#bl bookmarks | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 5 months ago

Text

In My Civilization You’re the King and the Queen (ao3)

For day 7 of @cassianappreciationweek ❤️ (if you thought Semper Eadem was self-indulgent, this is a whole other level...)

When a favour for Rhys brings historian Cassian up to the special Manuscripts reading room at the British Library, he crosses paths with the formidable - and beautiful - archivist, who isn't at all pleased when this towering and tattooed newcomer badly handles one of her Anglo-Saxon treasures.

Cassian’s eyes hurt.

He didn’t know how it was possible— he’d only been working for two hours but, he supposed, staring grimly at the pile of books still waiting on his borrowed desk, he’d spent every moment of those two hours scanning page after page of printed text, looking up only to type up his notes. Given the fact that his head was spinning and his water bottle remained sealed away in the lockers downstairs, forbidden in any of the library’s reading rooms, it was probably no wonder that the two hours he’d been there was already starting to feel like two years.

How do you get a headache in your fucking eyes, anyway?

God— he needed a break.

The pulsing at his temples was the nudge he needed to push away from his desk with a final, cursory look at the stack of material on twentieth-century warfare, closing his laptop with a gentle snap that seemed to resound through the carefully maintained silence. The single blunt pencil he’d brought with him was left on the desk beside the small notebook he’d scribbled in; a silent I’ll be back soon conveyed in the piece of paper he’d used as a bookmark and tucked between the pages of the book he’d just been rifling through like his career depended on it.

Given the current state of the higher education job market, perhaps his career did depend on it.

He didn’t let loose the derisive snort that bloomed in his throat as that thought crossed his mind. Instead he kept his steps silent as he abandoned his desk, cutting through the expansive, high-ceilinged space filled with sunlight streaming in from the high windows. On all sides he was surrounded by the rustle of pages turning, of wooden seats creaking, of fingers typing rapidly on keyboards— and Cassian breathed it all in, drawing it deep into his lungs in the hope that it might chase away the headache before it could take root.

As a historian, he wouldn’t ever deny the thrill that research gave him.

He slipped out of the first-floor reading room in silence, and only when he was outside, standing in the cool hallway that seemed to echo with a hundred voices drifting up from the foyer below, did he let loose a breath. Already the headache was starting to subside, like all he’d really needed was some fresh air, and in the brief respite he allowed himself before he returned to his desk, he leaned against the wall and pulled his phone from his pocket.

He was only half surprised to find a message waiting from Rhys.

Are you at the BL today?

Cassian rolled his eyes before sending back an affirmative. Yes— he was at the BL, or the British Library. The home of thousands upon thousands of books and historical artefacts, including the journals Cassian needed to write his latest article and the hand-written accounts of some soldiers present at the Somme which would form the basis of a conference paper he planned to give in the spring.

Almost immediately, Rhys responded.

Remember that favour you promised me last year? I’m calling it in.

Against the pale stone wall, Cassian blinked warily at the message chain, wondering what in all seven hells Rhys wanted this time. A senior lecturer at the same university, Rhys was a historian of language and literature, already well on the way to a professorship in some stuffy department that somehow saw twice the amount of funding as Cassian’s modern history department, despite receiving less than half the number of students. Cassian often imagined his brother’s office hours to be little more than him donning a velvet smoking jacket, legs crossed whilst seated in a leather armchair before a roaring fireplace. What are your conferences like, he teased Rhys often, Mr-fucking-Tolkien?

Rhys only ever rolled his eyes and launched into a pre-prepared lecture about the fucking structure and etymology of Beowulf or something.

But before he had chance to ask what, exactly, it was that Rhys wanted, the bastard was already calling.

“Why do you only ever call me when you want something?” Cassian asked as he picked up the call, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he pushed off the wall and made for the spiral staircase that would take him down to his locker.

“I do not,” Rhys insisted, his voice thick with indignation. “You know I love you like a brother.”

Cassian only hummed, and in answer Rhys let out a short laugh that echoed down the line. From that alone, Cassian knew Rhys was in his office on campus. Cassian had to share an office that was roughly the size of a fucking postage stamp with another member of the modern history department, but Rhys— oh, Rhys had a sprawling office on the top floor, with a sash window that looked out over the green, and ceilings so high that his voice tended to echo.

Bastard.

