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freckledskittles · 7 years ago

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Reibert Secret Santa 2017: Bathtime

Happy Holidays to @thecolossustitan!!! I hope you enjoy this rather dorky story. The prompts you gave me were absolutely heartwarming, and I hope I did a decent job of including as many as I could!

“You’re out of popcorn.”

Bertholdt was hardly surprised to walk into his apartment and find Annie sprawled on the couch, quietly chomping on popcorn and intensely watching the television. An episode of “The Office” was on, one he had seen countless times and one that had probably taken zero effort to access with his Netflix. Unfortunately, with all the stress his life had accumulated, if someone in his friend group was watching a show like that without a head’s up, it was not a cause for celebration.

“Hi, Annie,” he sighed and shuffled a load of groceries into the kitchen. Marco, his roommate, gave a more jovial greeting as he followed behind him. On the TV, the insufferable regional manager was acting as a former criminal and talking about how terrible prison was. “Is it Reiner, me, or miscellaneous?”

“None of your business.”

Bertholdt rolled his eyes; miscellaneous it was, then. Once the groceries were away, Bertholdt went to the living room and sat beside Annie, the popcorn bowl between them. Marco had offered to prepare dinner and shooed him away. “Did you break in or use the key this time?”

“The key.” She tugged on the sleeve of her shirt. “I was too distraught to kick your door down.”

“Is it about the Secret Santa?” Even though a good number of their friend group didn’t have any reason to celebrate Christmas, the twelve of them used it as a way to appreciate and spend time with one another.

Annie leaned back and let her head hit the back of the sofa. “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you can guess who I got.”

Well. That narrowed the search down by a tiny margin and then some. “Seriously?” Bertholdt leaned back beside her as she nodded with a grimace. Just her luck to get the person she had been crushing on since the start of college. For Annie to find anyone appealing or worthy of her presence was enough of a compliment, but to receive affection in a romantic way was rare. He could only name a handful of people who had succeeded, whether they knew it or not. And a mutual friend was just another addition to that shortlist.

“My life is a disaster.”

“At least you know what to get her.”

Annie scowled and punched his shoulder. “Don’t try and make this better for me, jerk. I’m still in mourning.”

He was more than sure that it didn’t quite work like that, but he didn’t argue with her and, instead, took back what he had said. “You don’t have to worry about keeping it a secret, because you’re already keeping your crush from her.”

Annie chose a new episode—in this one, the office employees participated in beach games to become the next boss. “Why couldn’t we have done ‘Yankee Swap’ or ‘naughty Santa’ or whatever the fuck it’s called?”

Marco hopped into the room with a friendly smile and an apology for interrupting their conversation on his face. “Annie, are you staying for dinner?” He asked. “We just got a new bottle of wine to try.”

The blonde let out a long sigh and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Sorry about your Secret Santa.”

“Thanks.” She said it with a snort and an eyeroll, but she showed her appreciation in laughing quietly at his jokes during dinner and washing the dishes afterwards. They weren’t close, but ever since he had started rooming with Bertholdt, they interacted more and were quite friendly with each other. Not to mention that Marco knew the perfect remedy to cheer anyone up, and he set up Mario Kart after dinner for some competitive driving. Bertholdt sat on the couch behind them and commented on both of their driving styles, even though his Secret Santa was just as much on his mind.

Buying a gift wasn’t his main concern—after all, Jean had been dropping hints about what he wanted since before they chose names—but he always got anxious over who had his own name. There had been one year they had nixed picking out names and just got a gift in general, and everyone had been unsatisfied and ended up selling the gifts and just cooking food for each other. Selling a pack of thongs was not what he had in mind, however, and three years later, he always hoped that it never returned there.

The next day, he and a childhood friend, Marcel, met up for coffee to catch up and chat. They usually grouped up—Bert with Reiner and Annie, and Marcel with his younger brother Porco tagging along—but they always made an effort to see each other outside of the group. Marcel enjoyed watching the crowd pass by and had picked a table by the window, two coffees in front of him. When Bertholdt walked in, he was met with a grin and a wave.

“Took you long enough,” Marcel teased. “I almost chugged your coffee.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get both of these for yourself,” Bertholdt shot back. He took a sip of his drink and was relieved to discover that it still had some heat to it. “How’s Porco?”

Marcel snorted past his coffee. “You should already know, Bert. Still stingy and passive-aggressive.”

“At least he’s true to himself.”

“Yeah, too much. A little bird told me you got your Secret Santa for your troupe of friends.”

Bertholdt kicked Marcel under the table. “You know Annie hates when you use bird puns. And yeah, we did. She ended up getting her crush.”

“No way, the Mikasa Ackerman?!” Marcel threw his head back and cackled. A few other patrons of the shop looked at him in alarm and disapproval. “What irony! She must be dying.”

“I think she’ll be okay. This is sorta her chance to actually face her instead of avoiding her.”

Marcel smirked wide and mischievous, a look Bert had seen countless times during their childhood. Before he could bring it up, however, the topic changed. “So you have your gift planned out already?”

Although he wasn’t fond of the change in conversation, he accepted it and moved on. “Yeah, Jean’s not that difficult,” he said. “He doesn’t want anything that’s not Kit-Kats, so the candy rule is covered. And Sasha’s been talking about how much he wants a stuffed Cubone, but she’s never gotten him, and she teams up with Connie for birthdays, so they always find something better. So I’m doing everyone a favor and ending her pleas and bribes.”

“Ah, a chivalrous man, you are. Is that all you’re doing for him?”

The coffee burned his tongue on the next sip, and Bertholdt shrugged. “We roomed together in college, and we’re alike enough to where I have no worries if he’ll like it or not. If it’s sentimental and refers back to something he likes, then he’ll be okay. Bonus points if it’s a surprise.”

The smirk from before appeared again. “And you’re the same way?”

“I guess, yeah.” That was an understatement, maybe, but he supposed it was true. It was true for anyone. But that wasn’t the point Marcel was trying to make. He turned them towards a new conversation, with a sudden recollection. “By the way, have you heard from Reiner this week?”

Marcel paused to toy with the hand protector and waved his hand in a so-so gesture. “On and off. He texted me about some family things, something with his cousin Gabi? But that’s all I got.”

Bertholdt frowned. He had ended up just as empty-handed as he had when he asked within their friend group. “I heard the same thing. He hasn’t answered anyone I’ve texted. It’s weird.”

“Huh.” He tapped his finger on his chin and leaned forward. Something inside Bert told him to watch his eyes, and he noticed how they strayed from his and looked at every other aspect of the coffee shop that wasn’t him. Strange. “He’s either dead or he’s in a coma.”

“Annie shares an apartment with him. I think she would know where he is.”

“I dunno, man. I’m sure he’ll text you tomorrow though! He’s not your best friend for nothing.”

Bertholdt eventually got a text, with family issues over “who’s gonna host Christmas dinner” and struggling to get the dog to the vet while Gabi battled a cold, and relief flooded over him. Reiner planned a gym day together over the weekend, though much to his dismay, the conversation focused on Secret Santa more than anything else.

“Good thing we both got easy gifts this year,” Reiner stated. He had challenged them to a race on the treadmill and had been running for a good while. Thankfully, there were only a few people at the gym. Bertholdt would have preferred to stay in bed a few more hours, but Reiner’s early-to-rise persona and thoughtfulness was a worthy substitute. “Otherwise, I’d be stressed out.”

“Eren wants the same thing every year,” Bertholdt said, and Reiner laughed. “He just doesn’t say it outright.”

“But Mikasa will.”

“Because she doesn’t stand for his bullshit.”

“You should know, right?” The blond looked over at him and winked. “You don’t stand for mine. I got you all figured out, Hoover.”

Maybe not entirely—Bert had been interested in Reiner for a while now and had never found the courage to speak out about it—but he let his friend have his fun in believing otherwise. “My dastardly plan has been foiled. Next thing you’ll be doing is figuring out my Christmas gift for you.”

“Some stickers off of Redbubble and a giant pack of Reese’s pieces.” The silence was enough of an answer, and Reiner stopped his run to beam at the taller and bat his eyes. “I thought you were the mystery turtle that no one could figure out.”

Bertholdt slowed down and gripped either side of the treadmill. “I still am. You don’t know what my favorite Pixar movie is.”

“WALL-E.”

“Okay, fine, I’m losing my touch.”

Reiner cackled and, once they grabbed their waters and started heading over to the weights, threw an arm over Bert’s shoulder. “All that sweating might have washed it off.”

“Keep talking and you can walk home.”

x-x-x

Their Secret Santa party for the 24th. Annie had dragged Bertholdt around to look for the perfect gift—“not everyone can get a Pokemon and Kit-Kats, you idiot”—and their searching led to more dead ends than successes. But by the time the day rolled around, she had solved her problem with creativity and perfection, and Bertholdt was relieved. All he had to do was wrap his gifts up, even putting a decorative bow around the Cubone’s neck.

The party was at Sasha and Historia’s apartment, already an interesting pair of roommates, especially since Connie and Ymir spent so much time there, but they were excellent hostesses. Historia twirled around the room and passed out appetizers and drinks to everyone, conversing with anyone nearby, and Sasha kept the night going with fun games and running the music.

“You know,” Sasha said as the group of twelve gathered around the living room to pass out gifts, “I gotta say, I think we knocked it out of the park with gifts this year.”

“Don’t jinx it!” Eren cried out. “We haven’t even started yet!”

