#and yet I somehow managed to melt a cactus

[what-yadoking-likes]

“NO,” Wolf’s declaration was loud, clear... and totally ignored by Hoxton, who continued carrying the poinsettia into their bedroom.

“No, No, NO!-” Wolf body-blocked the doorway, his stocky frame just enough to keep Hoxton out - despite this the Brit weaved and dodged as if he could slip between the tiny cracks Wolf couldn’t cover with his body alone.

Eventually Hoxton stopped trying to phase through the doorway currently being blocked by his partner.

“What’s your problem?”

Wolf glared at the crimson flower as if it had personally done him harm. “It’ll die.”

“We all die some day, Wolfie.”

Eye-roll. “You know what I’m like with plants. I’ll find a way to kill it even if I do everything right.”

Wolf’s reputation for speedrunning killing plants was the stuff of legend. He had somehow managed to melt a cactus he’d bought and put in their shared bathroom. Sure, he’d blamed it on it being placed too closely to the fan, which could blast cool or hot air into the bathroom, but nobody knew for certain - how did cactus’ MELT when they lived in deserts where it was nothing but hot?

Hoxton’s expression softened. “I’ll take care of it,” he insisted, doing his best to pull the exact expression he knew would have Wolf appeased and gazing at him with such strong affection it at times stung his heart - it was a warm, doting look, focused so completely on him as if he were the only thing in the world.

Wolf was unmoved. “No,” he said, folding his arms.

Hoxton dropped the look. “Git. I’ll get it in there somehow.”

“I’d like to see you try!” Wolf sing-songed as Hoxton retreated to the office to finish whatever work he had to occupy himself with before they were officially off-duty for the holiday season.

[yellingmetatron]

The Light in Heaven

So.

Well.

Something like two freaking years ago, or thereabout, I told @kissofmistletoe I was writing a little character study about Metatron and Baldr.  Various things took up my time, I had difficulty getting into a desired headspace, and this little character study never materialized-- until now.  It’s short and it’s not beta’d but I think that it does what I set out to do, and again, it’s been something like two years. So, to @kissofmistletoe: Sorry for the wait, and I hope it’s at least somewhat entertaining.  Hope other people enjoy it, too.

----

Metatron has always enjoyed watching people.  It’s a good thing, considering his purpose, and especially considering he has so many other inclinations that seem at odds with that purpose.  But life can’t be all torment, even for an archangel.

There’s something about perceiving a person, recognizing them as another self that Metatron finds… what’s best word?  Enrapturing, enthralling, intoxicating?  None of those words seem to speak very well of the person being enraptured, enthralled, or intoxicated.  All of them imply loss of control, and Metatron hates not being in control, especially when the matter is self-control.

Metatron often hates things he thinks he shouldn’t want.  Often, but not always.

Baldr wanders the wildlands of the Shamayim, Heaven, like a native.  The geography of Heaven is much like the geography of the Levant, but as it was before so many empires demanded their tithes of lumber for ships and incense.  Aromatic cedars stretch tall and wide all across the mountains, boughs covered in snow.  In the valleys between the mountains, ice-cold rivers run into the eternal sea of Heaven that stretches quite literally into infinity.  Baldr has told Metatron before that he was pleasantly surprised by Heaven.  He had feared it would be a dead, white place.  Metatron had managed not to be offended, at least not by Baldr.

How do humans keep getting things so wrong?

Metatron watches Baldr. The god had seen the sun rise over the mountains, and expressed a desire to take in the winter sun.  Metatron had told him of course he could, and he didn’t need to ask: He was an ambassador, not a prisoner.  Baldr mused there was overlap in those categories; after all, his presence must be accounted for, his movements verified.  Metatron had told him nobody expected him to sit in his room all day and only come out for political discourse.  That sort of treatment was reserved for Sheol, not Shamayim.  Baldr had smiled, but then said that of course the most responsible thing he could do as a guest was to seek the approval of his host before adventuring.  He had tilted his head in innocent inquisitiveness; wasn’t he Metatron’s charge, for the time being?

They had gone on like that for a while, a kind of verbal play-fight that ended with Baldr on his back—as it were.  The kind of deference shown by someone who knows they’re going to get exactly what they want, and who knows a little show of submission can be a balm.  Baldr, fuck him, had worked out long ago that Metatron liked it when people were mindful of his authority.  So few of his siblings were, nowadays, and the lower choirs were only frightened, most of the time.  One of the humans, some Italian or another, had once said that love and fear could hardly exist together, and that if you had to choose, fear was the safer bet. But fear is lonelier than love. It’s lonelier even than simple respect. Well, Baldr gives Metatron respect, and as for the other thing—

--that doesn’t bear thinking about right now.  Baldr fits the landscape too well.  He shouldn’t; for one thing, he’s not wearing a fucking shirt, and it’s only just above freezing.  If he were a human, this would be a clear sign of madness or masochism.  But the incongruity somehow melts away in the image as a whole: A lone, golden figure, ankle-deep in snow, meandering the mountains with no purpose but pleasure in the cold and quiet.  The winter light seems to flow over Baldr’s skin like anointing oil, tarrying over the angles of his body, reluctant to leave him. Metatron has seen deer walk through the snow, lean in the winter yet somehow serene, patient for the Spring. As Baldr stops, turning around to see how far he’s climbed, chest rising as he breathes in cold air and the scent of snow and cedars, Metatron knows Baldr doesn’t need to be patient for Spring: Warmth and life are already inside of him, and will be always.

