Emma’s turn to watch him move around the room as he pulled it open and removed a first aid kit. He turned around to find her standing in the same spot he left her in. Without waiting for her to make the move herself, he grasped her wrist again, the kit safely hanging from his hook by the handle, and sat her down in the chair on the other side of the desk from where he sat. He lay the plastic box he’d been carrying on the desk behind them and leaned against the surface.

Emma’s eyes widened as he reached out and skimmed his fingers along her cheek, not knowing what to expect. His fingers were warm, calloused from hard work, but not unpleasant against her skin as they curled around the nape of her neck and pulled her head forward. She held her breath as he moved the hair on the back of her head around, then blew it out sharply when he reached her wound just to the left of the crown of her head.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he reached back, still holding her hair aside with his hook, and rummaged through the kit for something. He didn’t answer, but she got one soon enough when a stream of cold liquid poured onto the wound, burning the site immediately. An expletive burst from her lips at the contact and she tensed, but didn’t pull away. “What is that?” she exclaimed, the pain fading to a dull throb as he dabbed a cloth over it.

“Isopropyl alcohol. Just cleaning the wound. Making sure you don’t need stitches. You don’t, by the way,” he said, running his fingers through her locks one last time before gently pushing her upright on her shoulder. She felt dizzy, and she wasn’t quite sure if it was from the heady perfume still lingering around her, the encounter with Liam, the head wound, or the proximity of the man sitting before her.

“Oh, so now you’re going to be a gentleman?” she scoffed, fighting the urge to touch the wound. She gathered her hair over her shoulder instead, letting her blood streaked curls rest on her chest, liquid soaking into her sweater from where it had run down her neck.

“It would be bad form to leave a lady in such a state, especially if it was my fault. And I’m always a gentleman,” he said with a wink. He put the supplies back where they belonged and came around to sit near her again. Emma fiddled with the chipped nail on her thumb, peeling it away from itself and flicking it mindlessly on the floor. There was a war going on inside her head, wondering whether or not to tell him that his brother made contact. Maybe she could better reach him with Liam than Milah.

Tell him, Milah urged. Emma nodded slightly and cleared her throat, meeting Killian’s eyes. He cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

“There's something I think you should know,” she began slowly, choosing her words carefully. Hook said nothing, only continuing to watch her impassively. She took his silence as permission to continue. “Those tags there, I knew who they belonged to before I touched them.” She saw him stiffen and she took a deep breath, holding his rapidly heating gaze. She was already this far in, so she continued. “I've seen Liam before as well. He and Milah both care about you very much and they've, uh, they kinda asked me to help you. Which is weird, given how we crossed paths, right? Well, I guess no weirder than telling you I talk to your brother and girlfriend, I guess.” She let a nervous huff of a laugh escape her lips, darting her eyes to her lap, and spoke again despite his continued silence. “When I touched the tags, I had sort of an encounter with him. He, uh, Liam, he told me something that I think I'm supposed to tell you. I'm not really sure how this stuff goes so I'm just gonna say it,” she said and straightened her shoulders, bringing her eyes back up to meet his blazing blue. “He said that it's not too late. And that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants-"

“-deserves what he gets,” Hook finished for her, the words a low mutter. Emma’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. Did he believe her? His eyes cleared for a moment, grief shining like the blade of a knife within them, yes, but a sliver of hope leaving them slightly wider as well. If he didn't believe her, he certainly wanted to. “Just who the bloody hell are you, Swan?” he murmured in wonderment. Emma didn't quite know how to answer that.

It didn't matter, though, because as quickly as the moment came, it was gone, his eyes lighting back up with pain fueled anger, and he stood abruptly, making Emma press herself back into the chair. She pushed too far; she shouldn't have said anything. He grabbed her bag between the pincers of his prosthetic, flipping it open and rifling through it with his good hand. He gave a sharp nod once he'd confirmed whatever he was looking for. He snatched the infinitely mysterious device from the desktop and shoved it roughly inside the satchel. Turning his fierce gaze back to her, he thrust the bag forward into her chest, her arms coming up to grasp it automatically.

“Get out,” he growled and Emma's mouth dropped open. “Take the tracker to Gold. It's been deactivated. Permanently.”

Emma’s head swam with questions. He was throwing her out, and that was confusing in and of itself, though not really with the exchange they had just had. Violence she had been prepared for. Rejection, she hadn't been.

“You're just going to push me out the front door? And what do you mean ‘deactivated’?” she asked and stood, still trying to process being steamrolled by Killian Jones’ rage as he marched back around the desk.