Historia did the honors of passing out the presents, though a comparison to the fiasco last year made it easy to surpass. (He was positive everyone was still embarrassed by the stunt Ymir and Reiner had done, no matter how much they blamed their drunkenness on it.) It was enjoyable to spend time with friends and laugh, as well as watch the enjoyment spread on their faces at opening their gifts. Ymir got flustered at the astronomy and space book she opened up, clutching it to her chest protectively and using it to block the thankful smiles she sent Armin. A good laugh was shared when Connie opened up Marco’s gift, a “cookbook for adults,” as the title proclaimed, and they read off a few of the suggested recipes. And Jean stayed silent in shock for a good minute when he opened his gift, shyly holding the stuffed Cubone and eating a Kit-Kat.

When Mikasa was handed her gift, she cocked her head at the interesting shape. “It looks like the Gherkin in London,” she observed, poking softly at the egg-like figure.

“Because you’re a good egg,” Sasha pointed out. Everyone agreed.

Underneath the wrapping paper was an egg. “Or because it is an egg.” There was a bow on the top keeping everything closed, and she twisted it off so that the shell “cracked” and fell apart, as if made of paper. Inside was a bowl with two movies she had been wanting to see for a while, tickets for one still in theaters, and a plethora of paper cranes. The largest one was the most beautiful, with crisp folds and a flawless form. It truly was a sight to see, as simple as it may have been, and Mikasa smiled. It wasn’t very hard to guess her Secret Santa: there were only a few people left, and Annie had been trying to pull her hoodie back on and hide in it ever since it had been opened.

Bertholdt was next. He took the box with suspicion and looked around the semi-circle. “If it’s a pack of thongs, I’m unfriending all of you,” he warned to their laughter. It was a partial joke, in that he wouldn’t actually unfriend them, but there would be some raising of Hell.

There was a mumble of “I hope it’s a g-string” “or a b-string” from Sasha and Connie, but nothing further as he unwrapped the present. It was neither of those things, and it wasn’t a pack of thongs either. It was something that was either much worse or much better; once he saw it, he was hard to get a grasp on it.

“LoveBoat Bubble Bath Set?”

The room instantly filled with a combination of laughter and confusion on what that meant. From beside him, Eren reached over and lifted the artsy tag from inside the box. “‘Three-set bubble bath soap and essential oils,’” he read, and a smirk flashed on his face. “Someone wants to get saucy with Bert!”

“Oh my god.”

Annie, who had recovered from her burrowing, pointed to a fallen scrap of paper on the floor. “What’s that?”

Bertholdt picked it up and read it. The words “a free coupon for a bubble bath party with me” were not what he had in mind. Saying them out loud only made it worse. Any other time, he would probably have joined the chorus of amusement filling the room, but this was happening to him, which meant there was nothing remotely funny about it.

And there Reiner was, sitting directly across from him, sporting a shit-eating grin and a pair of lightly flushed cheeks. He was simply grinning, fingers curled and pressed against his lips. It answered everything for Bert. And then he couldn’t hold back the smile and laugh.

It was a confession, without explicit mention, but with a request to join him in a bubble bath. There really was nothing like it.

The group finished handing out gifts and dispersed to help set up for dinner. Bertholdt was on table-setting duty and walking between the kitchen and table when he nearly ran into Reiner. The blond, instantly blushing, smiled to brush past him, but they moved the same way. Nervous laughter came from both of them—something usual for Bert, but rare from his friend.

“Uh, hi,” Reiner said. He hopped lightly on the balls of his feet.

“Hi,” Bertholdt smiled, bowing his head to keep it from spreading into something goofy. “So I got a bubble bath set and a coupon for a party.”

“Oh really?” His eyebrows rose in interest, but his hazel eyes shone with a knowing sort of mischief. “Sounds like a nice gift.”

“I think so. It was given to me by this guy I’m into.”

Reiner choked on that and looked around. Thankfully, no one was paying attention to them for the time being, despite their obviously larger frames and the fact that they were blocking the path between the kitchen and dining room. “Sounds pretty cool if you wanna bang—I mean, bathe with him.” His face only turned hotter, his nervousness shining through, and Bertholdt couldn’t help but be endeared by him. If he wasn’t interested in Reiner already, he definitely was now. It was reassuring to see someone so confident and sure and outgoing be the complete opposite, especially when he related to it.

“I, uh,” Bertholdt cleared his throat, “I would like to do both. Of those things. With you—him. With him.”

Reiner nodded, biting his lip, but his smile was too strong to hold back. “Nice. I’ll let him know.”

“Oh my god, just kiss already!” Ymir shouted from the kitchen. The tall duo glanced over at their suddenly invested audience. Bertholdt instantly covered his face and hid his blush from view. This night was going rather well and absolutely terrible in record seconds.

“Quit peeping at us,” Reiner shot back. Bertholdt peeked out of his hands to find the shorter glaring daggers at the group. “We’re having a private moment.”

“You’re the ones flirting under the mistletoe, bro,” Connie said, pointing at the dangling piece of green above their heads.

Both looked up to see that yes, there was a piece of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. It had definitely not been there before, unless it had, and Bertholdt had taken little notice of it. There was only one person he was interested in finding under that symbolic decoration, but he hadn’t strayed near it with intention.

Reiner was back to embarrassment, eyes wide at the dangling mistletoe. His eyes never stayed one color, deciding to instead remain a kaleidoscope of greens and browns and the occasional blue depending on the light it reflected. At that moment, they were a faint green, energetic but calm, warm and lively but familiar and safe. Bertholdt had known him for years, but when he was hit with feelings of affection in college, he was hypersensitive to a lot more things: the closeness of their bodies, the laugh and tone of his voice, the flicker of his smile. But most importantly, he found a new love for his eyes.

It looked like Reiner was stuck in shock, glancing from the mistletoe to Bertholdt in rapid fire. His eyes wandered briefly to his lips, but never for long. Bertholdt had little experience in taking the initiative, fueled by anxiety and worry that something, anything, could go wrong. And the possibilities were endless: a yell in the face, abandonment by a friend, rejection from the university of his choice. Things he couldn’t even imagine could turn up and ruin everything.

But this time, he was calm. He felt little worry, paired with a slight concern for Reiner and if he had fizzled out or malfunctioned or something. There was no tremble in his lips as Bertholdt leaned forward to peck him, much too short but oh so sweet, and there were no regrets. It felt freeing to do something about the feelings that had twisted inside him for so long, like a sleeping dragon awaiting provocation. Once he tasted it, though, he refused to go back, no matter how much he was fearful of it.

Which reminded him of the reality of the situation that had caught up quite quickly with him, and he realized what he had done.

“I need to help the table!” He cried out as he hurried back to the dining room. Reiner stayed in the doorway for a moment as their audience gasped and cried out, owning up to bets and struck with disbelief.

The rest of the night was fun, the food was delicious, and everyone returned home safely. Bertholdt lingered behind. He had already bid farewell to Marco, figuring out sleeping arrangements with Jean, so he would have the apartment to himself. The next thing he needed was a bath and Reiner.

“So,” he began, quietly handing over the handmade coupon, “I think I wanna cash in that free bubble bath party.”

x-x-x

“Look. I’m the Armored Titan.”

Bertholdt looked up at Reiner and burst into laughter immediately. The lingering remains of the events before the bubble bath—consisting of lips, hands, and the contact of skin, oh my—hadn’t left him. Even if his possibly-though-maybe-definitely new boyfriend was imitating a character from a dumb television show.

“You’re gonna get that in your eye,” he pointed out. Some of the suds were dangerously close to his mouth and vision. Bert had been too busy making a crown on his head, with as little help from a mirror as he could manage, to monitor the blond. Besides, he had to focus on making a beard as well.

“Psh, yeah, okay, I’ll remember that when I’m—shit.” Bertholdt laughed as Reiner lunged for one of the towels, giggling and kicking the taller once he could see well again. “It’s not funny, Beard-tolt! I have to protect my beautiful eyes.”

Bertholdt felt a blush rush to his cheeks as he sputtered for an excuse. “I’m pretty sure I did not say that!” He couldn’t tell past the pleasure that Reiner was delivering with his tongue if those words had actually left his mouth, though he was sure they had, but no one needed to know that much detail.

“The court reporter will read back your remarks and prove that you are wrong.

“Who’s the court reporter?”

Instead of an answer, Bertholdt received a multitude of kisses, along his neck and cheeks and to his lips. He had little protest for them, not when he was sitting in a tub, with the one person who could make him feel more comfortable or relaxed than anyone in the world.

#reibert #shingeki no kyojin #snk #reibert secret santa #man what dorks #bertholdt hoover #reiner braun #also known as dorks #attack on titan #aot #freckledskittles writes #marcel galliard #uhhh #annie leonhardt #this has like super light mikani so #mikani #mikaani #reibert ss

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fancymuffinparty · 8 years ago

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Okay, but does Annie really hate Reiner?

This might be an unpopular opinion but I really hope I'm not the only one who feels this way. Lately, I've been seeing a lot of people make negative comments on Reiner and Annie's relationship in canon and on the RBA trio in general. While it doesn't bother me all that much (because everyone is entitled to their own opinion), I just wanted to share my viewpoint and explain why I couldn't disagree more with the following statement: "Annie hates Reiner."

I, personally, do not believe so.

(Then again, the word ‘hate’ is often misused to death... whether it’s an exaggeration or ‘for lack of a better word’ kinda thing.)

Friendly reminder, Hate is a strong word.

