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swishandflickwit · 7 years ago

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living in color 2/4

Summary: A year following the events of ACOWAR, Feyre tries to build a better world but struggles to cope. How is she supposed to heal the world if she can’t even heal herself? Luckily, words are not the only form of expression.

Post-war AU in which the Court of Dreams use art as a form of healing.

WARNING: ACOWAR SPOILERS AHEAD!

Rating: Mature for language.

Read: part i | part ii

Also on ff.net | AO3

AN: Feyre and Cassian brotp galore in this chapter. I love all the friendships on ACOTAR but a special shoutout to these two because I really adored their friend chemistry in the book and how intuitive Cassian is to other people’s feelings. (Except his own, lol)

part ii. brown & blue

I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way – things I had no words for. -Georgia O’Keeffe

Despite her earlier declarations, Feyre doesn’t immediately go out and buy herself a canvas and paint supplies.

Baby steps, she tells herself.

She spends her mornings alternating with Rhys – meetings with the High Lords, meetings with the palace governors, meetings in the Hewn City and occasionally, a visit to the Illyrian camps where Cassian and Azriel dedicate majority of their time and efforts integrating Illyrian girls into their training and armies.

The work is draining and slow-going, though in her hours of doubt, Feyre reminds herself of the promise she made to the Suriel.

Leave this world a better place than you found it.

And she wants to… is doing so. But, she figures, she can’t exactly achieve that if she’s always dead on her feet.

So when she comes home, her afternoons are consumed by the various plazas of Velaris and helping the people to rebuild the city.

(Though nights spent in Rhys’ arms is her favorite part of her day. It’s a different kind of art that occurs between them, when they make love and colors explode behind her eyelids.)

Wherever she goes she carries with her a sketchbook, only a little bigger than her hand, and in the moments in between – she sketches.

Nothing so grand as the landscapes and portraits that she used to do in the Spring Court. In fact, the images she scribbles onto her pad are seemingly mundane and insignificant. Sometimes it’s the snowflakes that line the edge of Viviane’s flowing skirt or the flowers that bloom in Elain’s garden in the town house. Other times it’s the rubies that adorn Amren’s neck or, if she’s feeling particularly inspired, the city skyline from the view of the House of Wind’s rooftop. It’s pictures she would akin to the ones she would paint in the cottage on the edge of the woods when she was a human.

(It is a period that feels like a lifetime ago and yet, as fae as she is in appearance, inimitable in power and everlasting in existence, her heart will remain, forevermore, human.

Endlessly and fallibly human .)

It’s when she makes her way to the Rainbow that she, as an artist, engages in her biggest undertaking yet. Except it doesn’t really feel like a momentous occasion.

After all… she is in the artists’ quarters. It’s no surprise that those who dwell here take the rebuilding efforts as an opportunity to, well, flaunt their talents for around her, she sees murals painted over any free and solid space.

So really, it’s more of a natural progression when instead of a roller brush, the residents equip her with paintbrushes of various kinds, thickness and sizes, and paints of countless colors.

In the continent, vandalism or defacing of any kind on public spaces were strictly forbidden and grounds for penitentiary.

But she is not in the continent.

In the Court of Dreams her heart is free to want, and what she wants is to make her mark.

Still, she takes a breath.

It’s her first sojourn to the Rainbow since the attack of Hybern. From her spot in the opening, she can clearly mark in her mind the path she is to take that would lead her to where she had killed the Attor. The memory and the tragedy of the day are as fresh in her mind as the air she breathes in. If she closes her eyes and clenches her fist, the clamor of the artists’ quarters fades and she feels the blade pierce through the leathery skin of that grotesque creature as blood spurts from the wound, staining her hands a dark red, the wind on her face as they spiralled hard and fast towards the ground and the sick thud as the Attor’s body splattered, limp and lifeless onto the–

Stop, she tells herself.

She takes another deep breath.

Baby steps .

She’s eager to dispel the cloud of despair the recollections had brought forth from her and so it’s with an excited grin that she ambles to the pile of materials in front of her and picks up a simple round brush. She is just about to take a stroll to find herself a panel to spruce up when someone calls her name. There is a steady number of people all scattered about and a quiet murmur ripples down the pavement as they turn to her, a murmur that grows into a chorus –

“Feyre!”

“High Lady!”

“Cursebreaker!”

“ Defender!” – the last epithet being the loudest amongst them.

The chanting grows as applause joins the cacophony. Feyre freezes when people from the other connected streets begin trickling into the main one and making their way to her. She’s overwhelmed, that much is certain when all she does is stop and stare at the crowd that begins to circle her. They approach her with bright eyes, wide smiles and love and admiration on their lips and she means to return it, to reach out and let them know that she appreciates it, them , all of it.

Her heart begins a staccato beat.

She makes to take the congratulatory, outstretched hand before her except her limbs feel heavy and her palms wet, everything around her becomes slow, like she’s navigating through murky, viscous water. Then the voices surrounding her are no longer voices but the screams of her people dying on the very street because she was too late to save them, the arms encircling her transform to ash arrows tipped in faebane headed straight towards her and she is numb, paralyzed .