“I owe you nothing more. You should be grateful for the opportunity to leave intact,” he said with a glower. “It's a shame I won't get to see the look on his face, though, when he realizes his love is gone in an instant,” he mused, nearly reveling in the knowledge that Gold would soon receive this news. Emma felt like she was going to be sick. Again.

“Are you seriously sending me back to Gold with a useless device? He's going to fucking kill me!” Emma said, fear mixing with her own rage now. “Why would you even hang on to this thing? How am I supposed to get your ring back now?” she asked, a last desperate attempt to appeal to what he wanted.

“Forget the ring,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “I should have never asked. The time for making deals is done. Just as I am done… with you.” He brushed past her and opened the door, sweeping his good arm out and gesturing for her to leave. She gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Leave now, while you still can,” he ground out and Emma's mouth snapped shut. She stalked past him, out the door and down the hall she'd first entered, avoiding eye contact with the door to the room she'd been tied up in.

She would figure this out, she had to. She wasn't giving up on Gold, maybe Jefferson could fix this tracker thing or something, but she found a strange resistance building up in the pit of her stomach at the thought of giving up on Killian Jones as well.

“Oh, and Swan?” His voice stopped her in her tracks and she turned. He pushed himself away from the door that he'd been holding open with his body weight, his hooked arm scraping down it to keep it in position.

“When you give that crocodile the device, tell him that Hook sends his regards.”

[unholyhelbig]

Always incredible writing! Can't get enough of your storytelling and I'm sure many others can agree. Keep up the amazing stories. Prompt idea for ya since I've just been Netflixing tons of movies after work lol: Movie Tulip Fever, oldtimeAU Beca is a lowly painter who has been hired to paint a portrait of a wealthy man and his new much younger wife. She has married him to support her family. They fall in love. Btw the movie was pretty shitty lol, but I thought it would be a fun/diff idea for ya!

[A/N: Thank you so much! This movie would have been so much better if it was gay… Anyway, this is a big prompt so I could only fit so much into it. This is longer than I usually do. So if you guys want to see a part two, send me an ask about it!]  

The candle gave a soft light to the crowded room. It was an arc of brilliant yellows that was cut with a horrid orange. However, the two colors worked together in an almost therapeutic way- one tiny combination of wax and wick giving a new life to the smallest room in the house.

That was no feat; the mansion was massive- coated in royal reds and cobalt blues. Nothing was spared when it came to Garret Beale. His family being ahead of all the trade on their small island- often taking a page out of the colonist’s books and resorting to working with the men of the sea. Men who pillaged and brought back three times what this home was worth, only keeping a small portion of it to get the great law of the king off their flame-heated trails.

He was a handsome man, one with charming stature and the best-assembled clothes. Garret carried himself as such- royalty that didn’t have a true bloodline, but enough to get everything he desired. Including the woman who stood with a hard stare in front of him. His deep Irish eyes were scanning over her figure, taking in the small stature that she carried. In fact, she reminded him of one of his men; not a nationally regarded painter.

She wasn’t traditional, a pair of grey slacks and a black shirt hugged her figure, her eyes almost as dark as the midnight sky. Different colors of paint popped against the fabric; it made her look more like a street beggar than anything. But he had seen her work- seen the way she made use of the canvas and vibrant colors given to her. She was an artist, one like no other.

“I’ve seen your work,” Garret said, quite dramatically as he leaned backward in his seat. It creaked and groaned in irony. A man with that much wealth should have a better place to sit. Maybe there was some semantic value, but the woman didn’t question him. Instead, she lifted her chin, keeping her jaw tensed. “it’s good.”

“Just good?” She finally spoke, lifting her eyebrows. She leaned heavily on his hand-crafted desk, annoyance sparking within her stomach. He had more money than he knew what to do with; Beca running her fingers over the carved edge. It was done well. Better than his chair. “I mean no offense, Mr. Beale, but I have spent years studying under masters of artistic ability. You’ve pulled me from sea two weeks ago, for what? To design your walls?”

“Garret, please.” He seemed unphased by her annoyance. The man knew that she wasn’t happy, practically being pulled onto his family’s property. She agreed, having to travel weeks to even get to the home. He offered up a project, one that peaked her interest. “If I wanted to have my walls recolored, I would not send word for you, Miss Mitchell, have a seat.”

She drew in a soft breath, that skeptic look still in her deep stare. However, she eventually lowered herself into the chair pushing at the back of her legs. It was cold against her spine, making her swallow back a shiver uncomfortably. She waited patiently, despite questioning the man’s privilege.

“My wife,” he drew in a long breath, “She is quite exquisite.”

Beca pressed her lips together in a frim line, instantly finding discomfort in the man’s words. The whimsical look in his eyes solidifying just how much he cared for this unnamed woman. A small smile played at the corners of his expression. “I have yet to find someone who is talented enough to capture her beauty, which is why I called you.”