It's so fucking infuriating.

The archangel may as well be a statue as he watches.  His arms are folded in across his own broad chest, and his wings, six in this form, are stock still, not a feather out of place.  His expression is difficult to read; it could pass for either melancholy or irritation depending on the beholder.  He feels neither-- not exactly.  There are two feelings that come to mind, neither of which translate well to English nor Aramaic nor Hebrew.

Saudade.

Hiraeth.

But neither of them fit perfectly.  Both imply longing, a quiet-leaning-to-unquiet desperation for something lost or missing.  The former implies an unconquerable expectation, and that’s accurate enough but not complete.  The latter implies time and place specifically (he remembers old mountains that once were taller, he remembers lavish tents and smoke that smelled of incense and burnt offerings).  But what do you call a longing that isn’t quite?  How to you express an incomplete yearning?  Because however much he misses the past, he doesn’t want it back.  However much there is of an old god left within him, he wants to be an angel more.

Metatron remembers the Old Days, when he and his siblings were young and terrible.  He had a chance to challenge Haddad for kingship, and he vehemently refused it.  Strictly speaking, not much is stopping him from issuing a challenge now.  He has a duty to the One-As-Three, but it could be fulfilled in many ways.  His angelic brethren would be horrified, of course, but he knows for certain that a number of his Canaanite siblings hold a quiet conviction that Metatron—Malakhael, some still call him-- would make a better king than Haddad.  Not enough to agitate for it while it’s clear Metatron doesn’t want the job, not enough to plead with him to reconsider his loyalties, but…

Oh fucking cactus-sodomizing shit, now Baldr is lying down in an actual fucking snowbank.  And he looks so fucking pleased about it.  He’s luxuriating in the winter sun like a snow-leopard, not caring about the cold but only the light.  That sounds like some kind of stupid inspirational quote mortals would plaster on their dorm bedroom walls.  Something corporate-sponsored snowboarders would quip with a vapid grin.

The light that shines off snow can blind men and animals.  There’s a fucking quote for you.  But it’s nothing to gods and angels, and Baldr himself shines more brightly than anything else around him and oh fucking Sheol why is Metatron thinking like this?

Baldr still hasn’t gotten up from the snowbank.  Metatron wonders if he’ll doze off like that.  It’s not as if frostbite or hypothermia are a problem, and he’s angled so he’d be getting sun pretty much for the rest of the day.  For a Prince and state dignitary, it really doesn’t take much to make Baldr content.  Maybe he won’t even feel the need to get up at sundown; these past few nights have been clear and cold as glass, the moon and stars shining down with rare intensity.  It’s because of Baldr, Metatron is sure; light celebrating its ultimate source.

Mortals sometimes have difficulty wrapping their heads around the fact that more than one divinity can be the ultimate source of anything, that two or more celestials can personify the same concept.  It doesn’t help that it’s hard to explain it in a way they can understand, some answer limited to four dimensions.  Metatron’s go-to answer is “What’s infinity plus infinity?” which has the benefit of being no answer at all.  It almost works, and sometimes almost is enough.  Most people manage to be quite content with almost.

Metatron and Baldr are both beings of truth and light.  They are more than that, they transcend that-- and they are not the same entity.  There is more to each of them.  And yet somewhere, deep in Metatron’s sephirah, there is something that makes no distinction between himself and the godling.  The phrase “kindred spirit” is used carelessly by mortals who don’t understand the depths of those words taken together— certain saints and poets being an exception.  The highest level of self-awareness most mortals attain is the ability to look in a mirror and know, That’s me.  Gods and angels don’t have the luxury of leaving things at that.  An archangel must be careful when looking into certain gods’ eyes, because in an instant they may recognize something even deeper than mere surface-self.  Two sets of eyes can lock, and suddenly the line between I and Thou becomes dangerously blurred.

And oh, we must be careful of that.  It’s such a sweet poison, like wine and mead.  Two selves lost to each other.  Quintessence seeing itself, shattering any illusion of division.  All light is light; all truth is truth.

It would be so easy to leave the illusion of a lone ego behind.

But what would one come back to, when one is no longer one?

Metatron discovers that unthinkingly, he has managed to turn away from Baldr and his light.  Now his expression is recognizably melancholic.  Letting a feeling besides anger make it all the way to his face is an indulgence, but he needs some kind of outlet, and anyone no-one’s around to see.  He walks back into his library proper from the loggia from which he had watched his guest.   It’s well-lit, lamps burning with the clean light of Heaven, and yet it seems undeniably dimmer.  As he walks down the porphyry-columned hall, past the cyclopean bookshelves, under dome and arch, Metatron feels lonely—but only briefly.