Now I won’t waste my time arguing that Annie and Reiner are just two peas in a pod and total BFFs, because they’re not. But they are allies. Comrades. Warriors. Their relationship is actually one of the most fascinating to me because it’s incredibly complex, wretched, yet honest.

This is basically just an analysis of their relationship in canon and an attempt to reason with some of the naysayers. Heads up. It’s long.

From the beginning, we see very few interactions between the two (though Annie hardly interacts with anyone), yet when they do share the same panel Annie always seems cold or indifferent.

As kids, Annie is very detached from the group; very much a ‘lone wolf’. Like plenty of other characters in the series, she has her own personal demons to deal with. As is the case with Reiner, they’re deeply rooted in familial conflicts.

While kid!Reiner wants nothing more than for his family to be united together, Annie feels obligated to live up to her father’s expectations and fulfill a promise. That alone is her one and only mission...

One that she makes perfectly clear following a major setback...

Which brings us to the oh-so infamous quarrel.

Here we have Annie kicking the shit out of Reiner. Alas, this panel was enough to convince a large sum of readers that Annie hates Reiner.

But let’s take a step back and keep everything in context. This is shortly after Marcel, the leader of the group, has been eaten, thus resulting in the loss of the Jaw Titan. Reiner makes a futile attempt to reason with Annie that they must continue the mission, or face a possible death sentence as punishment. Annie then criticizes Reiner for cowardice and is adamant they immediately return home. Emotions are running high in this rather unforeseen and unprecedented turn of events. And they’re only kids for crying out loud. (Or did we forget that?)

Bruised and bloodied, Reiner fires back at Annie with equal ferocity... but in doing so, he’s willing to make a sacrifice for the trio’s sake.

It’s enough to convince Annie to press on; to move forward with a seemingly impossible mission. She recognizes they are all in this together, and they only have each other.

Not long after this exchange, the trio successfully breach Wall Maria, allowing them to gain access to the interior.

When all is said and done, Reiner makes a promise to Annie and Bertolt that they’ll all make it home, simultaneously breaking our hearts.

Two years fly by and the trio only manages to scrounge bits and pieces of information. They struggled after the fall of the Wall to find the Coordinate, and then realized that King Fritz was a decoy, leaving them with few options. Ultimately, at Reiner’s insistence, they enroll in the 104th cadet corps and pretend to be soldiers to carry onward with the mission. Annie is initially reluctant to do so.

Again, given the limitations of any potential recourse, Annie goes along with Reiner’s plan- though she keeps her distance during their training.

When the two do cross paths in the cadet corps, it’s not exactly giggles and high-fives. Annie’s so done with everything...

After Reiner throws Eren her way during hand to hand combat training, she’s hardly amused, as evidenced by the expression above. Though that quickly changes when she indulges in giving Reiner a lovely throwback to their days as warrior candidates back in their hometown.

(Hey, in all fairness she’s kicked his ass before. I guess some things just never change.)

All jokes aside, is any of this tension the result of hate? A truly deep form of hatred?

I’d say resentment is a better word.

And truthfully, Annie has every right to be resentful.

Prior to the Battle of Trost, the trio plan for another attack on the walls (Wall Rose). Having just graduated (all three in the top ten, of course), Reiner is more than ready to move forward, believing this could be the ultimate turning point for the mission.

Now, one could use this to argue that Reiner in warrior-mode is the exact kind of person Annie can’t stand. She’s believed him (and people with the same mind-set) to be a fool; a mere pawn in someone else’s game. It’s also apparent that she finds the idea of putting on an act rather sickening. However, she comes to realize that lying not only comes naturally to her but is necessary if she wants to return home to her father.

Almost immediately, Reiner sees that he’s gone a little too far and attempts to rectify his actions.

This could be seen as foreshadowing as here, Reiner is reminding Annie of their duty as warriors. Obviously, she couldn’t care less about becoming an ‘honorary Marleyan’, but it’s not long before she’s given a rude awakening of sorts...

Before Eren’s titan reveal/transformation, Annie meets up with Reiner and Bertolt and awaits instruction.

After Eren’s titan reveal/transformation, we have yet another quarrel between the two. Unlike the former, however, Annie finds herself being put to the test.

A defining moment in the trio’s dynamic, indeed.

We all know how this turns out. Desperate and conflicted, Annie remembers her own personal mission, all the while Reiner is pressuring her to make a decision.

As Bertolt once said: “Who wants to kill people?”

Does Reiner genuinely want to kill Marco? No. Of course not. But he simply can’t afford to jeopardize their mission. One might ask, why couldn’t he have taken Marco’s gear himself? Why did he put the burden on Annie, even after apologizing for doing so in the past? The answer is an easy one.

To test her loyalty to the cause. To remind them they are all in this together. That she can’t be too comfortable riding on the fence.

Was it manipulative? In a way, yes. However, I can understand Reiner’s need to make a point with his comrade. Though a lot of Annie’s resentment stems from this incident alone, she seems to accept the inevitable.

Her hands will be stained with blood, because this is war.

Reiner’s words are harsh but they’re also true.

And Annie knows it.

Later on, it’s revealed that both had collaborated with another in two critical settings. The first one being the assassination of titans Sawney and Beane.

The second instance takes place during the 57th scouting expedition. (AKA the Female Titan’s debut.) With Armin and Jean completely unaware of his intentions, Reiner utilizes the opportunity to covertly reveal Eren’s location through carvings in Annie’s hand, commencing the first official attempt at recapturing the coordinate.

In both cases, it’s evident that not only are the two capable of working well together, but they’re also capable of putting their differences aside. Reiner and Annie can rely on one another because of their common goal: Returning to their hometown.

Annie, the lone wolf, can handle herself perfectly fine.

But she’s willing to accept that she needs to cooperate with her allies to accomplish the mission.

The conclusion of the Female Titan arc results in Annie’s neutralization. After her defeat to Eren, she encases herself in a crystal and succumbs to a catatonic state.

Bertolt and Reiner, however, are unaware of this... even after they themselves are revealed to be the Colossal and Armored Titans respectively.

That is until, Armin informs them of an unexpected (though entirely false) travesty.

Armin’s bluff about the SL torturing Annie catches all three listeners off guard. Eren, bound to his restraints, is shown to be disturbed. Bertolt is angered and reacts with hostility. And then we’re given Reiner’s reaction. He too is appalled and angered by the news; finding the implication of his fellow comrade enduring such barbaric torment to be infuriating.

Whether he believes Annie is actually being tortured or not remains open to speculation. Either way, Reiner is concerned for her well-being, and even fights Zeke when a dispute arises over what should take precedence following the failure. Zeke is convinced Annie is fine on her own and emphasizes the significance of recapturing the coordinate. Reiner on the other hand places a higher priority on rescuing his comrade, thinking back on the oath he made to bring them all back home safely.

Unfortunately, Reiner is unsuccessful and from then on, he only harbors more and more guilt.

Fast forward to the present, years after the disastrous Return to Shiganshina arc, and we have Reiner returning to his hometown. Alone.

Bertolt is dead. Annie is but a distant memory.

In flashbacks, we see Annie aloof and detached as always.

From the time they were kids in Marley, to cadets in the 104th, pretending to be soldiers, fighting (and failing) as warriors, Reiner and Annie have had plenty of ups and downs. The majority of their interactions feature Annie treating Reiner either with apathy or disdain, frequently criticizing his decisions. However, they do not let their personal issues interfere with their mission and cooperate when working together in the field.

I’m not saying Annie is incapable of hating Reiner, but I wholeheartedly believe she is above hating him. I have trouble believing she could ever bring herself to truly hate anyone. Many readers misinterpret her character enough as it is. (It’s a shame she’s often reduced to a ‘cold and emotionless loner’.) Although she’s the type to keep her distance and keep to herself in most settings, I’d reckon that Annie is one of the most sentimental characters in the series- though she’s mastered the repression of her deeply heartfelt emotions pretty well.

To offer an additional perspective, we could use the EMA trio for a little compare/contrast. The two opposing groups may have some similarities; the headstrong one, the meek one, the quintessential badass chick. Yet, they differ in how they interact with one another. You’ll find that plenty of fellow snk fans will fawn and enthuse over EMA’s wholesome friendship. But I personally find RBA’s dynamic far more intriguing. These three broken and tormented individuals are brought together as children and endure hardship through a tumultuous five year course. Each have their own reasons for doing so, but they’re bound together with the burden of fulfilling such a daunting mission.

Reiner makes the clear distinction between ‘us’ and ‘them’; something that’s not entirely difficult for Annie to accept because she already treats ‘the world as her enemy’.

Yet maybe that’s ultimately where the two are at odds. They perceive the world around them differently.

But their differences aren’t synonymous with hatred, as they are easily put aside.

Annie has to trust Reiner to a degree, however narrow the margins may be. Reiner undoubtedly cares for Annie, although she may never be aware of the lengths he was willing to go to ensure her well-being. I believe that Annie regards Reiner with at least a half-decent amount of consideration. As stated above, she definitely harbors resentment, just as Reiner harbors guilt.

But to completely write off their interactions (every single heart-breaking and complex one) with a mere “She hates him” is in my opinion overlooking the profound intricacy surrounding this particular aspect of the RBA trio.

Final thoughts: Isayama wrote their relationship very well, and in spite of what others may think, it’s one of my favorites in the series.

