#but unlike spike Angel isn’t inherently social

[petpluto]

I think it’s narratively interesting - if sad - how Angel leaves Buffy to give her a chance to have a full life, and she becomes progressively more isolated - even from her best friends and family - as the series goes on; whereas Angel, who has been isolated except for his relationship with Buffy for decades, gains a found family with multiple levels of emotional connection and growth after he leaves.

In all honesty, while I will always love Angel and Buffy and Angel’s relationship, it’s one of my aggravations with his reasoning for leaving. If he’d left because the relationship was hurting *him* (and I believe in some ways it was, at that point), I would think it was tragic and beautiful. But leaving for *her*, ignoring her wants and needs and removing one of the few people Buffy truly felt comfortable opening up to and being vulnerable with, ends with Buffy having fewer options in her emotional tool belt and feeling as if she is the part of their relationship that was the freak show.

Buffy felt comfortable opening up completely to Angel because Angel makes it clear to Buffy that he loves her, all of her, always, in ways her other long term emotional support pillars don’t always manage to articulate (even if they feel the same). She’s Xander’s hero, and Xander *can* and has been judgmental, so she’s not always comfortable being vulnerable in all aspects of her life with him. She and Willow are close, and Willow isn’t judgmental, but it does seem like Buffy feels the need to be alright for her, especially when she’s spiraling in season 6. She doesn’t want any emotions she has from Willow’s actions to hurt *Willow*, and she prioritizes protecting Willow over being honest with her. Dawn is her dependent. And Giles? She opens up to him and he leaves anyway.

And I think in a majority of these situations, Buffy would be better off being honest - or, in the case of Dawn, more if not entirely honest - with her loved ones. Xander can be judgmental, but he makes it clear in season 5’s Intervention that he can be empathetic and kind, and that his primary concern when it comes to Buffy is Buffy’s health and happiness. Willow is going through her own problems in season 6; but in general, she is also open and empathetic and kind, and her primary concern when it comes to Buffy is also her health and happiness. Buffy puts up these walls because she feels responsible for her friends’ emotional responses, and I do think part of that is her feelings of guilt stemming from her parents’ divorce ( her ‘father’s’ monologue in Nightmares is both horrific and a bit funny); and then Angelus’ murders; and then Angel’s and Riley’s (and then Giles’) exits from her life. Because the people she’s opened up to leave, she becomes convinced that she loses people when she shows them her imperfections and her flaws and her hurts.

Angel gains friends and family once he leaves Sunnydale. He doesn’t always open up to them, and he makes a lot of questionable decisions, but his world expands considerably post-break up. I love that for him. And it’s not on him or his issue to fix, either, but I do ache for Buffy that her circles get smaller and seem more brittle as the seasons go on.

[plethoraurora]

“lie to me” and morality in btvs

today on help! i wrote an essay in the discord chat. since i happen to do that a lot i figured i’d dump them onto my blog for posterity, and so i don’t have to dig through archives/search to find them if i wanna express those points again.

so without further ado, please have a very stream-of-consciousness response to a conversation the buffyverse discord had about “lie to me” and its relevance to the series, specifically in terms of overarching themes and morality. this is entirely unedited and solely the result of my absolutely unhinged brain being allowed to run free:

prelude

re: the convo we were having about "lie to me": not to mention, the implications of buffy's conversation with giles in regard to the idea of moral ambiguity. which really hasn't been a conversation piece at all up to this point: it has been exactly that -- we know the enemies, we know the good guys, and that line is cleanly drawn. this totally foreshadows SO many things that will unfold through the rest of the series

pt. 1

obviously, angel losing his soul and reverting to angelus which is nearing in, at that point -- the ambiguity of one's personhood, the idea of the soul as the physical guiding force for morality, and the lack of it. what separates angel from angelus -- what separates the actions he committed as angelus from his ensouled state? what makes up his personhood?

pt. 2

then there's faith, who comes up next, chronologically -- she's buffy's foil in so many ways i don't even know where to begin -- but especially in her views of morality and what's "right" -- you can see that in her understanding of buffy's morality (ex. "because it's wrong"), and her actions throughout season 3 -- from her recklessness from the time she's introduced through her betrayal and incarceration/redemption, she walks a very thin, undefined line, between the inherent "good" of the nature of being a slayer, and "bad" of her own nature/nurture, and personal view of herself.