The edges of her vision blacken so she blinks it away and for a moment she is back in Velaris, enveloped by the artists, living artists, that inhabit the Rainbow. Except the sharp sound of a metal bucket being kicked over reminds her too much of the Cauldron’s keening as it cleaved in three, and the ground shakes beneath her. What have I done? she thinks. What have I done? and again and again and again.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done? WhathaveIdonewhathaveIdonewhathaveIdonewhathaveIdo–

Feyre?

An inexplicable sensation pools in the bottom of her gut that has her feeling both hollow and full and, despite her sensible side’s awareness that the dangers have long since passed, a terror so fierce courses through her entire being. But she endeavors to maintain that is safe and she is home . The fact that her mate calls for her, his darkness cool and soothing as it glides gently down their bond, is a testament to that.

Yet his voice is so faint, so far away…

FEYRE.

He cries and though she knows it for the bellow that it is, it sounds like nothing but echoes in the outskirts of her mind.

Breathe, Feyre, his voice is practically a whisper. I just need you to breathe.

She strains to hear him but what little of his voice does stream into her consciousness jolts her to attention and she finally grasps the tightness in her chest and the shallowness of her breaths. So she forces herself to take huge gulps of air.

Too fast, love, Rhys says softly. Give it four counts as you breathe in and another four when you breathe out.

She recalls the breathing technique as the one that Cassian taught her during their workouts together and she summons that training now as she grapples to gain control of her mind once more.

She breathes in for four counts and as she does so, she scrambles for the link that tethers her to Rhys.

I’m here, he beckons, his voice a lovely lilt. Come find me, I’m right here.

She breathes out and Rhys is just a bit clearer in her mind.

That’s it, he sighs as her breathing starts to slow.

Rhys?

You found me. You’re all right.

She doesn’t realize her eyes are closed till she’s opening them and dozens of pairs of concerned gazes are staring right at her.

“I, I’m so–” she clenches and unclenches her fists to stop them from shaking.

“Are you all right, my Lady?”

No matter how much she owns it, being addressed by her proper title is still a habit she’s not used to so even in her panic-induced state of mind she finds it in herself to reply, “It’s just Feyre.”

Somewhere in her consciousness, Rhys chuckles, and her heartbeat gradually steadies.

It coaxes a small smile from her even as she replies, “No. I don’t think I am.”

Cassian is on his way .

Though she has no idea what for, she says, “I’m so sorry, everyone.”

Just as she finishes, a gust of wind and a tremble of the flagstone underfoot announces her friend’s arrival.

She turns just in time to marvel at the sight of the hulk of a general navigate through a sea of faes he towers over, his wings tucked in tight so as not to accidentally jostle anyone in the face. She’d giggle if her fear wasn’t yet abating and exhaustion wasn’t seizing her every muscle so she grins, weakly, instead as he squeezes himself between two significantly shorter faes.

When he catches the look on her face, he huffs. “Sure, laugh at the one trying to help you out here.”

She shakes her head amusedly. “Hey Cas.”

He reaches her and places a hand at her shoulder. He immediately sobers when he surveys her and notices the clamminess of her skin. “You good?”

She takes a moment to assess herself. The sweat that glides down the slope of her back is cold yet her blood runs hot beneath her skin, like she could shoot straight to the sun if she spread her wings that very moment. But there’s a gnawing in her belly that keeps her anchored to the ground and has her limbs feeling cumbersome and heavy.

And she is tired, drained even. Had she been human, she’s positive she would be passed out that very second but she thanks the Cauldron for her fae strength – the only reason she can even walk much less stand. Still, she does not feel wholly all right, her emotions turbulent and ugly in her brain that her only thought is, she doesn’t want to be seen as she is. She merely looks at Cassian, her eyes wide and open and as if reading her thoughts, he shoos the onlookers with a “don’t you have work to do?” and the crowd begins to dissipate, leaving lingering and curious looks behind them.

He turns to her. “Should we go home?”

She nods and, too sluggish to winnow or fly but still quite restless from the dwindling adrenaline, they begin the walk back when Feyre places a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” She frowns at the concern on her friend’s face. “Nothing,” she shakes her head. “Actually, there is something I need to do first.” He raises his eyebrows in question and she smiles, if a bit sheepishly. “Will you… will you help me?”

It’s like his whole countenance softens at the inquiry, tension melting away as his shoulders loosen and his playful grin returns.

With seemingly every ounce of his enthusiasm wrapped around his response of, “ Of course! ” he puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her an affectionate squeeze. “What exactly do you need help with?”

“Mostly housework.” she pauses. “And art work.”

“Count me in! I mean,” and his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper, “I know this body itself is a masterpiece but, no nude portraits all right? I don’t think Rhysand will appreciate it.” He shudders. “Or your sister, for that matter.” She doesn’t need to ask which sister he’s referring to. An impish grin crosses his lips. “Then again, maybe she would be apprecia–”

She shoves him before he can finish the thought. “You’re an idiot.”

“A really fit idiot,” he returns with a rakish grin.

“An idiot nonetheless.”