#snk #snk discourse #snk meta #rba trio #annie leonhart #reiner braun #im probably never going to write meta again tbh #i just felt like offering my viewpoint because ive been seeing nothing but negativity involving those two #im cool with engaging in a little discourse #if we have different views thats a-okay #but i cant be the only one who legit believes that annie doesnt hate reiner #resent him? sure #but HATE #nahhh son #i also felt compelled to defend my ot3 #because if you try to tell me that annie hates poor reiner #you're inadvertently insulting my fave ot3 lol #this is just how i interpret the manga nbd

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satin-swallow · 8 years ago

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When in Rome || Chapter Six || A Nocturnal Extravaganza

“It is a truth... that a wish for peace is no guarantee of its real presence, just as a sense of caution is no guarantee of any true danger.”

Fandom: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries Characters: Phryne Fisher & Jack Robinson Rating: T Genre: Mystery, Romance

The opera! Things unravel a little more decidedly as villains - and dresses - are revealed. Have a read at AO3, if you have a moment!

Phryne had been gone from the moment Jack had risen, which was rather later than he’d ever admit. He had been unable to shake the feeling of the night before, of her lingering sense of tiredness, of his own sense of pettiness, which had grown more ugly by the light of day. He had taken a walk to pass the hours, had hoped for bracing, but found the Roman Spring more Inferno. Still, there had been distractions enough to fill his senses, to press down the disappointment that he was increasingly aware was his own, rather than that which he sought to project onto her.

It was for that reason, that he had worn the pocket square to the opera, had chosen to swallow his pride and accept that here she was queen, that sartorial integrity was more her forte than his.

This was a mission of distinct importance, and it was not at all the place for the kinds of battles of will that had been fought. It was with increasing regret that he had begun to realise that he had been instigator of so many of them, whatever her proclivity for producing the circumstance that seemed designed to set itself under his collar. He adjusted it now as the white tie that was this evening’s expectation pressed against his throat and reminded him that he was set to endure an entire night of that pastime he had sworn himself against - which Phryne new well enough.

He had no more spent his time on opera in earnest than he had on operetta. Gilbert and Sullivan had been enough to set him off the kind of melodrama that passed for depth in the operatic world, and he held little hope for the work of a man who was believed to have indirectly caused the suicide of a young maid after his wife publicly accused her of adultery.

As he alighted from the motor in front of the Teatro Dell’Opera di Roma, Marco seemed to sense his discomfort and arrived at his side as though it were planned. With what Jack was beginning to suspect about the man, he wasn’t convinced that it hadn’t been.

“Jack!” he called, patting him familiarly on the back, “you’ve arrived just in time for the show.”

His manner was bright and clearly on display, and in light of his earlier considerations, Jack set himself to the task of returning his effort, “I imagine I should be soundly scolded if I missed it!”

“I do not doubt it,” Marco nodded appreciatively, “and once I was done with you, Francesca would likely have exposed you to all good society as a Philistine of the highest degree!”

It was easier than expected, and Jack laughed at the camaraderie that the man painted with such finesse and ease. It reminded him of Phryne. “When can we expect the illustrious arrival of our hostess?” he asked.

Marco laughed, “When it is most advantageous, naturally. For now you must satisfy yourself with my company. But come! There are diversions enough for two bachelors in Roma without her, I assure you.”

With that, he whisked him up the deep red carpet that was laid out in approach to the great pillars of the entrance to the teatro, drawing Jack’s eyes up naturally to the large arched windows that lined its second storey, light spilling out of them even as the sound of gaiety spilled from the doors. Already there were a pair of women atop one of the balconies, silks cascading, diamonds glinting from all corners.

It was a staggering sight for a Police Inspector from City South.

Again, the spectacle of Rome reached out and clutched at his lapels, a debutante endearingly intoxicated on the evening’s wine as she pulled him into the eaves of a Spring garden. The extravagance should have served to make him all the more wary, but - as it had been with the sweeping of a certain lady detective into his life - there was a charm about it that seemed to lull even his awareness into compliance. The interior of the teatro offered nothing to stem the effect, and as lush as it had been outside, it was proved to be mere overflow as they put polished shoe to carpet. The grand staircase began coquettish, its first steps peekingly visible from the doors, but as they entered, it opened up before them like the same debutante - in a manner which might make one blush to describe it.

From above hung impressive chandeliers, their sharpened designs threatening to touch the floor below but for the cavernous height of the ceilings, disappearing above the mezzanine, and covered wall to wall with frescoes of the most intricate observance. Jack was vaguely aware that craning one’s neck to gaze upward was not ideal in terms of etiquette, but he truly imagined - especially as a supposedly uncultured visitor - that a little grace might be extended for this.

It was a marvel form every gilt flourish on the bannisters to the statuesque nymphs curled playfully around the capitals of endless pillars.

He must keep his head. It would not do to lose too much focus.

By way of instruction in the matter, Marco was waving to a gentleman at the base of the staircase, his hair slicked back and his moustache so thickly present despite the wax that curled it into submission. His eyes challenged the warmth of both his greeting and his reddened cheeks - cold and grey, they held an air that Jack recognised as a sheer brutality. It was a look he had seen in Melbourne too, a shade peculiar to a society of men bent on business, family and violence. Mafia. Marco seemed unfazed by it, however, leaning in for an almost familial kiss to either cheek - a particular attention despite his bright acknowledgement of other patrons.

Jack hung back, choosing to observe rather than intrude. Something unsettled him at once about the whole matter - perhaps something that could liberate him from the feeling that his reaction to the man at Francesca’s home had been overly critical, and yet it seemed a sudden jump from opera to conspiracy. They might simply be acquaintances. The smiles were broad, for show over a business-like respect. He trained himself back - Marco was a politician and a strategist, one could not read into every interaction.

Finally, they shook hands and parted.

Jack blinked.

It had been a fraction of a second, the entire event over before it had really begun, but he stood more rigidly than he had at their first meeting, all benefit of his doubt suddenly suspended. Surely it had been nothing. Surely he had not witnessed a final act between them, the handing over of something undefined…

“Forgive me,” interrupted Marco, his smile still fixed, “an old family friend - you understand.”

Jack frowned before realising himself and the background that meant that family honours and dues were always of the utmost importance to him as well. He quickly recovered his speech. “Certainly,” he answered with a smile, his gut cold as he did. In the back of his mind, the flicker of an action, the small piece of - no. There were other pressing questions, immediate ones, and he could not allow his instincts to be free in this place, and certainly not for an inkling - a rumour of his senses. Smiles were not the only thing for show. They were on parade tonight. “I confess, I’m a little intrigued by the remainder of our party for the evening,” he forged ahead to a more definitive matter. Whatever his sensibilities about their visibility, he was still not completely at ease about this evening’s addition to the party.

Marco seemed unnerved by the statement, however, somewhat shocked. “Please,” he began, “you must forget my childish outburst of yesterday. It would not do well to - overthink any member of Il Duce’s forces.” The end was soft, a warning more than anything.

“Indeed,” Jack took his meaning all too well. “I see we are fortunate to make such an important acquaintance,” he offered by way of question more than respect for the absent other man. Whatever Marco’s caution, it only meant that the Inspector wanted to know more about any near and present danger. The Italian must see the insistence in his eyes, must know that such a feeble act of dissuasion would be no good.

“We are,” Marco answered, his voice tight, “it will be excellent to be in his good graces.” Another warning. The discomfort of a moment before tripled.

“Yes,” Jack clipped with a small frown at being again rebutted. He demanded more. “Ought we to prepare ourselves in any way, so as not to offend Signora Agostini’s guest?” he suddenly recalled the chill that had crept down his spine on coming face to face with the Console in Genoa, it was dull in comparison to the combination of this conversation and the flicker of a moment he had perceived. Or believed he had perceived.

“Only be yourself,” was the man’s advice, “we can hardly be so formal and gloomy on a night like tonight!”

“I see,” he was not reassured, “I hope my manner is up to it.” It was an instant aggression, a distaste for being handled, yet again. He was about to speak again.

“I’m not sure it’s a subject that needs discussing right now,” Marco said with sudden distraction, however, his green eyes flickering and then widening as he looked up to the staircase, “Miss Fisher has arrived.”

It slid a neat blade across the artery of every earlier intention of Jack’s.

Turning to follow the man’s gaze with a frown, he felt instantly as though he had been clubbed across the back of the head. She was handing off her furs to an attendant, and his senses were utterly robbed of their more reasonable functions. As she moved to await her announcement on the grand staircase - which dwarfed the one on The Principessa at best - his feet went almost immediately cold, alongside the tips of his fingers as patrons across the room turned and drew in their breaths in a hushed rhythm that peppered the room.

“La Signorina D’onore, Phryne Fisher,” came the announcement, and the room filled with smiles before a gentleman of a more elderly stature burst into spontaneous applause, which set off the rest and quickly set fire to the room: effort acknowledged and a clear victory won.

If they had hoped to slip under the radar, of course, they’d failed.

There was red velvet, reams of it, though somehow without the more dated excesses of some of the other women. As ever, Phryne gorgeously commanded the line between extravagance and taste as she smiled warmly and began her graceful descent.

The velvet, however, was the least of Jack’s concerns, for having taken leave of his more rational faculties, it was the coquettish chiffon that caught his attention and held it; it joined what he noted were the front and back panels of the dress’s skirt, setting a flare at her feet which gave the illusion that she was simply floating where she walked. Unhelpfully, the true join was exceedingly close to the hip, and while the chiffon was gathered into darkened eaves to hide anything improper, it was suggestion enough to drive any man to drink.