“To paint her?” She eased out, “I paint what I feel, Mr. Bea- Garret.” She corrected herself last minute. “There is no rhyme or rhythm to my work. It’s near impossible for me to construct something when I feel nothing.”

“Ah,” he leaned forward, pressing his elbows against the desk. “I assure you, Miss Mitchell when you see my wife it will be highly unlikely that you won’t feel a thing.”

She gave him a jarring look. This man was quite clearly in love with this woman. So much so that he would invite a near stranger into his home to paint a fine picture of her. He had apparently done so before, many times, but was never happy with the outcome. Men, she was sure, men who drooled and didn’t focus on the task at hand. Maybe that’s why he hand-selected her. It couldn’t’ just be based on her work. He was a picky man.

“Are you insisting that I should fall for this woman?”

“No, of course not.” He waved his hand dismissively “I merely suggest that you form a bond with her before you even sit down to draw your first stroke. I’ll pay for it all.”

She lifted both brows, her head resting on her hand as she kept her fingers on her lips. She watched him carefully. “How so?”

“You can stay here, for as long as you need. I certainly have the room to spare.” He stated plainly. “I just require that you spend time with my wife enough to know exactly what I need to be portrayed in her portrait.”

“Her essence,” Beca said as more of a statement than a question. “Not just the way she appears to the human eye.”

It was interesting, something Beca had never done before. She was more into taking an edge of charcoal and sitting on the bow of a boat- sketching the way the waves ate at a flat-lined shore. But if this woman, whoever she was, took so much captivation from the world, then it would be a certain challenge.

“Do we have a deal, Rebeca?” He held out his pale hand, firm and strong.

“It’s Beca.” She took his grasp in hers, squeezing it with force. “And how could I say no?”

The warm spring day changed the atmosphere in the usually dark house. There seemed to be no such thing as vibrant yellow, and unforgivable violent the night before. Beca having an uneasy sleep in one of the cold master bedrooms. It was far from comfortable- but still too fancy for her taste.

She woke up to a long ray of sun pressing against her gaze, birds chirping incessantly on the balcony. The stone balcony that was warmed by the very star that stirred her from her snooze. Regardless, she pulled herself from the clutches of the duvet, flinching as her bare feet hit the cold floor.

Begrudgingly, the talented artist slid on a pair of black pants and a loose fitting white shirt- not ever bringing more than that with her. She was fairly simple, hating the wire corsets and edged dresses of the time. They were too heavy and nice for her to paint in.

After lacing up a pair of brown leather boots, Beca made her way to the kitchen of the house. It wasn’t too far, Garret had set the place up like a maze, although, she was at the edge of it. He gave her a half-hearted tour before fleeing from the property himself, claiming of some business he had to do. It was close to three in the morning, there was nothing he could busy himself with at that hour- but again, the woman didn’t question his generosity.

She was close to the service quarters, residing in the same sector as the staff; she was staff. Having been hired for a job. To paint a wealthy man’s wife in exchange for room and board. Part of her wanted to drag it out to its full extent, the other part hating the idea of spending one more minute in this place.

A sickly-sweet scent coated her lungs the moment she walked into the kitchen. It was large, set up and built like a room from the Spanish colonies; complete with deep yellow walls and terracotta tile with intricate suns and moons. Natural light seeped in from the grassy courtyard. It was good work, just like Garret had said, no expense spared for his family.

There was a woman leaning heavily over a mass of dough, she was tall, almost tall enough to bump her head on the chandelier, it hung low enough. Flour coated her fingers and clothing as a strand of dirty brown hair fell from the bun on her head, sweat forming on the woman’s brow.  She glanced up with deep charcoal eyes at the change in atmosphere.

“Oh!” She let her folders fall back, moving her eyes down her smock as a certain heir of heat pressed against her cheek. She reached for a dish towel. “I’m sorry Miss Mitchell, I didn’t see you there. The dining room is right through the left corridor.”

This woman, whoever she was, looked petrified. Like she had done something wrong against the curiosity of the young artist. Beca having noticed the same thing as she cocked her head to the side slightly- like a lost puppy.

“I’m not looking for the dining room.” She stated simply from the doorway, trying not to scare the taller woman off. She was young, a simple look of amusement finding a way to her face. “You know who I am?”

“Of course.” The stranger let out a soft breath, pushing the base of her palms into the moldable dough. “Mr. Beale often hires new artists to tackle capturing the enigma that is his wife. Many of them leave after the first few days. They’re not very social.”

Her slate eyes flicked up towards Beca, almost as if asking a question.