He shrugs. “You know what they say about beauty,” he pauses for dramatic effect and Feyre rolls her eyes. A child – she is friends with a child . “It’s in the eye of the most good-looking one in the room.”

Case in point. “I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

He waves a flippant hand in dismissal.“Semantics.”

She shakes her head in feigned besetment. “Come on oh Wise and Humble One,” she links her arm with his. “I’ve got materials to gather and you’re,” she pats a muscled forearm, “going to help me carry them.”

They make it a few paces when Cassian stops her this time. “Feyre, what happened earlier…” she sucks in a sharp breath. “I just want you to know that I get it.”

“You do?”

In lieu of a response, he nods towards a nearby café. “I don’t know about you but I’m starving. Lunch?” There remains the leaden weight in her stomach but she’s about to voice her acquiescence anyway when his stomach releases an obstreperous grumble. There’s a beat of astonishment at the sound, resounding as it is with their fae hearing, before they erupt in laughter.

“I guess that answers that question,” she mutters teasingly under her breath, a tone Cassian chooses to ignore as they make their way to the tables beneath the charming cobalt-colored awning of the bistro. He did say he was famished.

When their food arrives, there is naught but the sounds of clinking utensils and the customary racket of a marketplace drifting in the silence between them. Faes wander the streets and heckle customers into entering their kitschy boutiques or purchasing their wares. Music spills from one of the winding avenues and onto the pavement beneath her feet as a musician weaves a blithe tune with a syrinx. The Rainbow teems with life and Feyre looses herself in the vibrancy of the scenery.

But a glance across the table at her friend tells a different story, evident as it is in the tautness to his muscles and the tension that lines his mouth – lips and brows bowed in a frown. A wall of iron shutters his eyes and banishes their light as thousands of stories, raw and sorrowful, flash before them. She is all too reminded then of her youth, that despite all she’s been through, she is but a child compared to her friend. She can only imagine what he could have possibly been through, sure that what Rhysand told her of their time in the Illyrian camp merely a blip in his, by then, already long life.

When he turns to her, she offers him an encouraging smile and a bit of that light bleeds back into his eyes.

“Will you tell me about what happened to me earlier?” she gulps, recalling the fear that seized her bones and rooted her in place. “What was that? I’ve never felt anything like it before, except…” Except when I held the Cauldron and it trapped me in place.

The bond between Rhysand and her flares in response to the thought. Rhys’ soothing darkness wraps around her mind, calming the onslaught of memories that threaten to drown her. It is a comfort, that though he isn’t there with her physically, she will never have to bear her pain alone.

Cassian allows her to trail off without question, in tune as he always is with her feelings, and for that she is ever grateful. The gratitude is replaced with worry when an air of aloofness overcomes the Illyrian as he explains the nature of her circumstance.

“You had a panic attack. It occurs when your body experiences an overwhelming feeling of fear and anxiety. Triggers for such episodes are often sporadic but not wholly unpredictable…”

He continues to list off facts with a clinical detachment so unlike Cassian, she’s tempted to duck under the table or summon her magic to drop the glamour and reveal the real Cassian, as if he’s just hid behind some nearby corner.

But she likes to think she knows her friend better than that, so she simply places a hand on his forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“Cas,” she says soothingly, a touch of concern in her tone when she notices his skin is clammy where she’s touching him. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you about this, you know you can just… talk to me, right?”

In all fairness, Cassian doesn’t outright deny his discomfort, but – as she’s come to learn – nothing ever worthwhile comes easy. So.

They engage in a staring contest.

One that she wins with aptly maneuvered raised eyebrows and cultivated I-am-your-High-Lady glares that has him deflating all together in a matter of seconds . She tries not to be too smug about it but judging by the glacial expression on his face, she fails. She schools her features into an innocent one instead then gestures for him to proceed.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He heaves a long breath, his wings rippling with the motion, before dropping his shoulders and leaning back in his chair, affecting an air of nonchalance that must have infuriated his superiors when he was still but a foot soldier in the army. Once again, she’s reminded that the male before her is a general and, joking aside, has commanded armies by the thousands with a power nearly equal to Rhysand and possesses a kill count with that number to match.

It’s with that thought that she realizes, “You used to have them.”

“I still do.”

“No.”

Amusement flickers briefly on his face at her denial. She can’t help it – she has a hard time reconciling the image of the unflappable general before her with the immovable wreck that she was earlier.

He runs a hand through his chin-length hair. “It’s not exactly something I advertise.”

She shakes her head.

Even in the face of defeat, Cassian has never yielded. He’d spat in the face of Death, twice in the time she’s known him – an occurrence that has undoubtedly cropped up in his past and is likely to do so again should the occasion for it rise. He is steel forged in fire.

But even steel bends.

“How? When? ”

He gives her an appraising look. “I’m sure Rhys has told you all about my life by now.”

She shakes her head. “The bare bones more like, and only if he needs to. For everyone.”

He exhales, as if relieved. “That sounds like him,” he murmurs. “Well, do you know about the Blood Rite, at least?”

She nods.

He directs his gaze towards the street then, but she can tell he is somewhere else entirely – a place she cannot reach and one only he can see.