Further, no matter its hints, the skirt was nothing to the bodice - the delightful item that had so enthralled Miss Fisher in the designer’s workshop - and for all his gentlemanly nature, it was also the item that took Jack well beyond what he had expected of the evening. It was rather a plain cut for Phryne, a sincerely demure neckline standing contrary to her usual preferences, but that was really where ‘plain’ and ‘demure’ must be said to end.

It, too, was chiffon, and, as such, utterly sheer from waist to delicate shoulder-stitch. The only thing keeping her in mystery rather than scandal, then, was the reaching and spectacular display of sewn jewels that curled about her scintillating waist in a strategic and masterful display of stars and a gorgeously art deco crescent moon. For all its careful modesty, it hid nothing of the curves of her, and Jack could feel his scruples screaming from some distant part of his mind to look down and away.

He couldn’t have if he’d tried.

Like the artwork it was, the piece drew the eye upward to the striking obsidian necklace that stretched across her chest and right up the line of her neck in a floral array of delicate stones. It shone the same colour as her hair, which was perfectly trimmed and unadorned, all sharp angles and finishing touches. Her lips were red, her eyes lined dramatically with kohl.

Cleopatra had been one thing, but this?

“Mio Dio,” came the smooth acknowledgment of Marco’s more extensive experience with Italian stylistic choices, for Jack could not have spoken if he had wanted to, and all thought of the conversation before vanished. He cleared his throat and forced his gaze for the floor, trying to gather himself. “I see now I stood no chance this evening,” came a ribbing acknowledgement from one to the other, “she is red head to toe, and you are the one holding her dance card.”

Jack frowned immediately, blinking up at Marco’s knowing green gaze. It flickered down to the pocket square peeking out of his jacket. Jack took a second, still hazed by the moment, but when the piece fell into place, it suddenly made sense, and he felt a sweeping mix of ten things at once.

The square was red, but not just any red. It was velvet, and it was hers.

Or rather, they were a pair that belonged to each other.

The thought caught his breath in his chest, forcing itself away at once. If this was a statement, it was surely not a romantic one. He had come to know her well enough that the steady progress of her evening hours had little room for sweeping gestures and pairs. It was something else, though, and for all their bickering, it made sense of her earlier disappointment in him. Whatever they were, they were quite surely in this together, and the gesture began to seal up the cracks of his fear of being commanded and controlled by her at least.

This wasn’t her game, it was theirs, and she clearly wanted him to know that.

As though ordained, she drew near to him as the revelation did, and his eyes were darkened, full of the beginning of understanding as he slowly lifted his gaze to her. Up close, the effect of her was all the more unraveling.

“Miss Fisher,” he acknowledged lowly, the only expression he would allow though it was covered with feeling.

“Mr Ridgeway?” she responded with the obvious query, leaning on the falseness of his name like it offended her.

Her eyes said it all, ‘Are we all right, now?’

He breathed in, and could barely believe she smelled better than she looked, a subtle hint of Summer coming off the fabrics of her dress and corners of her skin. He swallowed and asked her forgiveness for the night before with one gentle movement.

Phryne looked down as, once again, he extended his hand to her, and she let out a small sigh of contentment. Black gloves reached for her elbows as her fingers reached out for his. Blue eyes searched for something in his face that she had been considering all day. Even in her rush to prepare, she had wanted to know - why what he had said had stung so distinctly, why the presentation of the pocket square had not been all that she had hoped.

She lifted her other hand and touched the piece of material gently. Jack’s breath in seemed to warn her of some unknown threat.

“I hope the new addition to your wardrobe is settling,” she offered, lightly for those who still watched on, her tone lifting from them the haze that had settled. Jack felt the change, another clue in the puzzle of her shifting faces, and he matched her lightness.

“Well, the one that I had was hardly suitable in hindsight,” he smiled brightly, a smile incongruous with him and more in line with the increasing number of comments that were being passed with a false arrogance that suited him about as well as a floral print might. He presented his elbow like the clear friend he was meant to be, though as she took it, he could feel the rise of heat to his neck. It was fortunate, then, that his tails bore up to his chin.

“Shall we go in?” he asked.

“I think we’d better,” she smiled at him, “or they’ll start without us.”

His answer was swift, and entirely outside of his control, “Nothing on Earth could start without you.”

She merely chuckled at him, an airy laugh that belonged on a socialite, and he was glad of her safety here. She greeted Marco with a kiss to the cheek, a lingering touch on his arm that made Jack look away.

“Where’s Francesca?” she pressed him, “You know I hate to make an entrance alone.”

Marco laughed at that absurdity, “Where else, darling? She’s mingling back stage. Maestro pulled her back there as soon as he heard she would be in. Naturally, everyone wants to meet the prima donna who’s inherited Giacomo’s private box.”

“Naturally,” Phryne agreed, though it took Jack a moment to piece together the puzzle. Giacomo? As in Giacomo Puccini?

“She’ll meet us inside when the curtain’s ready to go up,” Marco turned, accepting that Jack would have her on his arm for the night. It would change, they both knew. All the better to start where intimacy supposedly belonged. Jack felt an increasingly familiar tension in his chest as he thought about the Italian’s earlier greeting of an unfamiliar and unfriendly face.

As they made their way into the inner theatre, however, he didn’t have time for tensions. His breath pulled back as they emerged in the dark, taking a private, curtained entrance to the box they had discussed. Puccini’s opera box. He would talk to Phryne about that later. As it was, the room opened up before them, rising four tiers high but for the balcony above. It was magnificent, all red and gilt leading up to the gorgeous fresco on the ceiling above - a sky scene with forest green surrounds. Further back could be seen a previously royal suite, now reserved for dignitaries. Il Duce himself had been known to frequent it, when the taste for opera had taken his fancy.

As of now, it seemed to house another lucky official.

Jack’s mind seized then, forcing the memory of what they expected tonight to the forefront. He stepped forward, gently taking Phryne’s elbow as she moved into the intimacy of the seats that allowed privacy, even in so public a place. Marco was having a decided conversation with the attendant in the doorway.

“Any sign of Francesca’s admirer?” he asked quickly, quietly.

His drawing near had caused Phryne to tilt her head gently in his direction, the familiarity something that brought a tingling sense of comfort to her. “Not yet,” she admitted, “I haven’t even seen Francesca since we parted ways this afternoon. I’ve no doubt he’ll show his face in time, the curtain’s about to go up.”

And what a curtain.

What the room lacked in elegance - which was nothing at all - was made up by the pulsating richness of the extravagant red, hanging heavy with the history it had born for almost a hundred years. Even Jack had to admit, though, as he allowed himself a gentle glance at the red that was ever so much closer, it had stiff competition this evening.

“I’m glad you’re wearing the pocket square,” she said suddenly, more softly than he had anticipated from her in this space. He met her gaze, warm and close.

“It was truly thoughtful, Miss Fisher,” he all but stumbled over the formality.

“So my gesture wasn’t overbearing?” she teased, ever so slightly in light of the subsequent revelation.

“Not at all,” he acquiesced with gentle acknowledgement.

“It didn’t offend sensibilities?” she pressed a little further with her words, and he could have sworn a little more into his space.

“It’s a gift,” he admitted, softening all the more to her.

“It’s a promise,” she nudged, as ever, for more.

Francesca finally joined them just as the orchestra was tuning up, though, curiously, her infamous beau was still nowhere to be seen, Phryne noted. The diva had been hesitant to talk of him that morning, when Phryne had visited for a breakfast of sweet breads and warm chocolate - it was a delightful reality that Italy favoured a fuller figure, so morning indulgences such as these were welcomed, demanded more than allowed.

The Lady Detective found the whole matter of The Man severely suspicious, and she kept her glance for signs of agitation in Francesca’s all-too-gay demeanour. Naturally, she looked radiant in a rich sapphire blue, her dark features setting off against it with almost mathematical definition. If Phryne had dazzled in her appearance, the older woman reigned easily in the steady regality of a place long-since owned. Even now, it was apparent that all eyes were on them as a group, but that hearts belonged to Francesca like they did to nostalgic photographs.

“Principessa!” came a cry suddenly from below, as though to confirm it, and Francesca gave a delighted chuckle alongside a sentimental kiss through the air.

She was at home.

Phryne smiled at the surety of which she had once been so in awe. If she had learned adventure in Paris, daring and risk, it was in Rome that she had learned presence, regained her sense of self - so mercilessly stolen from her. Even then, she had not faced the spectre of her brutal spiritual thief until the Café Repliqué, or even the private antiquities collection of Melbourne University.

That was a story perhaps she would tell at another breakfast rendezvous.

While she would not openly discuss this aspect of her life with anyone, it had been Francesca who had taught her the truth of the inner pillars of her soul - the room that was no-one’s but hers. It was in Italy she had learned independence, never to give away that part of herself.

“No man can take what you do not give him - not of the spirit,” Francesca had said, seemingly reading the ailment in a young girl’s eyes, “‘Build yourself an inner cell and never leave it.’” And while that bit of advice had come from Saint Catherine of Francesca’s native Siena, Phryne had welcomed it despite her stance on sins and their number and variety.

As she watched her friend settle into her place in the theatre, she wondered just how much she had kept in her own inner cell, and whether her hesitation to discuss the mysterious addition to her life was a part of that same reality. The question, however, brought Phryne dangerously close to mistrust of her friend, and she would not allow it without real evidence to that effect.

“Jealous?” came a voice very suddenly close to her right ear. It was disappointing she had to admit to herself if nobody else, coming as it did from Marco, leaning on the back of her chair from his place behind her.