Pining, still? Comes Sandalphon’s voice in his mind. The question would be intolerable from anyone else, but this is his sister, so it makes him smile a little instead. She’s not here physically—so much work of her own to do—but they’re never really apart.

I will concede that I am, he replies.  He stops a moment, and suddenly the hall isn’t a hall, it’s a reading room—there are still porphyry columns, of course.  One has standards.  Though I couldn’t tell you for… what, exactly.  He reminds me of so many things, achoti.

Its been a long time since you’ve had much traffic with elohim outside of the family, Sandalphon notes. And then suddenly she is present physically, reclining on a sofa by the window, wings tucked neatly behind her. Metatron sits on a perpendicular sofa. Mediterranean seating arrangements used to be much easier for people with wings, and in Heaven there’s no need to discard useful fashions.

“Don’t see family having much to do with it,” Metatron says.  “As making much difference one way or another, I mean.  I get fucking moody when I have to talk to Haddad, too.”

“But not moody like this, achi.  You’re used to Haddad.  He doesn’t make you so… nostalgic.  Not the best word, I know, but it will do.”  She smiles, a little sadly.  “You’re so used to each other.  When you look at each other, you don’t think eloah or angel, you both think brother.”

“I have dealt with foreign elohim before,” Metatron says a little more impatiently than he intends—but of course Sandalphon knows his heart, and takes no offense.  “None of them… did this to me.  It’s like…” he sighs, running a hand through snow-white hair. “It’s not just that he’s an eloah.”

“It’s the kind of eloah he is,” Sandalphon says.  “I understand.  But I do think the intensity of your feelings is due to how novel all this is.  It’s been so long, achi.  So long since you’ve had anyone but me to be so close to.”

“I have my subordinates,” Metatron says wryly.  “And hey, who needs more fucking company than people who are all kind of terrified of you?”

They are silent together for a time.  The sun of the Shamayim sinks a little lower, and the shadows of the bookshelves move with it.  The moon is barely visible, a ghost against the blue.  Metatron at last breaks the silence.

“Am I worrying you, achoti?”

“Always, Metatron,” Sandaphon laughs, “I’m your sister, that’s my prerogative.  You’re much more fun to worry about than anything else.”  He smiles crookedly in return.

“I promise I won’t… withdraw from this,” he says, “Because I know that’s the big fucking worry.  I can handle having feelings, Sandalphon.  Just a little out of practice.”

They stand and embrace. Metatron realizes it’s been a few months since they last hugged.  He squeezes his sister tight, and when the separate she gently punches his shoulder.

“Just remember,” she tells him, “I won’t have anyone treating my twin worse than he deserves to be treated, and that includes you.  If you need to talk, about this eloah or anything else, come to me.  Everything’s easier together.”

And then she’s gone, but not really.  They’re never really apart.

Metatron smiles softly, and looks out the window.  He can see Baldr from here—really, he could see him from anywhere in his palace-library. The young god is wandering leisurely back towards palace, still fucking shirtless.  Really, that’s insufferable.  The dimming light is just as flattering.  And worst of all, his expression is one of perfect contentment.  He’s had a good day.  He’s thoroughly enjoyed his time here, in this place that Metatron rules.  He’s probably going to make irritatingly excellent conversation tonight, especially over wine.  Metatron’s going to have to deal with so much sass.

The angel’s hand goes to his chest thoughtlessly.  His sephirah feels warm.

He allows himself a brief, sweet awareness that it’s not so different from a flesh-and-blood heart.

[shannaraisles]

Dear Friend - Chapter 7

My festive project. A Modern AU heavily based on The Shop Around The Corner, in which Cullen Rutherford finds love between Satinalia and First Day. [Read on AO3]

Chapter Seven

The snow was falling again in big wet clumps when Cullen finally located the right apartment building, quietly chuckling under his breath at Cassandra's appalling handwriting. The little note she'd left him containing Mila's home address had been all but illegible even before he'd got it wet. And why was he standing outside a Storm Age-era building of gray stone and narrow windows, in the dark, in the snow, pressing the buzzer in the hope that someone inside might let him in soon?

Because Mila was sick, that was why. In more than a year, he'd never known her to take even half a day off because of illness, yet she'd called in reluctantly three days in a row this week. He was worried about her, and for once, he didn't mind that other people had noticed it. Cassandra had taken the opportunity to badger him about telling Mila the truth again, but he'd grown used to her quiet glaring at his back every time he made the object of his affections smile or laugh in her presence over the last six weeks or so. Varric was slightly less discreet about it, but the promise of Kirkwall whiskey for First Day and a mild threat of locking him in with the marmosets who were obsessed with his chest hair had settled that score. Everyone else at work just seemed reasonably pleased that he and Mila were no longer snapping at each other at every opportunity. He could have been brutal in his assessment of his own concern at Mila's illness, breaking it down to a simple sense of impatience and lost opportunity, but even he knew this was a lie. He was worried about her, plain and simple - worried about the health of a woman he was very fond of.

The intercom buzzed, and an unexpectedly Antivan voice spoke. "Yes?"

A little confused that he'd somehow come to the wrong street, Cullen frowned. "Uh ... My name's Cullen?" he offered, unintentionally as though asking permission to have a name at all. "I work with Mila, I ... Well, I thought I'd come and see how she is."