“There’s a manuscript I need you to call up from the stacks for me,” he said, his voice growing distant, like he’d left his phone on speaker on his desk as he paced around his palatial office. “The archivist is dragging her feet and says there’s a ten-day wait for scans of the pages I need. I can’t wait that long, Cass, and I won’t get chance to get down there myself and see the thing in person.”

Cassian sighed. “So?”

“So I need you to request the manuscript and take some photos of it for me.”

“Can’t you just promise a big donation to help speed things along?”

Rhys snorted. “I tried. She wasn’t having it.” A brief pause followed— one where Rhys’ footsteps sounded, growing closer to the phone, and when he next spoke his voice was clearer, louder, like he’d taken it off speaker. “Would it help if I said please?”

Cassian let out a laugh of his own, equally as dry and echoing on the smooth floor of the hallway outside the locker room. “It might be a start, yeah.”

“Look, I’ll send you all the details. All you’ll need to do is take the manuscript out, and take some photos of like, ten pages for me.”

Cassian sighed, pinching his brow as he thought of all the work he had to get through himself, and any hopes he’d had of an early finish dried up like an abandoned well.

“That means I’ll have to go to Manuscripts, Rhys. Fucking Manuscripts.”

It was, truly, Cassian’s worst nightmare.

Manuscripts was the reading room tucked into a corner on the top floor, a mezzanine that stuck out two levels above the ordinary reading room, like the scholars using it quite literally enjoyed looking down upon the rest. Reserved for those consulting the oldest and rarest of texts, it was far smaller than the other reading rooms below it, with a low ceiling that gave the place a feeling of closeness that was ludicrous considering the size of the building. It made him shudder just to think about it. He’d been there only once before, when Rhys had dragged him in as part of a joint research trip, and Cassian had suddenly understood why Rhys was so damned stuffy.

It was like a fucking advertisement for tweed, in there.

He huffed heavily, and Rhys laughed again, his voice distant once more.

Bastard.

“Mhm,” he answered, clearly distracted already. Cassian heard typing, and knew that Rhys had already started working again, his phone likely discarded on his desk as he waited for Cassian to agree. With a scowl, Cassian headed for his locker and punched in the code, slamming the door when he’d fished his water bottle from his bag.

“You owe me,” Cassian hissed. “You won that favour in a bet and this is way beyond—“

“I’ll send you the details,” Rhys cut in breezily, his voice practically fucking melodic with victory. “Oh and Cass? Tell the archivist I said hi.”

***

As soon as Rhys sent over the manuscript’s details, Cassian put in the damned request.

Back at his desk, he didn’t bother to read the brief description of the manuscript on the archive catalogue before submitting, but he glimpsed the words tenth-century and groaned so loudly it earned him a scowl from the library’s patrons on either side of him.

Already he’d begun to pray that the request might be rejected— after all, even though his reader’s card granted him access to the collection - and the letter of introduction he’d provided years ago extended his access even further - there was still no guarantee he’d be cleared to work with a document that old without the archivist asking questions. It was older than anything else he’d ever touched by a solid nine centuries, and even though his account no doubt listed his status as a professional historian, well…

For once, Cassian thought, Rhys might just have to be disappointed.

He flicked his eyes up to the mezzanine jutting out over the reading room, suppressing a sigh before turning back to his own work instead of focusing on Rhys’.

It was three hours before he checked the request status, crossing his fingers beneath the desk as the page loaded. Rejected, he thought. Please be rejected.

He’d have time to kill before his train home. Could swing by a nice cafe, or grab a beer at Coal Drops Yard before catching a train at King’s Cross. Hell, if he walked the other way, he could even call to the British Museum for an hour, given that it was open late on Fridays. He could relax after a day spent reading harrowing accounts of twentieth century battlefields, and—

Ready to collect.

There, right in the status bar; three little words that derailed what had, for a moment, promised to be fucking lovely evening.

Cassian scowled.

Around him the library was entirely silent apart from the soft clacking of keyboards and the rustle of turning pages and as the afternoon neared four-thirty, most of the patrons began to pack up and think about going home. But before Cassian could so much as glare at that mezzanine for a hundredth time—

His phone screen lit up with a text from Rhys.

Don’t forget my manuscript, he’d written.

Prick, Cassian answered.

***

“I have a request,” he said ten minutes later, standing at the desk on that mezzanine floor.

He’d already had to sanitise his hands before entering - once he’d asked Rhys why they didn’t wear gloves like they do on TV, and he’d received a ten-minute lecture about the fragility of vellum and the friction created by gloves - and flash his pass at the security guard sitting by the door, watching like a hawk.