“This will be a very short affair if you think the triumph of other women makes me jealous,” she flirted nonetheless, “I have accolades enough of my own, thank you… and all of them of my own assignation. I don’t need balcony admirers to ensure I am not in short supply.”

“Not a Floria Tosca, then?” he answered back with just as much heat.

Her glance in his direction was subtle, and she did not break her attention from the stage as they awaited the conductor, “You’re determined to find a heroine tonight, aren’t you? Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to find another opera box if you’re looking for one of the malleable sort. You’ll also remember what Scarpia learns about Tosca in Act Three.”

“Bené,’ he smiled widely, “the Phryne I knew has not changed at all. Well, apart from her purpose in Rome, and her travelling companions…”

“Jealous?” she did not hesitate. Marco laughed outright, delighted.

“Competition is hardly defeat,” his voice was intent, and Phryne knew that - if this was for show - he was enjoying it entirely too much.

She did not allow her smile to fade, the flicker of attraction slipping neatly down her back as he retreated into the dark, and his own chair, seemingly unfazed by the seating arrangement for the evening and the presence of a certain scarlet pocket square. It would be a lie to say that she wasn't affected by the same Italian overconfidence that had struck her so definitely the first time, the instant flash of colour on display at the sight of a potential rival.

She was human after all.

It was not, however, something she strove to think overly about, since her gesture to Jack had undoubtedly been one of partnership above romance.

Undoubtedly.

Yes.

Applause broke out as the conductor appeared, flourishing his arms in an arrival that proved perhaps more flamboyant than some of the more eccentric patrons. Jack leaned over, an action more welcome than Marco’s, Phryne was again required to admit, despite her firm and stated intentions.

“If the rest of this is nearly as dramatic as that entrance,” he intoned, “you owe me a very stiff drink at intermission.”

Phryne smiled without having to give it a thought.

“Which one?” she offered lowly.

“Drink?” he questioned, confused.

“Intermission…” she all but threatened as the house lights lowered just late enough for her to see the mirth drain from his face, even as that on hers seemed to grow in inverse proportion.

“I take it back,” he offered almost petulantly, “you owe me dinner at least.” He wouldn’t quite realise what he had said until it was out of his mouth.

Phryne didn’t miss it for a moment and, per usual, she seized upon it immediately, “I’ll hold you to it.”

She had so nearly said, “Inspector”.

He could have sworn his tie was too tight.

The silence that followed was all too well-timed as the overture promptly prevented any further conversation, and Phryne was sure that whatever Jack’s objections, he would have to admit at least to the great skill of the artists.

It might not be La Scala, but it was a far, far cry from Richmond.

There was something about Puccini so sensually visceral, and Phryne found herself lost before long. As the evening painted on into the later hours, brushing together the direly Italian story of the fiery diva and her lover, the air seemed to fill with a clinging need for connection, for touch and intimacy. It was a need that the composer had running in his blood, and seemed always to spill over into his music. The sound of Tosca’s jealousy was far more romantic when embedded in Puccini’s string section, and even the admiration of Cavaradossi for the virginal blonde embodied in his art was physical on hearing it. He was a painter of frescoes, of course, rather than the more Bohemian prints of the French, and whatever impassioned desires were worked out on the stage, it was ever with the memory of Michelangelo hanging boldly in the background. Whatever the Italian taste for debauchery, it was always in the perfectly ironic knowledge of its own Catholicity. Even the sinister underpinning of Scarpia’s high-handed moral reasoning lulled Phryne almost beyond concern as the first act drew to a close, though her sharp senses were fixed always for the entrance of their expected guest.

As the curtain fell, then, and the house lights were raised, his absence remained conspicuous.

“A note,” Francesca cut in quickly, before either Phryne or Marco could pass some blithe comment, “it seems our patron for the evening has been detained by business.”

Jack’s relief was palpable.

“And what business is this?” Marco teased nonetheless, ever in need of something to fill his humour.

“Torture and blackmail, I’m sure,” Francesca did not blink, though her look to Phryne was one seeking defence in some measure.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll muddle on without him,” Phryne interjected, turning the evening towards gaiety rather than any more of this tension. With the impending threat out of the way, there was little more to the appearance than public revelry - to be seen.

And had their entrance and their company not seen to that?

“Empty!” came a sudden cry from the door to the box, and whatever relief had flooded in a moment before, it vanished immediately. Jack reached instinctively for his ribs, though he knew the usual security of his holster would not meet his fingers. It took a moment for him to register Phryne’s own clutching thoughtlessly for his knee as well. He blinked and they were gone. “Honestly, Francesca, I am horrified that I have had to make this public spectacle of myself only to find that the rumours are true and that you are so selfish as to keep one of the best seats in the house empty!”

It was a voice Jack recognised, and he scrambled to try and make sense of that impossibility.

“Freddie!” came Francesca into the mix, way ahead of him and ready to supply an answer, “don’t tell me that nasty officer has finally driven you out of Genoa! You rotten scoundrel for not telegraphing sooner that you would be in Roma! Had I known, naturally, I should have had you on my lap rather than in a bad seat!”

Merton!

“Be careful, Darling, or people might start believing you’re no longer an omnipotent goddess,” the actor warned, his moustache hiding his smirk only very slightly.

“We thought we’d left your delightful face by the seaside,” Phryne cut in, her tone coloured with equal pleasant surprise.

“All that discussion about Rome at The Hopper made me terribly homesick,” Merton gestured at the theatre around them by way of explanation, “Besides, I could hardly let you two have all the fun.” He waggled his brows, casting them slyly at Jack for the briefest of moments.

“What fun could possibly be had without you?” Phryne stood to kiss his cheek, and clutched at his wrist to pull him further into their party - an ally was a vast improvement on the enemy.

“Of course you two have met,” Francesca crooned, “I could hardly expect two such forces to co-exist in one place without colliding almost immediately.”

Phryne chuckled, “Darling Merton here made our arrival in Genoa just that little bit more bearable.”

“Bearable?” the actor seemed utterly put out, “How dare you, bearable?!”

“Oh hush,” she scolded, “nobody needs that much attention, I’m sure.”

Merton laughed loudly, delighted.

“This is fate,” Francesca then announced, “now I am sure of it. I have been meaning to hold a recital at home for some time now, and then who should arrive but one of the finest Shakespearean actors in all Italy. You must say that you will perform.”

“I can’t that day,” Merton grinned, “I have wine to drink.”

“Better than Tuscany’s?” Francesca dared him.

“Don’t overdo it, I was sold to the idea after ‘one of the finest Shakespearean actors’,” he leaned forward to kiss her cheek in turn, “an honour and delight, always.”

Jack’s head was spinning, the conversation moving too fast to stay attached to it.

“You must join us here too, of course,” the hostess beamed, “my guest, unfortunately, is unable to join us.”

“To be in Giacomo’s box, and on your arm? God has surely never smiled on me so much as this night,” came the overwrought reply, and then suddenly, “though not as much as he has on you, Mr Ridgeway. Look at this dress, Miss Fisher!”

Jack blinked at the insinuation, and found himself demurring as Phryne gently posed to accept the compliment.

“I - hardly dare to claim it as my good fortune,” Jack managed, “Mr Altamura and I were saying earlier - ” He stopped, having raised his hand to gesture back at Marco’s chair, only to find the man had vanished. Phryne noted it too, and her quick eyes darted about the box to find him.

He was nowhere to be seen.

“Flighty as a woman, that one,” Francesca dismissed it, “come here and tell me all about Genoa!”

Francesca subsumed Merton into her space, and Jack took a moment to take hold of Phryne’s elbow once more.

“Did he say anything to - ”

“No,” she answered him quickly, puzzling her way to the next query, but Jack was no longer listening. His mind was filled at once with the vivid flash of a double kiss of greeting and a hand slipping something, an object undeniable, into a pocket. He felt his gut clench. It was at the interval. Marco could be seeing to ablutions for all Jack knew. There was no time to express anything further as the lights flickered, indicating the arrival of the second act. Soon he was forced to take his seat in the dimming box, as the conductor returned and seemed to steal all chance for thought.

Two missing men. Marco had not yet returned.

Jack had to admit that the first act had captured him swiftly, the music and the sheer skill of the actors performing it, enough to arrest his imagination - despite his finding the story as dramatic as he had feared. He had shifted along to the thrum of it like a fish on the tide, found himself moved by the very force of it, eventually embedded into the tale of these two lovers with masterful artistry. As it was, however, the second act had no such chance to seize him again, as he tried to recapture his thoughts and could not turn them away from the now empty seat behind them. It wasn’t until they were well into the next scene that Marco reappeared, and none would dare break Scarpia’s frightful speech to query his absence. The moment passed, but the question lay in Jack’s thoughts through every note.

Family connections. Allegiances. Signs of devoted loyalty. Mafia, undoubtedly. The hand shaken could only be a family head, by the rings on his fingers and the surety in his stance. The kiss could only be a mark of collaboration, of knowledge. But then what could he devise from that? As he had noted before, Marco was a man of politics, a connector if ever he’d seen one - a connector that they had already established was willing to help Mother England get the upper hand on Il Duce. Every connection could be useful.

It sat awkwardly between his ribs, and he wanted desperately to pull Phryne aside and talk to her openly about it - a method he had discovered had begun to yield more than mere conjecture between them. As it was, however, the more he considered the conversation after the night before, the more he feared the shadow he had seen in her eyes. The risk of that disappointment at his distrust was enough to keep him through the rest of the evening. Without much more than an inkling to come up against her long-time friendship, he was not quite prepared to enter that arena with her.