through her stint as buffy, we see that she feels the need to view herself as "bad", to demonize her actions, in direct contrast to buffy's "goodness" -- she sees them as complete opposites, polar extremes of a spectrum of morality -- when they're both closer to the middle. and that's something that will be explored when faith returns to sunnydale in s7, changed immensely by her self-imposed penance in prison, as well as buffy's own actions after her resurrection -- completely changed in her own demeanor through the effects of her feeling a disconnect from humanity and pursuing a self-harming relationship with spike -- who's been seen as "bad" this entire time.

the dynamic between faith and buffy is also explored in the context of the conflict regarding who the potentials want to lead them, and choosing faith -- while faith's changed her tune to do more good, buffy's gone from more the more optimistic of the two, to almost on par with faith's pessimism -- she sees the harsh reality of the past seven years clearly, and while her morals haven't changed -- how she sees them has -- buffy's always seen herself as inherent good, and faith as bad -- just as faith sees them -- when they meet again in s7, they both recognize they're neither.

pt. 3

and then we have willow -- who i think is the clearest example of this dichotomy -- just look at the change in her demeanor from season 1 to season 7. like buffy, she starts out optimistic to a fault -- they'll always win. and when they don't -- it affects her. willow isn't on the same moral high ground that early season buffy puts herself on -- but she is highly logical. she's book smart, studious, applies herself, and is generally just insanely intelligent. but as she starts to get into magic -- that logistics-focused approach starts to crumble -- because magic isn't logical, is it? she can easily apply logics to the functions of magical objects and ingredients, but the how and why is much more spiritual, connected to emotions -- which is exactly what we get when she pursues higher levels of magic upon meeting tara.

her morals aren't as clearly defined on the spectrum as buffy or faith's, or as questioned as angel or spike's, and her change is much more gradual than incited by one event (e.g. buffy's death/resurrection, angel losing his soul, spike getting his soul, etc.). i find her more similar to faith in this way -- though like faith and buffy, they're less traveling the same path than meeting each other in the middle.

it would be easy to argue tara's death as the inciting event in what seems like a change in willow's morality -- but i think of it as inherently connected to her disposition and how she sees the world, which is a gradual change. i think, then, that losing tara is more of an expression of this change -- a display of massive proportions of just how much she's changed since the first season. and we love willow. she's portrayed as an insanely sympathetic character -- she's shy, awkward, and loved by all the other characters she's an invaluable member of the team, both with her book smarts and later, her magic.

i actually think willow's morals are the most stagnant out of nearly every character -- perhaps besides giles. i think she's very similar to giles in that regard -- we see a similar arc with them, and at the same time. they have a strong understanding that what's moral isn't always right, and what's right isn't always moral. strong examples being when giles kills ben, and when he comes back, prepared to stop willow even if it costs either or both of their lives.

what changes is the way she expresses them -- again, inherently connected to her understanding of the world, going from purely logic based to more focused on feelings and connection to the world/other people. we see this expressed both in her demeanor, the focus on her magic, and most importantly, her appearance -- in seasons 4 and 5, she seems to take on a lot of tara's style choices, all invoking very hippie-ish vibes: long skirts, earthy tones and patterns -- which i think shows a lot about how tara influences her both personally (in terms of figuring out her sexuality) and magically; as she takes on more of a quote unquote stereotypical witch persona, pretty reminiscent of lots of early 2000s weird/magical girl tropes.

sidebar

i think a lot about the weird girl trope in regards to her, too. especially in the way that other similarly themed characters of the era were treated, in the way of sexual autonomy and femininity, and desirability. she definitely falls into the basics of the trope -- unsexualized costume, with a more seemingly "modest" demeanor and appearance. most importantly, some way of defying the norm. which willow does ten-fold: she doesn't fall to social heirarchy/popularity like buffy and cordelia do, initially; she's actually very low on the social pedestal. she doesn't follow fashion trends, she wears what she wants, doesnt fall to peer pressure to do otherwise. and most importantly, her sexuality, which could be considered the ultimate derivation from the norm in terms of how her character archetype was presented as well as the climate of the time.

two things i find really interesting in terms of her diverting the trope, however, is 1) the fact that unlike most girls that fall under the "weird girl" designation, she doesn't profess to not care what people think -- and we see directly the opposite, getting into her head in "helpless". and 2) she isn't seen as undesirable by romantic/sexual interests -- infact, she's got two pretty strong love interests. normally the women under this trope aren't given love interests, or if they are, they're equally matched to them in terms of demeanor. this couldn't be more false for willow's love interests.

