#i knew he liked me but i thought i was being sufficiently distant to avoid this

[guinevereslancelot]

it's june 😳

[darlingmbappe]

The Loneliest | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Epilogue]

Summary: Your fiancé missing your birthday is the icing on the cake to a horrible couple of months. Now, you’re left to pick up your broken pieces, ending the chapter in your life that includes Kylian Mbappé.

Warnings: Complete angst all the way through, Kylian being a bad fiancé, fighting, breaking an engagement, lots of crying, cussing, this one’s kind of long so beware. Spoiler: no happy ending. Let me know if I missed anything. — English is not my first language —

Mornings used to be your favorite.

You’d wake up way too early to the sound of Kylian’s alarm for your liking, but it didn’t even matter. The hour or so you got to spend with your fiancé before he left were sacred, it was special. They were filled with easy conversation, tired hugs and sleepy kisses on the shoulder, the occasional quickie, or at least a cheeky squeeze of your ass. It felt like very moment spent together was precious. You felt loved by Kylian so much it made your stomach turn with butterflies just thinking about him.

Now, it felt like those domestic moments were a distant memory. Sure, all couples gradually get less and less lovey-dovey the longer they’re together, but the change was drastic. It was like you barley knew him anymore.

You’ve attempted to start conversations with Kylian about this. Multiple times, in fact. Immediately, he’d get defensive, ending in arguments that kept getting worse and worse. It’s difficult to have to tip toe around your feelings in order to avoid a fight. He stopped making you feel special.

This morning, you woke up knowing it will be a hard day; all alone in your shared king sized bed.

Today is your birthday, and you don’t think Kylian knows this. After many weeks of deep reflection and thought, you know that today might be the last day of your three and a half-year long relationship with Kylian Mbappé — a man who stole your heart and still has it. Once treasured, now barely beating. The diamond sitting on your left ring finger had started feeling like a foreign object, like something your body wanted to reject. It’s lost it’s comfort, now you seemed to lug around old memories you clung onto for dear life.

Kylian didn’t come home last night, though you saw on his private Snapchat story that he was safe, sound, and plastered out of his mind at some club with friends you didn’t even know. He couldn’t find it in him to text you back after 9 o’clock, when that morning he said he would be home no later than 8:30. He found a simple ‘going out, don’t wait up for me’ to be sufficient communication for the night.

You called Kylian, instead it went straight to voicemail. Your texts to him weren’t going through, either. He didn’t have training this morning because the coaches had a conference in London, so you knew he had to be home soon.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you made your way to the kitchen for a bowl of bland cereal and coffee for one.

“Happy birthday to me.” You mumbled, looking down at your sad birthday breakfast. Compared to the last few years where Kylian prepared you a delicious meal, hired a chef, or took you out to the fanciest café in Paris — this meal actually made you lose your appetite.

Across town, Kylian was waking up with a pounding sensation in his head and no recollection of the night before.

“What happened last night?” Kylian grumbled as he woke up to the bright sunlight streaming in from the open shutters. His neck had a kink in it from passing out on his friend Paolo’s Airbnb couch in the early hours of the morning, his voice sounded like he’d swallowed gravel. “Fuck.” He covered his face from the blinding rays and felt around for his phone.

He hasn’t gotten drunk that heavily in so long, but when two of his old friends came to Paris for a few weeks, he couldn’t resist giving into their pleads when they’d asked him to tag along for a fun night on the town.

“Bro, you were so drunk last night.” He heard his other friend Bernardo chuckle, his voice almost gone as well from the festivities of the previous night. Kylian sat up, seeing both men looking half dead and clinging onto coffee mugs like a child would cling onto its mothers leg.

The guys chuckled in the kitchen. He smelled eggs cooking but they just made him nauseous. “What time is it? Where’s my phone?”

“Oh…” Paolo snickered and pointed at the bowl full of rice in the center of his kitchen island. “Yeah, man… I don’t know if the rice did much for it. It’s fucked.”

Kylian shot up toward his cell, not even remembering putting it in the rice last night. He carefully picked it up, the entire screen was shattered.

“Putain…” He attempted to hold down the power button just in case, glancing over to the microwave to see the time. 12:36pm. “Merde!”

He had an important meeting with his PR team about potential sponsorships for next years season at 2 o’clock, and if he showed up sweating whiskey with an obvious hangover, the brand reps might think twice before giving him any deals.

He bid his old friends goodbye but not before promising to go out again soon. A short taxi ride later, he was able to make it back home just a little after 1 o’clock.

Kylian bursts through the front door, booking it toward the shower in your ensuite bathroom, running right past you on the bed without a glance or even a hello.

You’d been trying to decide all day if you were pissed at him or just super sad, but seeing him ignore you that way made you realize that it didn’t matter. He stopped making you happy, making you both pissed and sad — a dangerous combination.

You get up and follow him in there as he hopped around trying to take his skinny jeans off.

“I’m gonna be late.” He panted, sliding inside the shower.

You assumed if he knew he would’ve said something… happy birthday… I love you… I’m sorry…

Curious and resentful, you stand close to the shower door so he could hear you. “Where are you going? I thought we…” You blink tears back, sighing and trying to get control of your wavering voice, “… I thought we could do something tonight.”

This wasn’t even the plan, but you were trying to find anyway for him to redeem himself.

“No, (Y/N). I can’t today, okay?” He snapped. “I’m in a rush. Can you please just pick out a nice outfit for me, quickly.”

You shake your head in disbelief, wiping a stray tear that rolled down your face, sniffling once. Kylian hears this and pokes his head out. “Hey,” his barely softer, “Look, sorry but I’m in a huge rush. It’s been a shit morning.”

“Me too.” You mumble, disappointment laced in your words but Kylian didn’t seem to catch onto it.

“Also, my phone shattered at some point last night, so can you call Thérèse and have her drop me off a new one at the training center?”

You huffed, getting control of your emotions that were simmering into anger. One more chance, you thought as you were about to walk out of the bathroom, you turn. “Do you want to do something when you get home? Maybe even just dinner here, a movie?”

“Maybe.” He said back, turning off the shower. All you could do is roll your eyes and bite your tongue. You were trying to give him every opportunity to come back from this.

You didn’t want to end it, but you promised yourself that if he fucks up today, that was it. You can’t keep hoping he’ll become the person he was before. He won’t listen when you talk anymore or even meet you in the middle. You have too much respect for yourself to settle for someone who can’t appreciate you.

You dry laughed. “Maybe.” You mocked, another angry tear rolling down your face, storming back into the bedroom and getting under the covers, arms crossed.

You wanted to sob, but choked it down when Kylian stormed out of the bathroom, wet and holding his towel up around his waist. “Why are you so moody?” He didn’t even look at you, just shook his head and threw his hand down, exasperated when he realized you weren’t putting an outfit together for him. “I just asked you to help me out.” He tusks. “Are you just going to lay around all day, then?”

You knew this tone. The one where something else was bothering him except he expressed it by nitpicking at anything in front of him. Being with him for so long, you knew how to gently pry out the real reason why he was snappy. Right now, there was no way were you even attempting to help him out in any way.

“Looks like it, huh?” You gritted through your teeth. You could practically feel the eye roll he gave you even though neither of you would look at each other.

He muttered something you couldn’t hear as he walked into the closet, hurriedly throwing on some outfit. “I didn’t feel like fighting today, (Y/N).” He growled and threw on a white hat. “Today has been miserable so far.”

“Miserable for you?” You gaped, face getting angrily red.

“Oh, don’t start.” He spat, grabbing his keys and walking out of the room.

You jumped up and stomped out of the room behind him, seeing him almost at the bottom of the stairs. “Kylian.”

He groaned, continuing to run down the steps. “I don’t have time for a fucking fight right now!”

“Kylian!” You yelled from the railing just as he grabbed the door handle. With an exasperated turn around, he locked eyes with your teary ones. “When you get home… we need to talk.” You didn’t try and hide your sadness this time, knowing how the talk was going to end. The sentence squeaked out, like your forced it.

He paused, taking his hand off the door handle. “Fine.” He said this differently upon seeing your broken demeanor, shuffling in place. Kylian checked his watch, looking back up at you. You stared back, watching him hesitantly leave your shared home.

Kylian knew he’d been fucking up with you lately. Coming home late, forgetting to call or text back, paying less and less attention to you as the season progressed. He knew he was getting too comfortable and at some point stopped putting in any effort. The worst was that he’d been taking his frustrations out on you, shutting you out. He watched as you tried to smile through his snarky and quick comments, feeling bad immediately but he just didn’t know how to deal with that kind of guilty emotion.

Your engagement has been a long one. Nine months in and you guys hadn’t even set a date yet. Time kept slipping through the glass, he wondered when the last time you’d even brought up the wedding was — wondering when the last time he even thought about it directly after.

The whole way to work he watched out the window, lost in thought about how he needs to be better. So much so that his driver had to tell him that they’d arrived. He was actually early. With a big fake smile on his face, he did his best to set it all aside, turning on work-mode.

Meanwhile, you had a really nice cry. The kind where you just let it all out because you knew no one was around to hear or pity you. Once you pulled yourself together, you gathered your suitcases from the attic.

It was obvious you couldn’t take everything that was yours. You’d bought so many things for this place, for your shared home… so you focused on the things you were for sure taking with you. All your clothes, makeup, sentimental items, and the fruit bowl you found in a market in Spain were secured inside your bags. You stopped and cried so many times… over a pair of shoes that he bought for you or a picture that brought back sweet memories… all these momentos felt wasted.

Yesterday, you were certain that he would remember what today was. So certain that you convinced yourself you didn’t need to get a hotel. You wished you did, because doing it today felt so final, so depressing. And, upon looking at your empty side of the closet, vanity, side table, bathroom shelf… you had to pull yourself together and be strong. Remind yourself why you’ve resorted to this.

Back at the training grounds, Kylian snapped his last photo-op with the CEO of some athletic wear company, absolutely drained from having to pretend for hours. He had sent his assistant off for a new phone when he saw her, knowing you didn’t text her about him needing one.

He trudged over to Hakimi now that all of that was over, sitting down with a long huff, placing his head in his hands. He hadn’t talked to him all day, being occupied with offers and whatnot.

“Man, I’ve been texting you all day.” He patted his back once, turning to face him.

Kylian looked up at his friend, shaking his head. “It broke last night. Thérèse is out getting me a new one now.”

Hakimi sensed there was something bothering Kylian, but knew not to approach him too strongly. He nodded at his answer. “So, uh… I bet (Y/N)’s pissed, right?”

Kylian blew a raspberry. “Oh, yeah… so pissed…” He nodded with the most exhausted look on his face. “Wait, how’d you know that?”

“Well, I mean, Hiba would be pissed too.” Kylian raised an eyebrow, still confused on how he knew about your fight. “You know, if I had to work on her birthday like this.” He laughed at the thought. “I’d have a lot of groveling to do. Or, did you guys plan something on a different day?”

Kylian gazed up at Hakimi, eyes widening with the vague memory of todays date. “Wait.” He gulped, hands hovering over his head. “Is today the…” he flipped the calendar in his mind, praying that Achraf was mistaken about that. “Ah… merde! Putain! Shit!” Kylian smacked the table and bounced up out of the chair, heart beating a million miles a minute.

Hakimi stood too, watching Kylian pace with his hands cradling his head. “No… Kylian, you didn’t…”

He nods, panic settling in hardcore. “I yelled at her today. I asked her why she was being moody. I didn’t come home last night— ah baise moi, mec. je suis un putain d'idiot!” He cursed himself. Ah fuck me, man. I’m a goddamn idiot!

Thérèse speed walked over to the man in crisis, holding a brand new phone. “All your data’s transferred and everything!” She cheered. Kylian probably didn’t even thank her, going directly to his messages with you to text you that he’s so sorry and coming home right now. When he clicked on your icon, he saw all of the messages you sent him last night

You: Ky will u please come home — 9:25 pm

You: I know ur friends are in town and all but I seriously need u with me tonight — 10:48 pm

You: hello?? — 11:51 pm

You: are u okay? Do u need a ride? — 1:35 am

You: I’m getting worried. please just reply. I need to know ur okay Kylian — 1:40 am

You: nice Snapchat story. Good to know ur fucking fine. — 2:46 am

He ran a hand over his face, beginning to sweat with guilt. His eyes lowered on the screen, the small grey message by the keyboard truly making his stomach knot up even more.

(Y/N) stopped sharing their location with you.

His heart fell in his chest, churning… he felt like he was going to puke. Suddenly all of the conversations you tried to start with him about his behavior over the last six months came flooding back. The same conversations he moaned and groaned though, always deflecting until it turned into a fight. God, how badly he had been treating you… like you were a menace in his life — when really, without you, he wouldn’t be able to go on the same.

He began trying to call you and gathered his things, but his calls simply rang until it went to voicemail. “I-I have to go.” He stammered, almost tripping over his feet. Hakimi watched, shocked at the state of his best friend, knowing how he could get sometimes.

Kylian jumped in the town car as fast as his world-renowned legs could get him there, giving the driver instructions to get him home, and quick. The whole way he cussed at slow drivers, construction workers, red lights. He checked his new phone for the time; 10:37 pm and still fifteen minutes away from home.

God, please let her still be home.

He won’t know what to do with himself if you just left.

‘We need to talk’ rung over and over again in his head like a jinx. The way your voice cracked, the tears he saw you hold back. She’s so strong, he thought.

I raised my voice at her. I forgot her birthday and then treated her like she was the problem.

He pinched his leg to distract himself from crying. He has to be level headed, calm, logical, loving, and very apologetic— everything he hasn’t been for the last months. He knows he doesn’t deserve you, but can’t imagine what his life, his future will look like if he lets you slip through his fingers.

No girl has ever made him feel like this. Everything he looked for in a woman you embodied tenfold and he fucked it up. He has to fix this.

Kylian didn’t even let the car come to a full stop when he arrived, tripping over his own feet, realizing he left his coat in the back seat but really not caring at all. He just has to know you’re there. He looked toward the driveway, seeing your car still parked in its usual spot.

Thank the lord.

Fumbling with the keys, his shaking hands clicked the door open, seeing only the living room lamp on.

“Bébé?” He called. He saw your figure looking at him from the couch. “Oh, (Y/N)…” he breathed, walking over to get closer. You stoop up, meeting him halfway. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry.” He heaved, breathless from his pounding heart.

The dull yellow light illuminating the side of your face showed him how puffy and red your eyes were, how downturned your usual smile was. He saw what he’d done to you, all the months you’ve had to walk on eggshells, the conversations that he’s turned on you, how he forgot your special day.

You still didnt say anything, keeping your arms crossed, looking him in the eye — the while begging yourself internally not to cave. His sweet eyes knew how to reel you in. You weren’t going to cave. You couldn’t.

“I forgot your birthday…” He whispered sadly, guilt drenched his tone, sending a cold depressing shiver down your spine.

Your eyes brimmed with tears again, but you bit your cheek and shook them away, having to be strong for yourself. “So, you finally remembered.” You sniffled.

“I’m so sorry, bèbè. Time just…” he stopped himself from making anymore excuses, “I’m just a fucking idiot. And I’m going to make it up to you. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.” He stammered, voice shaking from nerves.

“But, it’s not just about the birthday, Kylian. It’s been… it’s..–”

“–I know, bébé. I’ve been horrible to you. Truly horrible. You never deserved any of that.” He cautiously lifted his hand to yours, grabbing your fingers. All the words he was going to say suddenly didn’t feel good enough. No I’m sorry is going to feel sufficient.

You looked at your tangled hands, he played with your fingers anxiously, trying to catch your gaze, but it now stayed glued to the floor.

You took a deep breath and looked up at him with teary eyes — that of a wounded puppy. It broke him. “We need to talk.” Your words were laced in false strength, false confidence.

You didn’t know what the hell you were going to do once you leave him. Flying blind isn’t something you did very often, but you knew it’s what had to be done.

“Yes.” He nodded eagerly, trying to guide your hand toward the couch to sit. “Let’s talk. We can talk this all out, right?”

His hopeful tone made your heart break even more. The guiltiness that radiated off of him made it harder to do what you had to… his face fell when you let your hand slip back into your folded arms, turning away from him, sniffling.

“Kylian, I can’t… I can’t sit down with you and hold your hand and let you apologize to me. It’s not how this is gonna go.” Wiping your cheeks roughly, you turned to see his dropped face. “This talk… it’s going to be really hard. For both of us.”

He approached you, putting his hands on your forearms. “You’re scaring me, bèbè.”

Your lip quivered, not knowing how to tell him. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. “Kylian. I love you.”

“I love you too. I love you so much, (Y/N). I know we can work through this. I know it.” He pleaded, moving his face around to try and get you to look at him.

“No, Kylian. I love you, but…” You finally looked up, noticing he’d started crying as well. Ouch. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He didn’t know what he was expecting. Sure, he was scared and sorry about what he did but the possibility of breaking up seemed impossible. Not like he was immune to repercussions, but you two just made sense. He loves you impossibly too much, but he’s forgotten to show you.

Kylian stood in shock, he felt his heartbeat in his teeth, his throat dry. “Don’t say that.” He whimpered. “Please, don’t say that.”

His hands traveled up to hold your face and he bent down to your level, needing you to look at him, to see how regretful he was, how much harder he will work at this. He touched his forehead to yours, wrestling with the temptation of falling down from anguish.

You shook your head between his palms, letting the tears fall freely, a small sob escaping. He wiped away the tears with his thumbs, attempting to hold you closer, squeaking out the smallest words; “Bèbè.” “No, no.” “Please.” “I’m so sorry.”

You grabbed his wrists, using all your strength to pull them from your face. Immediately, you turned around and grabbed a duffel bag he hadn’t noticed was sitting on the armchair. Your feet took you toward the exit.

“No.” His voice broken, his own face scrunched up and soaked with tears. “No, where are you going?”

It took everything in you not to comfort him, run into his arms, tell him it will be okay.

You pushed your instincts down and turning and shrugged instead, now feet away from the man you love, closing in on the front door. “I’m…” You felt a choking sob threatening to spill out of your mouth and had to look away, silently crying out with your hand covering you mouth. With a deep breath, you continued. “I’m leaving.”

“Well, when will you be back?” In just a few strides, he was back in front of you. He couldn’t help but hold your face again, wiping more tears with a gentle but pleading touch.

You gripped his wrists again, only this time, you weren’t strong enough to pull them away, instead feeling his warm skin one more time.

With a small shake of the head, you responded. “I’m not coming back, Kylian.”

“But… but this is your home. It’s our home.”

“I’m sorry, Kylian.” You finally ripped his hands from your face once more and adjusted the heavy strap on your shoulder. Turning around, your feet drag you to the front door. You reach into your back pocket and take out the house key that’s not longer attatched to your usual tassel keychain and set it down on the table.

He stood there and watched, now feeling helpless in this heart wrenching situation. It doesn’t seem like this is real, he has to be having a nightmare, just watching you leave his life and there’s nothing he can do about it — but it doesn’t stop him from trying, begging. “Amour, no. I can fix this, please just give me a chance to make this right.” He was desperate, once again approaching you.

Kylian sniffled, watching your every reaction, hoping for a glint of anything that would allow him to make it up to you. You looked down at your hands, then your left ring finger… everything in your body was holding you back from taking it off, but you mustered up every ounce of self control.

Kylian looked away as you slid the engagement ring off, hearing the light clink of it being set next to the keys. With his hands at his sides, back slouching, he looked back at your face, nodding in defeat.

“I’m sorry.” You repeated in a squeaky whisper.

“Me too.” He nods, looking down at your empty hand. He couldn’t but reach out, trapping your fingers delicately with his fingers, stepping closer.

His arm snakes around your waist, holding you, shaking with his suppressed cries. You allowed yourself to hug him back, to close the chapter, to feel his warm embrace again before you never would again.

The hug lasted for a while, swaying back and forth and crying into each others shoulders. He smelled like he always did, and you noted how hard it would be if you came across his familiar scent again. He also was getting high on your fumes, indulging in the coconut scented shampoo he had become addicted to. The touch of your hands clasping at his back made him cry harder, squeezing you tighter and lovingly.

You pulled back once your cries calmed, sniffling. He stayed close, lifting his eyes to look into yours. Before he knew how to stop himself, he closed in the space, landing his salty lips on yours, closing his eyes. You kissed him back, hating how much you’d miss him. The way his fingers dug into your hips made you lightheaded.

It’s too hard to stop, but you had to. Pulling away, you turned around quickly and left, sobbing all the way to your packed up car.

Kylian was glued in place. His heart had been put through a blender, his head throbbed, his chest was cold without you with him. He saw the flash of your headlights backing out and leaving the property reflect inside the dark and empty home.

He’s miserable, hollow. He’s angry at himself, maybe at you, even if he knows this was his own doing… the whirling in his brain wasn’t anywhere near as loud as the silence after you left — a deafening silence that followed him up to us bedroom, one he now only shared with his thoughts.

It killed him when he saw there was no longer a charger plugged next to your side of the bed, that your slippers were gone from their usual spot by the corner. None of your favorite books were displayed on the shelves, your skincare products left just a ring of residue on the sink. Stepping into the closet, he noticed it still smelled like you, but everything was gone. Everything but the shirts of his that you had stolen through the years, now neatly folded on top of one of his dressers. He wished you had taken them to remember him. He wished he could turn back time and do everything right.

Above all the sadness and the gaping hole is his heart was determination. He fucked up but he wasn’t about to do it again. You would not be the one that got away. It may be the last thing he ever does, but he’ll make it all up to you. He was prepared to go to the furthest lengths to hold you again. But, for now, he needed to wallow in self pity, feel everything that he needs to feel.

Not even on the chilliest Parisian night had his bed felt as cold as it did that day.

A/N: Okay I feel like I kinda dragged that out but angst! I’m contemplating a part 2 but I also kinda like leaving it at this… would y’all want another part? Also, the title is inspired by the song The Loneliest by Måneskin, listen to it after reading. Their new album is so fucking amazing. — Requests for Kylian Mbappé are open! —

[sparrowandbee]

Introduction | Chapter 1, Part 2

Synopsis: 68 ADD marks the last year that Marian Cartwright is eligible for reaping into The Hunger Games. Will the odds be in her favor? Or will she be made to pay for her luck in the previous six years?

Author’s Note: I decided to split this first chapter up into to sections since I personally prefer to read shorter chapters. Let me know what you’d prefer to read!

Word Count: 1543

The sun was beating down on my face as we stood shoulder to shoulder, the smell of coal always lingering on my loose curly hair and ever blackened hands. Despite only a few clouds obstructing the clear blue sky, even the sunshine couldn’t change the dirty grey landscape of District 12.

It was my seventh reaping and the lingering dread no longer shocked me as it did in the years before. My name was written in 21 times that year- the slips of paper mingling with each other in the glass orb just a few feet from me- but I’d been around long enough to know that it didn’t matter how many names anyone had in there; the Capitol’s cruelty knew no fairness.

I had seen kids as young as 12 and as old as 17 be chosen and met with the same fate. Whether they stepped up in tears or in confidence, they all ended up as a nationally televised corpse.

I looked around at the girls standing with me and recognized a few of them from earlier reapings. There were two who wore a new dress every year, their black hair always in pretty updos. Their father was a mine supervisor, so they clearly had Capitol money. They would giggle and whisper to each other and I’d always caught different boy’s names being tossed around.

To my left were a few girls I’d seen around the mines before. They had always been a quiet trio but held on to each other for the entirety of the event, their knuckles getting bone-white as they squeezed their thin, pale hands.

We each inhabited different worlds within the same small district, but we were united by each July 4th, seeing each other’s familiar faces grow longer and more adult, beating the odds by returning every year, despite the Capitol’s desire to exterminate us. Our own tiny resistance.

The reaping was so quiet when we were 12.

I remember no one dared even whisper. But at 18, everyone acted as though this was just another bureaucratic inconvenience. As a lot of us had started to face real struggles in the latter years of our childhood, the Games just got more distant… more arbitrary. We had real things to worry about now.

I scanned my surroundings out of both habit and boredom. Frankly, most girls looked the same- mousy hair and sunken faces. From the far end of the field I spotted the braided blonde hair of Evaline Wergeld, daughter of a butcher I’d been avoiding since he caught me taking some of his bits at the Hobb. My head snapped back to avoid making eye contact, just as my belly let out a loud rumble.

No one turned around, of course.

Hunger was as much part of District 12’s soundscape as the song of the mockingjays overhead or the rustling of the trees against the breeze. It wasn’t anything to be noticed, particularly not from the scrawny orphan girl.

I was too busy worrying about whether I’d be able to scrap enough coins to eat something at night rather than entertain the thought of being picked out of hundreds of girls- especially since it was my last year being eligible.

I had survived 18 years of strife and self-sufficiency, needing nothing and being noticed by no one. This too would come and pass, like everything else before it, I thought as I stood in the barren yard amidst the other grim girls of District 12.

The mayor began the process with a tedious speech no one paid attention to. Instead I tried to get the coal dust out from under my short, bare fingernails.

“Welcome all and happy Hunger Games!,” the overexcited Capitol representative with voluptuous, undulating red hair exclaimed into the microphone, causing uncomfortable feedback. I don’t remember her name. We got a new presenter nearly every year- no one wanted to be stuck in 12.

I shifted, my newly stolen shoes still uncomfortable. It was strange to be this close to the stage, just three rows away from the pomp which always seemed so distant from the barren landscape. “And as always, may the odds be ever in your favour!” Her Capitol inflexion grated my ears as the wind caught one of the many ruffles on her flowy white dress.

As they did every year, a propaganda video was broadcast on the large screens on either side of the field.

As we did every year, everybody ignored it, preferring to fiddle with braids or straighten a washed-out floral dress.

I looked down and traced the outline of the delicate butterflies on my once-purple threadbare shift dress. It was the only dress I owned, and despite its tattered state, it was the most beautiful thing.

“What a wonderful message from our President Snow!” I looked up to see the announcer smiling widely, showing her blindingly white teeth through her purple lipstick.

“Now we will select one brave young man and woman who will have the honour of representing District 12 in the 68th Hunger Games!” She paused, clearly expecting applause. I sighed, not caring enough to roll my eyes. Rent was due in two days and I couldn’t be evicted again. I may be able to steal some food from the bakery so I can make it in time; everyone seemed to get distracted during the Games.

“Okay, ladies first!” Everything from her mouth was an abundant exclamation, and her words still echoed as her white heels ‘clicked’ and she reached her hand into the large glass bowl. The world went still; I’ve never experienced silence like the reaping, as if everybody’s heartbeats were suspended in unison.

Worry flickered through me then. As much as I tried to reassure myself, the threat was so present, looming over the heads of every child on the field. My stomach hurt not out of hunger but anxious nausea. No one was ever safe.

“And our lucky tribute is…” She stepped back in front of the polished silver microphone, her glittery green and purple eye makeup glistening against the artificial lights as she looked down to read the slip of paper, “Marian Cartwright!”

My name echoed through the yard. My heart dropped as my veins ran with ice, despite the sweat dripping on my brow. The girls standing next to me looked around, not recognizing the name of a seemingly invisible girl.

Seven years and for the last time of course I was made to pay for my survival- a cruel karmic trick for the girl who has nothing to live for.

Fitting. Poetic, even.

The girls around me retreated, probably realizing that I was the only one none of them identified. Slowly, they all held onto each other and moved back, creating a bubble around me, as if they would catch my bad luck if they stood too close.

In my 10 years of solitude, I’ve never felt more isolated, more judged or pitied- or perceived.

I looked up to the screens and found my face already projected on the stage. The announcer never let her smile slip and I cautiously walked towards her, flanked by two peacekeepers. My blood rushed at an inhuman speed, fueled by my anxiety and fear, feeling like I was moving against my will.

The stage lights were brighter up close than they looked from the floor. The announcer gestured her green gloved hand for me to step towards her. I couldn’t stop looking at the texture left by her thick, pale makeup. I could make out every wrinkle and crack on the surface which looked so flawless from far away.

I looked down at the worn brown leather Mary Janes I stole from my last landlady just a month ago. They were too small for me. I didn’t want to see anyone in the crowd, not because I particularly cared about them but because I couldn’t stand their pitiful looks.

Pity from people who never bothered to help.

“Alder Oakley!” I looked up to see the male tribute making his way to the stage, fear so clearly coloured his face. I tried to keep my gaze withdrawn until he stood next to me, to retain some dignity on his walk of shame.

He smelled fresh and clean when he stood next to me. He could probably afford those oils sold on the road by the seamstress. His button-up shirt was off-white and neatly pressed, the seams were all intact, a tell of light wear.

So he had some money to spare, but really, he looked like every other District 12 boy. A bit of musculature from a childhood preparing to work in the mines and a clean-shaven face. There was a bit of dirt on his hair, he was probably cutting wood for fire that morning.

He took my hand in his as the announcer exclaimed our names: “Marian Cartwright and Alder Oakley, your District 12 tributes!” but I kept my eyes down, with no intention of playing along.

With that, my fate was sealed with only the certainty of my imminent death.

—

Next Chapter

Masterlist

[darknwilde]

She curled her fingers into her palms simply to feel how cold each fingertip was. The ice of her own flesh sent chills up her arms. It was only early September, but the temperature was dwindling its way down to the sixties. Even though she was perfectly comfortable in a t-shirt and shorts, her hands never failed to keep her shivering. She could feel the ache of a bitter winter in her knuckles already, as if the changing of the season was introducing itself via her thin, bony hands.

Uncurling her fists, she looked down at her fingers, blue and purple. She had once been told that she had the hands of a pianist, though she couldn’t play and didn’t have a particular interest in learning how to. She thought of all the things she has been told she looked like – a ballerina, a runner, a timid girl – and wondered how deeply each passing remark had affected her. At twenty-two, she wasn’t anything of these things. She was nothing more than a high-strung student with poor circulation.

“Daphne,” insisted a disembodied voice. “Daphne!”

She started. Lifting her head, her eyes were met with an empty lecture hall.