Dragons, Cassian thought. The fucking lot of them— like dragons hoarding treasure up here.

But the woman behind the desk had her arms full with a bound manuscript that was easily two feet long, and for a moment she ignored him entirely as her fingers curled gracefully around the navy-blue binding. She carried it like it was nothing, held it like something precious close to her chest, and for a moment Cassian simply watched her, tilting his head at the way the overhead lights turned her golden-brown hair to muted bronze. It was braided in a coronet that framed her face, and when her eyes flicked up, they were a blue so stunning that for a moment Cassian completely forgot why he was there.

She raised a single eyebrow, placing the tall manuscript down in the pile to be sent back to the stacks, and Cassian had to clear his throat.

Right— Rhys.

A favour for Rhys.

“Name?” she asked, holding out one elegant hand for his readers card.

“Cassian,” he answered, handing it over, wondering if this was the woman who’d given Rhys so much trouble.

God, he hoped it was.

He flashed her a smile. “Just the one manuscript on order.”

She hummed, lifting her eyes to study him. She scanned him head to toe, taking in the tattoos that peeked from the neckline of his shirt, curling at the base of his neck, before tracking her eyes down, over the muscles that corded his arms to the ink on his knuckles. He’d gotten vita and mors tattooed on his knuckles after finishing his PhD— life and death in Latin, a fitting tribute to the fact that he spent his life with the dead.

There was something about the way she looked at him— something that said she was trying to piece him together, puzzle out the man that towered over the collections desk half an hour before closing on a Friday. And when her eyes flicked up to his once more, Cassian let himself smirk just a little, lifting his chin as he watched her slide his card back towards him over the counter.

Maybe he should have said something, asked for her name.

But before he could so much as remember what words were, she turned sharply on her heel and headed for the shelves behind her, where one single, small manuscript sat alone in the collections pile.

“Here,” she said, sliding it slowly across the desk.

It was bound in black leather, with the gilt numbering on the spine its only identifier. A nineteenth-century binding Cassian would guess, though it was far from his area of expertise. He merely took the manuscript in hand, waiting for the questions— waiting for her to ask why on earth he’d turned up and requested this manuscript in particular.

But she had already turned away, tracing a hand along the spine of another manuscript as she tucked a request card beneath the cover. A stray piece of hair from her braid crossed into her eyes, and without breaking her focus she tucked it back behind her ear. Looking down, her eyelashes almost brushed her cheek, and as she began to scribble away at something in pencil, she drew her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration.

Cassian couldn’t stop watching her— was entranced, and only with effort did he pull himself away and turn for the four rows of mostly-empty desks that stretched behind him. It was a world away from the countless rows of desks downstairs, and as he made his way across the muted olive-green carpet and picked a desk at random, he’d honestly forgotten why he’d been so unwilling to come up here in the first place.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

God, he wished he’d gotten her name.

Sighing softly, Cassian plunked the manuscript down on the desk, sinking into the chair and taking a single breath as he stretched his neck, easing the stiffness that had worked its way into his muscles after an entire day spent with his head bent over old books. He plucked at the manuscript’s cover, fingers lingering on the leather.

Not as old as this, he thought dryly.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket, breaking him from his thoughts. It was Rhys— sending yet another text to check that Cassian had actually managed to take out the manuscript with no issues. Rolling his eyes, Cassian snapped a photo of the manuscript, still closed, on the desk.

Happy?

Rhys sent him back a simple thumbs-up.

With an indulgent shake of his head - and a silent promise that he’d make Rhys pay through the fucking nose for this, perhaps in the form of a very expensive bottle of whiskey - Cassian pulled the manuscript towards him, opening the front cover with one hand whilst with the other he pulled up the list of page numbers Rhys had messaged him over.

The leather creaked as he cracked it open, and inside he was met immediately with stiff vellum pages, yellowed with age. It smelled of ink and dust and aged parchment, that curious combination that was musky and thick and far from unpleasant— like somebody had taken the smell of a library and distilled it down to its most concentrated form. He breathed it in, running a hand along the edge of the pages that were soft, worn from centuries of handling.

No, this wasn’t his period, and he’d never call up something like this from the stacks himself but…

The historian in him saw the age of the thing in his hands and couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe.