i think the order oz and tara are portrayed in regards to willow's arc is also really important there -- oz, when they first get together, is seemingly a much stronger mentally and emotionally person than her; more bold and concretely himself -- but this is all a facade, as he isn't nearly sure of his identity as he navigates what being a werewolf is.

likewise, when willow and tara first enter their relationship, tara seems to be the less headstrong and in control of the two -- completely reversed in late s5/early s6 when willow isn't in control of her magic.

anyways. just an interesting sidebar.

pt. 3 cont

the fundamental function of willow's brain is logic: but logic can't justify tara's death. she can't find warren's motivation; can't process it as an accident. she doesn't believe that getting revenge is the moral thing to do. but she does believe it's right -- to find balance, a life for a life -- the way she'd learned to balance equivalent exchanges in her magic.

[desuchine]

Divulging Peculiarities

Chapter 4 of ? (Projected to be about 6 chapters) Pairing: England/France Rating: T Summary: ‘Silently, he prayed that no one would come to fill the empty room next to his. He entertained the thought of them converting it into another utility space, perhaps a convenient spot for another copier or scanner.‘ In which Francis occupies the office next to Arthur, and the two engage each other in fascinating ways.

Alt. Reading: AO3

Time passes by slowly, the past season melting into the next. Arthur spies his neighbors stringing Christmas lights from their houses, notices the frame of heavily decorated trees standing tall at their windows, and muses that he should probably dig his own out of the closet.

He takes a weekend to follow suit, though his season spirit is nowhere near as strong. It's formality, he supposes, more of a tradition than an inherent need to actually decorate.

He gets pricked by his tree a least a hundred times, and assembling it leaves him growling in frustration and slinging curses into the empty house. The garland flakes and leaves shiny slivers of metallic paper strewn everywhere, a mess Arthur dreads cleaning up. Most of the hooks on his ornaments have mysteriously fallen out and disappeared, so he's forced to run to the nearest department store to pick more up.

While he's there, he ends up buying more than he expected. Boxes of fresh lights and bags of oversized decorations make the trip back to his home cumbersome. There's the sound of Christmas jingles carrying on joyfully all around him, and while easy to ignore at first, they slowly begin to eat at him. Their repetitive tempos and jazzy, upbeat tunes lodge themselves into his mind, and he's left bitterly reciting the lyrics to them underneath his breath as he works.

Bah-humbug and all that.

By the time he's done, there’s something at least semi-presentable sitting in the middle of his living room. The carpet is littered with fizzled out bulbs, the remnants of plastic wrapping and containers, and old sets of lights that have lived past their prime and frayed somewhere along the wire. The process of pushing the tree in front of his living room’s window is harder than it has any right being, and several times Arthur has to reach out to keep it from toppling over.

The star at the top doesn’t want to cooperate, so he let’s it fall and slides it back on once the tree is positioned correctly. The skirt is small and quaint, boasting patterns of candy canes and snowmen on it. As Arthur spreads it beneath the bulk of the tree, he spends a moment considering whether or not there’s any purpose other than tradition for assembling this thing. Nothing screams lonely like buying gifts for yourself and wrapping them despite knowing exactly what they are, but he does it anyway. It wasn’t until recently that there were any new additions, and those only came from Alfred.

Arthur sits there, cross-legged in his living room, watching the colorful lights reflect off of his window and the ceiling, and for once in a very long time, allows himself to feel alone. It’s bittersweet, an aching hollow that both comforts and hurts him. No obligations to anyone else but himself, but then again, sometimes he wishes he had those kinds of responsibilities to tend to.

It’s healthy to have minor annoyances. That’s stimulation that everyone needs, something to remind them that the world isn’t entirely about them. Arthur has always been in his own orbit, though. Never one to be selfish, nothing along those lines, but he has a gravitational pull that is very small. So to the ones that do come around…

They never get close enough to stick by.

Well, except Alfred, but Alfred seems to disobey many laws of the world. For example, someone who talks with a mouthful of food shouldn’t be considered endearing, but he makes it work somehow.

He never gets many moments of melancholy like this, because he never allows his mind to wander down that thorn-ridden path. If you don’t think about how empty the house is, then maybe it’s not really that empty. It’s easy to pretend when it’s out of sight, out of mind.

Arthur allows his finger to draw patterns into his carpet, knees drawn up to his chest, and free arm resting across them. His knuckles bump a clear box and he picks it up, feeling a small weight inside of it. Turning it about, he finds a forgotten decoration, one that he’d tossed into his basket at the store without thinking.