“What is up with you?” Henry stood over her seat, a look of both concern and annoyance present in the furrow of his brows.

“I must’ve zoned out,” Daphne said, shaking the fog out of her head as she rose from her seat. She reached for her bag, stuffed her notebook inside, and moved to head out the door with Henry. Her friend hesitated for a moment, a sliver of true concern, before continuing out the auditorium behind her.

Daphne’s eyes strained to adjust to the bright sunlight outside, so she kept her gaze lowered to the cobbled paths that connected campus. Henry matched her steps as they began their trek back to the apartment across the length of the university’s grounds. The two o’clock sun was barely short of sweltering, though Daphne noted that her hands remained cold as she stuck them into the pockets of her shorts.

“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” Henry probed. He was nothing if not relentless, and Daphne knew that he wouldn’t let her distant behavior go without a fulfilling answer.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Daphne lied. She knew that he knew she was lying, but he pretended to be satisfied with her response and changed the subject.

“Sarah’s coming over tonight. Hope that’s okay,” Henry said. Daphne was thankful that her mind was somewhere else, for otherwise she would have struggled to stop herself from rolling her eyes. All she could do was nod, and Henry gave up on trying to entertain a conversation.

Sarah Whitney was absolutely insufferable, at least according to Daphne. She was arrogant, haughty, and stank of nepotism. Yet Henry seemed unable to see past her lazy façade, and had made a point out of trying to secure her as his date to the fall formal. Daphne would be sure to be far from the apartment by the time Sarah showed up, as Daphne had found that secluding herself to her room, even with the door shut and her headphones on, wasn’t a sufficient amount of space between the two of them.

The walk dredged on until they finally reached the apartment building. It was three stories of hideous seventies architecture, but the two-bedroom that Henry and Daphne shared was livable. More importantly, it was affordable, but Daphne avoided being at the apartment too much. Once inside, Henry sunk onto the couch, and pulled out his cell phone. Daphne could hear Sarah’s voice on the other end of the line as she shuffled down the hallway to her room, quickly shutting the door behind her.

[tenthgrove]

yess thank you for letting me ask you about the lore >:3c so I have to get my absolute favorites outta the way first— what kinda lore and thoughts do you have for sorbet or gelato ( <- before they get together and the earlier years of them getting together if you need a specific period ) I have to also ask are you ok if I go down the “line” and get your thoughts in other asks about the rest of the la squadra babes? Thank you sm 💖💖 I hope you’re having a wonderf day/evening

Ah! Now this is one of my absolute favourites! Apologies to anyone who has already heard me ramble about my Sorbet and Gelato backstory ad nauseam on multiple occasions, but this is really an area where I can't help myself. Besides, this is my opportunity to go more in depth where I haven't before:

(Note after writing this: It's stupidly long. I'm sorry I just can't help myself with these backstories. I couldn't decide what to leave out so I decided nothing.)

(Also please feel free to ask me more lore questions because I love doing this)

We'll begin with Sorbet, born in Naples in February 1967 if you follow the canon timeline (although by default I write in modern AU so move the dates 20 years later). His situation at birth was absolutely dire, the eldest child of an incredibly vulnerable woman and one of her clients as a sex worker. Sorbet's mother was by all means a decent woman but her severe mental illness and drug addiction made it impossible for her to be a good mother, which of course had a bad effect on Sorbet growing up. After Sorbet, she had 5 more children, all through clients, and Sorbet was saddled with much of their care.

Though he loved his siblings, Sorbet was pretty much done with this life by age 12 and was easily swept up by older boys from the local street gang, who paid him well to peddle drugs when he should have been in school. This was a very underfunded neighbourhood so nobody questioned his truancy, and within the next couple of years he had stopped going to school entirely. Shortly after this, having acquired sufficient money through his crime involvement, Sorbet left his family to stay with his new friends, moving between them on a regular basis. He also discovered his sexuality around this time and dated a few male friends, though none of these relationships got very far.

By age 16, Sorbet had earned a reputation in the street gang for skilled and passionate violence, and was selected by the ringleader to commit the group's first planned murder, in exchange of course for a lucrative reward. Sorbet accepted, succeeded, and became the group's de-facto assassin whenever needed. He continued to hoard considerable money for the remainder of his adolescence, though continued to be functionally homeless since he didn't see it necessary when sofa-surfing was suiting him fine.

Before resuming with Sorbet, let's explain the life that Gelato came from. Gelato was born in October 1967 in St. Petersburg, Russia, (Note- I previously used the city of Minsk, unaware that this is in fact, in Belarus) to an upper-middle class businessman and his Italian wife, a distant relative of French Monarchy. Gelato's relationship with his parents was rocky from the start due to the fact they would have preferred a girl after three successive sons, but any parental love they had for their youngest child broke down entirely after he was diagnosed with both Autism and ADHD at age 5, in an evaluation intending to find the cause of some behavioural issues that were really, just a response to emotional neglect.

When Gelato was 13 he, his parents, and two of his three brothers (the eldest was already an adult by this time and elected to stay behind) moved to Italy to escape some allegations of corruption in the father's business. They moved to a rural village in North-West Italy where the community was very middle-class and quite stifling for Gelato, who had enough social rules to remember in the familiar, economically-diverse city he grew up in. His behavioural issues got worse and began to include things he would later regret, such as attacking and stealing from younger children, and things he would absolutely not, like attacking and stealing from teachers. By this point the family had largely written him off as a failure, revering instead their academically successful, well-behaved older children, which absolutely contributed to the spiralling cycle of behaviour issues Gelato faced.

Then, at age 17, Gelato failed a crucial exam and was expelled from high-school. His parents kicked him out on the spot, and with no other family in Italy Gelato had very few options on what to do next. He recalled, however, one older friend having links to a street gang in Naples, and decided to see if this boy might have a route out of destitution for him. Indeed, the friend did know of a man in Naples needing assistance within the gang, but could offer no help in getting Gelato there. Seeing no other way, Gelato walked the whole journey.

Arriving in Naples, the friend's associate announced that the position Gelato was after had been taken, but taking pity on his distress, informed him of another friend who needed someone to look after an unlicensed bar that served as one of the group's main meeting points. He agreed to arrange for the small apartment above the bar to be given as payment.

Gelato accepted, but although he had now solved the problem of homelessness his life was still incredibly miserable. For one, with his pay being the apartment he had to rely on measly tips to get by, which rarely left him with enough to eat let alone anything else. Additionally, as an outsider with little understanding of the way gangs work Gelato was an easy target for abuse, and was treated like absolute shit by the bar's patrons.

By this point in time, Sorbet had just turned 18. He was, incidentally, in the same gang Gelato had joined, and a regular at the bar he worked in. For a good couple of months they took no notice of each other, until Sorbet came to be in a coincidental feud with one of the men who was violent to Gelato at the bar. When Gelato witnessed the two of them in a fight, he made the spur-of-the-moment decision to join in on Sorbet's side, knocking the patron unconscious and leaving him too afraid to visit again. For his trouble, Sorbet gave Gelato a portion of the money he looted from the fight's loser, and flirted with him lightly before going about with his evening. Unknown to Sorbet, he had just sent Gelato falling head over hills in love.

Gelato found out about Sorbet's sexuality from other patrons and, delighted, attempted to flirt with him the next time they saw each other, but his attempts came off very poorly and Sorbet actually thought he was being insulted. Angered, he dragged Gelato into the cellar to demand what was going on. Gelato, terrified, admitted having a crush, which Sorbet found to be the sweetest and most genuine thing he'd ever heard. While he couldn't promise a relationship, he did agree to show Gelato more attention in the future. But, it was only a matter of days until Sorbet found himself loving Gelato back.

This whirlwind relationship continued happily for three weeks, Sorbet greatly improving Gelato's situation through his saved money and helping him fend off the abusive patrons. Gelato, in turn, offered Sorbet a permanent place to stay in the apartment, which he accepted. Sorbet was in the process of moving his things, and they had plans to refurbish the place to make it actually habitable.

But then, everything came crashing down. One night the bar was subject to a surprise raid by the police, operating by the false assumption it was empty. Sorbet and Gelato attempted to flee but were caught, and in a panic, Gelato shot a policeman dead. Rushing to his defence Sorbet killed two more, but a fourth escaped to tell the tale. The couple knew they were screwed. Running to the headquarters of their gang they begged for protection but were informed the small group simply could not save them from a charge this serious, and gave them only a single night of shelter to plan their next move. Gelato, who remember had never committed anything more serious than minor ABH before, had an absolute breakdown over this predicament that night, and whilst comforting him, Sorbet devised a blood pact with him to stick together no matter what came.

Over the next few days, Sorbet and Gelato fled north, avoiding the police through Sorbet's skills as a criminal and Gelato's very convincing Russian tourist impression. They were almost at the French border when Sorbet awoke one night to find Gelato missing behind him. He chased his tracks to the driveway of a rural house, a tearful Gelato clutching a knife at the shut door and trembling. He informed Sorbet that he had intentionally led him to the village where his family lived, with the intention to break in and kill them as revenge for the years of abuse. Sorbet warned Gelato that this would not be good for their attempts to flee, but said he understood fully and would help him if this is truly what he wanted. Gelato agreed, and together they broke into the house and slaughtered Gelato's mother and father, additionally killing one of his brothers after he woke from the noise. The other brother, the youngest other than Gelato, was spared, as Gelato felt his role in the abuse had been comparatively more minor and he did not deserve to die. This of course, left another witness.

The massacre in the village was quickly linked to the one at the bar and Gelato was promptly identified from a comparison of DNA found at the scene to his surviving brother's. Sorbet, a known criminal, was identified soon after. Not only were the pair now known but the police figured out what their plan was and informed the French police as well, making things exponentially harder for the couple.

They made do for a while by hanging low and keeping on the move, living off money stolen from the parents' house. Eventually however, they needed more, and began making deals with local crime organisations to carry out assassinations in exchange for money or temporary shelter. While Sorbet was already a pro at this, Gelato found himself a fast learner, and soon realised he shared Sorbet's adoration for the act of killing. He felt as though he was finally coming to meet his true self.

Though the assassination deals were lucrative, they did not help the couple keep a low profile and the attacks from police were relentless. Several times, they barely escaped capture. All this was not good on their mental states, and after two years, Sorbet knew it needed to end. He and Gelato returned to Naples in the hope their old gang might reconsider protecting them, but they were met with a surprise as their old gang had been completely overtaken by Passione. Even still, the new mobsters had heard a lot about Sorbet and Gelato's exploits and agreed to get them an audience with a local Capo, Pericolo, who was impressed by the men's skills and moved by the sense of honour suggested by their love for each other. He agreed to initiate them into the gang.

Soon after this, Sorbet and Gelato recieved stands which, although not very powerful, assisted them greatly in the art of assassination. Soon, they were natural choices for Passione whenever a hit needed carrying out in the Naples area. At some point a few years in, they befriended a man named Prosciutto who had been recently forced into Passione due to his heritage. Prosciutto was also funnelled into assassination jobs and, with less of a reputation for impulsivity than Sorbet and Gelato, was the one given the order to form a new assassination squad when the need arose, around 1993 if we're following canon.

(Note, I hc La Squadra was created by Passione in response to a real life government crackdown on the Italian mafia around 1992-93, in response to an incredibly scandalous series of assassinations. In such a climate, it would make sense for Passione to want to consolidate an elite squad of its best hitmen, do avoid future problems.)

Due to personal commitments Prosciutto did not want to be the captain, so attempted to give this responsibility to Sorbet, a request the boss promptly denied. Prosciutto was, however, allowed to add Sorbet and Gelato to the team's ranks, cementing the three of them as the first members of the team.

Prosciutto would, soon enough, find another person to give the title of captain to, but that's a story for another time.

[writing-fool]

mlqc | like it’s a bad thing pt. 1

I think these are ‘fighting’ scenarios, but I’m not 100% sure at this point. It’s like a ‘relationship on the cliffs’ thing. Pt. 1 for Victor and Shaw because I noticed these were getting a tad long. And they kind of carry the same theme, I guess. Wanted to include Lucien, but I ended up not being able to finish his for now...so if I make the next part, he’ll probably be on there.

I’m still working on a hp!au for Victor, but that may take a while since the inspiration doesn’t seem to be arriving anytime soon. It’s all been a bit tough, sorry. I say this all the time, but I apologise for the lack of fics; my writing pace’s been slow.

As always, enjoy the read!

Love,

R.

Warning(s): slight angst, profanity, mention of mature content.

Victor

You love Victor. You really do. But sometimes, just sometimes you wonder why you put up with this man and his bullshit. A great downside to being involved both romantically and professionally is that those types of relationships tend to bleed into one another. This could be in the form of an office quickie...or something a lot less fun. 

On the outside, Victor may seem put together, but you know him well enough by now that this month has been incredibly stressful for him. But so has it been for you. Safe to say, it’s been tense, even at home. Victor’s constant nagging about work performance and his snide comments at your so-called slacking off have pushed you to the breaking point, and you’re really not going to sit there and take it today.

“Do you even understand what I’m saying? LFG can’t move forward with your company if you continue working at this inefficient pace. You, as the head of a company, should know how to improve the quality and efficiency of your work.”

You sigh, not taking your eyes off of the laptop in front of you as Victor exasperatedly throws another one of your proposals on the coffee table. “I get it. Just give me some time.” You rub your temples, getting back to your own work.

“Do you? It doesn’t seem like you get the point here. You. Do. Not. Have. Time,” he harshly points out.

“You know you’re able to manipulate time, right?” You raise an eyebrow and look up at his unamused face. 

“I can’t favour you like this. Did you really think I was going to stop time to solve your inefficiency problem? You can’t rely on others all the time. A company that can’t pull itself up is use—” 

Something in you snaps at that very moment. “I get it. We’re useless, inefficient, and we’re so lucky LFG is even willing to support this failing company. I’m a useless boss, I can’t do anything right, I’m leeching off of my rich, CEO boyfriend to get ahead, I fucked my way to the top, whatever. Tell me something I don’t know,” you snarl, slamming your laptop shut with a resounding snap.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.” Victor’s glaring now, sharp, stormy eyes boring into yours.

“Oh, do I?” you mimic his words, narrowing your eyes, “Because you sure don’t seem to tell me otherwise. I can’t read minds, Victor, and all I hear from your mouth are insults telling me how incapable I am as a boss. So pray tell, how am I supposed to think I deserve my job when not only the entire business world, but also my own fucking boyfriend tells me I don’t?”

Victor’s clearly taking aback by your sudden outburst, but his need to get his point across in this argument seems to win over the instinct to lighten your mood at this very moment. “First of all, I don’t know why you care what others say—”

“Because I’m human! Maybe you don’t think of people calling you names anymore because they’re lost in the sea of people literally grovelling at your feet, but I’m not you,” you rub your temples again, voice lowering as the mental exhaustion kicks in.

“I don’t know if I can live like this anymore. Fuck Victor, you make me feel like a failure and you just don’t seem to care.” You push past his stunned form and head to the bedroom.

“Sleep in your office if all you care about is work.” You glance back at him for the last time before slamming the bedroom door shut.

Victor messed up. Royally. He didn’t mean to take his stress and anger out on you and he definitely didn’t mean to act like your boss at home. 

He’s been trying to get back to work for the past two hours while giving you some space, but the lingering guilt and worry in the back of his mind prevent him from actually doing anything productive. What if you really meant it? What if this is it? He can’t lose you just because he acted like an idiot. Victor’s always assumed you knew he cherished you more than anything in the world...but maybe he’s been neglecting you as a partner.

With a steel resolve to make it right, Victor leaves his home office and walks to your shared bedroom. The light from the hallway streams in as he opens the door, illuminating your sleeping figure. You’re curled in on yourself in a protective, almost guarded way, something you never do (you’re usually the kind of sleeper that has their limbs flopping everywhere on the bed). Victor feels a sharp pang in his heart at the notion of seeing you look this broken...because of him.

Gently, as to not wake you, he shuffles to the dresser, carefully taking off his shirt and folding it over a chair. After sufficiently (un)dressing himself, he slides under the sheets. 

Victor tentatively reaches a hand over to touch your arm, only to feel you turn away from his touch. Instead of pulling his hand back, Victor brings his hand around your waist, pulling you flush against his bare chest.

You’re awoken by the sudden movement, and in your sleepy state, you lean back into the warmth surrounding you.

Victor’s breath grazes your ear as he whispers. “I’m sorry.” Hm?

Your mind slowly registers that the warmth is, in fact, caused by Victor’s body heat, and more importantly, that you’re still very much upset with him. You struggle to get out of his grip, but that only seems to tighten the hold Victor has on you.

“Don’t. Stay with me,” he pleads, voice tinged with despair. You’ve never seen him this vulnerable before. You still your actions, instead opting to turn around to face Victor.

“I don’t know if this is what I want,” you speak up after a long moment of silence, “I love you, but I don’t want to be stuck in a relationship where I’m not welcomed.”

“Do you feel like you’re stuck here?” Victor asks.

You avoid his gaze. “I’m not sure. It’s not all your fault, but I do wonder whether you stopped caring about me sometimes. You’ve been so harsh to me, lately.”

“I didn’t, I never stopped caring,” Victor takes your hand in his left one, interlacing your fingers, “But I understand that I’ve made you feel insecure and uncared for. I never wanted to make you feel worthless, but I’ve gone too far this time, haven’t I?”

A mirthless chuckle escapes your mouth. “That’s an understatement,” you quip.

You expect Victor to retort back with something mean, revert to his distant self (at least, to the distant person he’s become this month), but instead, he gently cups your cheek with his right hand, raising your face up to look at him again.

A soft kiss is placed on your forehead. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less harsh, and I’ll do anything it takes for you to forgive me. I’ll fix it all, your insecurities, your anxiousness. So give me one more chance, please. Let me fix it.” Victor’s beautiful grey eyes look into yours, sadness apparent on his face. You lie there for a long while, staring into his sombre eyes in silence.

“You’ll do anything?” you finally ask in curiosity. A resolute nod is your answer. “Even stop talking about work at home?” Victor nods again. You pause for a while, contemplating your next request. “...And take me to Souvenir and make me pudding every day?”

Victor snorts. “That’s the least I can do, dummy,” he chuckles lightly. Suddenly, his eyes widen. “I don’t mean you’re dumb. I just—”

Your soft giggle breaks his anxious ramble, and Victor feels like he’s just won the biggest prize at the lottery. “Just this is fine,” you whisper, “I thought it’d take longer for me to forgive you. But for some reason...I’m just happy to see your old self again.”

Victor sighs, pulling you closer. He presses his lips onto the crown of your head, inhaling deeply. “Dummy, don’t be so kind to me. I won’t know what to do,” he mumbles, relishing in the dark quiet of your bedroom. Truth is, he probably never knows what to do when it comes to you.

“You just have to love me, that’s all,” you pull your hand out of his, instead hooking your pinkies together, “No take-backsies.”

He rolls his eyes at your antics, a fond expression betraying the lack of annoyance behind the gesture. His pinky finger curls around yours ever so slightly, as if it’s desperate to hold onto yours. As if he’s desperate to hold onto you. 

“No take-backsies.”

Shaw

“Not again,” you growl under your breath.

Shaw’s always been popular with the ladies, the gents, and the non-binary friends. Which is fine, it’s fine. You’re not a jealous person. You’ve dealt with people asking him out, people asking him if he was a celebrity and making you take pictures of him and some other person on a date, older ladies in your family groping him whenever you bring him to a family function (which really, isn’t about jealousy. You got mad, rightfully so, because they were harassing him). You can’t even remember how many times one of his campus students has confessed to him. With you right next to him at the table! Is it that unbelievable that I’m his significant other?

But too far is too far.

You walked into the fancy nightclub tonight, expecting to get a drink or two in your system, let loose with Shaw for a couple of hours, drag his drunk ass home and cuddle in bed. Not this. 

The moment you walk in, you spot Shaw’s lavender coloured mop of hair sticking out over one of the booths. But he’s not alone, oh no. He’s surrounded by young men and women fawning over him like he’s some kind of celebrity or host club guest. And even though he looks a little bored, he’s not exactly bothered by the attention he’s getting. Because of course he isn’t. The moment his eyes land on you though, he looks you up and down appreciatively before shooting you a challenging smirk. He reaches over to a long-haired girl next to him, lazily fingering a lock of her hair. She looks up at him with a coy smile, but his amber eyes are fixed on yours, gauging your reaction. Oh, so he wants me to come over? Play the little jealous significant other? Hah! Not today, boy. I didn’t come here to play games. 

You raise an eyebrow, a visibly annoyed expression showing on your face. Instead of heading in his direction, you strut to the bar, shoes tapping rhythmically on the floor. I look hot, I feel hot, and I need a fucking drink. 

You order a bourbon on the rocks, gulping down a large sip of the beverage a soon as it gets to you. Bourbon is made to be savoured. You hear Victor’s voice resounding in your mind from the time he taught you how to judge alcohol for a production. So am I, but nobody’s been thinking of that, apparently. You turn around with a scowl, leaning against the bar. You feel horrible, and the fact that Shaw’s back to his childish antics isn’t making that any better. An exasperated sigh leaves your lips as you tilt your head back, closing your eyes. The flashing lights are blurry, but still noticeable through your closed eyelids. But what you don’t notice, is the man heading over to you from his side of the bar. 

Shaw notices. How could he not? The moment you walked in the room, all he could see was you. And he knows he’s being a little shit, trying to make you jealous like that, but he can’t help wanting to play with you. It’s just a game of push and pull, and maybe he just wanted to see how hard you’d pull for him.

He didn’t expect you to react like that, though.

So here he is, so uncharacteristically walking (or strutting, because he is still sort of himself, after all) away from the admiring crowd of people around him and towards his clearly pissed off lover. And the man who’s clearly trying to chat you up.

“—buy you a drink?” he overhears. Shaw halts and watches the blinding spotlights in the club illuminate the sight in front of him.

He sees you lean closer to the man, foreheads almost touching in a conspiring way, before you shrug and the two of you turn to the bar. The man flags down the bartender, holding two fingers up. He’s just ordering two drinks for himself. That’s it.

His gait picks up again as he sees the bartender slide your favourite drink across the counter. Before you can even take a sip of bourbon, the textured glass is ripped out of your hand. Shaw downs the amber liquid, the burning sensation washing away the bitter taste of jealousy. 

“Thanks for ordering me a drink, honey,” he emphasizes the pet name, grinning at you before turning his head to the man with a fierce glare. The man raises his hands in defense, shakes his head at you with a smile, and promptly heads back to the other side of the bar. Shaw turns to you, the grin slipping back on his face momentarily.

“Already cheating on me?” he asks, masking the slight hurt behind a teasing façade. Shaw plops down on the stool next to you, watching your face. You look slightly guilty at first, but then your expression morphs back into one of anger...and exhaustion. You aren’t actually cheating on me, are you?

“Funny thing for you to say,” you ground out. 

“...So you were jealous.”

“That’s what you take from that?” You stare at him incredulously, his smug grin slowly sliding off of his face. I’m making it worse. Why did I make it worse?

“Jesus, you’re a prick,” you sigh, “No drink can fix this evening. I’m just going to go home. Do what you want, I don’t care anymore.” You climb out of your seat, making a beeline for the exit. Shaw is quick to follow you outside, grabbing your wrist before you can flag down a cab.

“Let me go, Shaw.”

“Hey, hey, it was a joke. You know that, right?” His ears are ringing from the loud music back in the club, but the sudden quiet’s more deafening than any song booming from the speakers. It feels sad, and Shaw hates it.

“I said, let me go.” You’re refusing to look at him. Why is it turning out like this?

“It was a joke. If I let go, you’re going to leave. Don’t leave me,” the slight pleading of his voice makes you turn around to look at his face. He tentatively releases your wrist, and you make no move to leave...yet.

“I don’t want to play these games anymore.”

He looks at you with furrowed brows. “I don’t understand,” he says.

“Is it fun, to try and make me jealous? To remind me of the fact that I’m somehow not suited for you, that after this amount of time, I’m still not enough for you?” you poke a finger into his lithe chest, “Because guess what, you succeeded. I’m jealous. I admit it, you won.”

 “I didn’t—And you took that guy’s offer for a drink! You’re not better!” Shaw suddenly raises his voice, his stance akin to that of a wolf on guard.

“I told him I had a boyfriend! And you know why he bought me a drink? Because he said I looked like I needed a pick me up. And you didn’t even notice! Even worse, you’re the fucking reason I needed one in the first place!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you were going to throw a hissy fit over me hanging out with some friends?” he spits out.

“Friends? They were hanging onto you, Shaw! One of those girls had her tits so close to you, she almost suffocated you with them. And you know it,” a humourless laugh escapes your lips, “You love the attention. And we both know I was never enough to provide that for you. So I quit.”

Shaw deflates. “What do you mean, you quit?” 

“I don’t want to be vying for your affection with the rest of them, I guess. It’s selfish of me, but somehow I thought I’d be special, or something,” you scoff, kicking a nearby rock of the pavement, “But I don’t think I am. Not to you. So I think we should stop all of this before one of us gets even more hurt. I think we should break up.”

Shaw halts, burying both of his hands in his hair. His breathing quickens as he processes your words. “No, no, absolutely not. We aren’t breaking up.” he looks at you with the same pleading eyes he used that time when he got sick and begged you to cuddle him instead of getting his medicine. Back then, everything seemed so...lovely.

“I don’t know what else to do, Shaw,” your voice breaks, and Shaw feels his heart shatter at the notion of you hurting this much. “I just don’t know why you do this, I—”

“Because I don’t deserve you.” 

“What?” You shake your head in confusion.

“I know it’s fucked up. Everyone around us knew that I wasn’t deserving of you. Just look at me,” he gestures at himself, “I’m a fucking gangster dating someone who deserves better. So I tried pushing you away, and then you pulled back, and you fought for me. And I just don’t know how to deal with that, ‘cause people don’t do that for me.”

You sigh. “You deserve to be fought for.”

“I don’t. I really fucking don’t. Because here I am, with the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m about to lose them. And it should be what I want because I keep pushing and pushing and pushing, but now the only thing I want is you. I fucked up.”

You lean against a nearby wall, silence hanging above you two before you break it. “I...don’t think this dynamic is healthy,” you start.

“I know, I’m sorry. I fucked up, but I promise I’ll—”

“And if we’re going to try this again, you’re going to have to fix your attitude,” you interrupt him.

“I—you’re serious?” a careful nod has Shaw’s expression turning from dumbfounded to ecstatic. His grin’s back, but now it seems more...genuine. More innocent. 

“Fuck. I can’t believe it,” he tilts his head up to the sky in glee, but soon looks back at you with resolution in his eyes, “I’m going to be the best boyfriend you’ve ever seen.”

You laugh. “Is that a challenge, pretty boy?”

“You bet your ass it is,” he teases, swiftly scooping you up into his arms, “I fucking love you, and I’ll do anything I can to prove it,” he mutters into the crook of your neck.

“Shaw...I love you too, but people are really staring, actually.” You cast worried glances over his shoulder.

“Don’t care.”

“...Of course you don’t.”    

Shaw’s scenario was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, to be fair. I think I made him pretty OOC, but I’m filling in a lot of the blanks in regards to his personality, and for some reason he has serious trauma and insecurities here, which is either kinda valid, or projecting. I don’t know if I’m satisfied with it...but it’s going I guess.

[theawkwardterrier]

An Alliance with an Earl

Here’s one for @lavellenchanted​. It’s no Steggy AU of A Song for Summer (although what is?) but maybe Regency Jily will suffice, Sarah...

Read on AO3 here

I am going to have to buy Frank Longbottom a very nice bottle of brandy, Sirius thought to himself as he looked down at the letter in his hand, but what he said casually aloud was, “It seems we’ve been invited to a house party.”

James finished whatever he was scribbling, taking care to sign his name with the full flourish before he looked up. Light from the wonderfully sunny day, the kind they would never have been inside for a mere year ago, caught his spectacles as he did. James had worn a pair from the time he and Sirius first met as boys at Eton, but when light used to flash across them, it paired with the grin he once wore nearly constantly and his foolishly infectious laugh. Now Sirius half expected James to take his glasses off and massage his eyes, the way their old headmaster used to do.

Instead he set down his quill and gestured to the letter in Sirius’s hand. “If it’s any of your cousins, I shall have to respond in the negative. Well, perhaps we should have Lupin draft the letter - he is less likely to phrase it as rudely as either of us might.”

Sirius tossed the letter opener he had been using on the day's post back onto the very edge of James’s stupidly massive mahogany desk and barked out a laugh. “As if any of my cousins would allow me to darken their doorway. No, it’s the Longbottoms - it seems that old Augusta has allowed Frank and Alice use of the country place and they’ve invited us to come for the week after next.”

He tipped his head to the side, slouching further into his chair. He had once only done such things in the parlor of Grimmauld Place, his parents’ London residence, because in their view posture, like wealth and good breeding, was one of those things which mattered and he made a point of not allowing such things to matter to him. But the habit was so ingrained in him now that every time he sat, he tended to perch himself with a leg slung over the chair arm or his back placed on the seat and his head allowed to hang. “Not having access to that all-important family tree of my mother’s, however,” he said, “I really couldn’t promise you that I’m not cousins with either of them somewhere along the way.”

“Aren’t we all? I think between the two of us, we must be related by blood or marriage to half the ton.” James stretched his arms back and above his head, rotating his wrists and making a slight groaning sound. “Not, however, closely related enough to stop plenty of mothers from shoving their most eligible daughters into my path at every turn.”

Sirius nearly responded as he once would have, with a jibe about that sort of thing being unavoidable for such a catch as the future Earl of Gryffindor. Two years ago, however, after the deaths of first his mother and then, weeks later, his father, James actually became the Earl of Gryffindor, and seemed to think nothing in that line of humor at all funny anymore.