The feminine voice on the other end of the intercom sounded delighted with this news. "Oh, how wonderful! Mila, get up, you have a visitor! Come up, Cullen - apartment 12a."

"Thank you," he managed, just before the line went dead and the main door buzzed.

Pushing it open with his shoulder, careful not to drop or spill his peace offerings, Cullen paused to stamp the snow off his boots before heading up the stairs toward the middle floor of the building. He had to admit to feeling a little trepidation - he hadn't been invited, exactly. Nor had he called ahead to warn her he was coming. It had been a sort of spur of the moment decision, solidified on the phone with Alys when he'd called to see how her sleepover with her best friend was going. Now it was seven o'clock in the evening, and he was lurking outside the door to Mila's apartment, holding a small potted cactus and a carton of chicken noodle soup, seriously reconsidering whether this was a good idea or not.

He didn't have much chance to worry over it, though. The door opened within a minute of his arrival, revealing the bright smile of what he assumed was the Antivan woman who had buzzed him in.

"Come in!" she declared, gesturing for him to pass over the threshold. "Mila's on the couch - that way. Let me take your coat."

"Oh ... thank you."

A little bewildered by the warm greeting from someone he'd never met before - at least, he didn't think he'd met her, but she looked vaguely familiar in some way - Cullen let himself be stripped out of his warm coat and ushered into the living room, where Mila was visible sweeping an armful of used tissues into a trash can from where she was sprawled on the couch. It was a pleasant little room, really - colored lights still hung for the holidays, two desks set up against the far wall, behind one of which was a collection of hand-drawn pictures tacked to the wall. Alys' pictures, though Mila didn't know that. He smiled at the sight of them, turning his attention back to Mila. She was wrapped up in a fleece blanket, at least two empty boxes of tissues on the floor beside the couch, still in her pajamas - a festive onesie she'd twinned with offensively bright stripey socks - and her dark hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She looked absolutely adorable. She also looked utterly bemused to see him.

"Hi," she managed, her voice sounding just a little scratchy. "Did something happen?"

"Hmm?" Cullen blinked back to himself. "Oh ... no, nothing's wrong," he assured her. "I was concerned. It's not like you to call in sick, after all." He hefted the cactus and the carton in his hands. "These are for you."

It was Mila's turn to blink as her eyes focused on the plant. "You brought me a cactus?"

He glanced down at it, feeling like an idiot now. "Well, Alys was rather insistent that I should bring you flowers," he tried to explain, "but when I was in the florist, I saw this, and ... thought of you."

Even as he visibly deflated, Mila's face creased into a smile. "Pretty and prickly, huh?" she asked in amusement.

"Sounds very accurate to me," the woman behind him said. "I'm Josephine, by the way, Mila's flatmate, and I am going out." She tapped Cullen's arm. "Make her eat and wash," she instructed. "She has been refusing to do both all day."

"Maker's breath, Josie, I'm not a child," Mila complained, her face flushing in embarrassment as Cullen chuckled lightly.

"Then kindly stop behaving like one," Josephine informed her friend fondly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Eat, wash, pretend to be human while you have a guest. I promise I will make you breakfast in the morning if you are feeling better."

"You're doing nothing for my image here," Mila pointed out with a faint smile, rubbing a hand over her hair and grimacing at the sweaty feeling of it against her palm. "I'm already feeling better, anyway. And you have a date."

"Mila Trevelyan, you are doing nothing for your image," Josephine told her with a grin. "All right, I am going. Have a lovely evening." She shot Mila a surprisingly intense look, glancing between Cullen and her flatmate significantly, before turning on her heel to slip away.

Cullen found himself grinning at the exchange. "She seems ... forceful," he commented, setting the cactus down on the coffee table.

"She was showing off for your benefit," Mila told him, but her voice was affectionate despite the grumbles. "Thank you for coming over. It's ... it's good to see you."

"It's good to see you," he countered. "And I now have instructions. So up you get, into the shower. I'll make you some dinner."

Mila stared at him incredulously. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." He met her stare with a firm smile. "I have a ten year old, you are never going to win this battle. Give in with grace and save yourself the effort."

"What happens if I try to fight back?" she asked, reaching for another tissue to blow her nose, already rubbed raw by three days of snuffles.

"I may have to bodily pick you up and put you in the shower before turning it on," he informed her. A moment later, his imagination had taken that suggestion and woven it into a mental image of Mila naked beneath steaming water, his hands twitching to touch the imagined planes and curves of a body he'd never really had much of an opportunity to admire. She lived in baggy shirts, this woman.

By the look on her face, he'd slightly boggled her with that suggestion, too. She didn't seem to know quite how to respond. He could only hope she was struggling with the same sort of mental imagery that was currently making him quite glad his sweater hung so low.

"What's my reward if I do get washed up?" she challenged him eventually.

Cullen chuckled, holding up the carton of soup in his hand. "Chicken noodle soup," he told her. "And I brought a packet of Rivaini tea - my sister swears by it for colds." And so did his Dear Friend, which was the reason he’d brought it in the first place.