He almost snorts at what he sees, feeling amusement bubble in his chest. It’s a typical angel decoration, meant to be hung from the tree, though it’s face has been modified to show an exceptionally sharp grin. It’s hands aren’t folded in prayer, but rather spread wide, as if demanding the attention of anyone looking at it.

Arthur runs his thumb along its cheap, white plastic, his expression softening and his lips spreading into a smile. Steadily, he rises from his seat on the floor, and reaches up high to hang the ornament on his tree. He finds a free branch jutting out in the front and places it there, in its rightful place; drawing the attention of anyone who spares the thing’s direction a glance.

The rest of the evening sees him cleaning his mess and preparing a cold-packaged dinner straight from the refrigerator. It’s only halfway done when Arthur digs in, but he can’t be bothered to reheat it, so he forks through the half frozen mush as he sits in his Emery chair, watching his neighbors pass by through the sliver he can see out the window. Ten minutes of eating turns into an hour of lounging about, and now the television it turned on, but it’s dominated by Christmas movies and specials that shouldn’t be airing this early.

He finds a broadcast of the weather, and settles for that instead. Predictably, another round of snow seems to be moving in, which promises more treacherous trips to work, and perhaps a power outage if it really decides to hit hard. He scowls, thinking of the spike he knows is going to be in his heating bills.

Maybe if he wraps himself up like a burrito before bedtime, he can weather the worst of it and save himself a few pounds. Or, at the very worst, end up with a debilitating cold. Honestly, the risk is beginning to sound reasonable in his mind. It’s times like this when he can’t decide if his ingrained frugality is a curse or a blessing.

‘I… would not know that feeling.' The now familiar tenor of Francis’ voice floats in his mind, and Arthur glares at nothing in particular. Well, good for him. Unfortunately, not everyone can afford to have negative body temperatures.

And of course, leave it to him to find a way to link this to Francis. It seems as though any train of thought outside of work - and especially inside, to be perfectly honest - finds its way to him. Like a roundabout that he can’t figure out how to escape, he’s stuck driving circles, round and round and round and infuriatingly ceaseless with no open in sight.

If there was a line in regards to how much Francis Bonnefoy should be permeating his thoughts, Arthur believes he’s crossed it. Scratch that, he’s done an olympic hurdle over it and has broken every single record in the book, because this man, this stranger in all regards, should not be in Arthur’s mind so much.

Arthur Kirkland has no business thinking about Francis Bonnefoy like this.

--

“I take it you are interested, non ?”

Arthur nearly jumps out of his damn skin, feeling his hackles rise and nearly slamming his keyboard in the process of detaching his fingers from it. The cup of pens sitting on the corner of his desk tumbles over and sends the contents sprawling everywhere, to which Arthur calmly readjusts it and leaves the pens ignored.

Francis made no sound, no indication that he’d slipped into the room. Arthur hadn’t even caught sight of him moving across his vision. Either he was too absorbed in his reading, or Francis was just that stealthy.

It was probably a decent mixture of both, to he honest.

Speaking of which, Arthur hastily exits out of the condemning webpages he was perusing, face flooding with shame as he coughs into his fist, trying to salvage any sort of decency he could. He peeks at Francis out of the corner of his eye, spots him standing almost behind him, with the most amused expression he’s ever seen on the other’s sharp face.

“Don’t you have the decency to knock?”

Francis sends him a sheepish look, arms coming to cross in front of his chest. “Your door is always open, and I have never knocked before.” He leans forward, seems to balance on his tiptoes as he glances over Arthur’s shoulder, letting out a noise of disappointment when he sees that the webpages are no longer open.

“What on earth are you doing?” Arthur tries to make it sound incriminating of Francis, but he knows he’s been caught red handed.

“You closed them.” Francis points out glumly. He’s still looming halfway over Arthur’s shoulder, the curtain of his long bangs coming a hair’s width apart from touching Arthur’s cheek. Arthur finds himself going stiff, limbs straining to stay perfectly still as Francis meanders about. The skin of his neck grows sensitive to the proximity of the other’s face, and his fingers strain not to form nervous fists as he waits for Francis to move. Unfortunately, he only chooses to turn his head slightly instead of moving away, bright eyes boring into Arthur’s cheek as he continues, “You are blushing.”