Quite a lot had become unfunny to James, actually. Some days, Sirius worried that his friend’s shoulders would simply break from the responsibilities settling there. Oh, James still came out with them in the evenings, still made them laugh and could manage to charm nearly any woman in a given room. But his old self, the one who loved racing on the fastest horse or placing the highest bet, the one who thought duels were daring instead of a measure to be undertaken only under direst circumstance, who snickered with Sirius around the corner after they had placed a tripwire across the school corridor...Sirius suspected that boy to be gone for good. In his place was a nobleman who inherited too early, whose indulgent father had thought to have more time to teach him how to grow into the man he needed to be, and who was now struggling to meet the expected role under the weight of who he had suddenly become.

Which was why, Sirius thought, eyes scanning the invitation from the Longbottoms again, this would be perfect. Balls and parties around London brought with them some degree of diversion if not enjoyment, but also held a reminder of responsibility. A playful lack of interest in marriage had once been the subject of jokes between James and his mother, but finding a wife, having a child, had now become a grim and acute duty. Sirius hoped that this more simple gathering, merely a few friends out in the country air, would allow James some desperately needed socialization with much more limited pressure - not to mention that it would tear him away from the deadly dull work which seemed to pile endlessly upon his desk at Gryffindor House in London and at his estate of Godric’s Hollow.

“Anyway, Longbottom’s always done us a good turn,” Sirius said, forcing a bit of a yawn to keep his manner as informal as possible. James went tense at the littlest things these days, at the merest suggestion that he might lay his duties to the side for just a moment or any hint that Sirius thought he might need to relax. “And Alice is a fine girl from what I remember. It’s only polite for us to join them, since they asked.”

James looked over toward the window, the drapes drawn back to reveal the bright, busy Mayfair street outside. The sunlight caught the lenses of his glasses again so Sirius couldn’t see his eyes; still, something seemed to grab at his mouth for a moment and twist it in pain. But the next second, he was turning back to Sirius looking like himself again, or at least like this new self. He picked up his quill once more and said, “You know that I am only ever polite.”

It was a lie, or at least Sirius hoped that it was. Either way, however, it was an affirmative response, which was exactly what he had hoped for.

“I’ll inform the Longbottoms, then,” he said, still maintaining his nonchalance. “My handwriting has always been better.”

This was true, but he mostly said it because being bested at something always made James a bit disgruntled and this time was no different. Without looking up from whatever document he was currently taking careful notes upon, he crushed a piece of paper with his other hand and tossed it toward Sirius’s head.

So there is something of you left after all, Sirius thought with relief as he caught the crumpled ball. Let us hope that some time in the country is enough to bring you out again.

Having known Alice since her own first season four years previous, Lily was quite familiar with her friend’s sweet, detail-oriented, and slightly nervous personality. She had received numerous letters in the weeks leading up to the house party filled with particulars of the menu, questions regarding the ideal number of guests, or worries that there would not be sufficient entertainment, and had tried to send back her reassurances that Alice’s first instance of hosting such an affair would surely be a resounding success.

Yet, as her carriage came to a halt on the wide drive in front of the house, she was unsurprised to see Alice wriggling a bit and twisting her hands as she stood with her husband’s arm over her shoulder.

She alighted from the carriage and went over to greet them, trying to infuse a bit of levity into the way she said “my lady” to Alice, though it didn’t seem to work. Alice linked her arm with Lily’s under the premise of leading her into the house and whispered, high and trembling, “Frank’s mother insisted on joining us and bringing friends of hers, which has my numbers entirely off, and you know what Lady Longbottom is like besides.”

“You are Lady Longbottom as well,” Lily reminded her, but before she could say something else bracing, she saw, striding across the grounds with Sirius Black at his heels, another person who would apparently - and unfortunately - be joining them.

She successfully avoided him over the next several days, making certain to keep at least five people between them even when they were in company. The odd thing was, however, that he didn’t seem to notice her very much at all. No, that wasn’t right. He clearly noticed her, his chin dipping in recognition if their eyes happened to meet across a room, but he did not pursue her in the way he once had.

He did not, in fact, act similarly to the way she remembered in general: his remarks, when he made them, were astute and his sense of humor not at all mean-spirited, he tended to spend most of his time at the edges of the room rather than the center of it, and every time there was dancing he took at least one turn with Hestia Jones, who everyone know was very nearly on the shelf. The whole thing was the slightest bit confusing, though, Lily reminded herself, it was a perfect relief not to be approached. Their paths had crossed less in the past two years or so, but she remembered sharply their prior interactions.

On the day before they were to return to London, the gentlemen were called to a hunt while the ladies attended to their correspondence. Lily had just finished and sealed a letter to some distant cousins in Sussex when the footman brought the morning's post. It did feel a bit Sisyphean, finishing the last of your responses only to have more required, but Lily was certain that none of it would be for her; Alice had invited most of their close friends, after all, and Lily's family was not large.

However: "Oh, here is one for you, Lily," Mary said, picking it up from the tray and passing it over. "From your sister."

Lily swallowed. "How lucky." She stood, tucking the letter in her pocket with fingers that fumbled despite her best efforts. "Do you know, it looks as if it might begin to rain this afternoon. I would like an opportunity to spend some time out of doors before the weather turns. Would anyone like to join me for a walk through the gardens?"

Though Alice looked as if only her duties as hostess kept her inside, the mention of a potential storm made the rest of the group demur, as Lily knew that it would. Within five minutes, she had her cloak on and was making her way alone into Lady Longbottom's lush and splendid garden. She walked until she found a small seat to perch upon and, after taking in a few deep gulps of the air (it seemed that she had not been wrong: there was a tinge of moist heaviness to it that spoke of an oncoming storm) forced herself to open the letter.

She read it through once, then a second time to see if she had misunderstood. She had not. She wanted to cry.

In person or in writing, Petunia never said anything that Lily wanted to hear. They had been friends of a sort when they were small, but Lily had long since given up on her sister understanding her or even loving her despite not doing so, and she no longer sought her approval. If they could have stuck to basic pleasantries or the dutiful exchange of sentiments, that would be one thing, but in the last year, Petunia had turned nasty, and this latest letter...

"Da-Deuce it," Lily said aloud, leaning over to scoop a handful of pebbles from the ground. She pitched one toward the bushes, then threw the next one harder when it seemed not to alleviate any of her upset. Even that did nothing; she flung the full handful. "Damn it!" she shouted, disregarding all propriety, then placed her palms over her eyes, pressing down as if surrounding herself with darkness might help.

"Lily? Er-My apologies. Miss Evans, are you quite well?"

Her hands flew from her eyes. Standing before her, uncomfortable but certainly there, was the Earl of Gryffindor.

The first time he saw Lily Evans, James Potter was standing on the balcony of Lady McGonagall's home with Sirius and Peter. They had left Remus below distracting their hostess; she had been widowed several times longer than she had been married, but it seemed to suit her well and she ruled every occasion hosted at her home, and in the ton generally, with an iron fist.

"She's quite fine," Peter had said, jabbing a finger toward a lady in a pink gown who was being helped from a recently arrived carriage.

"Too fine for the likes of you, Pettigrew," Sirius said carelessly, though James did not get the sense that he was joking. Peter forced a laugh anyway.

"There's plenty of girls here tonight for all of us," James responded, scanning over the street. Most people seemed to have already arrived. "With the season just starting, no one's begged off for the evening or tired of each other's company yet."

Sirius snorted. "That's your opinion. I believe I tired of the company of most everyone here before I was past my dear father's knee."

"Well, there's always—" James started, but did not even complete his thought, much less his sentence. Instead he said blankly, "Her," leaning forward a bit over the rail as if this would help him take in each detail of the new girl who had just stepped from her carriage. She was followed by a slightly older girl wearing a most unattractive expression and a woman he would guess was her mother, but James did not pay them even a moment's mind. His mouth had slackened as he studied her hair - it looked dark from this height and in the barely lit street, though not dark enough to be brown - as he imagined her eyes, and took in each nuance of her expression, excited and just a bit forward, her shoulders thrown back as she stepped toward the party.

By the time James got downstairs and escaped a lecture about etiquette from Lady McGonagall, her dance card was full, but he at least found out her name. The next day, armed with the largest bouquet from the most expensive florist in the city, he stopped at the house that she, her mother, and her sister were renting for the season. There were several other gentlemen in the room already as he was announced, but he paid them no mind as he walked over to her, knelt, and said, "Miss Evans, I would like nothing more than if you would agree to become my wife."

Later, his father would berate him for this, for going about it without asking permission, for being too hasty, introducing himself and proposing marriage in the same breath. But he knew that this would not have made the difference. Because there was a look in her eye, as if she had been expecting this and had prepared her answer, when Lily Evans said, quite coolly, "No, thank you, my lord."

And now here she was, sitting in the garden before him, looking far less collected than she had that day. She had lost the aspect of the ingenue - she was near his age, making her at least two and twenty - though she was no less lovely for it. The deep red of her hair, the arresting green of her clear eyes, were familiar to him by now, though he did not typically see those eyes looking so startled.

“My apologies, Lord Gryffindor. I had thought you had joined the other gentlemen.” She hastily made as if to stand and curtsy, but he gestured at her to keep her seat.

“I had some business which necessitated my return to the house,” he said, trying to hold himself straight, the way his father would have done, but it did not work. He shrugged his shoulders, sagging a bit back to himself. “Well, that is not the truth of it. It is what I said when I begged off, but to be frank with you, I wanted a moment with my thoughts. And they were planning on shooting deer besides, something I have never quite been able to stomach. The Potter crest features both a doe and a stag, you know, and the deer are truly beautiful when they run - it always seems such a terrible thing to do, killing them.”

Fool, he thought despairingly, refusing to allow himself to collapse with his face in his hands. The first time you have spoken with her in years and you come off as a blibbering fool who is unmanned by the thought of a hunt. Not to mention using her given name - even if it is how you address her in your head.

But, strangely, instead of regarding him with even her usual disdain, she was watching him with a slight smile: the first, he thought, she had ever directed toward him.

“Do you refrain from eating venison then, my lord, in honor of your family crest, and the sight of the deer running?”

The lightly teasing sound of it, as if they were any sort of friends at all, made him grin far wider than the comment meritted. “I’m afraid that by the time I find myself at table, my stomach does not have such high minded ideals.”

She actually laughed now, and it made him comfortable enough to gesture to the place beside her. “May I sit?”

“Oh, of course.” She glanced over and saw her letter still there, crushed at the edge, and snatched it up. All traces of laughter left her face as suddenly as they had come.

“Have you received bad news from home?” he asked as carefully as he could, seating himself a decent distance from her, even on the small bench. “I know that you have a sister - is something amiss with her?”

Her mouth pinched inward, though not, he thought, as if his question had angered her. She swallowed and then said, “I would not say that something is amiss with her, no, though she certainly seems to think something is amiss with me. Or, I suppose, she thinks that I am still too much a miss.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As am I.” Her laugh now held no lightness nor humor, and he valued the true one she had given him all the more for it. She glanced over at him, seeming to examine his face closely; he did not have time to shift his expression, but whatever she found there was apparently correct, for she began, slowly, to speak.

“My mother passed this last autumn and since then I have been living with my sister and her husband, an arrangement which suits none of us. In their view, I should have been long since married and of no concern to them. My sister has hinted before, but she writes now that her husband has determined that I should be married before the end of the season, and if I have not found a match myself by that point, he has selected one for me.”

He watched her sit up straighter, the wind catching a strand of her hair and whipping it from her coiffeur so it lay in beautifully vivid contrast to her pale throat. She stared out into the gray bluster of the day as she said, “It is well known that Lord Snape has expressed his interest in the past. My brother-in-law did not initially view the match as advantageous enough, but it seems that given the lack of other prospects, that avenue has become sufficiently promising.”

James felt his fist clench atop his thigh before he truly thought to clench it himself. Severus Snape had been heir to his nearly insolvent barony through merest coincidence - all closer cousins were female, a fact which had led Sirius to remark that Edward Christian might have had the right of it in Blackstone’s ten years past and perhaps women should be allowed some latitude in inheriting. And yet, those with whom Snape chose to consort closely were the most disagreeable sorts of snobs, people who believed anyone without generations of nobility behind them to be worthless.

He seemed to think it a great compliment that he would single out Lily as someone meriting his particular attention despite her own father having been only Mr. Evans. One of James’s few consolations after Lily had rejected his proposal had been that she had apparently rejected Snape’s as well. He, however, had not taken it with good grace or even James’s own dazed acquiescence; instead, he had stated publicly that it was merely a sign of her low breeding, that someone of a more elevated bloodline would have been happy even to have been approached by him. (James had run into Snape one evening shortly after hearing of this, and would have called him out on Lily’s behalf had Remus not intervened - and had James not already been so foxed he could barely string the words together discernibly.) Still, in the years since, Snape had made it plain that he would be willing to consider her were she to humble herself enough.

“Surely there must be other options,” James said, a bit awkwardly. For the rest of the season following his initial proposal and even into the next, he had arrived at her residence with regularity, though he had not approached her so directly again - too humiliating, and impolite besides to press when he had been so clearly declined. But although it had been some time since then, he knew, even when he did not want to, that she was often called upon by others.

She hesitated, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I was, perhaps, not as wise as I might have been. Not as wise as I thought myself to be.” Her gaze drifted to her lap, where her hands were folded carefully over the letter. “I was not waiting for a love match, I truly was not. I simply hoped to find someone who was not on the hunt merely for looks or for a biddable wife, with whom I might find conversation and companionship, someone who truly saw me. I allowed myself to believe I had time to be selective, and while my mother lived she indulged me, perhaps even enjoyed being able to keep me close for some time longer. But now she is gone, leaving my keeping in the hands of another who is not so lenient, and it seems that I have waited too long. Those who were once interested have moved on to women who are prettier or younger or lighter-hearted, women with larger dowries or who do not seem as fussy as I, and I cannot blame them.”

I have not moved on. It came to his throat readily, nearly voiced before he stopped himself. He did not want a wife right now, he reminded himself, and he especially did not want a wife who was cornered into the marriage, and it did not matter if that wife would be the one woman to whom his eyes turned without his control anytime they were in the same room.

But if he could at least help her, just a bit, even if it would mean tormenting himself, well, it was not as if he were not in torment already.

“I wonder—” He cleared his throat. “That is, I wonder if you would consider...It is rather unconventional, of course, but if you were amenable…”

“Have you something to say, my lord?” she asked, turning to him with just the barest hint of amusement touching her mouth.

“I could, perhaps, affect as if I were courting you,” he finally spat out.

His breath held for a moment in his lungs, and he was certain that she would gasp or dash off or even strike him, but instead, though the humor had gone from her lips, she tipped her head to the side and asked, “And what would be the object of such a ruse?”

“Well,” he said, voice a bit too eager now that she had not reacted with outright negativity. “The season settles into such dull rhythms after a while that any new story always gathers interest. Considering our...history, I suspect that a courtship between us would have tongues wagging, which would certainly remind people of your charms. And of course, not to generalize regarding my sex, but men are always particularly roused by the idea of rivalry. Were I to pose as a serious suitor, it would surely spur others to emerge as alternative contenders for your affections.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit at this last piece, but she only said slowly, “And what would you gain from this arrangement?”

James forced himself not to cross his arms. “My own parents passed not long ago…”

“I had heard,” she said. “My sympathies,” and from her it did not sound at all rote. He nodded.

“Thank you. And mine to you, on your mother. But in any event, it has left me with quite a lot to learn regarding my position, and I have found the continued attention of certain mothers and their unwed daughters to be an extremely inconvenient distraction. Were I to be seen as having my affections already directed toward another young lady, I believe they would leave off, and I would have some reprieve to attend to the management of other things.”

She looked away from him once again, squinting out absently into Lady Longbottom’s hedges. One foot tapped a bit, and her finger ran around the edge of her letter, though he suspected that she did not remember exactly what paper it was. They were the sort of gestures that he would have taken for granted in another male of his acquaintance or in his mother, but young women were always on such perfect behavior around him that simply being allowed to see these common mannerisms made Lily seem filled with an extra bit of color, of brightness. He swallowed, unsure once more that making this offer had been in his best interest; then again, he had never been known to be hesitant or particularly calculating. Diving headfirst was always more his style, and he had rarely looked out for his own interests with any real care.

Finally Lily said, “I would, of course, not want to take you from your other responsibilities, but if this were to work, I would require a certain amount of attention to ensure that others truly believed that you found me of interest. Would three evening occasions and three daytime meetings per week be reasonable to you?”

“Perfectly agreeable,” he said, even as his heart began to pound in a manner so uncontrolled, he might as well have been running. “Let us say two dances together when we are in attendance at the same ball. I believe that expresses the right amount of interest while still indicating that there is a chance for others.” Traitorously, his mind began to slip into wondering about holding Lily’s body against his own in a close dance, how he might feel her laugh rippling over his skin during a more energetic reel, her face alight as she returned her hand to his.

She nodded slowly. “Thank you. That should do quite nicely. And, of course, if I at some point become affianced, I could spread word on your behalf regarding your broken heart if you would like - that should grant you a bit of extra time before the interest begins again in earnest.”

At her mention of becoming engaged to someone else, the wind, which had been pleasantly brisk a moment ago, seemed to cut through his riding coat, his skin, right to his heart. “I would certainly appreciate it,” he managed, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

“Well, I am very appreciative of this,” she returned. “I had not expected...It is most kind of you, my lord, even to offer such a thing.”

“Think nothing of it,” James replied, knowing all the while that he would be able to think of nothing else.

When they returned to London, the talk was all of what a success Alice Longbottom’s house party had been. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Mary Macdonald would certainly be announcing a wedding soon; Hestia Jones, several years older even than Lily and practical, was allowing Peter Pettigrew’s attentions; and - pigs might fly - James Potter seemed to have caught Lily Evans at last.

They had agreed to walk together in Hyde Park as a first outing, and for all her thought that a secret might bind them together and smooth over any lingering awkwardness, Lily was hard pressed to think of a more uncomfortable stroll she had taken in her life, and she had certainly been on her share of contenders.

Part of the problem was that she could hardly believe she had even agreed to such a scheme in the first place. It was ridiculous, unheard of, completely foolish of her regardless of the situation Vernon and Petunia might have placed her in. Even more difficult to conceive: she had agreed to it with James Potter of all people. The same James Potter she had rejected without remorse, who she had sniffed at when hearing of his later reckless exploits, counting herself blessed she was not attached to him in any way. Well, there were few people she was attached to more closely now.

“Have you told anyone?” she asked abruptly, the first either of them had spoken in some minutes, after the pleasantries regarding the return journey to London, how they had each fared so far that day, and the state of the weather had been exhausted. “Have you told anyone about our…?”

He cleared his throat, though whether from discomfort or disuse she could not tell; either seemed entirely feasible. “Our arrangement? I’ve told Sirius. Remus and Peter as well.”

“Ah.” She attempted to transform the critical press of her lips into a smile as she nodded to the passing Bertha Jorkins, though she could practically already hear Bertha dashing off to tell whoever was closest that Lily Evans had been walking alongside Lord Gryffindor with a most unattractive expression. “I suppose I might have expected, considering your closeness. I had heard that his lordship, at least, has rooms in your home.”

“Yes, Sirius has had a strained relationship with his family for several years now.” Lily, though no gossip, was aware that this was an understatement. It was well known that, had it not been for the scandalous reflection on the family, the marquess and marchioness would have disowned their elder son years ago for what they considered his lewd behavior and unseemly friendships; as it was, they rarely mentioned each other in public, and pretended the other did not exist when they were present at the same function. “Even when my parents were alive he had free run of Gryffindor House, and the place has only become emptier since so there is plenty of room for even one as untidy as he.”

Lily glanced at him, unable to help hearing the sadness in his voice although he tried to give the words some degree of levity. She did not comment on it, however, saying instead, “It is rather unconventional, though of course utterly reasonable.”

He shrugged. “Were Sirius my brother by blood, he would always have a place in my home. As he is my brother in all but that, I see no reason that he should lack such a place merely because of an accident of parentage. I have offered Remus and Peter as well - there are probably a dozen bedrooms going unused, and perhaps even more which I have not discovered - but they have both declined.”

“The decor is not to their taste?” Lily asked, winning her a laugh.

“No, Peter’s mother still has a residence in London and prefers he stay with her, and Remus…” He sighed, his mouth shifting a bit to the side, as if this were a problem he was well used to mulling over. “He has his pride, and a part of that is insisting on keeping his own lodgings. But he does join us for supper several times a week, and as Mrs. Pomfrey, my housekeeper, nursed him through many a childhood illness and injury, he cannot well refuse when she tells him we have food going spare and he must take some home.”

It was this comment which forced her to fall silent. Somehow it was even more shocking than the way he had seemed to her transformed in the Longbottom’s garden, smaller and more human instead of filled with that overconfident persistence she had remembered and hated, more shocking than when he had suggested this ruse in the first place. She could not help but think that when Lord Gryffindor sat in his office or attended a session of Parliament, some part of his mind was distracted by wondering how he could best take care of those closest to him, even if it made others about the ton think him odd for it. There was not even anything to be gained from his solicitousness: Lupin’s father, if she recalled correctly, was a missionary only distantly related to some minor viscount, and Pettigrew’s hope of becoming a baron rested on two uncles and seven purportedly hale and hearty cousins meeting untimely demises.

“It is most kind of you,” she finally said, but he merely shrugged.

“As I said, Gryffindor House is altogether too large. My father actually decided that two sitting rooms was quite enough and turned the third into a space for experimentation - he was a bit of an amateur natural philosopher.”

“Truly?” The grin taking over her face felt a bit silly, but she found the idea of it a bit silly, and entirely delightful.

“Truly. In fact, he enjoyed having such a room so much that he had one of the bedrooms turned over at our country home as well so he could continue with his discoveries there. He actually was fairly successful at it. His tonics and ointments might remain family recipes, but there is a pomade of his invention which is only growing in popularity.” His smile tinged a bit sad at the edges. “I think he would have been quite tickled to hear that.”

“I’m certain he would have been.” Familiar with the propensity for jollying people away from their remembrances, as if the sorrow of it was too much for polite conversation to bear when perhaps a moment of dwelling would be welcomed by the one grieving, Lily remained silent for several paces and kept her tone neutral when she said, “These experimental rooms of your father’s sound most entertaining. I wish I could see them myself sometime in the future.”

“Of course, why don’t I—” But he was too smart a man, to finely bred, to allow his tongue to run away with him and simply invite her over. They wanted to build a gentle interest in her from suitable parties, not ruin her reputation entirely. Instead he said, “I’m certain I shall entertain at some point during the season. My mother was well known for her gatherings, and I could never let down her reputation. I shall, of course, have an invitation sent for you, and we will make sure that there is a tour.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Her arm had been resting on his as they walked, but she allowed her hand to press a bit more heavily against him in gratitude. She had meant it to be a momentary gesture, but he turned to her then, his dark brown eyes catching hers from behind his spectacles, and she found that she could not look away. They were still walking, she was nearly certain, but how many people they were passing, what everyone might be observing, she had no idea.

It was he who cleared his throat and took his gaze from hers. “I suspect that was sufficiently convincing to anyone watching,” he said, and cleared his throat again.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.” Although, if she were truly forced to consider, she thought she might find that it had been somewhat convincing to her as well.

If the training on proper behavior that James’s mother had tried to instill in him had one benefit, it was the ability to keep a brilliant smile on his face even as he asked quietly, “Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?”

The cotillion offered little chance to speak privately - one was constantly being forced to circle or line up beside other dancers - so it was not until their next brief whirl as partners that she was able to reply. “I am perfectly comfortable.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem entirely to be enjoying yourself,” he said hurriedly at the next opportunity. “You have barely smiled.”

Many women of his acquaintance and most of the gentlemen would have lost track of the conversation as they stepped and wove and traded partners before rejoining, but she merely said, “Perhaps you are more accustomed to dancing with those with silly looks on their faces. Here, I shall make you more comfortable.”

The expression she pasted on was of such exaggerated adoration that he nearly burst into laughter straight into the face of his new partner. As it was, he returned to Lily grinning and found her doing the same.

A whisper seemed to start at the edge of the ballroom (they were quite definitely not displaying the usual polite smiles reserved for these events) but James barely noticed that their plan was coming to some success.

“Well played, Miss Evans. Clearly I should have left it all to your capable hands.”

“See that you do next time,” she responded with a regal nod, and the thought of next time filled his mind with such sudden brightness that his grin stretched anew and did not stop when the music did.

“Unacceptable!”

At her sister’s hiss, Lily looked up from the embroidery in her lap, but did not need to ask what was causing Petunia’s upset. She was altogether too familiar with the expression that came with minor household imperfections, and by the glare being leveled at one of the teacups, she suspected that some nigh invisible spot had been detected.

“All our visitors have gone,” Lily hastened to say. “I’m sure there is no need to disturb—”

But it was too late. Petunia had taken the cup and stalked from the room, undoubtedly to berate the poor housekeeper or whichever maid came across her path.

Shaking her head in sympathy, Lily nevertheless allowed her gaze to wander over to the place behind the curtain where she had hidden the novel she had been reading before the callers had started arriving. Petunia barely allowed such pursuits in privacy; reading in front of gentlemen would certainly have earned a reprimand.

There had been a goodly number of callers, enough that Lily found herself hopeful for the first time in a while, but she would be glad to have a chance to relax, a few moments to just be in her own mind. She was standing on soft feet to go retrieve the book when the butler arrived and announced, “Lord Snape.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was not at home. Over this one thing she had control, and it would be so easy to exert it; she could nearly feel the relief of avoiding him. But something, a wisp of remaining affection for a childhood friend or a desire to see whether she would be able to bear him should the worst case scenario come to pass, made her nod and say, “Show him in, and please inform my sister that he has come.”

The butler stayed after bringing Severus in, standing guard beside the doorway for the sake of propriety in a way which made Lily feel protected rather than surveilled.

“Won’t you take a seat?” she asked as she did the same, but he did not seem even to take heed of her words.

“You danced with Lord Gryffindor last night,” he said. His riding gloves, held as a pair in one hand, smacked lightly against his thigh, and Lily held herself back from flinching.

“Yes, we recently discovered that we have much in common with each other, despite past differences. I found him a most amiable partner,” she responded, her tone not as cold as his but not particularly warm either. She reclaimed her embroidery and began to work on it as she added, “I had not realized that you were in attendance at the ball.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh, and she could not help but notice the difference between it and the one Gryffindor had given the night before. “It was not the sort of affair that I would take interest in. I was in attendance at the Selwyns. The company was a bit less...mixed.”

And there it was once again, this idea that could not seem to be purged from him, this idea her old friend seemed to have no interest in overcoming. “I find that with such an attitude, I cannot regret not having received an invitation,” she said, making three flawless and focused stitches in quick succession.

“But—” He began to surge forward, until the butler let out a loud and pointed cough. Jaw tight, he stepped back once again and said, “As my wife, you would have received such an invitation and would have no fear as to the attitudes shown you. There would be only deference. You would be under my protection.”

Her hands fell still in her lap. She looked up at him directly and spoke with precision. “I have no interest in engaging with people who would only tolerate me were I under your protection, and I have equally little interest in marrying a man who believes that it is deference and a shield from petty remarks which I seek in a marriage.”

There was a twitch of anger in his face which he covered over quickly. Severus had always masked things so easily; it had once seemed natural to her, a part of him, but now she found it slightly frightening, not being able to tell his true thoughts or feelings.

“Very well,” he said. “That is your opinion. Only remember when Gryffindor has thrown you over for the next pretty thing which comes his way, that I will still be here.”

Lily swallowed. Steadfastness was an admirable trait, but being the sole focus of someone like this felt more like being a hunted animal, a butterfly trapped behind glass, only meant to flutter prettily at the one who had caught it and locked it away, stolen from nature.

“Ah, Lord Snape,” Petunia said from behind him. Her voice was not pleasant - she and Severus had never liked each other - but it was polite, and Lily realized how much her sister and brother-in-law were depending on Snape to take her if no one else did. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“I shan’t be staying, Mrs. Dursley,” he said, with equally cold politeness. “I merely wanted to ensure that Miss Evans is well. Good day to you both.” He gave a short, sharp bow, and walked past the butler out the door.

Lily rested her hands on her lap for a moment, then forced herself to pick up her embroidery. Even if Snape were no longer in the room to see, she did not want to give him the power of her anxiety.

She cast her mind once again to the plan. It had seemed a longshot at the time, slightly foolish, but she needed it to work. Unbelievable as it seemed, she had placed her trust in the Earl of Gryffindor, and she needed him to have been worthy of it.

“I must say, Miss Evans,” James said, “that you are quite the most stubborn woman of my acquaintance, possibly the most stubborn in the whole of England.” He kept his tone fairly low in deference to the fact that they were surrounded by dozens of other pairs of dancers, but he knew that his amusement came through regardless. She was arguing her point with the focus and diligence of an experienced barrister, which was entirely annoying while also being entirely too much fun.

“Well, England is not particularly large, so I shan’t worry overmuch,” she responded pertly.

“I rescind the comment. You are surely the most stubborn woman in all the world.”

“Merely disagreeing with you regarding the best type of pie does not make me the most stubborn woman in the world, my lord. It only makes me someone who knows her own mind, and I should hope you would be aware of that.” He thought that she might break away from him to place her hands on her hips and wag her finger in the scolding so familiar to him from his time in the nursery, and he held on just a bit tighter, not out of any ridiculous concern for propriety, but simply because these moments when he was allowed to touch her were outlined with such care and detail that he did not want to miss a single second.

She did not even attempt to move from him, however, a smile breaking its way across her face instead. “And regardless, I have complete certainty in the superiority of the apple pie, as any right-thinking person would.”

“Lemon pie,” James responded staunchly, nearly gritting his teeth even as he grinned back. “On the day that you try the lemon pie we eat at home, you shall eat your words along with it and beg my forgiveness.”

“I shall certainly sample it when offered, if only in the spirit of open inquiry and because I am absolutely secure in my own opinion, although I’m doubtful that I would ever beg anything from you.”