“We fought to be in the Blood Rite, did you know?” She did. “To be in that–that, stupid tradition and for what, to prove who could be the strongest? The most ruthless? Most bloodthirsty? ” He laughs, though the sound couldn’t be farther from amusement. Then he stops so abruptly that the silence becomes jarring. With eerie calmness, he continues. “The only thing I proved that day was that I would do anything, anything, to protect the ones I cared about, even kill – cause that’s exactly what I did that day. I killed my first, my second, my third…”

His eyes glaze and she doesn’t need to use her daemati powers to sense that he is entrenched in painful memories. She knows what it is to look at your clean and washed hands yet still see the way the blood of those lives you took continue to be drenched in it, that for every life you take, deserved or not, a part of you is taken too. In his eyes, she sees the parts of his soul that have splintered because the jagged edges match hers, and Rhys’ and Nesta’s and Elain’s and Amren’s – them all.

“I stole away all those lives but I don’t regret it, not a single one. Because those bastards deserved it,” an inferno blazes in his orbs and there is fire in his words, as if daring her to judge him. “And because it brought me back to my family .”

Except there’s no judgement but understanding in her hold, when she looks at him and takes his hand in hers.

The rigidity in Cassian’s posture fades and the fire extinguishes from him as he loses a breath, giving her an answering squeeze before letting go.

“That’s when it started?” She asks softly and he responds with a clipped nod. “They haven’t stopped since, although,” he hurries to reassure her when it looks as if she’s ready to burst from concern, “not as often and certainly not as long as they used to be. It was way worse before…”

He proceeds to recount how he would get panic attacks before and after battles – how he would be overcome by a sinking feeling in his gut, coupled with a mounting terror that gripped his entire body and rendered him immovable. He was only thankful that he had the presence of mind to bring himself away from his fellow soldiers or from the eye of his superiors each time, not that he could control the frequency of their occurrences then. In fact, he had no idea what was even happening to him, only that he could not, would not, let anyone not close to him see him in such a state of weakness.

She looks at him, her mouth agape in absolute awe and wonder. “How… how do you get through them?”

He smiles, the softest and most tender she’s ever seen Cassian. She tucks the image in the part of her mind filled with all the blank canvases she has yet to bring to life. Steel Warrior, she’d call it.

“I remind myself that my friends are well and alive, in order to calm down. The thought of them kept me going, keeps me going and the list only continues to grow.” He rolls his eyes and gives her a pointed look which leaves little room to doubt that she, along with her sisters, are the expansion to the list. She laughs because she knows his exasperation is in jest. “As well as those breathing exercises I taught you.”

Her mouth forms a small ‘o’ as Rhysand’s instructions to her from earlier come to mind.

“The others know, then.”

Cassian lets out an annoyed groan though his cheeks are tinged pink. “I can never fucking keep anything from Rhys. The moment he found out he took me straight to Madja. She was the one to explain it to me, to all of us. I’d have been embarrassed, but Rhys is such a mother hen and Az was being all intense so I figured I’d let them fuss if it meant they’d feel better, nevermind that I was actually the patient in question.” Another roll of his eyes but she can see the smile that threatens to stretch his lips, so she smiles wide enough for the both of them. It is short lived however, when she notices his shoulders tense once more.

“I’ve gotten better at managing it over the years. The last one that was really bad was… it was about 52 years ago, then again after Hybern. And you know all about that.” – of course, when the High Lord had tethered the Inner Circle to Velaris and the quiet that settled in Cassian’s mind in the absence of Rhys, the same kind he had told her about in the immediate aftermath of the events in Hybern. It’s all too clear now, why he had to be sedated, not just to save his wings but to save him.

He glances away. “It’s funny… as the bastard son of an Illyrian Lord, I had to fight for everything my entire life. Being dumped into that mountain for the Blood Rite should have been nothing – another day, another battle. I should have been used to it. And all the camp lords and the generals would go on about how glorious it all was, ‘an honor’ even. That’s why it took so much to convince them to participate – two bastards and a half-blood, no matter how powerful, weren’t worthy .” The last word is spat out like a curse. She’s inclined to agree, her face twisting in a sneer when she recalls every time she’s seen Devlon speak to Cassian without an ounce of respect. She’s about to voice her thoughts when she sees his shoulders sag, his hair a limp curtain around his bowed head. He trembles.

“Perhaps there is some honor to be found in a battle fairly won. But there’s nothing fair or honorable about war. There’s no glory to be found in taking a life, enemy or ally, not for me at least.

“It’s just another stain on my soul I’ll never be rid of.”

He sighs. “I am War Commander of the Night Court Army, yet I do not enjoy war. Some general, right?” A chuckle escapes him, an acrid, broken sound. “What a laugh.”

She opens her mouth to protest but he waves her off, like he didn’t just drop a bomb of information on her. “So anyway, it’s like I said, it’s not so bad now. In fact, I can even help you–”

“Stop it,” she whispers. “You don’t get to make light of this. You don’t get to brush this off.” She shakes her head. “You have no idea how strong you are, do you?”

He flexes his muscles in jest. “I’m pretty sure I do.”