“I’m not either,” She relented, a small smile on her lips. “But I know proper manners. I take it none of them have ever been back here?”

The woman grimaces, shaking her head as she struggles to blow the strands of stray hair from her gaze. She was becoming more comfortable with the conversation, with the presence of Beca in general. This was her kitchen, the woman knew not to overstep her boundaries.

“Never, Miss Mitchell.” She held back a snort. “Wouldn’t give the staff a second glance. A bit like Mr. Garret himself, if I might add.”

“Beca is fine.” The smaller girl said, shoving her hands in her pockets as the woman gave her a kind smile. She was different than the rest of them, actually making conversation and not attempting to rush the other way. She made eye contact and didn’t hold her shoulders along the straight edge of a metal plate. Instead, she looked calm and collected. Strong, even. “And you are?”

“The chef.” She answered on instinct.

“I figured that.” Beca elicited a small laugh. “I meant your name.”

“Oh,” she stilled her movements, a genuine smile finding it’s way to her flour specked face. “I’m Stacie Conrad.”

The Conrad’s were a fun group of people, a family name that Beca recognized almost immediately. She had met a man in the Pacific with the same surname, almost the same features as the chef that stood in front of her; a strong and seducing fella with a great sense of humor. If this woman was anything like her bloodline, Beca would get along great with her.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Stacie.” Beca reached out to shake the woman’s hand, reaching over the island, not hesitating a bit as the taller girl produced a powder covered one instead. She shrugged sheepishly- taking it regardless, Stacie’s mouth falling open. “What’s a little dirt?”

“Ah,” She nodded softly “Miss Chloe will love you.”

“Chloe huh?” The name rolled off of the artist’s lips. It was the first time that she had actually heard it. She was always proclaimed as Garrets wife, or even the woman no one could really paint. But she hadn’t met Beca yet. “Do you have any idea where she is?”

“You two haven’t met yet?” Stacie raised a pointed eyebrow.

“I got in around three last evening,” Beca explained, following that ashy stare towards the courtyard. It was a feat in its own; large hedges shielding the home from the outside world, lush green grass coating the full area, even a tall tree that produced bright fruit like that of a flame. Yellow and sharp. “Mr. Beale took me right to my quarters. After a tour, of course.”

“A fine man that’s proud of his home.” Stacie grimaced, stepping away from her task as she rounded the large counter. She was just as tall as Beca though, both of them turning towards the large doors, leaning heavily against the island as they stared out into the yard, Stacie crossing her arms over her chest. “Every morning, you can find Miss Chloe out here.”

“Reading?” The tiny girl still couldn’t see much but the yard- assuming the woman of the hour was situated on the other side of the large tree, back against the bark as she perused some ancient form of literature.

Stacie scoffed. “You wish.”

Beca threw her an odd glance before turning her attention back towards the area. Struggling to focus her hearing. She had been so focused before- not paying much stock to the little patch of outdoors. She noticed the taller woman first, at least she thought it was two women. Both in form fitted white suits- mesh masks over their faces. Fencing.

This woman who everyone raved bout was battling it out loudly with another, stepping gracefully against the grass, unlike any high-class girl that Beca had seen before. Both grunting as the metal of their foil’s clanked with each fluid hit. The shorter of the two took a step out of bounds, her partner not sparring a second.

“Avertissement” Beca scoffed under her breath, shaking her head.

“Aubrey never plays fair” Stacie spoke without tearing her gaze away from the pair. “I’m sure she does it to keep Chloe on her feet. You fence?”

“I used to.”

The two burst into laughter, muffled by the door that separated their spectators. Each woman panting with a purpose as the taller of the two removed her mask first- face red from the labor as she struggled to catch her composure. Stacie cocked an eyebrow at the blonde, cheeks maintaining their rosy complexion. “That’s Miss Posen.” She informed the small girl. “I swear, Chloe and she are joined at the hip. Protective, that one is.”

Aubrey went to remove her chest guard, but Beca didn’t have the attention span to continue watching the blonde. Instead, she focused on who she deemed to be Chloe. The mask was removed, a bout of coppery locks fell against her shoulders; she shook her head trying to free them from the heat of the island day. Her own chest was heaving, cheeks a bit red as she tucked her weapon beneath her arm. An angelic smile pressed close to her lips, a thin layer of sweat coating her collarbone.

“You’re drooling, Beca.”

“What?” The brunette snapped her mouth shut, dragging the back of her hand across her cheek, checking to make sure she was in fact, not drooling. Stacie was right, she could catch flies the longer she stood there, each passing second, she stared at Chloe made a heat press near her core. “I was doing no such thing.”

“Hmm,” Stacie nudged her new friend. “There is a reason they call Chloe Beale unpaintable.”