“Expect one at your home tomorrow afternoon, then. I do not retreat from a challenge any more than you.”

They were standing close enough that he could see the precise way her eyes flashed as she said, “I take your challenge gladly.”

“I say, is there to be a duel?” Benjy Fenwick, a longtime friend of James’s, seemed taken aback as he came alongside them. James felt similarly taken aback, shocked that the outside world had managed to intrude, shocked that it even still existed; without their having realized it, they had completed the steps of the dance and the next set was starting.

“Of course not.” Lily blinked, then adjusted her tone. It was not precisely fawning, James decided, nor coy, but there was a polite feeling to it, as if she had tucked away some of her warmth or her particular character. He wanted to bring it back, to make certain that the world did not lose that sparking magic of hers, but at the same time he found himself oddly relieved that Fenwick, who she had been so excited to add to her dance card, was not worthy of her true self. “A simple debate between myself and Lord Gryffindor. My apologies, my lord. It is terribly good to see you. Shall we rejoin the floor?”

Fenwick offered his arm and they took their places for the quadrille, while James retreated to the corner where Sirius was observing everything.

“Fenwick’s a nice fellow,” said the man who had only a moment ago been James’s best friend.

“Hmm.”

Sirius sipped at his cup, which James doubted contained only lemonade. “I’m certain Miss Evans would be delighted if he were to further his attentions toward her.”

“He isn’t—Fenwick is fine. He never excelled in a single class to my knowledge nor has he grasped sarcasm, he seems entirely content to be an unassuming third son without particular purpose, and I have beaten him handily every time we have fenced, but he is fine. However, Lily—Miss Evans needs more than fine. She needs more than nice,” James said, exasperated. “We’ll simply have to keep this up until she finds someone else. Someone better.”

“Indeed.” Sirius sipped again, a damnably amused shimmer in his eye. “I suppose keeping up your arrangement would be the only way of achieving that.”

“Of course it is,” James said.

“Of course it is,” Sirius echoed, but he was smiling, almost as if in relief. James turned away, even though he was fairly certain that he did not want to watch Lily dancing with someone else, smiling at someone else.

No, not fairly certain, absolutely certain. But if she was the most stubborn woman in the world, he was the most stubborn man, and he forced himself to keep on. The whole point of this was to find Lily a husband, and she had made it perfectly clear that she did not consider him to be a contender. He would have to become accustomed to seeing her with someone else. He would simply have to.

“Not only pie but ice cream as well?” James asked, licking chocolate from his spoon. “How does one manage to have so many wrong opinions?”

“Unbelievable as it might seem to you, an opinion is not wrong simply because it is not yours,” she responded, taking a dainty bite from her own dish. “Although, to tell you the truth…” She looked this way and that before leaning across the table just slightly. He mirrored her at once; apparently it was lucky that he was a part of the plan because he seemed more eager for gossip than any ten ladies of Lily’s acquaintance. “I actually only order the maple because it seems the least popular. It’s terribly sad to think of it simply melting away for lack of interested customers.”

He gaped at her for a moment. “But then you miss out on the chocolate,” he said, with a sort of implacably simple logic that belonged in childhood. She laughed.

“The maple isn’t actually bad. It simply isn’t as popular because it is overshadowed by the other flavors. Even the lavender gains an audience simply because it sounds sophisticated. But…” Her voice lowered even further. “Sometimes I finish my serving and then ask for a dish of chocolate as well.”

“Gluttony, Miss Evans?” he said, eyes glinting. But where she might have once reminded him sharply that he certainly had more experience in deadly sinning than she, now she merely raised an amused eyebrow and said, “Enjoyment, my lord,” before sitting back and picking her spoon up once more.

He seemed to watch her more closely than the simple movement deserved. “Enjoyment indeed,” he said, and his low voice was not as one telling a secret, but one who had forgotten he was speaking aloud. She glanced up at him sharply, but before she could say anything more, he too had started on his ice cream again.

“One thing I do miss from my travels is getting to try the local delicacies,” he remarked. “There is quite a bit more to the world than the traditional menu would lead you to believe - although I will confess that I was glad to come home to lemon pie and chocolate ice cream.”

“Oh, yes, you mentioned that you had traveled. Where did you go?”

He waved his spoon. “All sorts of places.”

“Please, you must give me something more particular than that. I have never been even to Scotland and might never, and so I may only read about other places in books and listen jealously to stories such as yours.”

“Well, most people start off in Paris, but we - Sirius and I - went to the Netherlands first, then throughout Prussia, then down to Italy and Greece, and across the water to the Ottoman Empire. We even got a chance to see Egypt and some of North Africa before…” His mouth had clearly been coming up with the words before his mind was ready for them. When he realized what he would have to say next, he seemed to take a steadying breath, sliding the ice cream away from himself as if it no longer held appeal. “Word reached me that my mother had taken ill. We cut things short.” He swallowed. “Unfortunately, it made no difference.”

The urge to reach across the table and touch his hand came to her quite suddenly; she was nearly surprised into giving into the impulse. Instead she folded her hands on the table and said softly, "That must have been quite difficult, moving so quickly from a time meant for freedom and adventure and frivolity to one of urgency and then of mourning.”

“I wonder if mourning should always feel sudden, even if one were expecting it,” he said. Once she would have thought it shocking if not impossible for this man to take such a serious tone or speak such a profound thought aloud, but she was finding that there was quite a lot about him which was unexpected for her but no less true.

He cleared his throat. “Regardless, you needn’t be jealous: our travels were not as full of frivolity as all that even before we received the news from home.”

Perhaps if she had not spent the last several weeks so often in his company, with such an awareness of his every expression and how it would be perceived, she would have mistaken the charming smile he gave for a true one. As it was, she said simply, “Oh?” and waited with patiently folded hands for him to continue.

His eyes observed her keenly for a moment before dropping to his lap. Slowly, he said, “I thought that merely reading in the newspapers about the ruin Bonaparte made of things on the continent was enough. I thought I understood. But it was nothing to actually seeing everything that people needed to rebuild, hearing from the locals all that they had lost.” His expression turned self-deprecating. “I had once thought that had I not been the eldest and only of my family, I might have been a soldier, but I could barely stomach even the aftermath years later.”

“I think you could have been a soldier had you the opportunity,” she said. “I believe it can only be for the good to have soldiers who fight not because they enjoy the battle or out of a desire for glory, but to bring peace, to protect the innocent. And of course we have determined that you can come up with an innovative strategy with haste, a quality I’m certain would have served you well.”

That actually made him smile truly, and she could nearly see him trying to brush away his unfortunate mood. “I thank you for your compliments,” he said. “And of course, all of that was no more painful than what you had to bear. You have lost your mother more recently than I did my parents. If anything, I should be comforting you.”

“There needn’t be a competition between us regarding our suffering,” she pointed out. “And taking a turn at being comforted simply because I am next in the queue is not how I like to remember my mother.”

“How do you like to remember her? I confess, we—” He gave an uncomfortable cough. “We had little opportunity to speak.”

She wondered if he remembered that, although they had indeed spoken little on the occasion, it had been her mother who had guided him gently from the room after his ill-fated proposal. She suspected not - he had seemed quite dazed in the moment.

“I have rarely enjoyed simply being in company with someone as I did her,” Lily said instead. “Our minds seemed to work quite similarly. I miss so many things about her - her quiet humor, her independence although even as a girl I could tell that she wished my father had not passed so young, and how she always seemed to know exactly the solution to any problem in the household, any social faux pas - but more than anything, I don’t know that I will ever find someone who seemed so often to echo my same thoughts. I’m afraid it left my sister a bit isolated at times. She engages with the world so differently. It was Mama who always encouraged me to continue reaching out to her, trying to allow some understanding between us.”

Now it was her turn to glance down at her lap, although she forced her eyes back up toward him mere seconds later. “I imagine these last months would have been easier if Petunia and I did have some sort of understanding, even an imperfect one. I am not speaking of my...situation, although I am certain that would have been different had we been closer. But there are so many memories which only we two now share, and I wish we had closeness enough to recall them together.”

He nodded. “I was lucky to be able to spend a few weeks remembering my mother beside my father before his passing. Perhaps that time would have been better spent in discussion of our holdings or my responsibilities, and had he known what was to come he might have insisted upon it, but I find that I cannot make myself regret those times. And now I have been lucky to have Sirius nearby to share with me his memories. He spent so much time in our home, with my parents, that he can easily recall to my mind things I did not even realize I had forgotten: the way my mother ordered a new perfume for each season, or how my father would sit alone with a cup of hot milk when he was particularly pensive.”

His throat seemed nearly to catch as he swallowed. “I suspect it is always easiest to bear these sorts of things when you are with people who will listen, even if they cannot share experiences with you. I am sorry that you do not have the same.”

“Well,” she said, “I wonder if perhaps I do.”

She had not known she would say the words until she did, but she had felt them all the same. She had her own friends, it was true, and yet no one seemed to want to discuss her mother’s passing the way he did, no one even seemed willing to try beyond platitudes or small embraces. And he seemed overwhelmed by the comment, his lips falling open just a touch, eyes large and bright behind his spectacles as they caught hers.

“Miss Evans.”

She very nearly fell from her chair, and her only consolation was that he nearly did as well, although he recovered more quickly, his from-the-cradle training pushing him to rise and bow smartly. She had forgotten, somehow, that they were in the middle of Gunter’s, that their object for the day was to be seen in public laughing together and enjoying each other’s company in order to rouse the notice of others, that being with him - pretending to be with him - was only meant as a waystation on the path to the man with whom she would actually spend the rest of her life.

Somehow, as she sat at their small corner table, she had only been seeing him.

“Miss Lily Evans,” Lady McGonagall said again, and Lily remembered to stand and curtsy. The countess looked her over closely, then turned and said, "You could hardly do better, my boy."

In their limited interactions, Lily had rather liked Lady McGonagall and she suspected that she was liked in return, but she was still surprised at her warm and roundly approving tone.

The countess continued: "And James Potter. Earl of Gryffindor, Viscount Peverell, cousin to the king, heir to the Potter fortune..:” She glanced him over and tilted her head to speak directly to Lily. “I suppose you could have done worse." She turned back. "See that you're worthy of her," she said, in that way of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

And while Lily could feel her eyebrows practically springing into her hair, he merely smiled and said, "I am trying my best.”

He really was remarkably good at pretending - for a moment, even Lily nearly believed him.

Having already attended the agreed upon number of occasions for the week, James could easily have begged off of the Weasley’s supper party and spent the evening at home or at his club or out with his friends (up to less savory pursuits, if Sirius was allowed to be in charge). He told himself that his reason for accepting the invitation was simply because he liked Molly and Arthur - regardless of their financial status, they were actually enjoyable company, unlike many in the ton - but that did not explain why he had not cited another engagement following the meal instead of sitting through the gentlemen’s retreat and then their return for cards and socializing. Overall, as he watched Lily set her face fiercely across from him at the whist table, he found any excuse less and less convincing by the moment.

Sirius elbowed him. “It seems as if you have a tiger for a partner,” he remarked in a low tone, somehow managing to lounge in his chair while holding his cards properly before him.

“If you are referring to my demeanor, you should well address me directly so that I may tell you just as directly that I have rarely lost and do not intend to do so tonight,” Lily interrupted, running a fingernail casually across the top of one of her cards. She faced Sirius directly, and James suspected that he was the only one who would be able to detect the hints of humor in her face. “And if you were referring to my hair, my lord, well, perhaps you should retire once again in order to refresh your arsenal with more creative comparisons.”

Grinning, James watched Sirius and Remus staring at her in astonishment. They had exchanged pleasantries before, but this was the first time his friends were spending time with Lily, and she was certainly leaving an impression.

“Goodness, Sirius,” Lupin finally said, a chuckle building in his throat. “If you do need to retire after such a carefully aimed attack, I can certainly replace you as a partner.”

“No need.” Sirius sat up straighter, staring Lily down with good-natured ruthlessness. “I have talent enough to come up with my riposte as we play.”

Lily said, “One might say that if there has not been a response within the first moment, there is not one forthcoming,” then bowed her head politely to Sirius, adding, “Not, of course, that I am referring to anyone in particular.” She faced across the table once more and said, “Now then, shall we play, my lord?”

“James,” he blurted before he could think better of it. "You should call me James."

It meant something, giving her leave to call him by his given name, and he wondered if he had been holding himself back from this particular development, one which now felt inevitable, as some sort of protection. The thought of it felt quite tangled about in his mind, but regardless, he needn't have said it in front of his friends.

He could tell that they were gaping at him - well, Remus had his eyebrows raised so high that they were practically on the moon and Sirius's expression had defaulted to arch surprise - and he even thought that Molly Weasley might have looked over instinctively from her own whist table to ensure that nothing was amiss, but his eyes were for Lily alone.

"James, then," she murmured comfortably, though he seemed to see a touch of something like nervousness, even fear, in her eyes as she said, "And you may call me Lily, of course." But it was gone the next second as she said to the group at large, "Shall we play, then?"

"I like her," Sirius declared as they sat in James's study later that night having a brandy together. "I like her quite a lot."

"As do I." James tapped a fingernail absently against his glass. Lily was indeed a champion whist player - he was willing to lay the lion’s share of their team’s victory at her feet - and her dress tonight had been a most fetching shade of blue which offset her hair quite startlingly. Obviously she wore green beautifully, and he had once seen her in a gown of deep purple which redefined the shade for him, but the blue in the candlelight as she laughed and schemed over her cards…

"I can tell," Sirius said, and his voice was sober enough to break James from his thoughts and look over at him. "I can tell that you like her. It has been some time since I saw you smile with such frequency." His own smile returned and he said, "Although I would wonder if she would consider you worthwhile after tonight. You should call me James, indeed." He repeated it, voice lower and more pompous than James believed his to be, then in an oily, seductive way, then with a shy blink through his lashes, until his impressions were apparently so hilarious that he fell into laughter and could not continue.

Dear Miss Evans,

Dear Lily,

Madam,

I hope this note finds you well, and my apologies for leaving without a proper goodbye - or truly any goodbye. I had an early letter regarding a fire near one of my estates which necessitated a speedy departure. Luckily the damage appears to be less serious than feared: there are no severe injuries, it seems that only minimal repairs will be required, and the harvest will not be affected.

I spent the morning helping to clear some of the wreckage, and then was deemed competent enough to swing a hammer and so was able to help with some repairs. In the afternoon, I assisted with a foaling, although to be frank, I'm not certain that I was truly any help at all. If I recall, I mostly spent the time asking the farmer whether it would truly work and flinching away as I wondered whether that amount of fluid was normal - which it apparently is. (If any of this should happen to make its way to Sirius, I'd like it to be impressed upon him that he would certainly have done no better in the circumstances, and if he doubts it, he may come try next spring.)

I shall likely be staying another two weeks at least - now that I am here, there is some business it would be wise to take care of - but I hope that my absence gives opportunity to those perhaps not bold enough to come forward while I am about. Only recall, of course, that you do not have to give in to such gentlemens’ attentions if you do not want to...unless you desire a husband over whom you can take charge. It would, after all, be only natural for you to desire someone whose stubbornness will not outmatch your own. But if you are waiting for something else in a man, please recall that you are a most excellent catch and quite eligible on your own, and someone with the highest qualities to recommend him will see that in due course.

In the meantime I remain,

Yrs &c

James Potter

Dear Gryffindor,

It is quite a relief to hear that things were less dire than initially believed - although I suspect that they might be a bit dire still if they are allowing you near hammers or any other tools. I shall, however, refrain from sharing my opinion on that with any of your friends or acquaintances, as it would likely spoil the illusion of our deep affection for one another (to my knowledge, most ladies do not express their ardor by pointing out the flaws of their supposed beloved). Nor will I mention the incident with the foal - unless I am severely provoked to it.

Since you bring up potential suitors who might be suffering from attacks of nerves at the thought of crossing the formidable Lord Gryffindor, I did dance twice with Mr. Davey Gudgeon at the Abbott ball evening last. In the first dance he was anxious but quite sweet, but in the second he mistimed his cross-step during the Duchess of Devonshire's Reel, knocked into Miss Vance (or as he put it “nearly had his eye taken out by her!”), and seemed to desire me to spend the rest of the evening fetching him cool cloths and telling him that the redness was not visible. It depressed things quite considerably, I must say.

I shall be waiting with bated breath for these gentlemen of highest quality who you allege to be on the horizon. My criteria remain, I believe, modest: kindness, someone who will be a friend to me, and who will be open to conversation. (Degree of stubbornness matters not at all, regardless of your inferences to the contrary...) Hope with me that they come soon: if my need for air becomes too pressing, I shall be left gasping at the feet of Lord Snape, and there is more than one reason I have worked for many years to avoid such a fate.

With best and most sincere wishes,

Lily

Dear Lily,

I shall keep in mind not to provoke you, although I should ask that you grant me some amount of latitude in what is meant by provoking lest I blunder into it and you are forced to cast aspersions on my reputation as an iron stomached lord of the domain.

Although by your description, Mr. Gudgeon has set the standards quite low in this regard. If these are the men of the ton, I believe my reputation would remain intact even should my inability to assist in live animal births be revealed. (My reputation with Sirius in specific would, of course, never recover.)

I hope that whoever you partner with at the next occasion is more suitable, and that it is certainly not Snape. Forgive me for asking, but I wonder if I misunderstand your comment regarding him. Has he caused you insult or injury further than is commonly known? I give you my assurance that I shall refrain from rash behavior, regardless of your answer - although you must know that I might countenance a considered, planful vengeance upon my return.

James

Dear James,

Your reputation remains intact here in town, although Lady Bones did frown most ominously upon your absence at her party two nights past, even with your other friends present. (Mr. Pettigrew seemed a bit downcast, despite my efforts to cheer him; it seems that Miss Jones has been engaged to another.) Apparently you have a habit of slipping from your promises of attendance. It is a lucky thing for you that it was I with whom you entrusted your secrets, or she might be casting aspersions in revenge even now without you here to defend yourself. (I suspect, however, that she would not, regardless of her pique - she is quite dignified.)

Regarding your own revenge, there is no need. Lord Snape and I were acquainted as children, prior to his inheritance, and he believed that our past friendship and certain areas of mutual interest were enough to assure his suit. However, in the intervening years, I found his choice of friends to be quite reprehensible and his values not to match with my own. I care little regarding his insults toward me, but he was similarly disparaging to those for whom I care, or stood by and listened while others acted similarly. For those reasons I refused him, and while I have the choice, I will refuse him still. You are already doing quite enough in allowing me to continue to have such choices, and for that I must thank you once again.

Yours,

Lily

Dear Lily,

I avoid Lady Bones because she is so intimidating that I perpetually fear that simply being near her will result in unintentional confessions. Even Lady McGonagall, who is quite shrewd and can devastate with her tongue lashing, has a sense of humor beneath it all; Lady Bones seems all mind and sharp eyes.

Perhaps this observation is another which can remain between us? Although if I encounter her again, I might find myself revealing it regardless.

As for Lord Snape, I still find that I would rather confront than avoid him, but as this is your battle, I shall defer to you. (If his path and mine were to cross, however, I wonder at my own control.)

I am to journey home in two days’ time, and while I do not find myself anticipating my arrival back in the social whirl, I hope that you will have some time free to walk with me at least. We must remind everyone of our affections most publicly, after all, as the attention of the ton is short - and besides, it has been quite too long since last I saw you.

Yours,

James

Her drawing room did not lack for suitors these days, her dance card rarely had an empty place, and surely someone would offer for her soon, but as they walked through the park together, even given the gloomy weather, Lily found herself overwhelmingly glad that James had returned.

He was speaking of a visit he had taken to the school in the village, his manner proud as he described the recitation that the students had performed for him - although he turned sheepish as he described how, when one boy had asked him to show them his own skill, he had needed to make up an excuse and flee in order to avoid embarrassment.

“Truly, you could not have been such a terrible student that you cannot remember a single thing,” she admonished, laughing slightly. He really was quite intelligent, as determined as he sometimes seemed to act otherwise; they conversed often on literature and current events, and his friend Lupin had once let slip that James had received a first at university.

James tapped his head. “I’m certain there is some passage or poem lurking around up here, but what if I had erred in front of them? I could never have endured the shame. And, being frank with you, I was never a particularly engaged student. That crop I saw was all much better and they deserve the credit for it.”

“I had not realized that you would be so involved in the education of your tenants,” Lily commented, lifting her skirt a bit to avoid a puddle which had collected in a dip in the path.

“Many are not, but my family has seen it as a responsibility of ours for some time. Not everyone will find themselves at university, but there is no reason that we cannot help to ensure that there is instruction beyond the most basic of reading and sums.” He said this all very staunchly, brow furrowed, but he relaxed a bit as he added, “My father would often send books down for the schooling of the boys.”

“And what of the girls?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Her sister would have hissed at her in shock and shame, both for the impertinent tone and for even bothering to ask the question, but James just grinned. “That was my mother’s pet project, actually, a schoolhouse educating the village girls. Whenever she had heard that my father had provided more materials or hired on a new schoolmaster, she would do the same for them. She was quite an admirer of Wollstonecraft.”

“Really? I had not heard,” Lily said. It was not altogether surprising, as she had never interacted with James’s mother in life, but gossip did travel far and fast. And Lily was sure that if she had known this about the late Lady Gryffindor, she would not have forgotten; although she had hidden it from not only Petunia but their mother as well for fear they would be scandalized, Lily had read both Thoughts on the Education of Daughters and Vindication of the Rights of Woman and considered the ideas within them often.

“It’s likely fairly common knowledge in that corner of the country but she kept it a bit quiet in London. She always said that it was easier to change people’s minds when they did not know your opinions well enough to start bracing themselves and preparing their counterattacks without having even heard your points.” Strangely, it was not the smile on his face which spoke more to Lily of his love for his mother, but the gruff clearing of his throat as he said, “She could likely have worked for the War Office, my mother. Napoleon would have been dispatched much sooner.”

“I wish I could have met her,” Lily said honestly. “I wish I could have met both of them. They both sound quite lovely, quite special.” She had one arm resting in his, but she drew up her other hand and covered his fingers lightly, trying to communicate the truth of her sentiment.

James nodded. “They were, to me and to each other. I was terribly lucky to be able to watch their partnership for as long as I did.” He squeezed her fingers back.

His hand, Lily realized, was warm beneath hers, warm and very strong and somehow comfortable. She did not know how it had happened or when, but she had grown to adore walking alongside him, hearing his thoughts and having him listen to hers, watching the way his face crumpled a bit with concern over his friends or his tenants or news from the continent or some issue in Parliament, seeing his concern turn into determination, registering the degree of his every smile and laugh, especially when they were for her.

She thought of the things she had told him she wished for in a husband, comfort and companionship, someone who truly saw her, and she knew that she had that in James, and that she had more too. He had told her that he had arrived back in London near twilight the previous evening, and that after so long in the carriage he had wanted to stretch his legs so he had walked part of the way to Gryffindor House. She had not mentioned that she had been at her window as he passed, that she had involuntarily drawn in a breath at the sight of his undone cravat, of the leanly muscled forearms beneath his rolled up sleeves, of the hair that she once thought foolishly messy but which now seemed dashing as he brushed it carelessly from his eyes.

Neither had she told him that she had run down to receive the post each morning that he had been away, and not only because she had feared Petunia withholding his letters from her if she got to them first. She did not mention that she had read them over more than once, conjuring up his awkward little gestures and his seriousness and his enthusiasm, imagining him swinging a hammer beside his tenants, rubbing a finger against his lips as he read her own correspondence the way he did when he was particularly engrossed in something. She did not speak of the way, when she lay in bed, she thought of his eyes lighting up behind his glasses as he returned to see her, nor of the way she would fall asleep smiling just from the thought of being with him once again.

Oh, she thought with polite surprise, even as it felt as if a rock were sinking into her belly. Oh, God. I’ve fallen in love with him.

She had never questioned her refusal of his proposal all those years ago. There was no doubt that he would not have suited her at the time, that after a short time he would have realized that she did not suit him. Only, if they had turned into who they were now and they had already been married…

She allowed herself a moment to imagine it, being married to James, being a friend to him over the years not only at a distance or because of some scheme but in true partnership as his parents had been. To have all that they did now, but also to be able to touch each other, to be alone together.

But she could allow herself only that moment. He had made it more than clear at the outset that he was uninterested in marriage at present, that he now found the idea a bothersome distraction. She had missed her chance, and she would simply have to live with it. Fenwick had danced with her thrice two nights past, tantamount to a proposal. She would live a fine life with him, and James would be happy, one day, with someone else.

Swallowing against the tears in her throat, she squeezed his hand once more and let him go.

When Remus came running into the room two days later, James thought he must be falling ill once more. His friend kept his condition quiet, but he had developed malaria as a child after time spent abroad due to his father’s work; attacks of the illness came on periodically, bringing with them terrible fevers and pain which James hated to watch and could do little to stop.

“Shall I call for the doctor?” he asked desperately, forcing his thoughts straight as he rose from the table where he had been having a late breakfast and shoved out a chair for Remus to collapse into. “You’re meant to have that quinine remedy, aren’t you? Have you run out?”

But Remus only shook his head frantically, finally rasping out, “A drink, please.”

James hastily poured him tea, remembering only after he had handed it over that it would likely be cold by now. He had come down to breakfast late already, and then had lingered quite a long time absently eating through progressively more tepid eggs and fish as he read over reports from his solicitors. But Remus took it down in a gulp, making a face only after he had finished and returned the cup to the table.

“You’ve been found out,” was the first thing he said.

James slowly regained his seat. He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I was at the stationers,” Remus continued as his breathing calmed slightly and his color began returning to normal. “And I was approached by Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange - those bounders married to Sirius’s dreadful cousins, you remember.”

“Of course.” If James had not already known and disliked the men in question, he would have pitied them, Lestrange especially. “But I don’t see—”

“They said that they knew that Lily had been having one over on everyone,” said Remus grimly. “And they know of your part in it too. It’s apparently already being spread all over town. According to them, as soon as Snape found out, he went to go see Lily’s brother-in-law: he seems to think that Dursley will simply give Lily over now that there are even rumors about her being duplicitous or what have you, and having only met the man once I’m inclined to think he’s right.”

James stood from the table so quickly that he didn’t unbend his legs in time, hitting both knees on the tabletop and needing a moment to straighten himself. Fingers fumbling with his cravat, he called for his coat and hat, only pausing after he had done so to ask, “Did they say how they found out in the first place? I don’t expect that Lily was spreading it around, and I only told you three.” There was an unpleasant turn in his stomach at the thought of Sirius’s unbound tongue when he was in his cups. But surely even then, he would not have revealed the information? If Lily’s life was ruined because of this…

“It was Peter,” Remus said.

“What?” James said, his thoughts still on how Sirius would have to grovel, but then the words made it through. “What?” he said again, so shocked that he sank back into his chair. “Peter?”

Remus said, with the air of a doctor giving a fatal diagnosis, “He was trying to ingratiate himself to them, I think, but they kept needling him about Hestia Jones throwing him over. So he struck back by letting them in on the most sensational secret that he had.”

“I’ll have to—” James began weakly, but then his anger took over. “I’ll speak with him later,” he said, rage bristling through him, pushing his shoulders back. He found himself wishing that the morning had never started, but it was too late for that. He took a fortifying breath as the butler returned and set his jaw. He would need to handle things regarding Peter, but for now he had somewhere else to be.

Fifteen minutes later, he was nipping at the heels of another butler as he walked through the hall to the drawing room of the Dursley house.

“No callers all morning?” came the voice of Lily’s entirely unpleasant sister. “It seems that the bloom has quite come off the rose. I caught Vernon in my second season, you know. It seems that once again you will not be so lucky.”

“The bloom coming off the lily would have been the more apt reference, Tuney,” Lily replied. “And I am quite grateful that you were the one to catch Vernon. But regardless, perhaps everyone somehow divined that I would prefer some quiet time with my thoughts this morning.”

“And what thoughts are—”

“The Earl of Gryffindor, madam,” the butler announced, mere seconds before James entered the room.

Petunia Dursley rose and curtsied. “My lord,” she said, although with a turn of her lip as if she would prefer to call him something else, or even to comment on his lack of manners in barging into their home. If James had not been so distracted, he might have even appreciated her lack of ingratiation: too many people began positively groveling as soon as they heard the title. As it was, he was distracted by the sudden realization of the flaw in his plan. For all that the ton relied on rules and propriety, Mrs. Dursley clung to the concepts with a martial gleam that put most others to shame. She would never leave them alone and unchaperoned, not for a moment. Perhaps he could trip her, and in the chaos, whisper something to Lily…?

“Would you like to sit down?” That was Lily now; he focused enough to watch her gesture to a chair across from the sofa which she and Petunia shared, and even to follow her direction, although he was still distracted by the necessity now of coming up with a plan.

“Would you like something to eat or drink, my lord?” Lily again. She had set her embroidery aside and was eyeing him oddly. He had the feeling that this was not the first time he had been offered a refreshment.

“Tea would be lovely,” he managed. Maybe her sister would go to arrange it…

But no, Petunia Dursley simply rang for a maid, then picked up her own embroidery and began conversing about the weather as if she were being forced into niceties with a pistol at her back. He was able to manage answers for several minutes, sipping tea occasionally, even as Lily looked at him in a way which clearly showed she thought him mad.

“The weather is indeed lovely,” he finally interrupted a bit desperately, although he knew that firstly, it was not, and secondly, Mrs. Dursley had been asking whether he believed that there would be more rain this month than the same time last year. “Perhaps I might take Miss Evans on a walk?”

“Fresh air would certainly be wonderful,” Lily said swiftly.

Petunia glanced between both of them suspiciously. “You walked only yesterday, Lily, with Mr. Fenwick. I’m afraid you will become too dark and hearty-looking if you step out so often.”

James Potter had never even considered being rattled by an exam, a fight with a fellow gentleman, or an upbraiding by his mother. The slightest sweat broke out on the back of his neck now.