She resists the urge to punch him. Her temper must show on her face because he raises his hands in a show of both surrender and apology.

She wants to say more. She wants to gush more like, as if to make up for her obliviousness by plying him with compliments. Not that he would graciously accept them, she recognizes a front when she sees one. For all his humor and posturing, to say he was hurting underneath would be a gross understatement – understandable, given everything he’s been through and all that he’s revealed to her. She just never realized how deep that hurt went nor did she fully comprehend the great pains he took to hide it. She doesn’t know if she should hug him or smack him for it – it seems to be a problem amongst the Inner Circle, the inability to be completely direct with their feelings till pain of death forces it out of them. But life or death situations are, thankfully (hopefully), behind them so they’re trying, all of them.

Besides, words are not the only form of expression.

In lieu of any violent or saccharine tendencies, Feyre looks at him with no shortage of affection when she says, “You’re a great leader and an even greater friend.” She dips her chin to catch his eye. “Don’t sell yourself short, Cassian.”

Knowing this is all he’s willing to take, she doesn’t wait for a reply. Merely leaves enough currency to cover their meal and a generous tip before rising from her seat. She throws him a questioning glance. “Does the offer of assistance still stand?”

There’s a hint of red to his cheeks, but the veil of despondency has left his eyes. It’s wonderful for Feyre to see it replaced by gratefulness and that glimmer of overexcitement and mischievousness that always seems to encapsulate Cassian’s every look and movement. He stands and with a crack of his knuckles, turns to her, a wide grin plastered on his face.

“Lead the way.”

Nesta and Elain have long since moved from the townhouse and bought their own dwellings with the wages Rhysand so generously pays them and so Feyre is free to turn her old bedroom into an art room. Cassian, true to his word, helps her out.

Unlike her art room in the Spring Court, this time Feyre has a hand at not just filling the room with paintings, but with everything.

The sun is just about to sink below the horizon when Rhysand walks into a minefield made up of Feyre’s old furniture.

“Feyre?” He calls out with a modicum of bewilderment.

Her head immediately pops out of her old bedroom. “You’re home!”

Before he can muster up a reply, she is barrelling into him, all long limbs and tangled hair and swelling of paint and sweat and, he notes with relief, elation. He smiles.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he remarks once he’s released from her hug though he doesn’t stray far, his hand trailing down her arm to entwine their fingers. She kisses his cheek. “How are you?”

“Tired,” he admits. “Though I’m glad to be home.” He tilts his head in the direction of her room. “Is that Cassian in there?”

“Hello, brother!”

“Hello…” Rhys calls back, more out of reflex than polite greeting. He turns to Feyre, eyebrows raised in bewilderment. “Why won’t he come out?”

She bites her lip, as if to contain her laughter and rather cryptically replies, “He’s a little busy.” She tugs at their joined hands. “Why don’t you see for yourself.”

Together, they weave through chairs, dodge wayward lamps and hop over planks of wood that must have once composed the bed with laughter on their lips before they reach the nearly shut door.

When Feyre nudges it ajar, the sight that greets him astounds him.

The once white walls have now been replaced with a blue, so deep it’s nearly violet. It reminds him of Velaris at night, when the last of the sun’s light touches the skies and the heavens clear for the stars to spill out. Sure enough, the sun sinks below the horizon and what little light reaches the window from the outside and that from the roaring fireplace, touches the wall. It flares to a blazing indigo.

Noticing his look of utter awe, Feyre gives him a playful nudge. “It reminds me of your eyes.” Her mouth takes the beatific form of her smile and, as he’s helplessly wont to do each time he is witness to her happiness, he feels his heart skip a beat and he’s mesmerized.

A throat clears, rather loudly, somewhere to his left and that’s when he manages to tear his eyes away from Feyre (much to her amusement) to marvel at the peculiar sight of Cassian on all fours and hunched over the skirting board. Even more amazing is the firm grip he has on the paintbrush as he fills in the space directly atop the baseboard.

Feyre expects Rhysand to start teasing the general but there’s a calculating look on his face as he appraises their friend. A bead of sweat trickles from Cassian’s forehead to the corner of his eye yet he pays it no mind, focused as he is on his task. Rhysand turns to her after a moment, a look of astonishment on his face.

What is it?

I haven’t seen him so… relaxed. Surprise colors his tone and he struggles with the word, as if the act of leisure in relation to Cassian is so unheard of, it’s practically a foreign concept. Not even before I left for Under the Mountain.

She eyes the tremble in Cassian’s arm as he steadies his hand to paint the horizontal length of the molding. She looks at her mate with more than a modicum of disconcertion.

I think you mixed up the meaning of relaxed again.

Rhysand rolls his eyes but the corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. He addresses Cassian.

“I’m famished. I’m going to the kitchens to see what Nuala and Cer have whipped up. Do you want anything?”

Cassian lets out a noncommittal shrug and it’s apparently all the response he needs because Rhysand makes his way to the door.

“You coming, Feyre, darling?”

What is happening?

Humor me.