He could see the confrontation in his head, and he forced himself to let it go.

So the evening passed, the gaiety continued and Merton’s sudden appearance began to shift the centre away from everything they had feared and into a sort of suspended reality in which Phryne began to truly behold again the Rome she knew. The light returned, and she allowed herself to vanish into a time when murder and mayhem had taken a backseat to delight, when Italy had demanded that it be so after a war that had been a farce to many. Even in its devastating finality, the opera offered up the soaring beauty of the Italian soul, and the wine that Jack finally allowed himself sunk into their very veins, rich, and warm, and comforting.

Within time, he found himself laughing.

Phryne felt something awful slip away from her bones, and she could not deny that it was connected to the obvious similar affect in Jack - she watched closely as tension slipped from his shoulders, and she passed it off as being in response to the absence of the officer they had both feared and expected. It raised a sentiment within her that she had noted increasingly as they had settled into their mission, as her surrounds had reminded her of her own earlier awakening - it was a sentiment she had attempted to express to him the night before, and one she had hoped to answer with the pocket square, when his caution had barred her from reaching the full effect.

When she saw him smile, she knew it for what it was.

As she so often hoped for those around her: for Dot, and for Jane, and for Mac, she hoped equally for him, and she had not realised until this moment that it had been the strongest drive to bring him with her to this place that held such meaning for her. To see that smile, then, was the beginning, she believed, of the answer she was seeking for him and so many others in her circle: that life was for the living, even in its darknesses. While she saw his facade in each action, Mr Ridgeway at play, she saw something else just at the edges of it, a choice he was making that boded well for all that she had begun to notice in him. She had seen the questions bubbling beneath his surfaces at Marco’s disappearance, felt the distracted way the second Act had begun, but she had also felt the very moment of his decision - one she hoped would begin a new chapter in the way that they perceived and faced each other. It was a counterpart decision to the one she had made as she had begun this intriguing approach of invitation and suggestion, rather than whirlwind force of life - a choice to let go that which was to him so obviously irresponsible, irrational perhaps.

A choice, she realised to trust her, even if just a little.

xXx

By the time they left the opera house, Marco intoxicated enough to be singing the final strands of Scarpia’s death scene with no intonation whatsoever, there was an air of revelry about them all. The night seemed to respond in kind, warm as Francesca made several suggestions of what ought to be done in these now late hours before they were forced to part company. Surprisingly, it was Merton who shattered the dream, declaring that he would be leaving first for home to settle after his sudden journey, and bidding them all a somewhat stark farewell. It was predictable, then, that as they left the ensconced corner of the opera box and the actor betrayed a behaviour that must bring them back to reality, Jack felt the open darkness of the streets begin to close in around him once more.

They must get back to the apartments, to the plan at hand, to the mission surrounded by fascists.

Even the feeling of Phryne’s arm returning to lean far too familiarly on his elbow could not abate the sensation, though he fought valiantly to contain it until they were back in the relative sanctuary of Agostini’s home. Phryne also felt the return of his caution, in the same way she had felt the slight reprieve of the evening, and she fought it too, though not in a way that might preserve it for later. Her stubbornness fought for the smile that had been on his face, even as her fingers gently seized intimacy at his arm - a hope that her remaining peace, her joy, might somehow transfer from satin glove to woollen sleeve and sustain his. So sure was she that his reaction was unwarranted.

It is a truth, however, that a wish for peace is no guarantee of its real presence, just as a sense of caution is no guarantee of any true danger.

As they left the curb that marked the departure of Marco and Francesca’s motor, the Fates seemed determined to make a point of this reality, and dark feet fell suddenly into step behind the couple as they turned into one of the interconnecting alleyways that would take them to their own transportation. It took mere seconds before the comforting grasp of reassurance was forced into a sharp grip of surprise as yet more hands appeared to seize them both in the dark, and what was a hazy security vanished into the sudden rush of shock.

“Phryne!” Jack’s adrenaline charged through every vein, and he felt the bursting of so many instincts, suppressed throughout the evening. He might have been full of ‘I-told-you-so’s’, if it weren’t for the way her suddenly muffled protests put an instant stop to his breathing. They pierced through the night as she fought back against gloved hands over her mouth, tightening around her waist -

There was a grunt as she landed a wrestled elbow to ribs.

It seemed to spur his own fight on, though the number of gloves about his person was far higher. Italian was being hissed from man to man as he struggled against them, calling her name until finally a blow struck just beneath his sternum. A wave of nausea hit him at once and he coughed as the air left his lungs, doubling over despite the way his mind screamed for him not to - Phryne!

He heard the halt to the scuffle before he saw the glint of a blade in the street light, and the almost wild look in her eyes as she froze beneath it. He blinked desperately through his inability to breath, and the bracing of arms that still strained against his violent need to help her; a hulking figure in black pressed himself up against every intimate part of her, her back meeting the dank brick of the alleyway wall. It pulled a visceral growl from him, and another blow to the stomach, which left his eyes streaming to blur the view.

“Phr - ” there was no air left to get the rest out as he caught the low rumble of threats he didn’t understand, but could universally recognise - whatever the language.

And then, they were gone.

As quickly as they had descended, like bats in the night, they vanished to the sound of footsteps in a dozen directions, echoing off the walls of the narrow street. Jack thought he might be sick, but it soon fled from his mind as he forced himself up from his knees, where he’d fallen as he had been suddenly released. He stumbled over to Phryne, who remained propped against the wall, breathing erratically.

“Are you all right?” he asked almost forcefully, his voice gruff with pain.

“Yes,” she returned, stunned, “they’ve injured you…”

“I’m fine,” he defended, “just winded. Did they hurt you?” A much more important question.

“No,” it was dark, angry as ever he’d heard her, “just a string of threats, though I’ll be damned if I could make sense of them.”

Suddenly, all thoughts of Marco and his earlier rendezvous assaulted him. It had to be related, he must have seen what he had thought. His absence at the first interval must confirm it.

“Phryne - ” he began.

“Yes?” her voice was still ponderous.

Suddenly, the accusation sounded piteous coming from his mouth, the evidence still scant and meaningless as it had been hours before, but for a prejudice he did not care to think of. He stopped, he needed more - evidence was the mark of his work, not baseless projections despite his suspicion. He sat breathing heavily for a moment, finally uttering the only thing that made any sense.

“Someone must know,” he said grimly.

“I know,” Phryne answered, “this, the - the assassin in Port Saïd…”

The words rang coldly into the night. Jack shut his mouth at once. He would not speak what was damning. “Who?” he tried.

“Tomorrow,” she suggested, and he could not fault her.

xXx

There was still silence as they alighted from the motor a few blocks from the apartments, the night air thick with everything that Jack was not saying. The snug closeness of the ancient Roman streets forced them to make the final leg of their journey on foot, which only seemed to heighten the drama about the Inspector, who studied every shadow as though it were a phantom. Phryne, frankly, had ignored him to this point, trying to consider the angle from which these mysterious new figures had appeared, trying to make sense of the threats in the dark, and the knife at her throat.

It was the touch of her fingers to it, the self-conscious memory that broke the silence. Jack couldn’t bear it any longer, and the sight of even the slightest effect on her sense of security drove him to speak.

“Are you all right?” he asked again, this time modulating his voice to the quiet of the late-night air. It seemed to break her out of thought, and she blinked as though to notice him there for the first time. Jack felt the distance she had just traversed to return to him, and he forced the memory of his pocket square to the front of his mind. ‘It’s a promise,’ she had said.

“I think so,” she offered with such vulnerability to his gentle enquiry, he thought he might have imagined it. If his heart had been a table laden with feelings in categories and labels, the remark had the effect of flipping it over, and he felt the surge of adrenaline that had meant four men trying to hold him back in an alley. There it was, that feeling he had when granted the chance - perhaps the privilege - of seeing her as he had seen her on the stairs on the Principessa, which seemed so long ago.

Authenticity.

That was it! A something she hit without thought, or carefully protective calculation. Simply there. Simply her.

Not the indomitable Miss Fisher. Simply Phryne.

It stopped him in his tracks as they entered the mouth of the Piazza di Trevi. Phryne turned at once, her eyes filled suddenly with query, and checking very subtly over one shoulder to see if she had missed something he had not in the corners. Jack merely looked at her, studied her she concluded, since that is what he had been doing seemingly from the beginning of their acquaintance. She usually did not shy from it, however, but she felt keenly now a nearness of his increasingly successful investigations. As she always did when she felt an unsettling she suspected to be fear at the root, she faced it, and faced him.

“I’m sorry,” he said at once, and Phryne’s brows knitted slightly at the response. “I’m sorry I couldn’t - “

“Jack,” she stopped him at once, knowing full well the word he intended to follow. He wasn’t here to protect her; that wasn’t his responsibility.

She turned to walk further into the Piazza, and the Fontana di Trevi rose up magnificently before them. Jack stopped to take in yet another moment of significance, allowing her censure to drift behind him as the gleam of the street lights on the water blended warmly with the moon, and set an almost mystical air about them to the sound of water gurgling down, caressing familiar rocks beneath the incredible Corinthian design.

Phryne smiled at it, like a familiar friend, and welcomed the soothing of the water in contrast to the rest of the evening. She walked right to its edge, breathing deeply the calmer atmosphere. She pulled her furs tighter around her, the chill of the night indicating just how late it really was. Comforted by their softness, their warmth, she felt the tension of her earlier encounter slipping all the further away, along with the questions she knew couldn’t be answered without some sleep and a few more pieces of the puzzle. She felt Jack approach, take up a space next to her and look down into the same space her thoughts seemed to occupy.