“No, I’m not.” Arthur states matter of factly, as if the notion is absurd. “I’m just not immune to whoever keeps playing with the bloody thermostat, unlike some people around here.” He wants to shoot Francis a scathing look, but fear of turning his head to meet the other’s gaze keeps him stationary.

“I can tell when something is warm. You do know that? If I were, to say, stick my hand over a fire, I could still feel the heat, Arthur.” Why, oh why hasn’t Francis moved away yet? Arthur knows he’s not socially inept. Surely, the man must have some indication that the Brit’s almost squirming under his gaze. Surely he has the decency to give Arthur some space.

Or… or perhaps Francis Bonnefoy is perfectly aware of his unnatural charms, and this is just a cruel joke to him. Either way, Arthur is growing restless in his proximity, finding his palms to be slick with sweat as he flattens them against his desk. The urge to pull at his collar is almost overwhelming, but that would mean coming into contact with Francis’ hair, and that’s a commitment that Arthur isn’t sure he’s ready to make.

“It’s just warm, and what business do you have sneaking up on me like that? I could have been working on something sensitive, for all you know.”

“Ah,” Francis tuts, sparing Arthur another of his revealing smiles, and really, having a set of teeth like that so close to his neck shouldn’t make Arthur jolt with adrenaline, but it does. “Would you call the topic of my kind sensitive, Arthur? You know, if you’re that curious, I don’t mind answering some simple questions.”

Francis had seen his browser, and Arthur feels as though he wants to lay his head on his desk out of embarrassment. The can of worms had been opened, and quite frankly, there was no way he could stuff it all back in from whence it came. He can’t even find an adequate excuse for his blatant curiosity, and now Francis knows -  at least, to some extent - how far his curiosity stretches.  

“You’re embarrassed!” Francis points out, glee lining his voice as he finally draws back. A delicate hand comes to cover his mouth, perhaps to stifle a laugh, but Arthur’s indignancy is only fueled by this. He feels the urge to pull at his hair, to shoo Francis away so he can wallow in his mortification. “Oh, Arthur,” Francis’ tone shifts to one of clemency, “Spare yourself the scorn.”

“Easier said than done.” It’s a mumbled sentence, muffled by his hands which have come to cover his face as he contemplates raking his nails across it. “You don’t know how unprofessional I feel at the moment.”

He hears nothing at first, only the steady and quiet breathing from Francis. Then, there are soft footsteps and the sound of a seat being dragged quickly across the carpet. When Arthur finds it in himself to lower his hands, he sees Francis seated beside him at his desk, one of his legs crossed over the other as he looks at Arthur expectantly.

“What are you doing,” It sounds less like a question, and more like a monotonous statement. Arthur levels a weary look at Francis, ears still hot and blood still rushing too quickly in his veins.

“Let’s talk.” Francis clasps his hands together, rests them over his knee as he smiles expectantly at Arthur. “Don't sit there and stare. Go on, ask a question.”

“I don't even know where to start.” Arthur grumbles half-heartedly. This wasn't a conversation he was prepared to have today.

“Tell me what is on your mind.” He peers over at Francis, remains silent with apprehension. Francis waves his hand at him, motioning for Arthur to start. “I see your face scrunched up in concentration all the time, mon ami. I bet you like to run your mind in circles. Why don't you let some of those thoughts loose?”

Arthur continues to hesitate, words balancing precariously on his tongue as Francis bides his time, patiently.

“You can trust me not to ridicule you.” He adds on, gently.

“How do you eat?”

It was the first thing that came to his mind, damn it. Arthur had blurted out the words without any forethought, not wanting to prolong the silence that had already been uncomfortable. It could have been any other question, something much more meaningful to Francis, but no.

How do you eat? Brilliant.

“Really? That?” Francis looks at him as though he's waiting for Arthur to reconsider. When all he gets is an awkward shrug in return, he has to stifle yet another laugh, “Let me ask you instead. What do you think I do?”

He hates how Francis does this, corners him into confronting things he'd much rather play an audience to. He's starting to suspect that the other man does it on purpose. “You get rations. Juice boxes? I couldn't tell you.”

“That is actually not too far off the mark. Still though, for a man who donates...” It’s here that Francis spares the aging post-it note a quick, yet pointed glance.

“We'll, excuse me for not wanting to stick my nose in other folk’s business. I have this thing called modesty, you see.”

Francis ignores the snide comment, obviously not one to let it sour his mood. Arthur's beginning to believe that the man is utterly immune to negativity, which renders his typical form of deflection useless.