And then, several things happened, if not at once, then in very close succession: the front door burst open followed by a stream of unintelligible invective; Petunia rose, calling, “Vernon, is there some trouble, darling?” and began to cross the room; and James, spotting an opportunity, upended his teacup onto her skirt with a barely believable, “Oh, my apologies!”

Instead of causing her to leave the room at once to put herself to rights, this clearly non-accidental dousing simply made Petunia eye him stonily, mouth agape. James ignored her, turning and starting, “Lily—” before being cut off.

“Thought you could pull one over on us, eh?” Vernon Dursley had arrived in the room, impressively red in the face. The color became even more impressive as he spotted James, and he barked out a “You!”

“We’ve been found out,” James said rapidly, returning to face Lily alone. “It was my error. I should not have—In any case, I have heard that Lord Snape has already tried to finalize things, but if you were to marry me, I believe that you would be…”

She was looking at him with the same vaguely curious expression that she had all the way back in the garden at the Longbottom house party. The arguments he was about to make - that the power of his title and standing would offer protection to her reputation, that it was only honorable that he make amends in this way considering it was his lack of discretion which had allowed their secret to be known, that he would trouble her as little as she liked within their marriage - died on his tongue.

All he could remember was Lily making conciliatory faces to Alice Longbottom behind the back of the redoubtable Lady Longbottom, Lily’s small and capable hand against his arm as they walked, the feeling of her assured steps, of her warmth against him when they danced. Lily’s look of concentration as he explained something dull regarding crop rotations, her careful gestures as she offered some solution. The gleam in her eye when she won at cards, the way she gave Sirius as good as she got and spoke with Remus about literature and was kind to Peter even when he stepped on her toes. Lily, choosing the maple ice cream because it was the least liked, looking fascinated at the idea of his father’s old work rooms, conceding a point only after he had presented his best arguments, teasing him that he allowed his hair to stay in such disarray because he did not want to seem shorter than Sirius, speaking so lovingly of her mother and tilting her head in welcome as he spoke of his own parents. Lily’s smile, her laugh, her mind, the way he felt such joy whenever they spent time together…

He had thought himself in love with her years earlier, but that had been mere infatuation, an enjoyment of her appearance, her outward manner. He had been drawn to this one woman who had not been charmed by him, who had offered novelty through her rejection, but that was not love. This, knowing her and wanting to be known by her, always, this was love.

The teacup was empty, but he placed it politely on the side table before he slid from his chair and knelt before Lily. He took both of her hands in his and held them near his mouth. Surely this was allowed? Hands were allowed, he had kissed many of them, although not ungloved like this and not with this precise level of intimacy. The Dursleys certainly seemed to take offense: Petunia gasped in nearly all the air in the room, although she left enough for Vernon to bellow out an “I say!” James ignored them both, watching those spectacularly green eyes of Lily’s instead.

“I have no flowers,” he said softly, “and I have no ring, although I can obtain both very soon, but if you would have me, I should like to marry you. Not because you must, and not because of what my name can offer, but because you are my friend, because I adore you, because I want you to be my partner in every dance, today and for the rest of my life, because my favorite times are when I am with you, because I want to spend each one of my days with you beside me.” He swallowed. “Will you have me?”

And just as he had known the first time he had asked what her answer would be before she said it, he knew now too.

Two years later…

Sirius was not certain whether it was his sighing or his constant checking out the carriage window, but a few miles from Godric’s Hollow, Remus had apparently had enough.

“Please,” he said, faintly begging. “Borrow a horse and ride ahead.”

“It would not be polite to leave you alone,” Sirius pointed out dutifully, glad that his mother was not there to see him acting in such a manner.

Remus countered, “It would, in fact, be more polite than what you are doing now.” He gestured to the manuscript atop the travel desk on his lap. “I have much to keep me occupied, and you are merely a distraction from it. Now go.”

And so, less than an hour later, Sirius directed his commandeered horse up the neatly maintained path to the house. A servant was already hurrying out as he swerved to a stop by the front door (Lily had been welcomed easily as countess, and her staff always rose to exceed her expectations), and Sirius tossed over the reins and bounded up the steps two at a time.

He was recognized immediately by the butler and footmen and maids, but he only nodded in acknowledgment of their bows and curtsies as he strode through the entrance hall and made his way to the main staircase.

Barely had he reached the upstairs landing when he heard a door thrown open and saw James barrelling toward him.

“Sirius,” his best friend shouted, nearly knocking him over when he couldn’t manage to come to a stop quickly enough. Without apology, he grabbed Sirius’s hand and hauled him further down the hall. “The baby’s here.”

“I know,” Sirius said, laughing. “You wrote to us, that’s why we came.”

But James didn’t seem to hear him. “Come see the baby,” he said, words nearly toppling over each other in his excitement. “Come see Lily. Come meet my son!”

His spectacles were falling down his nose and he looked as though he hadn’t slept in the days since the baby was born and there was a large, unpleasant looking stain on his waistcoat over his ribcage, but Sirius had never seen him so happy.

And as he allowed himself to be dragged for his first glimpse of the future Earl of Gryffindor, Sirius realized that the best friend of his childhood was well and truly gone. Or perhaps not gone, he decided, but transformed. James had left behind old habits and made way for new. He had laid aside the roles of rake and man about town and had taken on others, earl and husband and now father. They would no longer challenge each other dangerously or act below their age and rank, and that was no pity. James had happiness here, a different kind than Sirius had once expected, but no less true for it.

“Let’s go see your son,” Sirius said, and James laughed a wholly exhilarated sort of laugh, running his hand through his hair and beginning to describe the baby as though Sirius wouldn’t see himself in only a moment.

Two weeks later, Frank Longbottom received two bottles of extremely fine brandy alongside a note from Sirius Black.

Congratulations on the birth of your son, and my belated thanks for the invitation.

“What invitation?” Alice said, rocking their new baby Neville as he read the card aloud to her. “I should hope that you have no intention of inviting people around for months yet.”

“Not even—”

“Especially not your mother,” Alice said with exhausted vehemence.

“Well, I have no idea what he’s talking about, regardless,” Frank said, hefting one bottle to eye level. “But it’s a jolly nice gift anyway.”

“I would have preferred some chocolates, and Neville might have liked another blanket, but I suppose we shall make do.”

“Oh, Nev will like this perfectly well one day.”

“One day quite a long time from now,” Alice remarked, but she smiled as she did.

[sleeplessincairo]

[ three ]

pairings: james buchanan barnes x reader

warnings: undescriptive smut, ptsd, anxiety, sobbing.

summary: 3AM encounters with bucky barnes and the presence of the number 3 in your growing relationship

a/n: this was inspired by my love for cristina & owen. considering making a part 2.

tell me what you think. would be greatly appreciated.

///

James Buchanan Barnes was a ghost.

He was only seen when he wanted to be seen. One minute he was there and the next, he was gone. Vanished. It made you question science and your sanity, it was as if he was able to dissolve into the very air itself and move with the wind-Or maybe he was never there in the first place.

Bucky was alert and vigilant like he was waiting for an attack or a sign of danger, never showing weakness and ease. He was precise in his movements; never faltering, swift and quick as if he was 10 steps ahead of you and had you beat in every possible outcome. He was self-sufficient; he could infiltrate bases and extract information without the help of his fellow teammates nor any arising problems-You could see why HYDRA wanted to create more of him. 

Even in the safety and comfort of the compound, Bucky’s distant and guarded demeanor never wavered.

‘Hellos’, ‘Good mornings’, and well, talking were as foreign to Bucky as the first air that slipped into his lungs when he came out of cryo sleep. It was a luxury he had grown to live without many years ago in a place where the only sound he could ever release was one so agonizingly loud it pierced the air even through the cloth the HYDRA doctors stuffed in his mouth. And now, he was left in the hollow shell of the man he used to be. All he could bring himself to do was observe, never participate.

Bucky refused to train, spar, eat, and hell, even talk to the rest of team-Other than Steve and Sam-during the previous weeks since he had joined, he never attended meetings or briefings, and he rarely left his room-And when he did, you never saw him despite being in the room across of him. You never heard the squeak of his door as he slipped out of his room at 3 AM to train alone, you never heard the sound of his footsteps as he walked down the corridor to sneak food out of the fridge, you never heard the muffled screams he let out at night as he felt familiar spirits of leather-bound around his wrists and ankles and white-hot electricity surging through his body, which is why you were startled when you heard the sound of glass breaking coming from your ghost of a neighbor’s room.

You took your gun with you. Just in case.

You knocked on his door three times, each knock harder than the other while the sound of your voice, uttering his name in a persistent and questioning manner, slipped through the crack of his bedroom door. Your mind started to run with worst-case scenarios that included kidnappings, intruders, murder, HYDRA agents, and many other things that should not be thought of at 3 AM.

Nonetheless, those thoughts pushed you into taking a deep breath and wrapping your hand around the cold metal door handle, and opening the door. 

You don’t know what you expected to see, but it sure as hell wasn’t the former HYDRA agent in a fetal position, head dug deep into his knees and surrounded by shards of mirror and a small pool of his own blood. 

You cussed lowly under your breath and rushed to him, careful not to step on any of the shards and press your knees to the ground to get a closer look at him.

“James, I need you to look at me.” You examine your surroundings. There are no signs of a break-in or assault-Other than what was done to the mirror, which you deduced was probably done by James himself judging by the force it must have taken to completely break the mirror and the blood leaking from his flesh hand.

“James,” The repetition of his name made no effect or change in his position, and you contemplated touching him and shaking him out of this trance, before mentally waving it off.

“You need to come with me to the medbay, that’s a pretty nasty cut on your hand,” You pursed your lip at the lack of movement or response and came to terms that he was not leaving this room.

God, Steve chose the worst day to go on an undercover mission in another goddamn continent. 

You let out an exasperated sigh, weighing your options before deciding to walk towards the bathroom and take out a first aid kit. 

Looks like you had to do this yourself.

“James, I need to clean your wound. I’m going to touch your hand, okay?” You searched his body for any signs of consent, “Look, I’m just going clean and bandage it, then I’ll be out of your hair. I promise.” You sucked in a deep breath and closed your eyes for a few seconds.

“Please.” Maybe it’s the way your voice was laced with exhaustion and impatience, maybe it was the realization that dawned on him where you’d probably end up bringing the team to his room or calling Steve, or maybe it was because he knew you’d never give up even if it took all night. Because that’s who you are. You were always known for caring too much. 

Bucky looks up at you, glacier cold eyes red and puffy as salty drops cascaded down his cheekbones and off his chin. Despite the tears on his face glistening in the light, sadness bouncing into the atmosphere, his facial expression was still hard and cold, his eyes were the palest blue glass, too soft to be turquoise, too bright to be baby blue. An innocent shade.

But oh, innocence was nothing but a stranger to him.

You cleared your throat, “I’m going to touch your hand, is that okay?” He licked his lip, tasting the saltiness of a stray tear before reluctantly placing his flesh hand on your knee. The bleeding had already stopped so you picked up the rubbing alcohol, the smell tickling your nostrils uncomfortably, and poured a decent amount of it on the wound.

He didn’t even wince.

You cleaned and bandaged his wound, even cleaned up the broken shards of glass and blood surrounding him while Bucky remained still throughout it all, keeping his eyes fixated on the marble floor tiles and leaning his back against the wall. 

“Hey,” You said softly, sliding your back against the wall and sitting next to him, staring at the spot he’s looking at, “It’s okay. When I say, ‘One, two, three.’ forget it. Erase all the sad memories. Just hold my hand and smile. Even if it’s temporary, okay?” You give him a weak smile that he probably doesn't even see.

But he does. From the corner of his eye.

You inhale, “One.”

You exhale, “Two.” He slips his hand into yours.

“Three.”

____________

It was a particularly bad mission. You had lost 2 SHIELD agents that accompanied you and the team, barely making it out with your lives and almost all of you coming back with injuries that your body would throb with for the next weeks. It was supposed to be a simple extraction mission, in-and-out, but there were more enemy agents than you had originally expected and it ended up being a trap set by HYDRA, and before you knew it, you were ambushed. 

The whole thing was a blow.

The Avengers were fatigued and lethargic, they wanted nothing more than to crash on their soft beds, but the mission left more than a few physical injuries, and sleep seemed to be the furthest thing from all of your minds. You all ended up in the kitchen, drowning your sorrows in alcohol and shwarma in silence-Except for Wanda, who had the stomach flu, and Bucky, who hadn’t joined the mission per Steve’s request due to still-fresh wounds that hadn’t quite healed yet.

“Hand me a shot of tequila.” You groaned to Tony, leaning your head on the cool marble exterior of the counter and sitting on the stool that accompanied three other empty ones.

“I’ll take one, too.” Sam trudged his body onto the stool beside you, wincing once he sat down-Poor guy was captured and tortured during the mission before Steve and Nat managed to get to him. 

Steve followed him and sat on the stool next to him, rubbing his temples before mumbling a ‘Me too’ eventhough alcohol did not affect him.

Tony was about to retort with something about financing the team and being the bartender, before Bucky came inside the kitchen, stopping slightly at the sight of The Avengers all wide awake in the kitchen instead of in your beds at 3 AM.

Bucky usually tried his best to avoid spending time with more than 2 members of the team, even so, that he made sure to leave his room after midnight so there'd be a less likely chance of running into too many people. He had been avoiding group training sessions, parties, and eating out of his room for the past month, and so he couldn’t stop the feeling of anxiety creeping up his throat and regret coming into the kitchen.

This is why Bucky never ate outside of his room. 

“Hey Buck, thought you’d be training room right now. Join us, will ya’?” The blond super soldier said, smiling fondly at the ex-assassin before motioning for him to sit on the last remaining stool next to you.

The previous encounter between you and Bucky remained unspoken of and neglected, but not forgotten, it was a wordless agreement made between the both of you that you both wouldn't dare mention.

He didn't even tell Steve.

“Lucky for you, we’re all sulky and grouchy tonight so you'll fit right in.” Tony chirped, taking a swig of vodka and turning towards Natasha and Clint for a change of scenery that did not include the man that murdered his parents.

Bucky cleared his throat and contemplated turning around, and walking out of the room but the sad and tired look on Steve’s face expelled the need for the company of an old friend-Even if he wouldn't talk-and dragged himself over to the stool next to you.

It didn't take long for the three of you to get lost in a meaningless conversation while Bucky observed, often pausing to laugh at something that wasn't really funny, then stopping himself short, bobbing his head down, eyes moving quickly from one side of the corridor to the other. He would smile swiftly in a way that was sadder than tears, his true age starting to show in the way he slouched and the lack of light in his blue eyes.

The hum of conversation in the room did nothing to block the sound of Bucky’s heart beating, accelerating at a faster rate each second, and buzzing in his mind as they started to race, his thoughts scattering like there’s an electrical storm, too many short-circuits to make any sense. 

You take notice of the frozen panic that settles in his chest in the way his breathing turns ragged as he restlessly continues to glance at the door, thinking about making a run for it. 

“James,” You say in a low voice, careful for the others not to hear you, “You need to busy your mind, you need something to ground you.” You start looking around the room for anything he can focus on, anything he can hold on to mentally, anything to keep him from the panic creeping up his throat.

“Alright, look, count the inner pads in your hands,” You slowly hold his hand, placing it on your thigh and start moving his thumb to touch the inner pads separated by the wrinkled lines of each finger, and start counting. You smile to yourself when you feel his hand relax on your thigh and his breathing slowly settling into an almost steady rate.

The night continues in a blur of lowly uttered ‘threes’, soft breathing, and grazed fingers transforming into fingers entwined together in a gentle holding of hands.

Bucky decides to stop eating in his room.

__________

“Hey,” You smile, leaning against  the wall of the training room admiring the view of Bucky as he hit the punching bag, each punch falling rival to the previous one. The dim lights in the training room made him look like a shadow, each muscle on his body flowing from the light into the dark and each time he moved, a bead of sweat trickled and glistened in the light.

Bucky turned to look at you, narrowing his eyes at you but letting the smallest tug of a smile play on his lips. You took notice of his bleary eyes, slightly bloodshot, resulting from days of not being to sleep, eyes that grow with the stars in the night sky, accompanied by dark crescents under his eyes, and stay until the light of day. The stubble on his face had grown longer and rougher, the hairs scattering from his jawline to the middle of his neck. His stance was loose, less alert, more rash, like he was trying to tire himself out rather than actually train. It was obvious he hadn't had a good night’s sleep in a long time.

“Let me guess, nightmares?” You inquired, smiling sympathetically when you saw his head move in a slow vertical manner.

On good days Bucky'd get three hours, on bad days two. He'd wake up as soon as sleep came, always as fast as if a gunshot had sounded, heart beating fast and breathing as if he'd just surfaced from deep water. 

Today was a bad one-The past few days really. His mind was plagued with thoughts that he had tried so hard to push down, only for them to sink into him completely.

“C’mere,” You motioned to the cushioned bench on the other side of the room, “So,” There was a slight hesitance to which you wondered if it would sound silly to an ex-assassin before waving the thought away, “There was this thing my mother used to do when I was a kid.”

He follows you to the bench, his focus on your words unfaltering, “It was to keep the nightmares away,” You let out a light chuckle, leaning your back against the wall as your mind filled with bright memories of your childhood.

“It was like this...I don't know this hymn or chant that she’d repeat three times.” You turned to look at him, searching for any sign of mockery and grinned when you found none, “Maybe it was because I was a child, but it seemed to do the trick and what have ya’ got to lose?” You shrugged.

“She’d be so disappointed if I at least didn't try, so,” You paused, pursing your lips into a thin line,  “Do you mind?”

Bucky wiped his hands in the material of his shorts and nodded before looking down and taking a deep breath. You put your hand on the sides of his head, making him look at you and giving him a reassuring smile before dragging his head onto your lap and putting your hands a few inches in the air above it.

You took a deep breath and moved your hands in a motion that resembled digging a hole in the air before he grabbed your wrist tightly, his eyes burning. He’d seen that move multiple times, he'd seen Wanda do it when manipulating opponents, he'd heard of how she manipulated Tony into creating Ultron, how she managed to bring Natasha Romanoff, one of the Red Room’s best assassins, to her knees, how Wanda triggered the Hulk into destroying a city and killing hundreds. Bucky’s mind immediately wandered to a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts, to the manipulation and brainwashing he experienced, the feeling of his mind-

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Your pained voice snapped him out of it, making him dart his eyes to your wrist and how it had turned red in the steel grip of his metal arm, “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.” Your eyes pleaded with him and he reluctantly let go of your arm, silently cursing himself when he saw your rub it in pain.

You cleared your throat, going back to your original position and started the tune, “Bad dreams, bad dreams go away,” The digging movement started momentarily before replacing it with throwing the air over your right shoulder, “Good dreams, good dreams,” The movement of your hands switched from digging to smooth pushes that resembled a wave hitting the shore, “Here to stay.” You sighed, flattening the air with your hands and repeating the tune and movements another 2 times.

And maybe its the fact that all the memories he had of you so far were all so bright in the darkness of his mind, maybe it was the fact that your voice was so damn soothing and reassuring the kind that was made for lullabies and soft laughs, or maybe it was the fact that it was 3 AM and he’d been living on 7 hours of sleep in the past 4 days and his body just couldn’t take it anymore but he can’t fight the way his eyes lids get heavy. Bucky feels the shuttering of my synapses, the quite lure into sleepiness. His head lolls and the muscles of his face relax as each limb becomes heavy and his heart slows to a more peaceful beat, releasing the tension of the past 4 days.

___________________

Bucky doesn't remember how it happened or how he let it happen, but one minute he was fighting HYDRA agents, and the next he felt thousands of bolts of electricity flowing through him and the feeling of him being dragged into a vehicle before everything went black.

Luckily, Natasha had intercepted one of their walkie talkies and the familiar Russian language talking about Prisoner #56898 being moved for transport and commed the rest of the team. Sam flew to the sky with Steve in his arms before spotting the truck and intercepting it.

Bucky was safe, but he was not okay.

The trip back was quiet and troublesome. It had been 2 hours since Sam and Steve had brought Bucky back to the helicarrier, and he still had not woken up. You all considered the possibility of him being drugged or poisoned, but you wouldn't be able to tell until you reached the compound-You couldn't even touch him, in case he was infected with something so he was kept in the cell Loki was kept in when the Avengers first assembled.

“Still not awake?” You walked up to the blond super-soldier who monitoring him from the other side of the glass.

He gave you a small nod, slightly wincing which made you notice the blood seeping from his forehead, “Woah there Rogers, you're bleeding.” As always, Y/N, stating the obvious,

You reached up to touch the garish red staining his sun-soaked hair, “You’ve gotta get that checked out. You might have a concussion.” He looked at you, his eyes conflicted but still settled for a quiet, “I can’t just leave him.”

He runs his hands through his blood-stained hair, “Sam and I almost didn't make it in time, he could've been taken and-”

“But you did, and he’s still here.” You put your hand on Steve’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, before he winces once more and raises his hand to hold his shoulder in an attempt to soothe it.

“Steve, you have multiple injuries. It’s 3 AM, we won't land for another 3 hours. You’re exhausted and injured. Standing here won't make him wake up any sooner. Just go get checked out, maybe take a nap or eat something. You look like shit,” You joked-In all seriousness though, he did look like shit-earning a chuckle out of him, “I’ll keep watch him until you get back, alright?” You give him a reassuring smile, and a silent ‘I promise’ with your eyes.

He hesitates, weighing his options and whether or not he should just push through the pounding in his head but realized he had to go check on Clint anyway, who had also suffered from a few injuries. Steve mumbles a low ‘okay’ and trudges out of the room.

You lean against the wall facing the glass separating you from Bucky and take out your phone to type in the mission report. You didn't have to turn it in until tomorrow, but you thought you might as well start it now.

You had just about made it to to the part, that people at SHIELD always loved to see, where you type ‘Despite complications that the team eventually surpassed, the mission was successful’ and suddenly, you heard a scream pierce the air in an uproar of pain from behind the glass, jolting you up from your sitting position and towards the source.

Bucky’s eyes split open. At first all that surrounded him was silence, a misty haze upon the horizons of his mind until memories of what happened came rushing in from falling off the freight car to the white-hot electricity that shot through his body more times than he could count. And before he knew it, he was plunged into scattered thoughts, replays of horrors once forgotten, and suddenly his breathing goes shallow and wheezy, lungs unable to move against suddenly concrete-heavy ribs. The panic starts like a constriction in the chest, as if the muscles are trying not to let another breath in, but instead to die. 

The scream tore through Bucky like the shard of glass that pierced his hand not so long ago. He felt my eyes widen and pulse quicken, his heart thudding like a rock rattling in a box. The blood drained from his face before he was even aware of making a conscious decision his legs were pounding furiously against the cool pale floor and towards the monster he saw looking straight at him in the glass wall in front of him.

Himself.

You yelled his name like your life depended on it, pounding on the glass as you watched him scream, punch, scratch, and claw at the wall with his head, hands, nails in a massacre of blood, shouting, skin, and metal.

Bucky heard the sound of a pair of feet against the floor, the sound of a passcode being entered, the sound of shouting-The throat-scratching yelling of a familiar voice, or maybe that was just him. He couldn't tell. Not when the world turned into a blur of color that melted into red, like a sunset. All the taste, the smell, the feeling, the sounds melted into nothing but a fiery, sizzling hot, flaming, scorching hot, bold, garish scarlet red.

He felt his heart play push-and-shove in the deepness of his heart. It pulled back in like a yo-yo. Over and over. In and out. Until he was hollow, his life crumbling in his fingertips and rumbling into an earthquake with every punch against the glass-Now stained with his blood. 

And then, suddenly, Y/N was there, wrapping her arms around him, restraining him and reaching into his hollowness in a series of mumbled ‘You are okay’s, ‘Everything is fine’s, ‘You are safe’s, ‘Breathe, James, breathe’s, ‘I got you’s, ‘Hold my hand’s, ‘Look at me’s, ‘I am here’s, and other three worded sentences as you squeeze him tighter, ignoring his thrashing body and waiting for his oxytocin levels to increase.

Bucky's last remaining thread of strength unraveled before completely tearing, sending him plummeting over the edge and into the darkness. Hysterical sobs shook his once-so-rigid frame, threatening to rip him apart from the inside. The sobs punched through, ripping through her muscles, bones, and guts as he fought to reclaim control over his body, shocked by the howls of misery that escaped from deep within his chest. 

You held him in silence, rocking him slowly as he sobbed into your chest unceasingly, hands gripping at your arms like you were the only thing gravitating him from flying away, whispering a prayer-like mantra of ‘three, three, three’ over and over again.

It’s the first time you ever heard his voice.

__________________

It’s 3 AM when you knock on his door the next day three times as you did oh, so long ago, but instead of letting yourself in, you’re welcomed by the familiar face of James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s 3 AM when you inquire about whether he’s feeling better and he gives you a warm smile and small nod, before inquiring if you’d like to come inside. He had a box of pizza that he hadn’t yet finished.

It’s 3 AM when the pizza’s all finished, and there’s a thrum and purr of friendly conversation-Mostly you talking and him releasing a few words and comments here and there, still getting used to the sound of his voice-but beneath the talk was the gentle, admiring gaze of their eyes and the relaxed nature of their faces.

And then its still 3 AM and he’s kissing you, parting your lips when he brushes his tongue against your bottom lip, wordlessly asking for an entrance. It’s a slow, sybaritic dance of lips and tongue, your lips are 2 dancers, moving against each other like they’re sashaying through the melody. It’s a slow and soft kiss, comforting in ways that could never be verbally shown.

Bucky’s hand rests below your ear, his thumb caressing your cheek as your breaths mingled. You ran your fingers down his spine, tugging him closer until the space between the both of you was eradicated and you could feel the beating of his heart against your chest. Your bodies molded perfectly against each other like you were made for each other, made to sink into one another, made to drown in the thick air filling his room with pure longing, expelling from the both of you-So lost in the moment, you don't even notice when you knock the clock off the table, shattering it, 

And before the both of you can realize what’s happening, you're naked and you’re exhaling a gasp when you feel the cool exterior of his Vibranium arm venturing your body, his hands working their way, feeling each crevasse, taking their time to map every curve and dip your body as it moves, slow and sweet like honey, against his body. You feel his hand enter from below, skin and metal colliding in an earth-shattering sensation, moans and sighs exhaled into each others’ mouths, your hands tangled in his hair playing a game of push-and-shove, and suddenly, he can't get enough of you. 

You were intoxicating.

Bucky drinks you in, he drinks in your scent, he drinks in the sounds you make, he drinks in the softness of your lips on his skin, he drinks in the warmth that radiates off the soft-kissed spots that slowly spread throughout the rest of your body, he drinks in your body’s response as picks you apart with his tongue, fingers, and the stretching of your walls as he enters you, changing your breathing with every thrust, hearing your moans timed to his body until he feels you tremble underneath you and in a breathless howl, his brain lighting up in places he thought were abandoned years ago and his body is shaking with sheer bliss.

____________

You awake to hands, that held you so tenderly and savoringly mere hours before, wrapped around your neck tightly, robbing the oxygen from your lungs-No doubt leaving scars more permanent than the ones that would stain your skin in the coming days and remind you of the way your body thrashed and writhed in his hands, the way you gasped out his name continuously no longer done in euphoria, the way your hands pulled and pushed and scratched at his hands, hair, face, and back no longer done in pleasure, the way his body fell limp beside you no longer done in the result of the comedown of a groundbreaking high, but instead because of a nearby lamp being pulled from its socket and smashing it against his skull three seconds before you pass out.

The shattered clock on the floor stuck on 3:53 AM.

[a-spectacle-in-the-morning]

You’re Lucky I Love You So Much Pt. 2 -- Sonny Carisi

Notes: The second half of this fic! You finally meet lots of Carisis and Sonny dances like a wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man. Also a little bit of tooth rotting fluff because it’s what we all (including Sonny) deserve.  

--

Spending a couple hours in a Catholic church packed full of hundreds of chatty Italians wasn’t your ideal way to spend a Saturday morning. Though you’d certainly had worse. Like the one proceeded by a Friday night in which your roommate convinced you eight shots of Bacardi wouldn’t be a mistake.

It was.

And even though this Saturday morning was already leaving a similar churning feeling in your stomach, you knew that this wasn’t a mistake. Sonny had his fingers intertwined with yours and was leading you through the crowd to an open pew. Well, he was trying to lead you. The two of you were being stopped every few feet by some distant relative.

“Sonny! How’ve you been?”

“How’s work?”

“Who’s this?”

“Aren’t you two adorable!”

“How long has this been a thing?”

By the time you finally sat down you’d met twelve cousins, eight second cousins, a handful of aunts and uncles, and Sonny’s mother who, very sweetly and simply, wrapped you in a gentle hug and told you you looked lovely.

“See?” Sonny said, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head forward a bit. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“No. It wasn’t bad at all,” you replied. “Except you could have warned me about all the strangers that would be kissing me on the mouth today.”

Sonny laughed, “Yeah, it’s an Italian thing.”  

Then he got more serious and added, “If it makes you uncomfortable just tell them. They won’t be offended. Except my Uncle Tony, but you already met him.”

You certainly had already met Uncle Tony. It was like meeting a mobster straight out of the movies, gold chain and all.  

“It’s fine. I’m just not used to it,” you replied with a smile.

He returned the smile as some Bach began to play, signaling that the big event was about to begin.

The ceremony was as lovely as it was long. You were up and down on your knees more times than you had been in months. Sonny’s cousin Gio was a mess, unable to stop a steady flow of tears. And at one point you glanced over to find Sonny shedding a tear as well. You just smiled and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

At the reception you were overwhelmed by the uproarious and joyous noise. Not anxiously overwhelmed, but more so awestruck by the swell of music and voices. A couple family members gave speeches as you waited for dinner. Gio’s father told a sweet story about the groom as a boy and ended it by thanking God for bringing the Carisis and Millers together. You caught Sonny tearing up again and it made your heart swell.