“Are you all right?” she returned the earlier favour, turning her head slowly to look at him. He did not answer for a moment, absorbing the question before meeting her glance. He knew what he wanted to say, knew also that he did not want to say it, to risk the tussle, the jarring of cogs. Then, it was certainly not his way to conceal a thing merely to keep from conflict.

“No,” he said simply, with neither force nor implication. Phryne appraised him, connected to his honesty despite what lay behind it. “I - I hate to see you in harm’s way,” he said quite frankly, having begun and then needing to go on to the point that rested in him. It was a curious statement in amongst all of his charges against her recklessness. It was somehow the bald truth, by comparison. Phryne felt it penetrate, and she gently chewed the inside of her lip.

“This is not about me, Jack,” she responded, her eyes taking on a shadow that had graced her features in many a moment in which she had known she must offer a denial, “it’s about a great many other things, including possibly hindering the reach of men like the ones we met tonight. This mission, it’s important.”

He breathed in deeply, looked back at the water, “I know.”

“Then let me do it,” she prompted gently. Jack hesitated, knowing he had to make this thought plain.

“I have serious doubts about Marco Altamura,” he risked again, forcing it out.

Phryne didn’t answer, feeling her defensiveness rise to the occasion - both for her friend and for her sense that this had more to do with testosterone than true concern.

She held her tongue, and listened.

“You’re asking me to trust that everything he says is on the square,” he finished. His unwillingness to do so was clear as he brought his suspicions to the fore. Phryne was instantly surprised by the conclusion, a sense of urgency filling her at once when it came to his mistaken assumption.

“No,” she counteracted before she could stop herself. Immediately afterward, however, she wanted to address it with something other than force. She reached up to tilt his chin back to her with the same consideration that had made her think of him first when it came to matching a pocket square to her gown.

There was a tug within her that needed him to understand this.

“No, Jack. I’m asking you to trust me,” her voice was so soft it was almost lost to the night and the sound of the flowing water before them.

There was a heavy pause.

After a moment, Jack allowed his eyes to lift themselves to her face, truly looking at her for the first time since the encounter with this evening’s thugs. She held something in her glance, as though about to lead him down some discrete and impossible path - a secret she had been keeping for the whole of their acquaintance. He tried to reply, but what could be said to that, really? In the silence, then, she seemed to decide something, and before he could make answer, her furs were slipping to the cobblestones with an almost slicing hiss, her fingers moving deftly to pull his pocket square from his dinner jacket in the same movement.

"Miss Fisher - ?" he could feel the impending moment, and it forced him into an anxiety he could not yet understand. Propriety was his last bastion, and it failed him as she gently pulled off her shoes and watched him intently, ignoring his plea for an explanation, for a laying out of the pros and cons of what she was about to do. No plans, no assurances, nothing, she simply left him standing in his fear. He felt poignancy begin to overwhelm him as she stepped delicately over the small stone edge of the fountain, not caring even to test the water as her feet slipped into it with impossible elegance.

Jack's breath stopped in his chest.

"Phryne - " he tried to intervene as she drifted away from him. He shut his mouth at once, as soon as he heard the quiver in it, the pleading.

The red velvet of this evening's promise to him began to soak up the pool about her, the chiffon panels floating to the surface where they could as she made her way to deeper water, red beginning to trail about her like a flair of magnificent plumage. Finally, a few meters from the edge, she turned to him, the damp material beginning to cling to her in manner that set a stricture to his gut. The look in her eyes slipped passed his defences, reaching down his throat and clearing a space in his chest.

Then, she simply stood, her face resolute as it reflected the shimmering light of the moon off Virtue's Pool.

Light.

How briefly she had spoken of it the night before, and how keenly he remembered it now as she slowly lifted her arm, turning it over with painful grace to let the pocket square blossom from her fingers and across her open hand. Her gesture mirrored perfectly the one he had first seen in Genoa, as though that had been designed as a precursor to a far more distinct lesson.

No, it was not a lesson.

It was an invitation, and Jack felt beneath every flash of warmth he'd ever experienced in her presence, a sudden hook and then consuming wave of the intense curiosity that had seized him in fits and starts since she had first stepped beneath his arm at a crime scene in Melbourne. He fought it, as he had been doing for the better part of their acquaintance, but she did not yield. The impasse was palpable as they locked horns yet again over the way forward - she adamant to see him overcome, he determined to do it in his own time, in his own way.

"I won't press you, Jack," she smiled softly, "but the water is lovely."

And just like that, something broke in him, something born of war and divorce, of ambition and duty, and that promise crashed through his resistance.

The water was lovely.

For the first time he realised that it was not a matter of distinction or possession, but a question of opportunity. He had been fighting her for months, because he had perceived that this place, this style was something that was inherently hers, something she commanded and controlled, bringing others into it and pushing them out again on her whim. But the water was not hers, what was hers was the choice to embrace it and drink it to the dregs. She was not demanding that he do things her way, simply asking him to join her where the light was. He could not steal that light from her, because she did not possess it in the first place; she let it loose, let it shine, and it was her earnest desire to give it away.

Phryne dared not move as he almost stoically took off his shoes, keeping his eyes on her with that protected gaze, and it was her turn to experience a nudge of approaching importance. As he chose to begin, she found herself wondering what she would do when he reached her. She breathed in carefully as a feeling sprang up in her stomach, one that was more readily identifiable to her than it was to him. It was raw attraction to his willingness to engage, to listen, to hear, but most of all to test, to challenge, and only then accept. Jack Robinson was fiercely his own man, and it made taking this journey with him all the more intriguing. Yes, intrigue. That was the word. That was this feeling. Certainly.

Still, she did not move.

The sound of the water moving around the legs of his trousers was almost drowned out by the pulse of its counterpart falling behind her, but she could hear her heart in her ears as he waded through it with that purpose he seemed to embody whenever he made a decision as to his course of action. It was profound, and every switch she had felt in unity between them paled in comparison to this act of trust from him. As he drew near and pulled the red material from her hand, she grinned, "See? That wasn’t so painful, was it?”

Her words drifted passed him like the rest of it, caught up in the atmosphere of mystics. There was only one object that seemed to be made of reality to him, and it was an action of flesh and blood that demanded his immediate acquiescence. Just as her feet had moved without warning, so too did his hands and just as smoothly, one slipping about her waist, drawing her near enough that the other might curl around the delicacy of her neck, and draw her in. The outcome of the moment became cautiously inevitable as he leaned forward for a kiss that had been the intention of neither. Phryne’s intuition in this regard had perhaps been uncharacteristically slow, owing to the delicious brink that had so long existed between them, and the forthrightness of the move now caught her entirely by surprise, leaving her to encounter every sensation in its immediacy: the touch of velvet caressing her throat, the pocket square still in his fingers, the earnest connection of lips to hope, and the warmth of closeness as he breathed against her in the cool evening air.

She took no time in reciprocating the development, never one to quell an instinct that proved pleasurable, and certainly not one to waste a commodity so precious as Jack Robinson’s uncensored spontaneity. She met him in his moment, her fingers curling over the back of one shoulder, the others gently draping over his wrist as she returned the kiss with a delayed welcome.

That answer, that impossible answer to a question he had not known he had been asking, ignited something within him, and all his attempts to demystify her came into sudden startling clarity. His discomfort regarding her connections with other men, his need to know if the way she looked at him was merely her way or something more, his pressing quest to unravel every quirk of her brow, and tilt of her lip: all were here in the way that she warmly responded to his touch. It was like uncovering a precious manuscript revealing the secrets if a hidden civilisation, the Rosetta Stone of her curious nature, and like Carter breaking through the wall of a long-buried trove he saw such wonderful things that he could do nothing but clutch her more closely, deepening their connection and pressing her up against himself. The cool dampness of the pool around them soaked into his skin, close and clinging, and as he felt the way it had crept up to her ribcage, over her hip and downward, it sent a shock through him of sudden propriety.

He broke from her immediately, his rapid breath enough to alert her to the insensitive cold that had seized him.

He stared at her, and she saw it descend with a vengeance.

“Jack,” she tried to stop it.

“I’m sorry,” he began.

“For what?” she challenged.

“I shouldn’t -,” he swallowed. There was nothing for it, and Phryne moved instinctually to what she knew would set him at ease.

“It was a moment, Jack,” she lied, “it happened, and it’s fine.”

A moment. Unlikely to be repeated. Jack cleared his throat.

“It… complicates things,” he said, scolding himself for perpetuating what was usually her purview. Phryne chuckled, noting the same distinction. Her body wanted so very much to go back to the moment before, still feeling the undeniable sensation of his grasping touch: honest with her, and him, perhaps for the first time.

She breathed, knowing too well that he wasn’t ready.

Without thinking, she put him first.

“It doesn’t have to,” she assured him again, her gaze soft. It brought to his eyes such a pang of longing, she almost took it back. He looked to the water around them, and it was gone.

“We should get back to the apartments,” he said, “you’ll catch your death out here.”

The sudden chivalry made her smile, a laugh endeared by his care despite her keen sense that she could take care of herself. After a moment’s hesitation, she gave him his excuse, and nodded in agreement that she might very well catch her death - though she kept to herself that it would likely not be from the cold.

*~*~*

#fanfiction #fanfic #phrack fanfic #miss fisher's murder mysteries #mfmm #phryne fisher #jack robinson #nathan page #my work #when in rome

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