She shrugs. “I could use a bite to eat.” She walks towards Rhysand but hesitates at the door. She glances at Cassian. “You sure you don’t want anything, Cas?” she asks, an inexplicable anxiousness to her voice.

“I’m good.”

When they reach the kitchens, Rhysand waves the shadow sisters away and offers to take over dinner preparations so they could have an early night for themselves. They accept, gratuitous appreciation spilling from their lips before they shadow away to their own quarters.

Rhysand navigates the kitchen with an ease that she envies. This is something they did together, after the war – try to learn how to cook, try being the operative word. Suffice it to say, her mate is charged with food preparation when it calls for it while skinning animals, boiling water and heating soup pretty much sums up the extent of her culinary skills.

She helps as best as she can though her mate mostly delegates her into setting their table and preparing the serving platters for when he’s finished cooking. With nothing to do but wait and mindful of Cassian’s presence, she continues their conversation.

I don’t get it, she starts, what exactly was it about him that screamed, ‘relaxed’ to you? I mean, he refused our offer to eat. Cassian – said no, to food! She shakes her head because the act of Cassian not joining them for a meal is just that baffling to her. He never says no to food.

Exactly, Rhys shoots her a pointed look. Darling, I should tell you that as you grow into your daemati powers, you’ll find yourself becoming more attuned to other people’s presence and, should you grow fond of them, their emotions as well. You won’t even have to enter their minds, it’s kind of like a feeling or, he pauses, searching for the right words, it’s intuition . And it gets stronger the closer you are to a person. Now I’ve known Cassian for what feels like my entire existence – it’s as if I can’t even imagine what life was before I met him and Azriel so believe me when I say, something in him has shifted.

And you think it has something to do with the painting?

Partly yes, Rhys serves their meal but instead of taking a seat, he moves her chair to face him as he kneels before her, hands caressing her thighs all the way to the back of her knees in less of a seduction and more of affection. He levels her with a gaze full of awe and inspiration, all tender eyes and soft, smiling lips. But I think it has more to do with you. He makes a slow path from her knee to the side of her thigh, till he’s entwined their fingers on one hand. You have to know how much you mean to him, to all of us.

Touched beyond words, she runs her free hand through his locks, the silky strands of them slipping through her fingers before trailing them along the apple of his cheeks in a gentle caress. She wants to tell him that she feels exactly the same way – how she was so, so lost before he not just gave her but showed her how to carve a better way for herself, how her days are brimming with love and laughter and appreciation thanks to their friends, their family, that she was paralyzed before he taught her how to be a dreamer, that she’s thankful that they all accepted her and her sisters as a part of their family, that he inspires her everyday to want believe, not just in him, them and the future they want to build for the next generation of dreamers, but in herself as well, that thanks to him, she found a way to set herself free – but too many words struggle to break free from the tangle in her throat.

He sighs, and there’s sorrow in his eyes when he brushes his knuckles along her cheek. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there sooner. I’m sorry that I’m always too late.

She shakes her head. You’re always with me, whether we’re strangers or lovers, human or fae, alive or dead.

Sounds ominous.

She rolls her eyes but she can see the way his face contorts sharply in reminder. She shakes her head, a fond smile shaping her lips as she recalls Cassian’s heartfelt confession. Besides, I believe I was exactly with who I needed to be in that moment.

She brings their clasped hands towards her lips and lays a long, sweet kiss upon the back of Rhysand’s hand in thanks, because who else would have thought to send the perfect person but him? He exhales shakily, his cool breath brushing delicately across her skin as she rests her forehead atop his and with everything she can’t express, she thinks perhaps her mate has heard her after all.

They stay, locked in that moment just a minute more, before she slowly lets go. They share a smile, a conversation in their eyes when she grabs another plate. She distributes the food and with a tilt of her head, she and Rhysand return to the art room where Cassian appears to be putting the final flourishes for the baseboard.

When she enters, she catches herself before she drops their platters in jubilation and subsequently erupts in applause. Cassian, unaware of her presence, turns at the sound of her clapping, siphons glowing in the light of dusk before altogether disappearing at the sight of his High Lady’s enthusiasm and his High Lord’s arms laden with food. He grins.

“Food!” He shouts excitedly just as Feyre exclaims, “Amazing!”

To the couple’s surprise, Cassian turned beet red at the praise when any other time he would have preened at the attention. He scratches at the hair on the nape of his neck before squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms. He gives Feyre a playful nudge as they stand side by side in front of the last finished wall, Rhysand behind them and silent as shadows as he observes the pair. “I’m a regular artist, don’t you think?” Cassian says in a teasing manner though she could detect the underlying sheepish tone. She gives him an appraising look.

“Yes,” she whispers. “You are.”

Cassian merely shrugs off her response. Though she doesn’t miss the calculating look on his face as he surveys the wall before them, the wall he worked on all on his own, with a proud and quietly awed look of accomplishment on his face. He shakes his head as if to shake him from his stupor, before making a beeline for the food. He and Rhysand argue over food proportions as Cassian heaps a mountainous serving of food onto his plate. Feyre joins them after a beat, an idea forming in her head. Rhysand throws her a smile.

Looks like you have your first student.