The ink inside was still a bright black, as if it had been penned yesterday, and each line was straight as an arrow, the script perfectly uniform and precise, meticulous. Cassian inhaled, breathing in the utterly unique scent of age-old craftsmanship, but even as he scanned the first line, trying and failing to find any word or, hell, any letter he could recognise, he felt the frown creasing his brow.

Is this even English? he asked Rhys, thumbs flying over the keys.

Yes, Rhys replied instantly.

Cassian snorted quietly to himself, barely suppressing the roll of his eyes as he glanced up, flicking his attention towards the one other scholar still in Manuscripts at quarter to five— fifteen minutes before closing. How the fuck do you even read this shit?

He could practically hear Rhys’ dry tone when his brother responded. It’s called palaeography, Cass. Those of us interested in real history learn it.

Cassian snorted again.

Rhys was firmly under the impression that anything that had happened less than a hundred years ago barely even counted as history. He’d almost had an aneurism when Cassian told him one of his colleagues had a student writing their dissertation on the pop culture of the 1980s and 1990s. “That’s not history,” Rhys had said as he’d spat out his drink in the pub. “That’s sociology at best, and at worst— it’s our fucking childhood. It doesn’t count.”

With a wry smile, Cassian turned his attention back to the manuscript in his hand, flipping through the pages to find the ones Rhys needed. On each, the script ran edge to edge in flowing black, in a hand Cassian couldn’t even begin to decipher. The initials were grand though, decorated with swirling vines and small figures, as though some monk in the 900s had poured his heart and soul into the writing of this volume. Something about that tugged at Cassian, at the part of him that longed to uncover every version of the past there was to find, and as he brushed a finger over the ink once more, he almost wished he was able to read the text; almost wished he could find out what, exactly, that monk had deemed so important he’d immortalised it with his pen.

There was something wondrous in it— something that called out to him and made him feel like a child again, staring up at the walls of a castle in ruins, embers of insatiable curiosity igniting like a wildfire he’d never been able to extinguish. The manuscript in his hands had survived centuries— war and plague and famine and fire, it had weathered them all. It had witnessed the breadth of human history and arrived here, to sit beneath his fingertips and give Rhys the means to write his article.

Not that he’d ever admit any of that out loud, of course. Rhys would have a field day.

Rolling his eyes, Cassian flipped another page over, finally finding the first of the ones Rhys wanted photographed. Using one hand to splay the pages wide open, he picked up his phone in the other and lifted it up to take the picture—

“What on earth are you doing?”

Cassian startled, and looked up to find the woman from the desk - the archivist, surely - standing behind him, her arms crossed over her chest as disbelief flitted across that beautiful face. Something like horror flared in those magnificent eyes, and her lips were parted in an expression of abject shock. Cassian’s brow furrowed.

“A favour for a friend,” he said slowly, confused. For a moment he wondered if Rhys had gotten it wrong— if this was one of the manuscripts not permitted to be photographed. But the archivist shook her head sharply.

“Are you an imbecile?” she asked bluntly. “Or have you just never been inside an archive before?”

Cassian bristled. “Of course I’ve been inside an archive before.”

Just not to examine documents…. quite this old.

He’d admit that he was perhaps a little bit clueless when it came to this— handling things that predated anything else he’d ever worked with by almost a fucking millennia.

And yet… he wasn’t about to let her know that.

He pushed away from the chair, rising to his feet as the carpet hissed beneath his boots. God— she barely came up to his shoulders, but she didn’t back away. No, instead she lifted her chin to fix him with that encompassing stare, her glare almost enough to melt the flesh from his bones.

“I find that difficult to believe,” she hissed, nodding at the desk. “No book rest. No snake weights. And no historian would ever open a manuscript the way you just did.” She scowled as she nodded to the vellum pages he’d just had his hands all over. “The pages in that manuscript are a thousand years old.”

Suddenly there was a fire rising in his chest, some kind of beckoning interest flaring to life as he looked down into eyes brimming with so much ire they threatened to tear him apart. Every inch of her was lined with hauteur, her jaw tight as he canted his head and looked down at her, folding his arms over his chest in a stubborn gesture that said he wasn’t going to be the one to back down. She met him stroke for stroke, catching his gaze and refusing to step back, standing so close that he could smell her perfume. Something in Cassian relished it, revelled in the way she was forced to tilt her head back as he took a step closer, eliminating the distance between them until barely an inch separated his folded arms from hers.