"Oooh, I love Rivaini tea," she enthused, suddenly looking a lot brighter than she had done when he walked in. She pushed back the blanket and stood up slowly, obviously used to the blood-draining experience of standing too fast when feverish from the last few days. "All right, Rutherford, you have a deal. I'll pretend I'm human and not a snot-monster from the Void if you feed me."

"I'm honored," he teased, watching as she shuffled off toward what he assumed was her bedroom. Maker's breath, I hope she has an en-suite. He wasn't entirely sure he could cope with seeing her wander around in a towel.

Left to his own devices, trying not to listen to the sound of her undressing and setting the shower running or to let his imagination run away with him, Cullen turned to seek out the kitchen. He was momentarily arrested by the sight of several of Alys' pictures tacked onto the fridge door, the bright colors and familiar lines of his daughter's artwork drawing a smile from his face as he recognized pictures from a year ago, when she had first started to draw special presents for their Dear Friend. Neither one of them had suspected that each one had been saved and put in a place of honor, to be seen and admired every day not only by the woman they had been made for, but by her flatmate as well. Seeing them there only served to soften him still further toward Mila. It was getting to a point where she might well be able to make him melt just with a look.

A little hunting found a pan he set the chicken noodle soup to heating in on the stove; the kettle to boiling; and a few minutes of investigating her cupboards found both an infuser and a decent sized mug to make the tea with. That done, still trying not to listen closely to the sound of hot water falling on a warm body in a room not so very far away, he indulged himself in wandering through the public rooms of the little apartment, exploring the place Mila called home. It was easy to spot which of the desks was hers - even without the plethora of Alys' artwork tacked to the wall behind it, Mila's almost trademark combination of mess and organization gave it away. Papers piled high, almost all of it annotated with her own handwriting which, now he came to think of it, looked far more similar to her letter-writing hand than he had ever let himself consider before; a mousepad emblazoned with a picture of Amatus; a pile of notebooks, all with at least some writing in them, one of which was open as though she was in the process of taking notes. He scanned that page curiously, feeling himself grin. Notes on enrichment for big cats in captivity; it looked as though Varric was going to get an earful at some point about extending the program they had for the lions to the other cats under their care.

Back in the kitchen as the sound of the shower came to a halt, he found himself scanning what else was stuck to the fridge - a shopping list, a dentist appointment card, a few photographs. The photographs caught his attention and held it. There were only a couple of Mila herself, smiling into the camera while hugging or being hugged by what he assumed were friends, or perhaps even family. The photograph that really caught his attention was of her flatmate, Josephine, wrapped around a familiar redhead as the picture caught them in a candid moment. He knew that redhead - Leliana Valence, the Nightingale as she was known in various places, and a friend of his for a couple of years. No wonder Josephine had looked familiar; he'd probably met her before, at some party or dinner. And if Mila knew Leliana, she probably had been introduced to Garrett Hawke, too ... and sure enough, there was a picture of Hawke and his unconventional little family, tucked behind a magnet that declared Ostwick to be a place where most people lived with their heads in the sand.

Cullen chuckled to himself. The parallels just kept piling up. Not only did they share interests, passions, but they also knew the same people.

"What's so funny?" Mila asked from behind him.

He straightened, looking over his shoulder to find her looking a little better than she had when he came in - dressed in jeans and a loose t-shirt, still squeezing the water from her hair with a towel. He gestured to her photographs.

"Just reflecting on what a small world we live in," he assured her. "I had no idea you knew Hawke and co."

She blinked in surprise. "You know them?"

"I worked with him for a couple of years before the zoo hired me on," he explained, returning to the stove to stir the soup before serving it into a bowl on the counter in front of her. "We were all much younger and much less inclined to do actual work; everyone was volunteering somewhere else as well as working for the city. I was the first to get the job I wanted, though - it helped that Rory was pregnant, so there was a level of desperation in my interview that Meredith just couldn't resist. How do you know them?"

"Varric introduced me a few months ago," she told him,, braiding her damp hair out of her way before applying herself to the soup with an enthusiasm that betrayed how long she'd been denying herself food in favor of feeling awful. "Garrett propositioned me within seconds, and Isabela laughed her ass off when I slapped the guy. Apparently I passed the test."

Cullen snorted with laughter. "They're still playing that game?" he asked in amusement. "I'm surprised Isabela stays with him, the number of times he's asked someone else into their bed."

Mila raised a brow above a slow grin. "Are you really that naive? She likes to play as much as he does, you know."

"Oh, no, I ... I know that." He could feel his face flushing as he glanced away, one hand rising to rub his neck as he cleared his throat, acutely aware of her grin as she watched him. "I ... well, she tried it on me once."

"Oh? Did it work?"

He could only imagine the look on his face, scandalized but also deeply pleased to see her drop her spoon into the bowl and cackle with laughter, groping for a tissue to cover her mouth and nose as she coughed through her mirth. She swayed on the stool where she sat, her face just a little too pale for his liking. Without thinking, he lurched toward her, placing one hand warm against her back to keep her from toppling over.