She doesn’t have his same confidence but it turns out her doubt was for naught, because here in her finished art room, she stands before a work of art – one that is not of her own making, but proud of it all the same. Her cheeks hurt from all the smiling she’s done since Cassian declared he was finished with his first painting (after only a week of lessons!).

At his intense stare, she asks, “What is it?”

“It’s just, it was so… blank. And now it’s not.”

Amused, she replies, “That is, generally, how paintings tend to work.”

She gets a hard shove for that one but she doesn’t mind, not when they’re both laughing so hard. When she regains her balance and their chortles simmer down, a calm silence blankets the pair as they regard his work.

“I thought all it took to paint was a brush and some colors. I’m surprised at how much thought had to be put into it – the combination of colors to use, the kind of brush, the angle of your wrist – all so you can bring this image in your head alive except it’s not just an image, is it? It’s a part of you you’re leaving on a canvas that isn’t really a canvas anymore but something else, something you’ve shaped – something you’ve made and… do you know what I mean?”

She looks at him, or rather, she looks at his hands – rough with years of hard work, calluses in places a weapon would fit – hands that have killed. Then she looks at the explosion of color before her, the gentle consideration she can see in every stroke and the deliberateness in every hue, looks at the hands who made them. She smiles at him.

“Yes,” she knows a thing or two about beginning anew.

She doesn’t say the last thought aloud but when he looks back at her and returns her grin, she thinks he might read the answer on her face anyway.

Later that night, she catches Cassian just as he’s about to fly back to his apartment, his painting covered and bound for a safe journey home. She walks him out, a solemnity trailing their footstep, and when they reach the door, they share a look. No words are exchanged and she understands what Rhysand means about her daemati powers and growing attuned to other people’s feelings. A conversation passes between them in that one encompassing look – friendship, affection, humor, accomplishment, pride, gratitude and more than anything, healing.

She thinks about how Cassian encases himself in steel in order to combat his weaknesses – a battle against a terrorizing nation or a battle against his own body when assailed with a panic attack. And sure, perhaps steel bends.

Yet as he flies away, his work of art clutched tightly, lovingly, in his hands, of one thing she is absolutely certain when it comes to Cassian, to herself, to Rhysand and the entire Court of Dreams – they might bend under the crippling weight of a world that thrives in darkness.

But they will never break.

#acotar #acotar ff #acotar fan fic #feysand #brotp: feyre x cassian #feyre archeron #rhysand #cassian #acowar spoilers #angst #fluff #friendship #post-war au #post-acowar fic #swishandflickwit ff

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ranger-of-estel · 8 years ago

Text

Easter on board

So this was supposed to go up Sunday, but I had no wifi available and didn’t have the time until now. Just a little Easter spirit aboard the Waverider set sometime in S1 of Legends.

RogueCanary Brotp, hints of CaptainCanary if you squint.

Also; you can’t convince me Ray doesn’t keep track of holidays even while they are on a Timeship, and plan celebrations accordingly.

Read it on AO3

The team made their way toward the main deck, most of them carrying the decorative eggshells they’d found in their rooms before Rip called a meeting. Once everyone was gathered he glanced from them to the table before him. “Gideon,” they’d been in the vortex several days already, and he was exasperated. “Why are there eggs all over my ship?”

“Well Captain; according to my on-board calendar it is Easter.” She replied, “Hiding decorative eggs appears to be a tradition in the 21st century.”

“I am aware of the earth tradition, but why are they on my ship?” he repeated.

“It would seem someone on board has hidden them throughout the ship,” she answered simply.

“There are more?” Jax spoke up, glancing around the room curiously.

“I count several dozen,” the AI responded.

“Plastic or Boiled?” Sara inquired, glancing down at the one in her hand once more.

“Plastic, and by the weight I would say filled with something.” Gideon answered.

“Well,” Ray looked around at the others, “What are we waiting for?”

“Are you suggesting we actually look for them?” Leonard glanced over depreciatingly.

“It could be fun,” Kendra defended

“And it’s not like there’s anything better to do until we get a lead,” Jax added with a shrug.

“Well whatever the case, I expect it all cleaned up before you all turn in for the night.” Rip sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yes sir!” Raymond gave a quick salute before glancing at Kendra and Jax, the three promptly taking off through the ship.

Rip mumbled something before moving to his study; Stein looked after the retreating forms with a small smile then turned back down the hall to his room. Sara turned to the two remaining members, “Well, I don’t know about you; but I could use some coffee.”

Len made a sound of agreement, Mick shaking his head as they walked “I could do for something stronger.”

As Leonard started coffee Sara took a seat at the table, picking up one of the delicate shells they had piled together. Hers had been yellow, other than the small white bird on either side. Mick’s was red, a lighter on one side and flame on the other. And Leonard’s was the most complex, a dark blue with lighter blue snowflakes decorating most of the surface. “You know, whoever it was put some thought into these.”

Len scoffed as he took a seat across from her, pushing the second mug in her direction. “Waste of time,”

“Perhaps, but it was a nice gesture. Besides; like Jax said it’s not like we have a lot to be doing.” She shrugged.