There's silence, but only for a few passing moments, and then Francis is continuing again, “It is similar to local food drives. You get what they deem is enough, and anything else extra is done solely on your part. But…”

Arthur senses the hesitation in Francis’ tone, sees him bite his bottom lip thoughtfully. He says nothing, no urging words or pressure to make the other talk. He wouldn't feel comfortable prying for info Francis would rather not share.

Despite this, Francis looks up, catches Arthur's gaze and seems to study him closely, before giving in with a quieter tone, “You have to be so careful. One wrong stranger could send you to prison if they wanted to. All it would take is a false claim, and the odds are already so unfavorable for us. And things get… muddled in the heat of the moment.”

It's here that Arthur realizes exactly what Francis is speaking about.

Romantic partners. Risky endeavors and undocumented feedings and everything Arthur hasn't allowed to come to the forefront of his mind, but has been resting in the deepest, darkest recesses of it. He feels his mouth go dry, the change of topic stealing the direction out of his thoughts.

He doesn't want to think of Francis luring a woman into bed, or sinking his teeth into the delicate curve of her throat or whatever it is that his kind actually does. It paints too many saucy pictures, many of which fill him with a nervous, jittery feeling that has his stomach knotting up in strange ways.

He knows that's not what he should be thinking of, considering the sensitive information Francis just released to him. He should be feeling guilty for him, understanding the plight that makes both nourishment and intimate relationships alike a potential trap.

“Relationships are impossible for you.” It's all Arthur can bring himself to say, and his voice comes out sounding more detached than he wanted.

“Oh no,” Francis shakes his head, and his lips turn up into a coy smile, full of his usual confidence and pomp, “I have had plenty of relationships. The length of them are another topic, but the fact remains that it is not entirely impossible.”

“But they never last.” Arthur finishes for him.

Francis’ smile turns more bittersweet at that, and he gives a small, nonchalant shrug as an answer, “It's a delicate environment we live in. I am confident that I will find a way to make it work, one day.”

Arthur notes the somber tone in his voice, feels a twinge of remorse twist like a knife in his ribcage. He wonders… if, perhaps, Francis spends his holidays alone like he does. Does he have friends or loved ones that leave him gifts under his tree, or does Francis wrap his own boxes and pretend that his house isn't nearly as empty as it actually is?

Does he fear commitment almost as much as Arthur does? Or does he lie in bed at night and crave the presence of a warm body next to his own? It paints a dreary picture, imagining someone so full of mirth and culture lying there alone, empty both inside and out.

It seems like a waste.

“I hope you do.” Arthur murmurs softly, his tone dipping down. A glance to his clock reveals that Francis has been in his office for quite a while now, perhaps the longest yet. Despite his earlier wishes, Arthur is beginning to find the idea of him leaving soon to be disappointing.

When Arthur next looks at Francis, he finds the other staring at him with an almost stunned expression. Arthur is half tempted to snap at him, a customary reaction to being gawked at, but considering the tender moment they just shared…

At last, Francis seems to snap out of it, his head coming to shake as if he'd just had the silliest thought cross his mind. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention anything of it.”

He takes his leave shortly thereafter, and Arthur considers that perhaps Francis is moving more away from acquaintance, and closer to something more.

He isn't sure of what that is.

--

His bedroom is dim and cold, with the only source of heat being the body heat contained within the outrageous mound of blankets he'd piled on his bed. The wooden floor bit at his feet during an earlier excursion to the bathroom, the cold turning Arthur's toes unforgivingly numb.

He's beginning to think that this isn't the best idea he's ever had, but he's nearly halfway through the night with no heat and his pride refuses to let him tamper with the thermostat.

Arthur glares in the direction where he knows it rests in the hallway, and imagines himself feeding it unnecessary bills.

The holiday season was going to break him as it was, and he'd been damned if he dug himself any deeper into his financial hole than he already has. Some things were just more important than being warm.

Like keeping the Christmas lights turned on overnight. And crochet. Crochet materials eat up a surprising amount of his free budget, and Arthur would be damned if he couldn't finish his next set of table covers. He'd already promised Alfred a Captain America shield to hang from the mirror of his lorry, so there was no going back on that either.

Still, it's impossible to ignore how unproductive it was to be curled up in bed at 1AM, shivering endlessly as he tried to force himself to sleep. Occasionally, he could hear the sharp howl of wind battering his window, doing his mind no favors as he pondered about just how cold it actually was.