"Easy there, Trevelyan," he warned. "I didn't come all the way here just to watch you brain yourself on the floor because you can't handle my raw attractiveness."

She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Your raw dorkiness, more like," she countered, her voice rasping as she leaned away from the press of his hand to take up the spoon again. "This is really good, by the way. Where's it from?"

"Circle Foods," he told her, gently drawing away the moment she made it obvious his closeness wasn't required. As much as he wanted to tease her into looking at him a certain way, doing it while she was ill seemed like taking advantage, somehow. "There's not much else they can get right, but their chicken noodle soup is always the best."

"Sounds like the voice of experience," Mila commented, watching as he filled the infuser with the loose tea he'd brought with him, setting it into her mug to steep. "So where's Alys tonight?"

"Sleeping over at a friend's house," he said with a grin. "I don't envy the parents - eight little girls having some kind of belated Satinalia party and all sleeping on the floor of the living room. Alys is going to be fit to drop tomorrow."

Mila laughed gently, careful not to provoke another coughing fit. "Sounds like fun to me," she pointed out. "But then, I was a little girl once."

"Really?" he asked with a certain amount of sarcasm. "You didn't just spring into existence fully formed as you are?"

"Oh, we all know that when the Maker made me, he broke the mold," she grinned, resting her chin on her hand wearily. "So you're all alone tonight, then?"

"Yes," he told her with a faint sigh. "Just me. Ordinarily I wouldn't mind, but ... at this time of year ..."

Her expression gentled as she looked at him. He knew she didn't know the whole reason why he found it difficult to be alone at this time of year, and why should she? He'd never been all that forthcoming about Rory, even to his friends. The two months between Satinalia and First Day had been her favorite, filled with the best of her silliness and playful warmth. The dark evenings without her at this end of the year were the hardest to bear. But what Mila said next did surprise him.

"You're welcome to hang out here for a few hours," she offered, pushing her empty bowl aside. "Not very exciting, I know, with a sickie for company, but we could, I don't know ... watch a movie or something? Better than being all alone if you don't have to be."

Touched, Cullen smiled, nodding gratefully. "I'd like that," he agreed quietly. "Thank you."

"Two conditions," she added, a slightly mischievous look on her face.

His brow rose above his smile. "I'm afraid to ask."

"Don't look so scared, I'm not asking for a lifelong commitment here," she laughed, shaking her head carefully. "Condition one - we are watching A Muppet Satinalia Song, and no arguments. I love that movie, and I'm the sick one, so I win that argument without needing to have it."

Cullen chuckled in defeat. "I can tolerate that one," he allowed in amusement. "It's Alys' favorite seasonal movie, too. I think I've watched it four times already this year."

"Good, you can sing along with me," Mila said firmly. "Two ..." She flushed, glancing down at herself awkwardly. "You're going to have to walk me to the couch," she admitted with uncomfortable candor. "I'm feeling better, but I'm kind of at that point where I could keel over for no apparent reason at any moment. So I'm going to need you to hold onto me."

"Who am I to deny a beautiful woman who needs me?" he countered with a gentler smile, taking the infuser out of the mug. "Do you take honey or sugar in your tea?"

She made a face. "And ruin a perfectly good tea?"

Cullen laughed. "Point taken. Come along then, Trevelyan."

Taking the mug in one hand, he moved to her side as she stood up carefully, making the most of his permission to touch by wrapping one arm securely about her back. And to his surprise, she didn't object at all. In fact, he could have sworn she was leaning into him as they made their way back into the living room, despite not actually needing to. Was he finally making the kind of impression he wanted to make on her? Did she actually want him to be here, to be this close? Maker, he hoped so. Alys' deadline for telling the truth was looming. He was almost ashamed of how much he wanted Mila to take that little confession well.

It was easy to lower her down onto the couch, to dismiss the flush on her cheeks as her fever despite the small smile playing at her lips. And with a small child in his own life, it was nothing to get the movie going. What did surprise him was the way Mila made room for him on the couch, then crowded in close to his side as the music started to play, wrapping her blanket over both of them even as she hummed along to a soundtrack she obviously knew inside and out. She didn't even object when - purely for comfort's sake - he raised his arm to wrap it over her shoulders, resting her head against his shoulder. It felt ... easy, comfortable. Right.

They laughed together at the funniest parts, the parts that he usually had to force a laugh at for Alys' sake. It was different to watch this movie with an adult who loved it so much. Mila shushed him so he didn't miss the best lines; pointed out the background details he'd never paid much attention to in the past. With her, it was like watching the movie again for the first time. She felt comfortable with him - comfortable enough to point out the little bits she liked best, to laugh at jokes that he might not have laughed at without her company there. Comfortable enough to fall silent ... to fall asleep on his shoulder as the last act of the movie wound its way toward the closing credits.

And that felt right, too. More than right. It was more than comfort, more than friendship. She trusted him enough to be so completely vulnerable in his presence. After a year of an appalling working relationship, Cullen felt a real sense of achievement that six weeks of behaving like a decent human being toward her - of being himself, rather than a defensive stick in the mud - had culminated in Mila Trevelyan asleep on his shoulder, nestled close under his arm, without even trying to keep herself awake in his presence. He felt ... honored, exhilarated, encouraged. For the first time, he felt as though she might actually not hurt him as badly as he was expecting when he finally told her the truth.