“Are you suggesting we join their children’s game?” He eyed her over his mug.

“I’m saying I’m bored,” She paused as shouting from the hall filled the room, Raymond and Kendra’s forms momentarily visible through the doorway. She grinned at him, “And I bet I could gather them faster than you.”

“Is that a challenge Canary?”

“I don’t know, afraid you’ll lose?” she teased

“Gideon,” He glanced up, “How many eggs left?”

“I count twenty more eggs remain hidden mister Snart.” She replied

“Winner chooses the prize?” he asked, brow raised.

“You’re on,” she turned to the other man, “Mick?”

“Pass,” he replied gruffly; taking another drink of beef as he leaned back onto the counter. “You two have fun.” And with one last drink they were both out the door.

Rip poured over the notes and clippings he had, searching desperately for another place they could intercept Savage. Leaning back he ran a hand down his face, allowing his eyes a moment of rest. As he glanced around the room he noticed the orange plastic tucked above a couple books. With a sigh he walked over, pulling the plastic egg free and pausing as it gave a rattling sound. Returning to his desk he popped it open, revealing a handful of jellybeans. “Gideon?”

“Yes Captain?”

He removed one of the candies, inspecting it absently. “Who hid the eggs?”

“Mister Palmer; he woke some hours before the rest of you to replicate and hide them.”

“Did he say why?” He knew Palmer likely spoke to the ship since no one else had been present for his ever wandering mind.

“Yes; he seemed to believe it would help cheer the others up after the recent string of failed missions. Then had me wipe his memory of where he hid them so he did not have an advantage in the hunt.” The ship paused, then added almost curiously “It does seem to have raised the spirits of the others.”

“How did he even know the date?” he popped the candy into his mouth, enjoying the rare treat.

“Mister Palmer has requested I notify him of holidays based upon when we left 2016.” She answered.

“And where are they now?”

“All the members except for Mister Snart, Mister Rory and Miss Lance are in the galley eating pizza and discussing earth tradition.”

“And the rogues?”

“In Mister Snart’s room,” she replied

He sighed, “Well at least no one is trying for murder today…”

“You cheated!” Sara exclaimed, glaring across the bed at a smug Leonard.

“Or you’re just bad at cards,” He replied coolly

“Blondie,” Mick motioned from his place on the floor to the table at her side.

She reached back, grabbing one of the twenty-one colored eggs and tossing it to him. “And I suppose you think Gideon’s sensors were off too?”

“That is the logical assumption.” He began shuffling the cards once more, “I’m surprised you weren’t double-checking her as well Assassin,”

As he began passing out cards between them she popped open another egg of her own, pulling the wrapped candy out before tossing the egg toward the growing pile next to Mick. “It’s strange, thinking about what I’d be doing back home.”

“Not like it’s the first one you’ve missed,” he glanced up at her.

“No, but in the league you lose track of days; so I didn’t really feel like I was missing anything.” She picked up the cards, organizing them in her hand.

“Not much to miss if you ask me.” Mick stated from the side,

She shrugged, “Maybe; but we would have been together. Laurel and Dad would have gotten off work to attend service this morning, then Dad would have fixed lunch and mom might have stopped by –“

“Then you decorate eggs and sing songs?” Len half mocked, “Didn’t take you for such a domestic Birdie,”

She glared, “Don’t you and Lisa meet up?”

He gave a half-laugh, “My sister and I don’t find holidays all that sentimental.” He shook his head, “Dear old dad didn’t make them all that memorable. I tried to get her a little something, but hardly enough to reminisce on.”

“What about you Mick?” Sara glanced over to him,

“Never cared much for it,” He offered a half grin, “I did try and stay up to shoot the rabbit when it tried sneaking into the house with a basket.”

“Mick!” she half scolded, “That’s awful”

He shrugged, “Almost got him too,” With a grunt he got to his feet, “I’m going for food, you want something?”

Sara nodded, “Surprise me,”

He barked a short laugh then turned to Snart, “Boss?” He simply shook his head, “Suit yourself.”

After he left the two resumed their game, “So no Easter, really?”

He shook his head, “Like I said, I would pull something together for my sister. But all dad brought home was alcohol and his fists.” He shook his head, “The only thing holidays are good for is distractions for a heist.”

“Sorry you feel that way,” She continued quietly, “But for the record; you aren’t so bad to spend special dates with.”

For a time they played in silence, until his smooth “You want a kiss Lance?” drew her attention.

“Do I what?” she jerked her head up, finding his usual smirk as he held out the foil wrapped chocolate.

“Not my thing,” he drawled.

“I hate you,” she grumbled, grabbing the candy from him.

“If you say so,” his voice softened, “And you aren’t such bad company yourself.”

She looked up, eyes searching his for some hint of his usual biting words or hidden jab. But before she could form a reply Mick returned, stack of pizza on a plate in one hand and the necks of several beers in the other.

Sara twisted the top of her bottle open, then glanced between them, “To celebrating non-traditionally.” They each offered her a half smile, touching their bottles to hers.

#legends of tomorrow #RogueCanary #Sara Lance #Mick Rory #Leonard Snart #Easter #My fic

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