Within the next fifteen minutes, Arthur is stomping down the hallway to his thermostat, with his comforter wrapped around his figure, and bitterly cursing at himself as he turns it up to something acceptable. The immediate blow of hot air from the vents nearly has him melting on the spot. When he burrows underneath the covers once again, he can feel his muscles relaxing, his skin tingling with the beginnings of warmth as his bedroom goes from an arctic waste to a heated sanctuary.

His mind goes fuzzy, filled with drowsiness as he lays there, and wanders from one menial thing to the next. Nothing but often forgotten thoughts associated with bedtime, little things to help lure oneself to sleep. Scenarios and pleasant fantasies to ease one into unconsciousness fill his head, ranging from owning his own tea shop to hearing the laughter of familiar friends fill his home.

Arthur reaches out across his bed, hand splaying against white sheets as he conjures up the image of a person lying there, perhaps asleep as well, though cradling his arm in their grasp. The features are nondescript at first, though the longer his mind lingers on the thought, the more details he begins to conjure up.

Maybe a blonde. Fair skinned, delicate. Quiet breaths and the shallow rise and fall of their chest. Hands splayed over his own, well-groomed nails, like porcelain sitting on their skin. Rosey scent, fresh and invigorating, and the taste of rain drops on their breath. Hair, soft and pale, interrupted by the gentlest of waves, pooled around their face and hiding the curve of their lips, their nose.

Skin that is deceivingly cool to the touch, like a balm on a sweltering day. A kiss from the snow, a soft brush of ice against his own skin. Arthur imagines what an embrace from that would feel like, mimics the feel of arms wrapping around his own, and can't keep the pleasant sigh from leaving his lips. His eyes go heavy, drift closed as he lets himself get swept away by his thoughts.

Something deep inside of him tells him that he's seen these features before, but the call of sleep washes away any intuition he has.

--

He awakes to snow so deep, he can barely push his front door open.

Arthur has no idea how this storm snuck up on his quiet city overnight, but it leaves him flabbergasted. A couple inches of rain would be the norm but fifteen inches of snow? Unreasonable and unreal and definitely not welcome.

Any notion of going to work is immediately tossed out the window. Arthur checks his phone to find a text telling him not to bother coming in, to which he wholeheartedly agrees, because this is just ridiculous.

There’s no sign of the sun peaking out from the cloud-blanketed sky, not that there typically is, but it ensures that the snow is here to stay. At least, for a few days. The idea of staying cooped up in his home leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Always one to spend more time in his office than in his living room, the feeling is a bit alien to him.

It’s Thursday, for goodness sake. He should be working, not sitting on the loveseat in a sweater three times too big and sipping tea. It wouldn’t be so bad if the next day didn’t lead into the weekend, but Arthur supposes it’s a blessing in disguise, so he uses his time to finish up the set of table covers he’d been working on.

He’s nearly finished with the third one when he hears his doorbell ring, making him freeze with his hook still in the process of pulling a piece of yarn through the pattern. Turning his head, he eyes the mosaic glass tile of the door warily, wondering who on earth could possibly be visiting in this weather.

It’s ludicrous to think anyone would be out on the roads today. Much less even walking in these conditions.

Still, someone is standing out there, and now they’re impatiently spamming the doorbell, which draws a growl of frustration out of Arthur. He deposits his project on the end table and stomps over to the entrance, going through the motions of unlocking it with a little too much force before swinging it open none too gently.

Of course, he thinks, bitterly.

“There you are! Man, I was starting to wonder whether or not you were home. Which would be kind of crazy if you weren’t, because have you seen the roads? Stuff’s crazy. Weather didn’t say anything about this.”

“And yet, you are.” Arthur grouses, though he steps back to let Alfred in, eyeing the caked snow on his boots with growing ire. He tracks a good bit of it over his welcome mat, smearing both it and his floor with slush.

Alfred shakes like a dog would, sending wet snow flying off the fur of his jacket as he grins at Arthur, “Good morning to you too, Artie. And are you kidding? I was built to drive in conditions like this. Delivery man, here.”

“You were born in Texas.” Arthur points out lamely. “The only thing you were built for is eating portions three times your size and butchering the English vocabulary.”

“Okay, true. True, but you’ve gotta admit, I’ve got skills.” Alfred hangs his jacket on the coathanger, his hands coming to rub up and down his arms as he comically shivers. “Please tell me you’ve got coffee or something. I’m dying here.”