Glancing at the clock, he knew he couldn't just leave her asleep on the couch, and prowling her home while she was sleeping was just wrong. Which left him only one option, really. Very gently, moving with infinite slowness, he eased himself off the couch, gathering her up into his arms as he lifted her from her sprawl. She murmured, unconsciously curling her arms about his neck as her face pressed into the line of his throat, the soft huff of her breath against his skin doing highly inappropriate things below the belt. Now was not the time to be fantasizing about that. On soft feet, he shouldered into what he assumed was her bedroom - a tiny space only big enough for the single bed and a large chest of drawers, it seemed, and very carefully laid her down with her head against the pillow. He paused, considering removing her jeans so she was more comfortable, but ultimately could not bring himself to do it. That really would be a violation of her vulnerability. Instead, he drew the quilt and blanket up to her shoulder, his callused fingers stroking over her braided hair as she sighed in her sleep.

"Sweet dreams, Mila," he whispered to her, unable to resist brushing a very soft kiss to her brow.

She whined quietly, rolling onto her back with another sigh, a tiny smile flickering on her lips to tease him with thoughts of what she might be dreaming about. Was she dreaming about her Dear Friend, or about him? The fantasy or the reality? He didn't know. He couldn't guess. But he could hope.

It was only a matter of minutes to fetch a glass of water to set on the chest of drawers beside the bed next to the cactus he'd brought for her; to turn off the television and turn out the lights; to fetch his coat and carefully let himself out, his fingers fumbling to put the chain on the door before he closed it tight behind him. And all the while with a soft smile on his face. It hadn't quite been the evening he'd expected, but ... it had been good.

So close. Not long before the truth came out now.

[slowcrazydeath-blog]

Angsty Solangelo Botany

I wrote this little thing in the @pjodiscordserverchronicles solangelo chat room following this prompt:

It’s not refined and is not meant to be read necessarily as a fic, but I think that the concept came out well. So yeah. Here’s some angsty solangelo botany.

So Will and Nico are growing this tree that Nico doesn't know how to take care of. Will is also in charge of this greenhouse and he's the only one taking care of it because he only has Nico with him and Nico's having issues with just one tree. So Nico doesn't know about this greenhouse because Will wants it to be a surprise when it's fully grown and everything. So he spends months working on this garden that Nico doesn't know about, and then one day it's their anniversary, and Will takes Nico out on a picnic and then Nico gets confused when they aren't walking toward the park. Will blindfolds Nico as they approach the greenhouse, and only after they have entered does he reveal their location. Nico is estatic from all the greenery around him and he's just captivated by how precisely all the colors and scents are placed so he is entranced. Will walks him around and tells Nico of all the issues he had with the different species and getting everything to grow in cooperation. They share their picnic, and then Nico starts to wander around and goes to touch one of the plants that he had never seen before. Will immediately stops him, and says "Be careful. You still haven't even gotten that tree to grow properly yet." Nico just laughs and says, "yeah, I somehow manage to kill everything I touch." They wrap everything up and then go home.

They continue to go to the garden, and then one day they're relaxing in the warmth of the garden as they watch the snow fall onto the glass roof. They're lying down on a mat and they intertwine their fingers, their newly matched rings gliding between their fingers. Will says, "If I could stay in one moment forever, I would pick this one." Nico looks over at his husband's eyes and says, "yeah, I never want to leave this place." They share their quiet moment with a gentle kiss, their breath still holding the scent of their peppermint mochas they had before coming to the garden.

After teaching classes, Will comes home and doesn't find Nico anywhere in the house. He guesses that Nico went to the garden, though as far as Will knew, he'd never gone by himself before. He goes down to the greenhouse and finds Nico tending to some of the flowers with some books open on the center table. Nico doesn't notice Will until he says, "so this is where you went." Nico spills some extra water on the lillies and turns to face "Will! Um, hi, I was just... oh you know... you've been so busy and I thought that maybe you could use some help with the garden and... ... ... i'm sorry," he squeaks. Will walks over to the lillies and notices that they have too much water and they're starting to wilt. "C'mon Neeks, you're gonna end up killing everything in here if you keep this up." Nico thinks that Will's actually mad, especially because the lillies are his favorite flower, but when Will turns around he just pecks his cheek and grabs the paper towels from behind him. "I'm just gonna bring up some of the moisture. This much water is better for your tree, not these flowers." Nico's face gets a little red and he's trying to hide his embarrassment which Will finds incredibly cute. "I'll clean up here. You head on back to the apartment, I think the tree needs a little watering." Nico walks out of the greenhouse and goes home. There he sees the tree that Will gave him years ago. It's still small enough to fit in the apartment, but he knows that he's going to need to find a place for it soon otherwise it'll hit the ceiling. He dismisses the thought and starts to make dinner.