“I’m a modern historian, sweetheart. I’m just here to take some pictures for a colleague of mine and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh— oh,” she said, inhaling sharply, and Cassian saw the moment she made the connection. Her eyes darkened, her brows rising, and if he’d thought she was pissed before… Christ, he hadn’t known the meaning of the word. “You’re here for that prick who somehow found my office phone number and called me to demand that I rush his request through.”

Cassian bit back a grin. He had no idea how Rhys had managed to find her number. Azriel, probably.

“Does the word no mean anything to either of you?”

“No,” he answered easily, letting a feral smile loose across his lips. Indignation flared in her eyes, and Cassian could have sworn he felt his heart skip a beat or several. “Look, just let me take these photos and I’ll be gone. You can have your decrepit old book back then.”

Her scowl deepened, those sharp eyes growing somehow - impossibly - sharper. Like she’d taken offence on behalf of the manuscript he’d just called decrepit.

Fucking hell, she was stunning. She reminded him of a blade— shining as bright and as pure as silver, and yet sharp enough to have him bleeding if he so much as breathed wrong in her direction. And that scowl…

It was enough to have him simpering after her like a fucking teenager.

She said nothing, only huffed forcefully before turning on her heel and marching briskly back towards the desk. Cassian nodded once before turning back to the manuscript, but before he could so much as raise his phone for another photo, the archivist had returned, slamming down a thin string of weights onto the desk beside him. With her other hand she reached around him to pull forward the foam book rest that sat at the back of his desk.

“Move,” she said sharply.

Cassian could only hold up his hands in surrender as he backed off.

With perfect and practised care, gently she lifted the manuscript from its spot on the surface of the desk. The thing wasn’t inherently fragile, but still she checked the spine for damage - aiming a pointed glare over her shoulder as she did so - before setting it down on the book rest, letting the foam cradle it.

“You open bound manuscripts from the centre, not the front cover,” she said, like it was the most fundamental thing in the entire world. “Otherwise you’ll strain the binding.”

Slowly, she teased the pages apart, starting right in the middle and working her way back to the page Cassian had been photographing only a handful of minutes ago. Then, she draped the thin string of weights across the pages to keep them spread.

“These are used to keep the pages open— not your hands.”

She took a step back away from the desk, folding her arms back over her chest as she studied the new set up. For a heartbeat, her eyes dropped to his hands, lingering once more on the tattoos decorating his knuckles. Once it might have been considered a professional hindrance, to have so much ink on display, but historians with tattoos were far from rare these days. And he didn’t think that the woman before him looked with disdain, either.

“What would I do without you?” he drawled, tilting his head to the side.

She rolled those devastating eyes of hers, and when she shook her head, Cassian caught a hint of her perfume. It was delicate, something floral with just a hint of spice— like rose and honey, and it had him drawing her deep into his lungs, savouring it and throwing her a wink that he knew might end up with her throwing him off the ledge of the mezzanine altogether.

“Be banned from ever entering my reading room ever again,” she muttered, her voice low and bitter. She shook her head again, sending her small silver earrings glinting beneath the bright white lights. Harsh lights, not flattering for anybody, and yet— she was beautiful. When Rhys had called, Cassian hadn’t really known what to expect, but he sure as hell hadn’t expected the archivist to be… well. Like this.

As he snapped another photo for Rhys and nodded for her to gently turn the page - parchment rustling, binding creaking, weights whispering as she arranged them carefully on the edges of the vellum - his eyes fixed on her hands, elegant and sure.

No ring there, he noticed.

He didn’t know why he’d looked, or why he’d even bothered to note it. Just because she wasn’t married didn’t mean there wasn’t somebody in her life, and besides, whether she did or did not, it didn’t necessarily mean that he had any real interest anyway, did it?

Or perhaps he was just kidding himself— practically tripping over that empty space on her finger in case it meant he might have a chance.

His mind was entirely somewhere else as he took the remaining few photos Rhys had requested, barely seeing the script on the pages anymore and too caught up with the way she stood silent by his side, her eyes occasionally flicking his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t have missed it, though. Her attention was like a match dragged along his skin, setting fire to him with a spark and a hiss and a perfectly lethal glare.

And when he was done, when the last photo was safe in his camera roll, Cassian drew fully away from the desk. Glancing up and taking in his surroundings for the first time since she’d stormed over, he noticed that the last scholar had left, leaving them almost entirely alone save for the security guard by the door.

A breathless kind of anticipation crept up his spine, pricked his skin as he lingered by that desk.