He didn’t always show it, but he cared very deeply for people. Especially his family. He had an endless supply of empathy that he learned to cover up after too many years of being pushed around. When you first started dating he was even a little brash because of it. But over the months he had opened up to you. Now he was crying unconcealed tears of joy in front of you and plenty of others.  

And when the speeches were finished and dinner was sufficiently scarfed down he grabbed your hand without hesitating and pulled you out to the dance floor. To be clear, Sonny Carisi is not and has never been a good dancer. But get a couple glasses of champagne and the celebratory spirit in him and he is unstoppable. It was like watching one of those floppy, blow up guys in front of car dealerships try to maintain a beat. It was insanely adorable and weirdly a little bit sexy.

After a particularly energetic bout of flailing to “Lay All Your Love on Me” by ABBA you convinced him to take a break with you. You grabbed the cuff of his dress shirt and led him through a set of glass doors to a small patio. As you stepped out into the night air Sonny took an exaggeratedly deep breath and draped his arm over your shoulders.

“Care for a little stroll, doll?” he asked.

You closed your eyes, felt the breeze wind through your hair, and nodded your head as a reply. You and Sonny wandered outside of the reception venue for a bit before finding a good place to stop and sit. Sonny reached out a hand to lazily draw circles on your knee and the two of you rested in companionable silence for a few moments, just watching his finger move on your skin. Then you looked up to find an almost solemn look on his face.  

“Penny for your thoughts?” you nearly whispered. You were suddenly and inexplicably a bit afraid of what he was going to say.

But his continence quickly slid back to a pleasant state and a small grin ghosted on his lips. “I’m havin’ a great night with you. I’m just hopin’ you’re feelin’ the same.”

Then he slid his hand away from your knee to grab your wrist and squeeze lightly. Then it slid further to intertwine with your own hand. It was mostly light and calming, but there was an undeniable weight to it. Like he was trying to steady or anchor himself and his thoughts.

When you didn’t immediately respond he continued, “I know you were nervous about this. You felt like people wouldn’t like you or maybe that we were movin’ things too fast. But I know everyone loved you. Ma and Pa and Bella and even Mia. And she doesn’t really like anyone. I- I just need to know that you’re okay. That you’re having a good time and that you’re happy you came with me.”

It almost made you cry, the way that Sonny let his insecurities slip out sometimes.  

You turned as much as you could to face him. Your knees were pressing almost uncomfortably into his thigh when you said, “Sonny I’m more than okay. Looking back I can’t even fathom why I turned you down in the first place. Your family is amazing. A little over affectionate, but amazing. And you’re amazing. I can’t think of a better way to have spent my time today than with you, here, making a complete idiot of yourself on the dance floor.”

“Hey!” he jokingly poked at your side. “I’m an excellent dancer.”

You laughed, “Sure, Sonny. I’m sure everyone in there would agree.”

He beamed back at you for a moment then leaned in a little closer to ask one more time, “Are you really happy you came?”

You nodded and to reinforce your answer you closed the distance between the two of you with a kiss. You felt him relax under your touch. His hand that wasn’t already holding yours reached up to brush your hair behind your ear and rest on your jaw. The two of you stayed like that, tender in each other’s hold and kissing, for what felt like an eternity. Then a somewhat aggressive song started to seep out from the reception hall, you guessed something by Muse from what you could make out, and Sonny quickly left your lips.  

“Hey, I think it’s that song from Twilight,” he mused, turning to look over his shoulder.

You couldn’t help your mouth from dropping open and your eyebrows knitting together. “Twilight?” you nearly croaked.

Sonny quickly twisted back to face you, the blush already spreading to his ears. “Yeah. Yeah Mia once put it on while I was watching her years ago. It’s- I wasn’t watchin’ it on my own or anything!” he retorted. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. It’s a good song and we both know which one of us’s seen Twilight more times.”

“Alright, that’s fair,” you relented, standing and pulling him up with you. “Let’s see some more of those sweet moves of yours before the night is over.”

--

Weird to think that this was inspired by the thought of slow dancing with Sonny. I got too caught up thinking about those lanky limbs trying to move rhythmically. Maybe I can just write about slow dancing another time…

Thanks again and again to anyone that read through this whole thing (especially to @the-baby-bookworm for letting me know someone wanted a part 2! I took it as all of you guys wanting a part 2). I’m planning on writing more in the coming weeks when I have the time to. We’ll see if my university moving online makes me write more or less...

In the future when I’ve (hopefully) started writing for more characters than the sweet Sonny Carisi I would LOVE to take requests. I’ll be sure to say something if I do!

Additional note in these turbulent times: avoid packed churches with hundreds of chatty Italians for a little while folks! We all need to do our part to keep ourselves and those at increased risk safe. I’ll try to post more frequently so we all having something to keep ourselves occupied and INDOORS. 

[h-styles-babes]

FIFTEEN

Sia had to nearly drag herself out of bed the next morning.

After being woken by Harry and inviting him to stay with her to abate the nightmares, they’d stayed up for about an hour, talking about nothing and everything. Sia asked him about hw filming had gone and how he’d liked making his first movie. Harry had been enthusiastic about his experience, but he was appropriately anxious for how it was to be received. There was nearly another year until the movie hit cinemas, so it was still a long time coming, but he was nervous nonetheless. No matter how much Christopher Nolan and all his coworkers had assured him that his performance was great, he was still unsure of how it would really come across. It was his first real acting job after all. He just wanted it to be good.

She’d eventually fallen asleep, tucked up close to Harry’s side. They weren’t cuddling, per se, but they were definitely touching. And Harry must have done as she’d asked and left after she’d gone down, because she woke to an empty bed. However, there was a glass of water and two paracetamol tablets on her bedside table, with a little note that read:

‘Just in case you had a headache from the crying. —H.’

She was a little put off by the lack of X’s after his signature, but she wouldn’t ever admit that to anyone.

True to his prediction, Sia had a headache upon waking, so she quickly took the tablets and finished the entire glass of water before crawling out of bed. She was tired from the restless night of sleep and her body ached like she’d done a hard work out the day before. The relentless night terrors and her body’s violent, physical reaction during them were really wearing away at her body. She was surprised she didn’t find bruises or welts on her body every morning from how violently she knew she thrashed during them. Luckily, after she’d fallen asleep the second time, her sleep had been dreamless, and she was able to get the few hours uninterrupted. It wasn’t enough to make up for all the missed sleep the past week, but it help a bit.

Sia wished she felt better after Harry’s company in the early hours of the morning, but she felt just as downtrodden and worn as she had every other day. She was dreading their work day and having to see him after he witnessed the horror she lived through every night. It was embarrassing, to say the least, and it was indicative of the mental and emotional turmoil she knew he already suspected. She was sure at this point that Harry was starting to realise her upset wasn’t just from their break up. The time to tell him was creeping up on her, and she was dreading it.

Slipping into a pair of linen shorts and a plain tank top, Sia made her way into the kitchen. Luckily, it sounded like the house was mostly empty, or if it wasn’t empty, everyone was having a quiet Saturday morning. She made her way into the kitchen and only encountered Harry and Alex, the latter greeting her with a cheery “good morning,” which caused Harry to look over his shoulder at her from where he was standing in front of the stove. She smiled as best she could and returned Alex’s greeting with a soft one of her own.

Harry handed Sia a mug full of freshly brewed chai tea when she made her way to the fridge to grab some fruit for breakfast. He didn’t let go of it immediately when Sia got her hand on it, using it as a way to draw her closer to him.

“Yeh alright?” Harry murmured to her, not wanting Ben to really hear.

Sia couldn’t meet his eyes, so she nodded and hummed her agreement.

She heard Harry sigh, and she startled when she felt his lips press to her temple, lingering for a full three seconds before he pulled away. It was the first time they’d really had any physical contact outside of shoulders pressed against each other during movie nights and her leg pressed to his in bed the night before. She tried not to outwardly react to it.

Sia fled from the kitchen pretty quickly after that, foregoing the fruit she wanted to get and headed straight to the back patio. Mitch caught her eye from his place in one of the loungers when she walked out, and she could see him carefully appraising her bedraggled appearance. A slight frown titled at his lips and he mouthed, “you good?”

“Later,” she mouthed back when she saw Alex and Harry moving to join them outside. It was both a promise and a plea. She needed someone to talk to about this. Considering she was feeling like she’d pestered her therapist a lot recently, Mitch was her next best choice. He was the only other person on this trip that would be able to comfort her, in his sort of detached, awkward way. She’d call El, but the time difference was weird and hard to navigate. Mitch was here now, and she knew he was always willing to listen.

~*~*~*~*~

“So, are you just gonna avoid him for the rest of forever?” Mitch asked, looking very skeptical.

Him and Sia were sitting outside that cafe Sia had gone to when she was the only one in the house and had a day of exploring. She’d told him just after she’d had her morning tea that she wanted to talk to him at some point, and he’d suggested that they have lunch, just the two of them. So, when they were getting ready to leave, a driver waiting for them out front, Harry had walked into he living room at the same time, asking where they were going. Mitch, not wanting to leave his new friend out of an outing, went to invite him to lunch with them, but Sia had cut him off, telling Harry they were going out and would be back later, nearly pulling Mitch out the front door without waiting for a response.

He’d questioned her on their car ride and guessed correctly that she was avoiding Harry, for whatever reason. It wasn’t until they’d gotten seated at the cafe in town that she explained to him what had happened throughout the night.

“I obviously can’t do that,” Sia huffed with a roll of her eyes. She kept her gaze on her fingers twirling the straw in her glass of water. “I’m just embarrassed. And I know he’s suspicious.”

“You know I’ll never tell you what to do, but…” Mitch trailed off, taking a sip of his iced tea to fill the end of his sentence.

Sia sighed. “I know. I need to tell him. But the mere thought has me riddled with night terrors.”

“Maybe telling him will help ease them,” Mitch suggested.

“My therapist has mentioned that,” Sia admitted. “Something about me needing to push myself to get to the final steps of healing.”

“I never went to college, but she seems like a smart woman.”

Sia groaned as she ran her hands through her hair, a habit she’d picked up after years of being friends with Harry. “I just don’t want it to interfere with the recording.”

“The lingering tension between you is already interfering with the recording. Maybe this will help clear the air.”

Sia hummed to acknowledge that she heard Mitch’s opinion and she was grateful for it, but she was still having a bit of a hard time coming to terms with the fact that it was now imperative that she tell Harry about everything. It had been nearly a year since she’d begun dealing with it, and she was, for the most part, coping with it on her own. She thought she had been doing a good job until she’d been thrust back into Harry’s presence. And then when she finally thought she’d gotten a handle on those resurfaced emotions, a song set her off and brought back her nightmares. She felt like she couldn’t catch a break.

Perhaps finally sharing with Harry would help. Not to the point of recovery, but hopefully it would be the tipping of the domino that would finally set in motion the steps to finally dealing with it properly.

Healing. That was what Sia had to keep reminding herself of: telling Harry was an avenue of healing. Both for herself and for him. And possibly for them both as a past couple.

~*~*~*~*~

Sia, in order to prepare herself for an impending heavy conversation, successfully avoided Harry for the rest of the day.

When her and Mitch got back from lunch and their quick outing around town, she’d snuck into the kitchen to make herself a brew before promptly returning to her bedroom to brood and enjoy the rest of her day in peace. It had been pretty nice, just getting to watch a few films and text back and forth with Ellen. They were trying to pass ideas to each other about what they were going to do when El arrived in Jamaica, and it gave Sia a way to keep her mind off of the impending discussion she would have to have with Harry. It was a nice way to spend a day of her weekend.

She had another nightmare that night. It was becoming the norm more than an occasional occurrence, which was equally annoying as it was concerning.

Sia could feel her heart racing, even in the midst of the dream. She subconsciously knew she was crying, the sobbing in her dream too laboured heart-wrenching for it not to be reflected in her real life. Flashes of lights flickered in her hazy vision, like she was racing down a long hallway. The distant echo of the beeping of medical machines whooshed in and out of her hearing. A phantom pain of her experience ripped across her abdomen. The devastation of the news and her heartbreak settled deep into her chest.

He didn’t intentionally wake her this time, but she stirred out of her unconsciousness when Harry slid next to her in bed. She gasped when she felt like her arms were trapped around her, unable to reach up to wipe the tears from her face. She quickly realised that it was because Harry was laid on top of the covers, keeping them taut around her. It was actually comforting after she realised she wasn’t being physically held down, like she had been after she’d awoken in the hospital the year before. Harry had a hand on her back, softly stroking up and down as her breathing started to settle.

Harry didn’t speak until he felt that Sia had sufficiently calmed.

“You alright?”

Sia sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to shake off the last of her dream that clung to the edges of her consciousness. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Harry helped her loosen the blankets around her as she tried to shift to face him. He brushed her hair back from her face, that was still slightly sticky with the remnants of her tears and the sweat she had built up in her thrashing.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked. There was a softness in his features that relayed to Sia that he didn’t want to push her, which she greatly appreciated.

“What time is it?” she asked, unable to see the clock over Harry’s figure.

“Just past two.” Harry pressed his lips together to try to keep back the displeased look on his face. As far as he could tell, Sia was trying to avoid the topic again, and it didn’t it well with him. She very obviously had something that was eating away at her and needed to get it off her chest. He didn’t really understand why she was torturing herself by bottling it all up and keeping it away from him. Or anyone, really. He wasn’t privy to the fact that she had unloaded her burden on Mitch already. Not that it seemed to be helping.

“If you don’t mind staying up with me,” she told him, muttering into the cover of her blankets. She couldn’t actually believe that she was proposing they have this conversation now. But she sort of figured that the fact that he was here, in her room at two o’clock in the morning, had to be some sort of sign from some almighty being that wanted her to get her shit together. Divine intervention and all that.

“It’s Sunday and I’ve got no plans. If I want to sleep in until three in the afternoon, I will. If you need to talk, don’t worry about it.”

Sia looked at him for a long moment, giving herself one last chance to back out of this for the night. However, when she took inventory of how she was feeling, she realised that she didn’t want to take another raincheck. Her therapist was right: she needed to do this, not only for herself, but for him, too. It was time to take control of her own mental well-being.

She shuffled to get herself upright in bed. Harry helped her by pulling down the blankets to her waist and fluffing up her pillows to support her. Bless him and his constant attention to other’s needs and comfort. It made Sia’s heart give a little jump with affection and those damn butterflies in her stomach to flutter just a little harder. He made it really hard to not constantly be in love with him.

“Can you hand me the tissues?” she asked, gesturing to her bedside table. If Harry noticed the already-empty on beside it, he didn’t comment. He obviously already knew she’d done her share of crying in the last few days.

Sia gripped the square box in both hands, rubbing her thumbs over the sharp edges. She took a few moments to take in cleansing breaths, staring intently at the swirling patter of the interior of the duvet as it lay at her waist.

“I uh…” she began, clearing her throat when her voice came out with a slight hitch. “I’ve been dealing with some stuff lately that kinda resurfaced when I came on this trip.”

“I’ve noticed,” Harry commented softly.

Sia nodded. “I thought I had gotten past it, at least enough to function like a normal person, but it got bad within the last week or so.”

“I noticed you kinda dropped off after we first started recording ‘Woman.’” Harry paused to let Sia speak, but she only nodded, her eyes trained on the tissue she was now pulling apart between her fingers. “If the end of our relationship is still that awful for you, we don’t have to talk about it. I don’t want to make you—”

Sia shook her head hard, finally looking up at him. “It’s not that. I mean, not really, at least.”

Harry’s brows furrowed together. “Then what is it?”

“I had a miscarriage.”

Sia watched as Harry’s actually choked on his own breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His lower lip wobbled before he drew it between his teeth. He cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry. Do you mind me asking when?”

The first feeling of tears tingling behind her eyes made Sia squint them shut, wanting to keep it together as long as possible in order to get everything out. “December. Just before Christmas.”

A long silence drew out between them, both unsure what else to say. Harry seemed to be really struggling with what she’d told him, understandably. His jaw clenched and his hands were fisted into the hem of his athletic shorts. There was a deep furrow between his brows. He eventually squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, like he did when he was stressed. He sucked his lips into his mouth and rubbed them together a few times before blowing out a long breath. Eventually, he looked to Sia, a mixture of hurt and sadness mixed in his eyes.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Sia. I can’t imagine losing a baby.”

Sia’s heart thudded in her chest. Was he not getting it?

“Harry…” That uncomfortable feeling settling in her chest made it hard for her to talk. She was going to cry. There was no going back once that sensations filled her lungs. Tears dripped from the corners of each of her eyes, and she used the stripped bits in her fingers to sop up the first few drops before reaching for a full, new tissue.

She couldn’t really make out his face through the tears now swimming in her eyes. She felt her face crumple as a sob tore through her throat. Harry’s arms were around her in an instant, pulling her to his chest, nearly crushing her. He was making shushing sounds to try to calm her. He could only hope that she could hear him over her sobs.

“You’re an i-idiot,” she eventually hiccuped out. Harry was drawn aback by her words, such a turn from the emotions she was displaying. He reared back and looked down at her. Sia scoffed at the exaggerated hurt look on his face.

“I know you’re hurting, but—”

“You’re an idiot, because I was pregnant with your baby.”

Sia heard Harry draw in a quick breath and the hold he had on her slackened. She took a moment to wipe her eyes before looking up at him. His mouth was open in surprise, and she’d never seen his forehead so scrunched or his brows so far down over his eyes.

Some unintelligible sounds came out of his mouth, like he was trying to form words and figure out what to say. Her stomach flipped a little when she saw tears welling in his eyes and slowly drip out. His mouth eventually closed over a small whimper that turned into a suppressed sob.

Sia gave him the time he needed. She’d had over half a year to come to terms with this, so she couldn’t expect Harry to do it in a few minutes. He’d have questions soon, so she would give him his time and be there when he was ready to talk.

Now that she’d gotten it out to him, she had an odd sense of serenity. Her natural care-taking nature seemed to overcome her, and all she wanted to do in that moment was make him comfortable. So, she told Harry softly that she would be back before slipping out of the bed and making her way to the kitchen. She made a brew for both Harry and herself and also popped a bag of popcorn. By the time she brought it back into the bedroom, Harry had tucked himself under the blankets, his eyes still steadily leaking tears, but his gaze was vacant, trained steadfastly on the far wall. If he even knew that Sia had entered the room, he made no indication.

Sia put the bowl of popcorn down on the bed and one of the cups on the bedside table.  She sidled up beside Harry, her knees gently resting against the side of the bed to keep her balance. With her free hand, she reached out and ran her fingers through Harry’s hair, trying to draw his attention gently. He eventually turned his head toward her, his eyes seeming to focus.

“I brought you a cuppa,” she murmured. Harry hummed and reached to take it by the handle. His other hand wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer. He took a deep breath and rested his head against her stomach, her fingers drawing slowly through his hair. It was only a few moments before she could feel the wetness seep through her sleep shirt. He was actively crying again.

“Budge over,” she whispered.

Harry sniffled before righting himself and making room for her. She slid into bed beside him.

“Talk to me,” she urged.

Harry took a slow sip of his tea before speaking.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sia took a deep breath. “I didn’t know I was pregnant until December. And then, three days later, I started bleeding.”

“How did you not—?”

“We’d just broken up, Harry. I was distraught. I was in the midst of my internship. I was doing everything in my power to keep my mind off of you. And I didn’t realise until nearly Christmas that I hadn’t had a period in…longer than I could remember.

“When I finally figured it out, I went and took like three tests. All of ‘em came back positive. Given the last time we had sex, I reckoned I was about fourteen or fifteen weeks. I’d gained a little weight, but nothing I really noticed. Figured I’d make an appointment for just after Christmas, start takin’ vitamins. Figured I’d made it that long, another two weeks wasn’t gonna make a difference.”

Sia paused to take a shaky sip of her tea. This was her least favourite part of this memory.

She cleared her throat. “I went to my parents’ as soon as I was allowed. I was gonna tell them that night at dinner. Except I started bleeding before then. I lost blood so fast that I passed out…. My mum found me in the loo. She called 999 and I was rushed to the hospital. I guess I was able to tell them I was pregnant at some point, because I was sedated. All I remember was lights flashing as I was wheeled to the OR and this awful pain in my stomach and then waking up eight hours later.

“I’d had a placental abruption. The doctors were surprised I’d made it as far along as I had. I was gonna call you as soon as I weaned myself off the meds. Then that shit in St. Barts came out and I…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t deal with a miscarriage and your bullshit at the same time.”

“It’s been months since, then, though,” Harry argued, staring down into his tea. “You could’ve told me. Should’ve told me. I deserved to know. That was my baby, too.”

“I know. I hate myself for not telling you. I started seeing a therapist in January. I was pretty messed up for awhile. It wasn’t until I moved to America that it started to get a little better.”

“That’s what your nightmares are from, then?” Harry finally looked at her. She was glad to see he wasn’t angry. She was always afraid that he’d hate her for not telling him sooner. He was obviously upset, but she figured he knew there was a bigger picture.

Sia nodded. “Yeah. Once I left the hospital, I started havin’ them.” Sia paused, taking a moment to catch her breath. All that happened was her throat tightening with a fresh rush of tears. “I’d only known I was pregnant for a few days, but I already loved that baby so much. Losing the pregnancy wrecked me.”

“How far along were you?”

“Doctors said about seventeen weeks,” Sia sighed. “It was a boy.”

Harry let his head drop back against the headboard. His face crumpled and new tears streamed down his cheeks. “We’d have a little boy right now.”

Sia mirrored his posture after putting her tea on the little table. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. He’d be about four months old now.”

Harry sniffled and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Did you name him?”

Her heart thudded in her chest and her skin flushed. She wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed by the name she’d given her unborn son, but she didn’t think she’d admit it to anyone. Only her parents knew his name. She hadn’t even told Ellen. The hospital had asked her if she wanted to name him and she hadn’t hesitated. He wouldn’t have an official death certificate, considering he hadn’t been far enough along in gestation to be considered a person, but it was something the nurses were going to do for her, just to honour him. She hadn’t hesitated in telling them the name she wanted in her records. It was the same name that was etched into the front panel of the wood urn she’d put his ashes in. The same urn that was sat on her dresser at home.

“Harry. I named him Harry.”

[edmund-valks]

A Family Reunion - Part II

(( Continued from Part I ))

Like most fortresses, the community was much less secure once you were past its outer borders.  Ilandreline did little sprinting or sneaking after the encounter with Teth, instead strolling openly along the back roads and meandering paths.  Half-overgrown trails wended through the trees, their gently twisting branches drooping under the weight of their black-cherry leaves.  There were some early buds mixed in as well, presaging the brilliant blues and purples of spring.

What surprised her most was how good she felt.  Sure, her leg was still oozing blood through the aggravated scabbing and she had more bruises than she remembered getting and it was entirely possible someone else was going to try the same thing Teth had, but the air was so…  She inhaled deeply, unable to find a way to put it to words.  Wet, not damp, like the morning mist; light and crisp, cool, without being bone-chilling; heavy with so many scents she remembered more than knew.  The smells of wet leaves, freshly-churned black earth, distant hearthfires burning, all combined to something experienced rather than sensed.  This all really is a part of me, isn't it?

When Ila realized she had reached Mother's gate, she was momentarily disoriented.  Had she really just… daydreamed through half the village?  Just strolling idly, lost in thought while possibly being hunted by cranky relatives?  Gotta be more careful.  Good advice, especially here.  Stress manifested between her shoulder blades as soon as she passed into the compound, eyes trying to look everywhere at once.  She wasn't exactly on bad terms with her siblings or father, but one could never be too careful, especially this close to home.  Luckily none of them were in evidence, which meant no more excuses to avoid meeting with Mellura'thel.  Swearing beneath her breath, Ilandreline tossed open the door to the greenhouse without knocking.  "Mother, I- shit!"

She threw herself back out, then dove to one side.  Time away and nostalgia hadn't dulled her reflexes: the sight of Mellura'thel Glimmerbow spinning in fury at the interruption of her concentration was still a huge sign of possibly lethal consequences.  Scrambling back to her feet, Ila ran fullbore toward the house proper.  She almost made it.

While she generally preferred subtle methods, such as slow-acting poisons, Mellura'thel was still a highly skilled arcanist.  In situations where a poison wouldn't be reasonable, she could still ensure her ire was clear.  Currently this meant Ilandreline found herself lifted off her feet by heat-leeching tendrils of magic.  Wrapped around each limb, they pulled and pulled and pulled, until it felt like her joints were about to pop.  And were they still pulling?  She bit down hard on her lip, hoping not to scream when something finally tore.

The awful stretching stopped.  "Ilandreline?"  She was facing the wrong way, but she didn't have to see the look on her mother's face to know what it was when she heard her name in that tone.  "There are much more pleasant ways to die than bothering me while I'm working. Surely you recognize that.  I don't recall raising any simpletons."

"Sorry, Mother.  I wasn't thinking."  She was barely thinking now, either, unless it was about how breathing wrong might dislocate four joints at once.  "Do you think you could… let me down?  Walking is going to be real hard if my leg gets popped out of its socket."

The shadowy pseudopods lowered her to the ground instead of simply dropping her.  A surprise, to be sure, but welcome.  Ila turned, facing her mother with a sheepish smile.  "Thanks.  I hope I didn't ruin any of your work."

"I lost nothing but time."  That wasn't a killing offense.  Not by itself.  "Why are you back so soon, daughter?  I thought we agreed you were unlikely to return."

That was an interesting way to describe telling her daughter she didn't contribute positively to the community and therefore wasn't much use, but okay.  "I wanted-"  She stopped herself with a frown.  "No, I need to talk to Grandmother.  I thought about what you said and while I still think you're wrong, it brought up some other stuff."

The only hints at her total surprise were the raised eyebrows and two quick blinks.  "I see.  And you came here because…?"

"I thought it would be best to let you know I was here rather than waiting for you to find out later.  Or see me and suspect I was some kind of illusory spy."

"Reasonable," Mellura'thel admitted.  "Perhaps even wise.  You did not travel through the Nightwood this time, did you?"

Ila shook her head.

"Why not?"

Kind of a silly question, given how things had gone last time, to her mind.  "I wasn't sure my, uh, access was still valid.  I'm actually pretty sure the paths no longer recognize me as part of the family.  Rather than take that chance, I came the hard way, from the east."

A long silence.  "I think you made the right decision, if you insist on being here at all.  Did no one stop you at the barrier?"

"Tried.  Ignored me when I reminded him it was up to Grandmother to decide my fate, not some prick with a bow and a grudge."

Her mother's mouth bowed downward, an expression of distaste.  "The guardian claimed exemption from her rules?"

Sure did, didn't you, Teth?  "Said her opinions didn't matter since he worked for Grandfather."

"And what did you say in response?"

Ila shrugged.  "Not much.  Kicked him into a spike pit and broke his bow."

Was that a flash of amusement in Mother's eyes?  Maybe even pride?  "What else?"  Did you kill him, she was asking.

"Nothing."  She didn't need to know Ila had taken the ritual blade binding him to the family.  That was for Grandmother alone.  "He was unconscious and had a wooden spike through his arm, figured that was sufficient for the time being."

"Mm.  I've warned you about leaving enemies alive, daughter."

"And under normal circumstances you know I wouldn't have, but he was mostly within his rights.  Besides, given the… uncertainty… around whether I'm still part of the family, I figured it was best to leave the decision to Grandmother."

Though she grimaced, Mellura'thel agreed.  The family matriarch was an absolute terror to cross.  Very few survived the experience.  "I see.  That is a… not unreasonable opinion to hold.  The consequences would certainly be dire if you had done otherwise and been wrong."  She paused, then took Ila's hand in hers.  "I am glad you are making good decisions, daughter."

It was Ilandreline's turn to be bamboozled, staring at her mother as if she was now three-headed and shooting rainbows from her ears.  That was the closest she'd ever heard Mellura'thel get to saying something like "I love you."  The sensation was unnerving.  “I… thanks.  Um.  I should… go talk to Grandmother now, right?”  The thought of having to deal with parental affection was stressing her out.  It would be much better to be doing something else.

“Yes, I believe so.”  Perfect.  She’d just be on her way then, no more awkward feelings-  “I will take you there myself.”

“Buh?”  It wasn’t the most eloquent statement, but it did accurately express her mental state.  “Why?”

“I am your mother.  She is my mother.  This way there can be no question that you are under her protection -- and mine.  Come now.”  Mellura’thel began walking.  She was halfway across the courtyard before Ila was convinced this wasn’t some elaborate joke tapping into a sense of humour her mother had never before displayed.

Hurrying to catch up, which meant a peculiar gait incorporating the mild limp from her wounded leg, Ilandreline tried to think her way through this unexpected course of events.  It wasn’t easy; her mother was talking to her.  “Remind me who Teth is.”

“Why?”

“Because he has volunteered his life and I would like to remember who we are planning to give to the Great Dark.”

Oh, right.  That.  “Um.  Do you… do you remember when Von was going to be married?”  Von was her oldest sister.  “Her spouse-to-be was Teth’s sister.”

Peripheral vision showed Mother’s lips thinning as they pressed together.  Engagements were not uncommon, but their being ended was.  More often than not they were arranged by families in order to make or keep certain alliances.  Even though Ila hated politics, ignoring them was a recipe for disaster.

“I remember her.  Stella, yes?”

She shrugged.  “That’s what Von called her.  I’m sure she had a longer name, just like Teth does, but I don’t remember either of ‘em.”

“Immaterial.”  Mellura’thel’s hand waved it away.  “What matters is that Vondariel was right to end things.  I presume this ‘Teth’ felt some residual and misplaced anger at the familial shame resultant from her decision to terminate that relationship.”

Ila laughed nervously, deeply grateful her mother was bad at recognizing certain emotions.  Someone more perceptive -- namely the person they were on their way to see -- would have pulled from her the real reason behind Teth’s hatred.  It was only indirectly connected to Von and Stella.  Thankfully only she and Von knew the truth, and neither of them were going to share.  “Yeah, that’s… that’s probably it.”