About a month later, Will comes home from the garden looking very upset, and Nico joins him on the couch. "I don't understand. They're just dying without reason. I'm taking care of them perfectly and they just don't seem to be able to be healthy. I don't know what to do." He puts his head in his hands and Nico starts making circles on his back. Nico holds him in his arms for a few moments and then he says, "how about we go on a picnic tomorrow?" Will quietly shakes his head, then faces Nico, "Sure," he says, with a melancholy smile.

Will is with Nico at the garden and it's the first time that Nico had been there since his accident a month earlier. Most of the colors that had taken his breath away were just different shades of brown, with a few survivors that were made for the harsh climates. Nico almost drops his basket from the stark difference, but he holds himself together for Will's sake. They start having their lunch, and Nico's holding light conversaton to distract Will from the dying plants around him. After they're done, Nico goes over to one of the desert-climate plants, a less prikly cactus, and goes to touch it. He expects Will to stop him, but instead he hears a *thunk* and quickly turns around. He sees Will lying on the ground, barely breathing, and runs over to him. He pulls out his phone and calls 911. Will wakes up a bit in the middle of the call, and says, "Neeks, I'm tired. I think we should go home..." very wealky. Nico covers the phone and says, "of course, we'll go home soon. Just, take a light nap, okay?" "Okay" Will resonds, smiling deleriously as he returns to unconciousness.

"I'm sorry sir, but this is not something that we can cure. He'll have a few more days to live, but after that, well..." "I understand" Nico says, hard and directly. He's looking at the face of his husband through glass. The nurse is helping him with a drink of apple juice. After the doctor leaves, Nico enters the room and takes the cup from the nurse and dismisses him, "I can take it from here." "Hey Neeks," Will says, almost as weakly as he had right before the ambulance had gotten to the garden. "Hey Will," Nico responds, carressing the back of Will's hand. "What did they say? Will I be able to go home soon?" "Yeah, just a few days," Nico lied. He couldn't bare to tell his beloved the truth. "They just need to make sure that you're all healthy again before you leave." "That's good to hear." He said, then turned to look at the ceiling. "Do you believe in an afterllife?" Nico didn't expect the question, which seemingly came out of nowhere. "I don't know. Never really thought about it, I guess," he responded. "I hope there is one. Then I can spend forever with you." Nico started to tear up a little. "Yeah, that would be nice, wouldn't it?"

Will passed away three days later, with a bouquet of lillies at his bedside. Nico lay crying next to his husband's body for hours until the nurses eventually took him away. His funeral was a mix of black and white, where Nico didn't speak for the entire time. After they lay the coffin, Nico planted a single lilly over the grave. The gravestone read "William Solace Di Angelo. Beloved husband and teacher. May his soul live forever and his sun light our days." Nico didn't leave the apartment for weeks. He never turned on a light. Never opened the windows. He didn't know how to live without his beaming light of hope. Until he noticed a leaf on the floor. He looked to the tree that had been with them for so long, and he saw that it was dying. He filled the soil with water and opened the blinds. He shied away from the light for a moment, then saw the the tree hadn't lost its color. This moment filled him with a new light, a different kind of hope. He ran down the stairs and to the greenhouse, and opened the locked door. It was cold. It was colorless. It was scentless. It almost made him want to give up, but he didn't. He went over to the bookshelf and took out the books. He turned on the heat and upped the lights. He rolled out the mat and started reading each book carefully, not missing a single word. He remembered the tutoring that Will had given him back in school for his required tutoring classes. He fought through tears and memories until he finished the last book in his stack. He knew what to do. He salvaged what he could from the plants, even though there wasn't much left. He trimmed and weeded and changed soil. He bought new seeds and placed each flower in its correct spot. It took months, but he managed to get all the plants back to how they were when Will first brought him here. He took the lillies he had growing and the tree from the apartment that was getting a bit too big. He went back to his husband's grave for the first time since the funeral, and was surprised to see that the lilly had made a flowerbed of his husband's grave, all covered in white. He cleaned off the gravestone and went straight to his work. He uprooted some of the white lillies and replaced them with the different colors he had from the greenhouse. He then went to the school where they had met and donated the tree to them, and planted it as the centerpiece to the memorial garden. He learned more and more about botany until he was skilled enough to sell his flowers from the greenhouse and started a flower shop. He named it Sol. Most thought of this as a play on words, like "soul" or "sun", but Nico had named it after his husband's maiden name. He made sure every day to sell as many lillies as possible. He went to the grave evry day and tended to the lillies. He went regularly to the school to check on the tree. He sollected the leaves when they started to fall.

Nico grew old. He closed the flower shop. He couldn't make it to the grave every day. He could only go to the school every so often. They named it the Tree of Solace and Angels. He passed one day in silence after watching the snow fall out of his window. He was smiling. His funeral was small and quiet. His hair matched the lillies and the snow. His gravestone read "Nico Di Angelo. Beloved husband. Giver of life." When the snow melted and the flowers started to grow again, the lillies started to creep over from Will's grave to Nico's. This continued for years until both graves were covered in colored lillies. The few who visited could almost hear them speak, with one bed saying, "Neeks, do you believe in an afterlife?" And the other responding, "Yes, yes I do."

Miraculously, the garden didn’t die.