There was only one thing he wanted to ask now— one thing he’d been dying to know ever since he’d walked through that fucking door.

“What’s your name?” he asked, drawing closer as she lifted the weights from the pages and let them pool on the desk.

She paused, not turning to look at him as she lifted the manuscript from its cradle and eased it closed. “Why should I tell you that?”

Cassian shrugged. “Because.” When she glanced over her shoulder, he flashed her a grin that could have been called cocky, could have been called boyish in its charm. “I’m a historian. Curiosity’s part of the job.”

“Historian of what, exactly?” she demanded, turning around sharply, in a tone so much like Rhys’ that Cassian couldn’t help but let his grin spread wider, unfettered. “I’ve never met a historian who can’t handle a manuscript before.”

“I told you. I’m a modernist, sweetheart.”

She ran her eyes up and down, lingering on his chest, his broad shoulders. Then her eyes flicked to his face, his long hair pulled back to reveal the earring studded through one lobe.

“So you really haven’t been in archive before.”

“Of course I have,” he countered.

“Not a real one,” she muttered and God— she sounded so fucking much like Rhys that Cassian thought they might even get along, if ever they met. If they could detach themselves from one another’s throats for more than five seconds.

He let out a laugh that echoed through the vaulting space, something inside him igniting when her eyes widened, the hush breaking like glass beneath his feet. She blinked again, muttering something about how he clearly hadn’t ever been in a library before either, before gathering the manuscript in her hands and turning sharply on her heel, pushing past him to heard towards the collections desk.

And like Theseus following Ariadne’s string, Cassian followed her.

Somewhat more earnest, he leaned against the counter, curling his tattooed knuckles loosely into his palm. “I do appreciate it, you know. You coming over to help.”

“I did it for the manuscript, not you,” she pointed out dryly.

He grinned. “Come on. Give me your name at least— so I know who to address the thank you note to.”

“Only a note?” she fired back, raising her eyebrows.

Cassian felt a thrill skip through him, tripping along his veins until it reached his chest and made him feel slightly breathless. He liked this— the banter, the back and forth that was so remarkably easy it felt like falling into step with someone he’d known all his life. This stranger - this beautiful stranger - glared at him as he leaned over the counter, his chest pressing into the wood as he brought his face hardly an inch from hers, and he’d already figured out that her eyes sparked when she was irritated, that she huffed in exasperation often, and that the small tilt at the corner of her lips was the only outward sign she’d allow that she was entertaining him and his cocksure posturing.

This close, he thought he might have died and gone to heaven. His eyes dropped to her lips again, unable to look away.

“What else would you like, sweetheart?” he murmured, offering her a crooked smile. “Shall I get on my knees and extol your virtues to all of London?”

She hummed. “It might be a start.”

Cassian laughed again, easy and free. She had no idea how willing he already was to get down on his knees. He half thought he might break his kneecaps in the rush to prostrate himself before her, and as he watched her standing there beneath the white lights, precious manuscript in her hands, something stirred in him. A kind of interest he’d not had in someone in, well… years.

The archivist drew back, putting space between them that left Cassian blinking like a fool as she took the manuscript back to the shelves, ready to be returned back down below to the stacks. He could only watch her stride purposefully away, his eyes straying to her hips and down, all the way to her heeled boots, and God, that couldn’t be it, could it? He couldn’t let that be it. Could he?

Suddenly, there was only one thought in his head.

Fuck it.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said suddenly, the words leaving him in a rush that was far too loud in the silence of the reading room.

With a gentle thud, the archivist set the manuscript down. Her silver-blue eyes flicked up so sharply that Cassian honestly wondered if one day she’d manage to cut a man and make him bleed with those eyes alone.

“In what world do you think I’d want to get a drink with you?”

Cassian grinned. “Oh, come on, sweetheart.” He leaned back casually, tilted away from the desk when only a moment before he’d been a breath away from vaulting over it and falling at her feet. “Consider it an apology for Rhys’… stubbornness.”

She straightened, her face turning contemplative as, slowly, she made her way back towards him. Imperious, she lifted one perfect eyebrow. “If I said yes, would you promise never to come into my archive again?”

Cassian let out a low, rumbling laugh as he lifted his shoulders in an idle shrug. He didn’t think he could promise her that. Suddenly he was wondering just how different the first world war and the eleventh-century were really, and whether he could pull off a drastic change in his field of study, just so he had an excuse to see her again. To come up here and have her lecture him some more on how rough he was with some ancient books.