There was no further conversation, praise the Dark.  They reached Grandmother’s without incident, at which point Mellura’thel held the gate open for her daughter.  She even smiled, at least to the extent she ever did.  Ila was sure she had to say something then, though she didn’t know what was happening.  “Thanks,” she said, trying to return the smile with one of her own.  “I, um, appreciate… this.”

“You are welcome, Ilandreline.  Return home when you are finished here.  You must tell me what Mother decides.”  She closed the gate between them before Ila could respond and immediately started back the way they’d come.

It wasn’t even a request.  She commanded it!  Shaking her head, thoroughly puzzled, Ila turned to her Grandmother’s door.  It looked harmless, but she knew very well what lurked behind that facade.  “This,” she reminded herself, “is exactly why I’m here.  Also possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Tasting fear when she swallowed, Ilandreline knocked on the door and waited.

***

Unlike a number of other relatives, Grandmother only made you wait if she wanted you to think about what you’d done.  That Ilandreline waited for less than a minute -- the approximate time one would expect it to take for an elderly woman with aching joints to put her knitting down, extricate herself from a cushioned chair, and cross the room, muttering mild oaths about both visitors and her knees all the while -- was a good sign as things went.  Unless Granny Laine was just that excited about the chance to ruin her life.  The old woman did take a certain joy in making sure she never had to teach anyone the same lesson twice.

The door, simple wood by appearance and so utterly benign to the peculiar sight of her family that Ila was absolutely certain the wards were incredibly brutal in addition to subtle, opened slowly to reveal the eldest of her relatives.  “My, my, my.  Ilandreline!  What a surprise!” she said, sounding entirely unsurprised.  “Come in, my dear.”

Ila did so, trying to keep herself together despite the storm of emotions.  Seeing her mother again, even lying to her, was a simple thing.  Being in proximity to Grandmother?  She managed to keep herself from trembling as she stepped into the small entryway.  There was a fire in the hearth down the hall, in the sitting room, its light near to blinding to her unshielded eyes.  The other opening from where she stood led to the kitchen.  She heard nothing from that direction but was willing to bet there was a pot of tea already prepared.

When the door shut again, the soft click of its latch sent a faint shiver down her spine.  You’re in it now.  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she turned around.

The first thing most people noticed upon meeting Eldest Aurelaine, Voice of the Great Dark, was that she was old.  Not ageless, as many of her people were, not even weathered, but like a human in the late throes of senescence.  The beauty of youth, assuming she'd had it, was long gone.  In its wake was a slightly hunched, wizened figure, with fiercely glowing eyes of midnight.  What there was not was any sense of frailty; despite the wrinkles and sometimes sagging, sometimes too taut flesh, Aurelaine remained a figure of raw power.

Ila had no idea how old her grandmother really was, nor even if she was a blood relative.  It wasn't important, so she'd never wasted any time trying to find out.  Family was what they all were, in that they were united in faith and purpose.  At the same time, family was no protection or deterrent.  Love happened however it worked out for the involved parties, but partnering was often directed for certain purposes by the elders.  Same with the occasional murder/sacrifice.  (Killing in self-defense was acceptable, but always investigated; lying about it had… unpleasant results.)

"How've you been, child?  Has the larger world treated you right?"  The way Aurelaine asked suggested there would be consequences for Azeroth if it hadn't.  Perhaps that was a little girl's belief in the most trusted person in her life.  Then again, if anyone could threaten the whole planet…

Ilandreline drew back enough to look the matriarch in the eyes, not bothering to hold back her grin.  "Nothing I couldn't handle.  It's… a bit lonely, though.  I've made a few friends, I think, and they're better behaved than most people around here, but, you know… It's not the same."

An understanding nod.  "Leaving home is like that.  If you stay here long enough, though, you'll remember why you left.  That's why the saying goes how it does, why you can never go home again."  To another viewer, the way her lips pulled back may have looked malicious; Ila saw in it amusement instead.  "You're never the same person who left.  That's a good thing."

Before she could stop herself, Ila blurted, “But I’m here anyway, so is it really?”  Her mouth failed to close afterward, her brain having caught up too late to prevent anything.  She did bring a hand up, though, politely hiding her appalled gawping behind it.

“Oh, it’s good to have you back, little Lina,” the old woman said, a low chuckle working its way up from deep in her chest.  “You always bring excitement with you.  Come.  Sit.  There’s tea and cookies next to your chair.”

“I… what?  You… knew?”  Of course she knew, Grandmother always knew, but…

She prodded Ila in the soft flesh below her ribs, an almost gentle poke with her rather pointed finger.  “Of course I did, girl, don’t be silly.  I’ve known since the last Prelude Night that you’d be coming home soon.  How soon I wasn’t sure, not until that business down south.”  Still laughing to herself, Aurelaine ambled by, taking her own advice by heading for the sitting room.

Ilandreline found herself struck dumb for a moment, blinking at nothing as she grappled with the difference between expectation and reality.  If she’d been expected, then shouldn’t everyone have been reminded to let her in?  Or was that part of some test, too?  Was she being evaluated somehow?  That felt more like something Mother would have come up with, but surely she’d gotten it from somewhere.  Chewing her lip, she eyed Aurelaine for a moment before following.

For whatever reason, Granny Laine had always liked her.  Nobody knew why, but the matriarch of their family was not someone you questioned if you enjoyed living.  She was crafty, ruthless, and -- it was rumoured -- undying.  As in she couldn't die, not that she was in possession of immortality.  Few people were fool enough to test it and, of those who did, only Grandfather was still alive.  Assuming that one considered his unnatural state of being counted as “alive”.  If Granny was going to act like everything was okay, like this was a visit from her grandchild no different from any other, then… perhaps Ila could let go of some of the fear.  Or perhaps the tea and cookies would take care of that for her.

Conceding to the wisdom of her elder, Ilandreline followed after.  The firelight was enough to force her to squint for most of the way, but once she settled in, the light level seemed reasonable.  Ah, the screen isn’t high enough for that…  She frowned, thinking about the standing grate straining brightness for the eyes of the seated.  No, it is high enough, but only barely for her.  Anyone taller would be affected.  A defense mechanism, even here.  No wonder she was still alive.

The chair -- “your chair”, she’d said, granting it an unexpected level of personal relevance -- was as comfortable but smaller than she remembered.  No, that wasn’t quite right.  Ila was simply larger than she’d been in any of those memories.  As promised, there was a delicate porcelain cup and saucer, the former full of still-steaming tea.  Beside it was a small plate, simple stoneware, with an array of cookies on it.  Sweets were something she rarely trusted, but here…  She took one, halving it with a single bite.

For a moment she was a girl again, sharing the tiny cake she'd made with her favourite relative.  She'd made it herself, from scratch, with all ingredients but the most difficult collected on her own.  It hadn't been great, but Granny Laine knew how hard she'd tried.  The effort deserved praise, and that she wished to share was noteworthy.  Ila had gotten some very useful feedback that day, along with advice she hadn't understood at the time.  She'd remembered it all the same and was glad she had.

The present returned with a dizzying crash.  Setting aside the cookie for the moment, Ilandreline picked up cup and saucer, hoping she wouldn’t shake too much.  It was very noticeable if you did, and an irritating sound.  So far, so good.  A sip, to test the flavours and show her trust.  Then and only then could she let herself meet her grandmother’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she half-mumbled, not sure where to start.  “For, um, all this.”

Aurelaine’s amusement was expressed via snort rather than laughter, dark eyes glittering ominously above her own cup.  “Don’t thank me yet, child.  This isn’t a social call, you’re here for a reason.  I’m only putting you at ease so you can feel the right kind of fear later.”  There was her grin, properly discomfiting.  “We can do the smalltalk first, if you like, but if you’d prefer to get it out of the way now-”

“Yes, please!”  The words tumbled out without her conscious participation.  There was also an irritating rattling sound now.  Frowning, Ila glanced furtively about, trying to place the noise.  Oh.  Her hands were shaking, the cup and saucer clattering against one another.  The fear hadn’t left after all.  Deliberately setting them aside, she curled her hands into fists, digging nails into palms to help her focus.  “I… I want a place here.  My place here, I mean, not one Mother or someone else would have planned for me.”

A subtle movement in lieu of a nod.  “And what does that have to do with me?”  She sipped her tea calmly, in what would have been a pleasant scene for a painting what with the way the firelight danced and lit her profile, providing a sort of halo around the loose bun of iron-grey hair pinned atop her head.  “You said you wanted your place.”

Ila frowned, trying to get the tracks of her mind united on the single puzzle before her, how to talk to Grandmother.  “I do.”  She licked her lips, swallowed, exhaled.  Certain little acts were soothing.  Also the fingernails pressed harder against the soft flesh of her hands.  Focus, focus.  “What I mean is that my place in the family has to tie in with what you think of as my place, or else I’m… not really part of the family, am I?”

“Is that really what you think?”

“No,” she answered immediately, then flinched as she heard her word.

Cackling, Aurelaine placed her drink on the side table, rubbing her hands together as she hunched forward.  “I appreciate the honesty.  It was a good try, your explanation, the kind of thing your mother would approve of.  But you’re here with me, not her, so let’s try it one more time.  Why do you think your place here has anything to do with me?”

“Because you’re the only one who didn’t try to change me.”  She felt the truth of the statement in her bones, though she hadn’t realized she knew it.  “Mother wanted me to be like her.  Father didn’t care what I did so long as I wasn’t in his way.  Sandy and Von and all the rest… well.  We learned to live with each other with minimal bloodshed, but I’m not sure that counts as having a place.”

Silence and raised eyebrows.  The standard indicator that the question had not yet been answered.

“If I’m going to have any place here, it’s through you.  Not just because you seem to think there’s something about me worth caring for, but also because you’re the only one with enough influence to make everyone else understand I do belong.  I’m not a sacrifice waiting to be made, or a failure who’s going to weed herself out!  This is my family, too, and I deserve to be a part of it!”

Grandmother’s smile wasn’t menacing to Ila.  It was the same one more than a few relatives had seen right before their deaths, but that didn’t bother her.  She associated it with the best parts of her childhood rather than the last moments of lives.  This time, though, she sensed some kind of darkness to it, what she would have called a spiritual chill if she’d been more inclined to faith.

“You’re right, dear girl.  On all counts.  And that’s the cleverness I’ve always liked about you.  You know the rules of the games, know you have to play them even if you don’t like them.  You’re a survivor who knows better than to fight a system that would destroy you.  But there’s more to it than that.”  She leaned back finally, relaxing into the padding of her chair, fingertips curling like talons over its cushioned arms.  “How long has it been since you’ve heard the voices, Lina?”

The question was so unexpected it left her at a loss for long seconds, scrambling to process and find the answer.  “I… I don’t know?  Other than the, um, couple times recently when I used the knife, it’s been…”  She looked up at the plain ceiling, not really seeing the thick beam supports as she made referential calculations.  “Since the nightmares stopped.  That first year after Consecration, I think.”

“Are you sure?  You stopped hearing them so long ago and haven’t heard them since?”  The question had the hallmarks of a trap, but she couldn’t understand how it could be.

“I… Yes?  I’m fairly sure.  The nightmares and the voices were all part of the same thing, so once I learned to tune them out, I-”  She stopped, teeth clicking as they came together.  Trap sprung.

Soft laughter from across the room.  “They’re still there, aren’t they?”

Ilandreline nodded, not trusting herself to speak, not knowing what she would say even if she did.

“And you’ve always avoided the little... perks... of your heritage ever since then, haven’t you?  Because you knew that if you opened up, even a tiny bit, you’d hear them again.  The dreams would come back.  Isn’t that right?”

More wordless agreement.

“You’ve proven you have the will, child.  Most of the others went mad, but you learned to shut them out.  There aren’t many like us, you know.”  Granny Laine stood then, with obvious effort, crossing the space between to put a gnarled hand beneath her granddaughter’s chin, tilting her head up to look her in the eye with uncomfortable intensity.  “That’s why I gave you my knife at your Consecration, Lina.  That’s why you’ve been allowed to be yourself for so long.  I wanted to see where you’d go with that freedom, what you’d do with it.  And it’s brought you back here, hasn’t it?  Here to us, to me, asking for help to find what’s been missing from your life for so long.  Your place, yes?”

There was a yawning precipice before her, Ilandreline knew.  Her grandmother was almost certainly about to push her over and into it.  The question was whether she would also catch her.

“If you want to know how I see you, you’ll have to spend some time here.  I don’t take apprentices often.  Or lightly.  Ours isn’t an easy faith to administer, after all.”

“H-how long?  To stay, I mean.  I have friends, you know, and they’re probably going to wonder where I am if I-”

Aurelaine squeezed her jaw -- gently, but enough to stop her talking.  “It won’t be all at once.  Stay the week, eh?  If you’re still sane at the end of it, we’ll talk about when your proper lessons will begin.”

A week.  She could do a week.  Probably.  Ila nodded, barely shifting the surprisingly strong grip of the Eldest.  “I… alright.  As long as you answer my questions.”

“Of course.”  Grandmother’s voice softened, lowered, until it would have easily been lost amongst the whispers Ilandreline had ceased noticing.  “But you’ll regret asking them when I do.”

[pocketseizure]

The Moon, the Stars, and the Sky

In the distant future, an engineer prepares to launch a young astronaut on his first voyage. The technology of Hyrule may have advanced, but some things will never change. Written for Zelink Week 2019! (Also on AO3.)

…………

Trains were one of New Hyrule’s greatest accomplishments, but the kingdom’s engineers were not content to limit their talents to the straight lines of rails laid into the earth. Trains led to cars, and cars led to planes, and planes led to rockets. In each of these eras there was a princess, but the kingdom was at peace, and the time of heroes had long since passed.

Even though she knew it was childish, Zelda dreamed of having an appointed knight to accompany her on her journeys through the world. There was a legend that a powerful curse had once been laid on her bloodline, a lingering malice that would follow her family through generations. She had better things to do than concern herself with the supernatural, however. There were things she feared, of course – software glitches, equipment malfunctions, calculations not completed to a sufficient degree of accuracy. When sending a manned vessel to space, even the slightest error on her part could mean failure. It was foolish to waste time on childish fantasies of the past, but she couldn’t help wishing that she had a hero of her own, someone bound to her by a destiny that transcended time and space.

Oddly enough, the name of the pilot who would man the craft Zelda was in charge of rendering spaceworthy was Link. A common name, to be sure, but one that carried a curious emotional resonance. She was continually reminding herself that she wasn’t the sort of person who believed in fate, but the attraction she felt for him was like something from one of the old romances. Not that she would ever tell him, of course. She would supervise his mission from the sleek and shining headquarters of New Hyrule’s space exploration program as he flew farther away from her with each passing second.

She did her best to keep a professional distance, which was what the privilege of her high rank and station demanded. Despite her best efforts to remain impersonal, however, Link was such a careful listener that she sometimes found herself saying more than she intended.

He rarely spoke, but one day he happened to mention an old set of star charts that had been passed down through his family. Zelda was surprised by this information, which he offered seemingly at random as he watched her make several adjustments to the command module’s solar positioning system.

“Star charts?” she repeated, at a loss for how to respond. She wanted to ask him more about himself and his family, but she was unsure if it would be appropriate.

“That’s right, back from when people still navigated from the deck of a ship,” he explained. “It’s funny; I used to study them as a kid, but I never thought they’d be useful.”

“At least they are useful for something,” Zelda replied. “My family used to believe in astrology, which obviously never did the slightest modicum of good for anyone. It’s a little embarrassing to admit this, but even now my father takes prophesies made more than a hundred years ago very seriously.”

“There’s no reason not to, if that’s what helps him make decisions,” Link offered.

“I wonder.” Seeing that the update had finished installing, Zelda removed her flash drive from the console and typed in the series of passwords that would allow the terminal to restart itself.

“That’s actually why I decided to become an engineer,” she said softly, careful to avoid looking at Link. She pretended to watch the chains of numbers sliding across the screen as she continued. “There’s a prophecy that there will to be a great calamity in our own time, and that it will come from the stars. It’s quite specific about an ancient evil lurking in a forgotten satellite that the ancestors of our ancestors once sent to the sky. But that’s silly, isn’t it?”

“There’s always a grain of truth in legends. And there’s no harm in being prepared, is there? If the prophecy is true, I promise to protect you.” Link’s voice was unusually serious, and Zelda could feel herself blushing.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to do much from so far away.”

“But I’ll come back. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

“If the world ends? I suppose I’ll have to.”

“I once heard a story about a princess who waited a hundred years for her hero to appear.”

“That sounds awfully boring,” Zelda said as she tapped a few keys to put the newly restarted system into stasis. “I guess I can wait a hundred years. It might even be something of a tradition in my family.” She smiled and allowed herself to meet Link’s eyes. “But don’t be late.”

[thecardsimagine]

I tried to keep it as angsty as possible, I hope it worked out >-< Please enjoy anyway!

“He won’t know, love.” Lucio’s voice was flirtatious, yet calming. His hand held theirs so naturally, even when he led it to his face, making sure they touched him even if they were hesitant. “You do love me, yes?” he asked them. Lucio looked so beautiful in the lights that twinkled above their heads, the old tree keeping them hidden from the views of the palace.

Oh, how much they loved the little well in the gardens of Lucio’s home. It made them feel so at peace and happy to be here. And he was right, they did love him, just why were they so concerned about the opinion of Asra. “I do, Lucio. I just-” they were cut off by the cold feeling of his metal arm shooting up to place a finger on their lips, silencing them. “You don’t need to do anything. You don’t even have to see him anymore if it brings you sorrow.”

He made a long pause after his words, letting his finger brush down their skin and neck until eventually, a pleased sigh escaped him. “You and I against the rest of the world, right?” They thought about his words, slowly nodding and coming clean with their own thoughts. “Right,” they agreed, leaning forward to his smirking face and aiming for a kiss.

With a small ‘clack’ the little compass fell out of Asra’s hand. He didn’t need it to know where they were. No matter what, it always pointed to the palace. It always pointed to where their heart was drawn to. Even if they never said a word, their thoughts were always with the count, they were always so far from their own home.

Maybe it was what he deserved. His chances had run out when he had left them to die in this awful city. But still, how was it fair that they’d throw themselves onto the next best enemy they had? Lose their mind and body to someone as wrong and awful as Lucio, was that really what their destiny had told them to do?

Even when Asra was right there for them no matter what?

Getting up from the ground next to the bed, he wobbled over to the window of the shop, starring out on the night scenery of Vesuvia. What was it that would draw them so much to Lucio’s side? The riches? The parties? If that was what they wanted, maybe Asra should have taken them more often to the well in palace’s garden, sitting under the big tree that he had devoted to them such a long time ago. Maybe it would have made them love Asra if all they wanted were the pretty things in life.

They had always been so content with their shop, ever since they came back from the dead. Working hard and having fun with Asra and the clients, taking care of the inventory and reading the tarot. Where had these times gone? Had they been all in vain the moment that Lucio entered their life? What was there to like about the self-centered maniac, especially like more than on Asra?

Was it all his fault, was he too simple? Too distant? Had Lucio comforted them in all the times Asra had gone on a journey? He could not think of any other possible reason, and it drove him mad not to know. Because now that he had returned from one more journey, why was he all alone with his thoughts again.

The clicking of the doors unlocking, tore Asra out of his thoughts, a hint of excitement rising in his chest until he heard their snickering, followed by a lower, teasing mumble. “Lucio, we are just getting some things.” Were you leaving? “Why not everything?” Was he taking you away somewhere? “You shouldn’t keep living here in this hut.” Their awkward laugh followed, the conversation seemingly finding an end as they didn’t want to give their life up yet, while Lucio had other plans.

Asra heard the steps - he would have recognized theirs anywhere - as the two of them came up the stairs, seemingly not noticing him in the dark. “[Name],” he called out to them, their body flinching as they got scared by his sudden presence. Even with only the window shedding light into the room, he could make out the shock in their expression and the grim scowl of Lucio who came up behind them.

“Lucio,” Asra continued his calling out, feeling like a parent who just found their teenager sneaking into their house with their lover.

“Asra! I didn’t know you were back! I- uhm, we were just-”

“Getting some things,” Lucio finished their sentence, setting a strong example. “Where are you going?” Asra asked, simple question, but the impact would be huge. They stuttered a little, playing with the hem of their shirt and avoiding his eyes that were strictly fixated on them. “I-We... I mean- We are just...”

“[Name]’s going to live with me for a while,” Lucio answered for them, going ahead and picking up random things he could find in the dark, without being able to know who it really belonged to and just wildly throwing things over his arm. “Why? This is the perfect home for you,” Asra pointed out, keeping the conversation strictly to MC.

They didn’t know why but his words and presence hit them hard. They were barely able to do anything or say something, a mix of guilt and regret going through them while Lucio kept searching for their stuff without a care in the world. “I don’t think you should leave, [Name],” Asra finally admitted, pushing himself away from the window and approaching them.

Even though his hand was held out towards them, he didn’t get as far as to touch them, his limb being slapped away painfully before he could reach them. “What is your problem, Asra?” Lucio hissed at him while tugging his s/o behind him. The magician could only muster the dirtiest glance into the count's direction, his words as cutting as his feeling for Lucio.

“You. You are. They shouldn’t be with someone like you, Lucio.”

They could hear Lucio take a sharp breath at the accusations. “Listen to me, [Name]! He’s no good, he’ll use and throw you away when you don’t suit him anymore!” Asra tried to go back to them, talking some sense into them if he had to, but Lucio wouldn’t let him even have a look at them, shielding them with his own body.

“Stop acting like a monkey, Asra. Just because they don’t want to be with you doesn’t mean they can’t be with me.”

Asra’s eyes glared daggers at Lucio for pointing out his obvious feelings for them, while a small, self-sufficient smile appeared on Lucio, knowing he had hit close to home. “[Name] you can’t be serious. Please tell me that this is not what you want, to be stuck with this asshole?” Though his words sounded like a question, his tone of voice was so harsh, it felt like slaps to them, and they gave him a shy look from behind Lucio.

“But I love him...” they muttered, feeling as if they had to justify their decision of being with Lucio. The count could feel their hands clawing into his clothes, clearly uncomfortable with the situation and scared by the growing anger Asra radiated. “I can’t believe that... What did you do to them, Lucio?” Asra screamed, directing it back at Lucio who watched him, unimpressed.

“Nothing, they love me out of their own will, Asra. You can’t control them after all.”

Lucio turned slowly, bringing them up to his side and pushing them into the direction of the stairs as Asra watched on in shock. “[Name], you can’t be serious, you can’t just leave now!”

“Oh god, Asra!” Lucio groaned finally. Even his s/o flinched with the sudden growl from the count, making Asra take a step back defensively too. “Get over it, you look like a tantrum-throwing child!” They let out some muffled sobs from the first few stairs, directing Asra’s attention to them. “I am so sorry...” the mumbled. Their both words hit hard as Asra realized how he was acting and what was going on. Never had he ever screamed at them or bring them close to tears before.

He gave the MC a pleading look from his eyes, though they adverted their head, rushing down the staircase with Lucio tailing them too after scoffing at the magician one last time. Asra could only stand their dumbfounded, listening to the door falling back into the locks and the distant sobbing from outside as they boarded the carriage. The clacking of hoves was the last thing he heard of them, slowly sinking to his knees as he realized the meaning of all this.

No matter what arguments he would bring up, they had long made their decision.

They knew about his feelings, and yet...

They still wouldn’t come back to him. 

[mewkwota]

"in other words: Simon does not view Richter as annoying/a mistake" Oh boy....Mind elaborating on that? Because I think this has to relate with SOTN.

*looks into Message Box*

Ah– Oh boy, you asked me a good chunk o’questions, let me see if I can try to answer them as sufficiently as possible. (But this one will be long–)

I am sure this is something people want me to clarify anyway, so I guess I’ll go on and say ALL that I have to in this one (VERY LONG) response.

I hope you guys like long-winded essays:

I don’t think I really need to explain anything on that, as it has everything to do with the events of SotN. Everyone in the family knows what Richter did.

That said, nobody talks about it so openly because of that. Unlike what happened to Soleiyu, which– according to IGA– was heavily swept under the rug so the public wouldn’t see. I think it’s implied people knew what Richter did.

Richter knows this, and already knows the weight of the consequences of his actions. To be reminded of it verbally and on the daily is just too much, and so a majority of the Belmont Clan just stays real quiet about bringing it up.

The only members who really do anything about it are Juste and Trevor.

Juste, in addition to his past experiences with a certain someone, is Richter’s immediate predecessor, and feels responsible in making sure nothing bad happens to Richter. So his over-protectiveness is a constant, harrowing, yet inadvertent reminder to Richter that he did something wrong for this to happen.

Trevor, the current oldest in the family (in reference to my depictions), watches over his descendants ever so carefully, and takes the duty of the Belmont Clan very seriously. Trevor feels Richter himself could have avoided it all if he had been better. Even more so, he caused trouble for Alucard, Trevor’s old friend, who had to drag Richter out of his mess. Because of this, Trevor acts very cold towards Richter, and openly shows his dismay whenever he’s around him.

So basically, compared to the others, who are generally quiet on the subject, Juste is openly worried about Richter, while Trevor is openly angry with him.

But you weren’t talking about those two, you were asking about Simon.

I had to talk about the other two though, because it would provide some background and means of comparison for Simon and Richter’s relationship.

Simon is the most renowned of his family, praised for fully getting the Belmont Clan back into the good eyes of the people again. Despite his feats being so grand within his clan, Simon is actually one of the less vocal members. And not just in the way of not talking about Richter’s past actions.

I mentioned this in many previous drawings, but Simon grew up during the time when his family was still banished from society. The way people treated Simon’s bloodline caused him to be very distant, hence why he is depicted as being so quiet, if not even emotionless– at least on the outside.

However, deep inside, Simon bears a soft side, most especially for his family.

This is notable in his attitude towards Juste, his grandson, whom he occasionally showers with affection and praise, given it’s with a straight face. Partly, this is because Simon does not want him to deal with the coldness from others that he experienced in his past. Now Richter is also one of Simon’s descendants. Like everyone else, Simon knows about Richter’s actions, as well as how much it has negatively affected both Richter and the entire bloodline.

Richter is left ashamed and frustrated of something he can’t undo, and because of that, he finds it very hard to move past something that’s always in his face. His family, especially Juste and Trevor, make that even harder.

Now recall, Simon is one of the strong, yet softer of the Belmont’s. He wants to give Richter an indirect means of reassurance amidst his personal conflict.

What I did not mention directly in that post you were referring to was the other reason why Simon was training alongside Richter in those set of images.

Now that both Simon and Richter are in Smash, the former could spend more time with the latter. Those training sessions weren’t just so both Belmont’s can learn each other’s fighting styles. Simon wanted Richter to show that he was still capable of doing something right, and hopefully have him regain his confidence. Of course, he did so without any real mention of it, as that’s just how Simon is with his thoughts and feelings.

Overall, Simon wanted to be there for Richter in a way no one else had been.

TLDR: Simon cares a lot about his descendants, and he is therefore trying to help Richter feel better about himself after his big trip-up.

And the whole “not annoying” thing was some jab at the two’s contrasting personalities. I also wanted it to be known that I am kinda-sorta not cool with seeing Richter being often depicted as a “brainless idiot” that much, so….

[wizzardblizzard]

hey does anyone want a bit of a klance wip i’ll never finish

honestly its waaaay too ambitious and convoluted, but i still really love it and want to share a part.

this is a bit from a fic i was writing where time works the same in the quantum abyss as it does for the rest of the universe, and keith is actually gone for two years.

The Blade of Marmora doctrine does not allow room for regret.

It’s Keith’s mother who explains this to him, early on in their mission through the quantum abyss, while huddled together awkwardly on the back of a space whale. He thinks maybe it’s lucky that their reunion just so happened to coincide with this trip, a convenient way of catching the two of them up on the years they’ve missed without actually requiring they make the choice to talk. Bubbles of memory fill the gap, visions of Keith’s life that he’s not yet comfortable sharing or knowing. Krolia lays it all out in front of him, in clear words and god given temporal flashbacks, and Keith is helpless to do anything but listen. With all of his and Krolia’s life expressed in this way, and curled the way they are, Keith feels all eighteen years of his abandonment issues and anger hover in the small space between them, shaken up like a bottle of soda and incapable of being released in the face of Krolia’s impossible circumstances and selfless ambitions.

Keith’s not really at the cuddle stage with Krolia yet, not really at the cuddle stage with anyone in his life, but cold nights on the space whale don’t allow for personal space.

“Something you need to know about the time I’ve been gone is this: in order to keep moving forward I had to... “ Krolia pauses, staring deeply into the meager fire they managed to build before the frost settled in. “I had to tell myself I had no regrets, that leaving you and your father was the best possible decision. But the truth is that it was impossible to know.”

She shifts, straightening her legs from their curled position and recrossing them. The movement presses them further together and Keith tenses, fighting the urge to pull away.

“The Blade doesn’t really give you time to think about all of that,” Krolia continues. “Which I guess is a good thing, in a way, because it meant I didn’t spend all of my time missing you.”

Keith glances at her, sidelong. He wonders at her ability to just...say things like that. He doesn’t know if it is a trait that’s exclusive to her, or if all moms are this open and honest. He spares a moment to wish he were back on the castle, back home, so that he could ask Shiro or one of his other friends. He thinks Lance would know. He talks about his mom a lot.

“But it was also bad,” Krolia says. “It was bad because it didn’t allow me time to miss you. I would operate on autopilot, fighting and killing and...every so often, I’d take a break and step back. I would think about all that I’d missed, all that I was missing. It was like an open wound that never healed, that I wasn’t sure I wanted to heal.”