“Only tea.” He hears Alfred groan, and rolls his eyes at the dramatics of it all. Tea was perfectly fine, thank you very much.

“Well, at least tell me you don’t have any of that Earl Grey stuff. Give me something with some kick in it!”

Fortunately, Arthur does have some chai tea stowed away, so he sets himself to brewing a cup of that while Alfred makes himself at home in his living room. As always, he can hear the other roaming around, poking at his possessions and crafts from the kitchen, and half expects to hear something shatter in the process.

Luckily, everything goes unharmed as he emerges with a drink for his friend, to which Alfred takes a large gulp in thanks.

The two set about talking about anything and everything; from the weather, to Alfred’s current deliveries, and of course, Arthur’s work. Alfred pokes fun at Arthur’s Christmas tree, particularly the fanged angel hanging in the front, to which he flushes and tells him to sod off if he doesn’t like it.

He sets about asking Arthur questions, to which the Brit recognizes as a thinly veiled attempt to cipher information for a Christmas present. He plays along, though, and gives Alfred the hints he needs. In particular, he mentions needing more crochet supplies, to which Alfred’s eyes light up, before abruptly ending the train of thought.

Arthur gives him an ETA on his little project for Alfred, to which he seems to be largely pleased with. It’s their usual back and forth, their friendly banter and quaint ways of checking up on each other in indirect ways.

It feels almost like family, to have another voice echoing throughout his home, but at the same time, something feels undeniably off. It’s as though Alfred is a puzzle piece trying to fill a slot that Arthur’s been boasting for a while, but he just doesn’t fit. A brother, in all sense of the word, but not the piece Arthur needs.

Still, it makes him happy, content to have Alfred’s company on what he thought to be a long and lonely weekend. Alfred’s enthusiasm and optimism is infectious, and even Arthur can’t help but spare a few genuine smiles here and there.

It all comes crashing down as soon as Alfred steers the conversation in another direction. “Say, you’ve been acting kind of weird lately. Like, not sick weird or bad weird, but different. Like, you’ve got all these different interests now, like donating to blood drives and buying stupid ornaments like that.” He points to the angel figurine.

“Forgive me for deciding to take a more active role in the rights of others. A shame that I’m trying to be a decent human being.” Arthur retorts sarcastically, rolling his eyes yet again at Alfred.

“Yeah, okay, that’s great and all. Like, I’m right there with you man, but still. You gotta think that this all boils down to something.” Alfred flashes him a knowing grin, his brows arching comedically as Arthur scoffs.

“What are you getting at? You’re not one to be sly, and I don’t like it one bit.”

“Francis, buddy. Come on. It doesn’t take a genius to see how interested you are in the guy.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, and brings his teacup up to hide the growing frown on his lips. He calmly takes a sip while Alfred looks on, proud and teasing and as though he’d just unearthed something great. Arthur lowers his cup, sets it on a coaster on the end table as he folds his hands across his lap. “I’m interested in his people, not him.”

“Not until him.” Alfred corrects him.

“You’re looking into things too deeply.”

“I think you’re looking over things.”

Arthur huffs a breath out at that, “What exactly are you even trying to get at? Spit it out.”

At this, Alfred shrugs innocently, blue eyes averting elsewhere as to avoid the growing look of frustration on Arthur’s face. “Maybe you got a thing for him? I don’t know. Just a guess.”

“The only thing I have for Francis Bonnefoy is a growing headache from all his unwanted visits.”

Now it’s Alfred’s turn to scoff, to which Arthur levels a critical glare at him. “If you didn’t want him around you, you would have done something by now. You’re a no bullshit type of guy, Artie. We all know you would have eaten his soul by now if you didn’t like him.”

There’s a pause, a lull on Arthur’s part, as Alfred leans forward to rest his arm on his knee, still grinning at Arthur as if expecting some kind of great confession. “I tolerate him.” It’s the only thing Alfred gets as a reply.

“Right. Whatever.” He drags out the last word, and heaves a long sigh afterwards. The easy atmosphere surrounding them has morphed into something more tense, at least, on Arthur’s part.

Alfred’s words dig into him, eat away at his conscious and rationality as the minutes tick by. Not much more is spoken between them, their camaraderie effectively dampened by Alfred’s accusations. It isn’t long after that his company announces his leave, to which Arthur is both grateful and sad to see him go. When the house is empty again, Arthur allows himself to fully dwell on Alfred’s words.

He doesn’t know what to make of them, but he can’t argue against them either.