God, if he was lucky - exceptionally lucky - maybe he’d even get the chance someday to show her how rough he could be with other things, too. What else he could do with the hands she kept glancing at.

He cleared his throat again. Now was not the time to be turned on, and yet.

And fucking yet.

“I’ll even throw in dinner,” he said with a wink.

The archivist rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know my name.”

Cassian leaned forwards over the counter again. “So tell me.”

She paused, and the silence grew so weighted that Cassian could feel it. But it wasn’t oppressive or suffocating— it was electric. He could feel the air thrumming between them, dancing with tension that was so thick it was making him dizzy. Her eyes dropped to his lips— his to her neck, that expanse of bare skin that he was fairly sure he’d be begging to taste before the night was out.

“Nesta,” she answered at last. “My name is Nesta.”

Already he wanted to know how it would feel to whisper her name in her ear, to feel it on his tongue. To shape it with his lips until there was nothing else left.

“Well then, Nesta.” He offered up another winning smile, just a breath shy of rakish. “Dinner?”

She paused, assessing him like he was just another one of her manuscripts. He flourished beneath that attention, tilting his chin up like a fucking peacock, and if anyone else were here, he might have reined it in, might have kept himself in check. But apart from the security guard standing at the other end of the room, they were alone, and when Nesta looked at him with nothing but blatant interest in her eyes, Cassian felt his blood begin to hammer through his veins and knew that he had one more card to play— an ace hidden up his sleeve.

“You know,” he began slowly, tracing an idle finger in circles on the desk, “the British Museum is open till half six on a Friday.”

He cast a glance to his watch. 4:55pm. In twenty minutes they could be standing in the sculptures gallery, marvelling at beauty crafted by ancient hands. In the grey light, surrounded by the gleaming white marble, Cassian had no doubt he’d be falling over himself to impress this woman.

“A bottle of wine and a couple of ancient artefacts. You do know how to charm a girl,” Nesta quipped. She laid a hand down, splayed on the desk between them, and as she raised her eyes to his, Cassian swore time stopped altogether.

Her voice was dry, acerbic, but Cassian grinned, damn near feverish.

“I know how to charm you, princess. Aren’t ancient artefacts your thing?”

“Well, they’re certainly not yours. Planning on breaking into a display case and shattering the Sutton Hoo helmet?”

Cassian grinned, feral in his delight as he shrugged. “Who knows what might happen if you’re not there to stop me.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, but she didn’t draw back. With every breath she seemed to shift a half inch closer, and Cassian’s heart was a war-drum in his chest, beating so fast, so loud, it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. He wasn’t breathing— wasn’t sure he even remembered how.

“Is that all I am? Your chaperone?”

He couldn’t think of anything witty, couldn’t find some cutting remark to send her way. She was so maddeningly close, all it would take would be a slight shift on his part to bring him crashing into her, and as his eyes fell to her mouth, all he could think about was her sharp tongue, her soft lips, how much he wanted her.

He wanted to kiss her so badly he thought he might die if he didn’t get the chance.

Nesta said nothing, only stared at him in a way that said she knew exactly how undone he was.

She was close, now. So close, and as his eyes roved across her face, he couldn’t think beyond the desire that was building in his chest, lining his throat and making him desperate to touch her. He wanted to reach out. Wanted to brush a thumb across her cheek, graze his knuckles across her jaw until he reached her lips. All he had to do was lift his hand—

The moment shattered when the security guard slammed a mug down on his desk at the other end of the room, looking pointedly in their direction as he plucked up his coat and prepared to leave.

Cassian reared back, clearing his throat, suppressing the laugh in his chest. A blush stole across Nesta’s cheeks, so perfectly pretty he wanted to reach out and brush it with his fingers.

“Well, sweetheart,” he said as he cleared his throat again. “Is that a yes?”

Nesta took a moment, but when she huffed, there was a small smile at the corner of her lips, a glint in her eyes. She shook her head like she couldn’t quite believe she was about to agree to an immediate date with a total stranger, and Cassian’s grin was feral as she bit back that smile and walked away from the collection’s desk, into the back rooms of the library reserved for staff alone. But she looked back, glanced at him over her shoulder and said,

“Meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome

#cassianweek2024 #nessian #nessian fic #archivist!Nesta #historian!Cassian #modern au

36 notes · View notes