She turns to look at Keith, and her eyes are wide and dark in the light of the fire. He’s noticed by now that her eyes are familiar to him, though Keith doesn’t know why. He’s pretty sure he’d been too young when she had left for him to have any memory of her. He wonders again if this is a mom thing, if something deep inside of him knows her, something unconscious. He wishes again for Shiro. He doesn’t know how this works.

“Living under the Blade...it works,” she says. “If it didn’t work, they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have. They are thousands of years old, but only because to be a member of the Blade of Marmora, one has to give up on ever having a family. If you allow room to make connections, you have room for regret, and then your life becomes more than the mission.”

“What I’ve been doing, these passed eighteen or so years...Keith, that wasn’t living.” She turns to face Keith, reaching forward tentatively to grab Keith’s hand. “When I was with you and your father, I was truly living.” She squeezes Keith’s hand, and her hand is warm through his gloves. “I never wanted this life for you.”

Keith pulls his hand from hers, scooting back and away. “So what does that mean?” he asks, some of his anger escaping. “You’re...disappointed in me? That I joined the Blade?” He feels the weight of his knife at his back, his awareness of it burning through the thick armor. “It’s because of you that I’m here,” he says. “That knife...it was all that I had, for the longest time.”

Krolia shakes her head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” She pauses, moving away. The cold wind immediately occupies the space between them, and Keith wraps his arms around himself.

“There’s so much I want to tell you,” she starts, curling forward over herself. “You, and your dad. I would stay awake at night thinking about it, figuring out what I wanted to say and how I would say it.” She looks back at him, mouth set in a line. “What I always came back to was this: I have regrets, Keith. There’s so much I wish I could have done better, or differently. But family? That isn’t one of them.” She presses forward, bridging the gap once more. Her hand is the lightest touch on his tightly folded arms. “Once you have something, you hold onto it. That’s how you live with no regret.”

Keith moves away from her, scooting even further backwards. Unbidden, thoughts of his friends at the castle come to mind once more. He’d had something like a family, once. He’d left, just like she had. Unlike her, however, he knows his family hadn’t resented him for it.

She sighs, pulling her knees to her chest and resting her arms on top of them. “That’s what I wanted to say,” she says. “Nineteen years of planning. I know you don’t owe me anything, but please...consider my words.”

And with that, she turns away from him, laying on the ground with her back to the fire.

Keith finds that he isn’t ready to sleep just yet, cold so far away from the fire and buzzing from the conversation. He considers it. He thinks long and hard about what she had said, about how she’d had something, and she’d let it go.

“But what does it matter?” he thinks, burying gloved fingers in the grass beneath him, feeling the distant vibration of the creature below, moving further with each moment. “It’s too late, now.”

***

It’s been a while since Keith’s had his world shaken, upended and twisted on its axis. If he thinks about it, does the math, it’s been just over two years.

The girl is familiar, but at the same time she isn’t. Her coloring is off, her skin is too pale, her hair isn’t pale enough. Her eyes lack the steel of the eyes Keith knows, the set of her shoulders is not quite as straight.

Keith can tell that she’s lost a lot in her life, he can see it in her eyes, and in the downward turn of her mouth. She’s strong, he knows, and yet he can’t help but feel disappointed that Romelle isn’t Allura.

Then, she opens her mouth, and Keith feels dread start to build, hot and heavy in his gut.

“Lotor?” he asks, clenching his fists. “You mean Emperor Lotor? The ruler of the Galra?”

Romelle recoils, her hands covering her mouth. “He is emperor?” she asks. “But he...our colony--”

“You’re saying he’s been harboring Alteans this entire time? That he knew, when Coran and Allura--”

“Keith,” Krolia says sharply. He closes his mouth, feeling vaguely ashamed. It’s been a while since he lost his cool like that. But, then again, it’s been a while since he’s talked to anyone that wasn’t his mom or his dog.

As though summoned, Kosmo steps up and pokes at Keith with her nose, prodding at him until he scratches behind her ears. He takes a deep breath, running his fingers through her fur. Usually, her calm, steady presence is enough to soothe him, but Keith can feel his heart beat in his throat, his panic rising with every word that leaves Romelle’s mouth.

He says, “We need to go back.”

Krolia eyes him warily before looking back at Romelle. “You’re absolutely sure of this?” she asks, the pinnacle of professionalism. “Lotor has in recent times proven himself as an ally to Voltron, the legendary defender of the universe. You are certain he is responsible?”

Romelle nods, and Keith does his best to swallow his panic. He’s better than this, now. He’s not so quick to jump blindly to action. His friends are strong and smart, he’s sure they’re fine.

The three of them make plans to leave, to investigate the mysterious other colony, and Keith does his best to avoid losing his composure. He doesn’t let himself fall to the barrage of worst-case scenarios running through his head, or the looming weight of his guilt over taking what amounted to a two year camping trip with his mom while the rest of the known universe was busy fighting a war. He’s better than this. He’s spent two years training with his mother to be better than this. His friends are capable, they’ve proven that they are perfectly able to function without him. It’s selfish and arrogant of him to think otherwise.

He avoids his mother’s pointed looks, grasping at the fur at the nape of Kosmo’s neck. They’ve lasted this long without him, they can wait for him and Krolia to come up with a plan.

***

He’s wrong.

***

Krolia holds out an entire week before she asks, and even then she dances around it.

“You haven’t told me anything about your friends,” she says, nonchalant. “I know you’re a part of Voltron, but that’s all.”

Keith grits his teeth, focusing his gaze on the ground in front of him. They’re looking for sufficient shelter, not knowing how long they will be adrift on the space whale before they’re through the quantum abyss.

Or at least, they’re trying to. The quantum flashbacks are getting annoying. Keith is tired of them. It’s hard enough having to scavenge for food without having to wade through the memory of a spelling test Keith took in the third grade. Well, that and other memories.

“I told you about Shiro,” Keith says, hacking at a branch with his knife. He does so viciously, probably more violently than the quantum space tree warrants. “And Adam.”

(A distant part of his mind snickers at “quantum space tree.” At some point, he’d taken to adding “quantum” or “space” to the front of things. It’s silly, he knows this. But his life doesn’t really allow much room for silly things, anymore. He’ll take what he can get.)

“Yes, the men who helped raise you,” Krolia says. “But what about the others?”

Keith huffs, stopping and turning to face her with his arms crossed. “You can just ask,” he says. “I see them too. I don’t know why there are so many with--”

He’s interrupted by the distant sound of a flash, the force of it rustling through the trees, bright white peeking through the leaves like film being overexposed. Keith sighs, and waits for it to pass.

It’s Lance again, because of course it is. You’d think Keith hadn’t lived eighteen years before knowing the guy, with the frequency the abyss likes to throw him in Keith’s face.

It’s another silly, embarrassing memory, one that Keith would probably feel fond of if his mother weren’t right next to him watching it play out. He’s still not sure what kind of image he wants to present to her, and the flashbacks aren’t really giving him a choice about it.

The space around them erupts into color and sound, and Keith almost covers his ears against it. He recognizes where they’re at, though he has trouble parsing when exactly it had been. It was sometime before Shiro had gone missing, so Keith had still been flying the red lion.

Krolia eyes the street they’re on curiously, taking in the neon signs and flashy costumes. Keith can feel the distant bass of loud music through the soles of his boots. “Muskagan?” Krolia asks, turning back to Keith.

“Space Vegas,” Keith says, frowning and crossing his arms.

It’s at that moment that the door to a nearby bar bursts open, and Lance stumbles out. “Space Vegaaaaas!” he cries, raising his fists in the air triumphantly. The collar of his blue and white baseball tee is all stretched to shit, and it’s clear why when Keith himself comes staggering out as well and collapses against him, eager fingers grasping at Lance’s shoulders in an attempt to stay upright. Behind them, a large, gelatinous alien leans out of the doorway, yelling in an untranslatable language at their backs and waving a wobbly fist at them.

Keith is laughing, so loud he can be heard over the bustle of music and people on the street. His cheeks are very red, and he can’t seem to stop from tripping over his own feet.

Krolia hums at his side, obviously torn between disapproval and fondness at seeing Keith so happy. Keith can feel his cheeks start to heat up.

“Lance,” Past-Keith breathes, between laughs. “Lance, no, stop...Shiro said--”

Lance wraps one arm around Keith’s waist, pulling him up and forward. “Keith,” Lance says, and Keith had been too drunk at the time to fully register it, but their faces were awfully close together. Past-Keith’s cheeks flush darker, and his eyes are wide with something close to adoration. Keith feels his stomach twist. “Since when have you ever listened to anything Shiro told you to do?”

Past-Keith laughs again, high and bright.

The two of them make their way down the road, stepping together like they’re participating in a three-legged race. They bump into people and roadside stalls as they go, laughing through their apologies. They look happy. Keith can’t even remember what they were planning to do that Shiro disapproved of. He remembers that they had gotten in an insane amount of trouble for sneaking off during the royal banquet the other paladins had been attending, and that he’d taken out his anger and embarrassment on Lance, who hadn’t talked to him for three days afterward.

The two of them disappear around a corner, cheering loudly at whatever they see, and the memory starts to fade. Once it’s gone, Keith takes a deep breath, revelling in the sudden silence of the forest around them.

Krolia doesn’t say anything for a moment, searching Keith for a reaction. Keith looks at her, then looks away, sighing and running a hand through his hair.

“We were supposed to be at an event at the Muskagi palace,” he says. “Lance convinced me to sneak out.”

“Lance?”

Keith glares at her, and she does her best to look innocently curious. “You know who he is,” he says. “He’s in like, every single memory.”

“I’ve seen him,” she admits. “But I don’t know him.”

Keith huffs, and starts moving through the forest again. “What else is there to say?” he asks. “He’s the blue paladin.” He pauses. “The red paladin now, I guess. He’s an idiot.”

“You seem to have spent a lot of time together,” she says.

“We didn’t,” Keith lies, kicking at a small log laying across their path. “I...We didn’t get along, not really. Not at first. I don’t know why it keeps showing him.”

Krolia hums, eyeing him knowingly. Keith can feel his face grow even warmer.

“I think we’re coming to the end of the forest area now,” Keith says, surging forward. “Maybe we’ll find a cave or something.”

Krolia nods in acknowledgement, allowing for the poor subject change.

Later that night, after they’ve actually managed to find a shallow cave and set up shelter, there’s another flash. It’s after Krolia has already fallen asleep, so Keith experiences it alone.

It’s Lance again, sat hunched over in his seat on the castle’s bridge. Keith can see the slump of his shoulders as he reaches forward and pulls up the star map.

Keith turns to his left and sees himself, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. After a moment, Past-Keith bites his lip and makes the short trip to Lance’s side, dropping down sloppily onto the arm of Lance’s chair. Keith watches as he places a tentative hand on Lance’s back.

Lance’s shoulders heave in a huge, shuddering sigh. The air around them bursts into shimmering light, the Milky Way Galaxy cradling them in a tent of stars.

Keith watches as his past self slowly moves his hand, rubbing back and forth along Lance’s broad shoulders. Lance tilts, slowly, until the side of his head is pressed awkwardly into Keith’s hip. The two of them sit there, silent, until the memory begins to fade.

Alone once more, Keith lets out a wobbly sigh. He leans back against the wall of the small cave and presses the palms of his hands against his stinging eyes. He thinks he knows why the abyss keeps showing him memories of Lance.

[royalcordelia]

If the Seas Should Part (1/5)

Summary: Anne finds herself caught up in whirl of romance and adventure after rescuing Dr. Gilbert Blythe from the sea during a storm. She should let him go, but when she finds out Billy Andrews is plotting to take Gilbert's life and estate, she realizes there's nothing that can keep her from protecting him.

For my darlingest @hecksinki for her (very belated) birthday! ♥ I love you so much, friend! 

• Rated G • 5k words • Read on ao3 • Read on ff.net •

The day it all began, Anne sat with her legs kicking over the ledge of a grassy cliffside, waiting for the clouds to roll in. She knew it was coming.

Anne was the only one on the island who did not fear the storms. They rolled in over the horizon with the vengeance of a thousand souls scorned, havoc following in the wake of their whirlwinds and gales. But Anne, who had been born in the midst of the torrent, knew better than to think that the hurricanes held complete power over human fate. Most of the treasures that the icy waves swallowed up were returned to the shore in the morning, where Anne would walk in hushed steps in the damp sand. She always wondered why Providence had blessed her with such fearlessness, but she knew it was there for a reason.

“Where do you suppose the ships go when they round the island?” Anne asked Diana, who sat a few feet back, scared of the dirt crumbling from underneath her if she sat too close to the ledge.

“Well, I suppose they dock at the North Blythe Harbor. Avonlea certainly doesn’t have a big enough port for vessels that grand,” Diana responded. She plucked strands of grass in her fingers, watching a cluster of merchant ships turn into dots at the horizon.

“I already know that, ” Anne chided. “But don’t you think it’d be so much more romantic if they were headed for a mermaid’s cove to beg for audience with the Siren Queen herself. And of course, she’d decline, because how could such unnoble creatures as human men dare enter her kingdom when-”

She held her breath as a pang of dread settled in her stomach, a warning like a sixth sense. Turning her chin to the clouds of gray and crimson, she realized the cause.

“Diana, I think we ought to go home. There’s a storm coming and your mother will be dreadful angry if we get caught in it.”

“It’s just a little bit of clouds. Nothing to get worked up over.”

Anne looked to the waves that crashed into silver with each blast of wind sweeping over them. It was true that she never feared the storms, but she also knew how to choose her battles, and they’d see this one grow into a war if they stayed.

“Either way, I’m positively starving. Tell me about your letter from Jerry while we walk back. I know you’ve been avoiding the subject, but I’ve been dying to hear all about your romantic endeavors. I shall have to live vicariously through you, even into my spinstering days,” Anne said dramatically, gathering their picnic belongings into her basket and heading homeward.

“Oh please. Any day now, some dark haired ideal is going to appear in Avonlea and sweep you off of your freckled feet.”

Anne snorted, about to retort, when there was a rumble from the skies - a final warning from the impending gall. She turned her face up, her cheeks catching the first few raindrops with small little plops. There was a moment as realization dawned on them both, which was just enough time for the drizzle to turn heavier and the monsoon to open up.

Diana shrieked, wrapping the picnic blanket around her head, and scurrying toward the road.

“Land sakes, Anne, I do hate when you’re right!”

Rain whipped through Anne’s hair, pulling free the styled strands so that it was blowing madly against the angry gusts. She felt the cold droplets hit her arms and legs as sharp as hail, then sprinted away from the cliff after Diana. Before she could travel too far, lightning crashed onto the waves, releasing a deafening roll of thunder along with it. Diana let out another shriek, but Anne stood in silence. She whipped her head back to stare wide-eyed at the shore, and horror filled her stomach.

One of the merchant ships was nearly overturned. Its sails battled the storm, flying every which way. Anne was sure the sailors were aboard, trying to keep her steady, but if they made one wrong move, it’d all be over.

“Anne, what are you doing? Come on!” Diana called over the wind, but Anne ignored it.

She did not fear the storm. She did not allow it to take control over her. This reckless mantra played in the background of her thoughts as she walked closer to the edge. Bringing a hand to shield her eyes, she could see how close the ship gotten to the shore. Too close for comfort, she assumed, judging by the shouts she could hear from the sailors as they cursed, bellowed orders, prayed their last prayers.

A force that Anne did not understand kept her at that cliffside, helplessly staring at the sight before her. A distant voice heard in her mind from far away whispered to her soul, He’s there. He’s there! Struggling to stay standing against the building wind, Anne wanted to yell out, Who!?

Just then, the ship tipped dangerously to its side and a body went flying out into the water. Anne cried out in terror, suddenly feeling as if a weight had been dropped onto her heart. The man’s tiny head bobbed above the churning waters, arms reaching out to grab hold of something that wasn’t there. Time was running out, and she knew in every nerve and every bone in her body that this wasn’t supposed to be it for him. The sea could try to take what wasn’t hers, but Anne could try to take it back. He could be saved, she knew it. She tossed the basket aside and began to dart for the far end of the cliff where she could slide down the sandy incline.

“Anne?” Diana called out. “What are you doing? Anne, no! ”

But Anne could not be moved once her mind was set. She jumped over the side, thankful that her fall was cushioned by sand, and stumbled as fast as could down the moderate hill. Finally, she hit the ground, rocks digging into the palms of her hand as a blast of wind knocked her over. Once she was finally back on her feet, Anne stared, struck frozen at the tempest of salt water and rain before her. There was no way to penetrate through its walls. If the man had fallen into this there was no way he’d survived this long, even if only a minute had gone by.

Fate was prepared to prove to her otherwise.

“Help!”

Anne blanched. He didn’t even sound like a fully grown man. Someone her age? Bravery suddenly sparking her determination, she ran toward the sound. “ Please, help!’

She searched in a mess of waves for the man until finally she could see his head breaking through the surface of the sea and then plummeting back down. The waves had pulled him closer to the shore, almost within reach. Thankful she’d forgone a gown of heavy skirts for a simple white, cotton dress, she pulled off her shoes and dove into the water.

In later years, Anne would try to recall the memory of that moment - the agonizing seconds of floating in the heart of the ailing sea and reaching for a stranger’s tiring hand in the darkness of it. But all her mind allowed her was to recall distinct ache that came with swallowing saltwater and the strange icy coldness of the late summer sea. She did, however, remember the second she finally grabbed onto him. He’d stopped crying out by then, a listless body that had been flung toward her. Though her muscles ached and she had begun to wonder if she was crazy, she tugged the man toward her and kicked with all her might for the shore.

By some miracle, it worked. Anne grabbed the man by his underarms, heaving the brunt of his weight onto her shoulders and dragging him up onto the shore. She laid him there, heart anxiously beating as she waited for some sign of life. When none came, she pressed her ear onto his chest, but the cacophony of the storm muted any heartbeat the man had left.

Viciously wiping water from her face - rain, sea spray, tears - Anne felt herself crumbling. The man was all hard angles and soft pale skin. His face had lost color, but as she ran a finger across his cheek, she couldn’t help but think that he was... beautiful. A terrified sob escaped her lips at she pressed her fist down on his chest and leaned all her weight into it. She repeated it again and again, until finally the sailor gave a hearty cough, sending salt water into the sand beside them. The water in his lungs was replaced with sweet air, and suddenly, he began to breathe once more. He was still bleary with unconsciousness, but she felt as though she’d start crying in relief.

“Oh, thank Providence,” Anne whimpered. By then, her teeth were chattering from being soaked in the wind, her eyes stung from staring into the rain, and she was ready to succumb to the blackness of exhaustion. But with a deep inhale, she mustered up the last of his strength, and dragged them both toward a little hollow cavity in the side of the cliff, big enough to sit in. Certainly sufficient enough for two people to take shelter from the storm.  She’d come there before to read and write, and now she thought it might just save their lives.

Just as the storm was beginning to rage its worst, Anne had secured them in the den, finally out of wind and rain. She leaned up against the wall, heaving a lifetime’s worth of relief and pulling the sailor so his back was leaning up against her chest. In the dark, it was difficult to assess the damage done to him, but for now, he was breathing and she was in one piece. Her lunatic plan had worked.

Whispering a prayer of thanks, Anne held onto the injured man for dear life and let her body lower from its adrenaline to the sweet darkness of exhaustion.

* # * # *

When Anne’s eyes fluttered open, the muscles in her back and shoulders felt like dried clay. The young man she’d saved was still in her arms pressed up against her, a tactic that seemed successful in shielding them both from the rain. Biting her lip against the crick in her neck, Anne looked out of the alcove and saw the beach was bathed in sunshine.

Just as she was about to come up with a plan for getting the man to safety, he turned and let out a pained groan. Anne shifted so that she could take a good look at him, still holding him in the safety of her arms. With the help of yellow sunlight, Anne could see how his hair had dried into a mess of curls as soft and wild as ravens. Streaks of dirt lined his cheeks, but his eyelashes were long and his lips were the color of roses. He had a few gashes that Anne hadn’t noticed the night before, one on his neck, another across his forehead, but both seemed to have scabbed well enough. Through a tear in his trousers, she noticed a sickly midnight colored bruise on his calf.

Then the man coughed, brows knitting together as he tried to pry open his eyes. They fluttered a few times before landing up her in dazed confusion. Anne felt her heart bend down toward him when she saw how blue, blue, blue his eyes were.

“I stand quite corrected. Sirens are real,” he said in a quiet, raspy voice. Anne froze, suddenly wondering if he had hit his head on something during his fall. “You certainly live up to the legends.”

“I’m not a siren, but I’m flattered you think so,” Anne replied gently, cheeks hot. Before she could catch herself, she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, making him lean up a little into her touch. “My name is Anne. You took quite a fall from your ship. Do you ache terribly anywhere?”

“Anne ,” he muttered dreamily, as if his mind were in a different room. He tried to sit up, then hissed in pain. “I feel like I was hit by a steam engine.”

Anne steadied him so he was leaning against the stony wall of the little cave. He gave a small smile when her breath hit his cheeks and keep staring into her eyes as if to prove to himself that she wasn’t a hallucination.

“It was something like that. Do you remember anything? Who you are, what happened?” He closed his eyes to clear his mind, then nodded.

“My name is Gilbert. I was on The Amaranth on our return voyage from Nova Scotia. We weren’t expecting any rain. My brother Sebastian was standing too close to the edge, and when I went to call him I guess I just…fell overboard.” He looked up suddenly. “How did you find me? I thought I was done for.”

“I’ll try not to take offense at your tone, sir,” she said defensively.

“I’m sorry, I meant no offense. I only meant that I don’t expect any person capable of surviving what you did. I’m grateful to be proven wrong.” Anne seemed appeased by this just a little and bit her lip to try to remember.

“I was sitting on the cliffside with a friend. When the storm hit, I had this feeling I should look out at the sea, and then I saw you.”

“So you simply jumped in after me?” he asked incredulously. Anne averted her eyes and grabbed a handful of sad, offering a small shrug.

“It certainly wasn’t simple by any means of imagination, but I suppose it does sound rather foolish when you say it like that.”

He was silent for a few moments.

“Did you happen to see what happened to The Amaranth? My brother was on that ship.”

“I...no, I guess I was just too focused on getting you to safety, I didn’t think to. I’m sorry.” Gilbert watched her wring her hands together, gaze turned away from him.

“Anne,” he grabbed her hand seriously, “you saved my life. I cannot thank you enough. ”

They stayed like that for a few moments, hand in hand, eyes fixed together so tightly that it might burn to look away. Anne suddenly felt her senses spiraling beyond her control, unable to reign back the butterflies in her stomach or the rose petals on her cheek.

“Well, we ought to see about getting taken care of. Where are you from?”

“Nearby the North Blythe Harbor, but I can send a telegraph to my brother. That is if he...” he shifted his leg and clenched his teeth. “I expect I’ll have a difficult time walking.”

“You’re in no condition to travel yet,” Anne warned. “I think your leg might be broken.”

“Oh, it’s broken alright,” he laughed bitterly. “The bone is broken clean through. I’m a doctor, so it isn’t the first I’ve seen.”

“You’re a...but I thought you were a sailor.”  

“And I thought you were a siren, but things are apparently not as they appear.”

“Well, either way, we’re going to have to get you back home to Green Gables to take care of those wounds. Maybe you could walk me through how to bind your leg? I’ve experience in croup and colic, but broken bones are foreign territory to me.”

“But I wouldn’t want to intrude on you and your family. Certainly your, uh, husband may not care for such company.”

“There’s no husband,” Anne rambled, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “It’s just my, uh, mother and a family friend. You’ll not be in a better hands, they practically invented hospitality.”  

“If you don’t mind my asking, where exactly is Green Gables?”

“About a mile north of here, in Avonlea.”

“So I am on the wrong side of the island,” Gilbert said with a slight groan. “I really do have to send a telegraph to my family. They’ll be sick with worry.”

“First things first, you need a warm meal and something for the pain. I don’t know how I’m going to get you up the cliff, though. It’s either that or take the long way around the shoreline-”

A violent cry broke onto the beach that sounded like the desperate cry of “ Anne? Anne, please , are you out here? ” The voice was familiar enough that she jolted to the side and stumbled out of the hollow. Her heart gave a relieved tug at the figure staggering down the beach in a frantic search.

“Jerry?” Anne yelled. Jerry’s head flung around to her, and the second he saw her, he let out a half-mad laugh of relief and ran forward. Anne caught him in her arms, and shook her head, her own laughter shaking her body.

“Are you crazy, fille idiote? ” he murmured, pulling back and checking over her limbs for injuries. “When Diana came home and said what had happened...I’ve never seen Marilla so frightened. You’ve really got some nerve and you look like you’ve been-”

“I’m fine , Jerry. I’ll tell you all about it later. But first, tell me, did you drive the carriage here?”

“Yes, but-”

“Good. There’s something I need your help with.”

Before Jerry could ask questions, Anne was grabbing his wrist and leading him over to where Gilbert still sat. The injured man was watching out of the small opening with apprehensive eyes, but his eyes softened when he saw her smile down at him. She wondered how she should explain the situation. I jumped into a hurricane to save him and by some miracle, we made it? Maybe - Isn’t this the most handsome man you’ve ever seen? He’s a doctor, not a sailor. I saved him because I had an unearthly feeling I should.

Instead, she settled on, “This is Gilbert. He needs our help.” Jerry eyed Gilbert warily, but when he met Anne’s stern look, he nodded and got to work.

By the time Gilbert was back on his feet, Jerry was supporting him on the side of his uninjured leg and Anne was holding his other arm with gentle fingers. The bright sunshine of the beach caused him to squint, but as his vision cleared, his jaw dropped.

The beach looked like it had endured divine wrath, torn apart with wreckage littered in the dirty sand - broken logs, scrap wood, cracked conch shells, and dead fish. Gilbert turned pale as he realized that he should have been included in these ravaged remnants, and when he glanced down at Anne, she seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Having been threatened by death didn’t seem to frighten her, though. Instead, she stood there like a victor does over his fallen prey and lifted her chin to the new day’s sun.

• # • # •

It was not easy to convince Mrs. Rachel Lynde to allow a strange man in their home. It had taken the combined effort of Anne, who had set her mind, and Marilla, who often sided with Anne when her heart was so assured. The noise of the encounter was enough that Gilbert certainly could hear it in Matthew’s old room, leg propped up against a pillow.

“Anne Shirley, of all the impetuous things y0u’ve ever done, this takes the cake!” Rachel scolded. “We know nothing of this doctor, and you know I don’t trust those Glen St. Mary folk.” She peered into her cup of tea with a sense of all-knowing righteousness that even the Almighty would’ve envied. Certainly whoever gave Mrs. Lynde authority over morality did not know what they were about, Anne thought bitterly.

“I saved a man’s life,” Anne argued, standing by the kitchen table with her arms crossed. “It’s as I’ve said, Mrs. Lynde. His safety is now my responsibility until he is fit enough to move on his own again.”

“Doesn’t he have any people to come and receive him?”

“His people were on that ship with him,” Anne said, dropping her voice in case Gilbert was listening. “I’m going into town to inquire about them in the morning, but as you can see, we’ve both been through quite a lot and I think it’s best if we rest.”

“Well, I think it might be best if you-”

“Rachel,” Anne stated firmly. The woman silenced as Anne placed her hands on the table and leaned down to stare her straight in the eye. “It is your duty to allow this man the safety of our home. If you’d like to argue with the teachings of your own Presbyterian upbringing, then that is a discussion you’ll have to take up with the Almighty. But the doctor is staying and that is final.”

With that, she lifted the tray of tea and biscuits from the table and turned toward Gilbert’s room. As she closed the door behind her, she heard an indignant “Well, I never. ”

The doctor was sitting up in bed waiting for her with an impressed look on his face. Anne herself couldn’t help but smile at his proud expression as she placed the tray down on Matthew’s old desk.

“You’re a force of nature, Miss Shirley. No wonder you jumped headfirst into a hurricane.”

Anne blushed.

“It wasn’t quite a hurricane, and I’ll have you know that I don’t make steady habit of tempting fate.” She turned to him and gave him a kind smile. “You’re looking a little better already. Some of the color is back in your cheeks. And I see you got into the clothes I left out for you alright.”

It was Gilbert’s turn to blush. He scratched behind his ear and looked down at the light quilt covering the bed.

“I changed into the shirt okay, but I couldn’t get the trousers over my leg.”

“That’s alright, Jerry will be by in the morning with the doctor to lend you a hand. For now, would it be alright if I gave you slight spongebath? I wouldn’t suggest it unless I thought it might help clean out some of your wounds. Of course, if you have any other suggestions, Doctor... ”

“Just call me Gilbert. I feel you’ve more than earned that right, and I’m not very particular,” he replied easily. “As for the spongebath, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Anne worked in silence. Gilbert seemed surprised at how expertly and professionally she went about the cleansing, but he held his tongue. She was glad for this, reluctant to tell his stranger the details of her upbringing. He watched, stock still, as Anne unbuttoned the old shirt that had once belonged to Matthew.

“I am dreadfully sorry about this,” she muttered, showing a hint of embarrassment.

“Not at all, ma’am. I am aware of the necessary medical procedures.”

It was like clockwork. Anne would dip towel into the basin of clean water, run the steaming rag over his skin, and then apply a smooth bar of soap. She rinsed each section of skin with a tender touch, almost distracted. In the natural light of the room, Gilbert thought he could see the warmth of her cheeks that couldn’t hide behind her steadfast concentration.

“Tell me something about you,” he suggested playfully as Anne worked to clean dirt out of the hairs of his arms.

“Why should I?” she countered easily.

“I’d like to learn a little about the lovely woman who saved me. Nothing too incriminating, just an interesting fact or two.” A smile lifted her lips, one that Gilbert followed with transfixed eyes.

“I’m a published novelist and a college BA,” she said, with shy pride.

“Why, every moment I continue to be impressed by you. What school?”

“Redmond College. I graduated about three years ago.”

“What a small world! I graduated from Redmond only four years ago,” Gilbert said, somewhat amazed. “To think, you may have been in one of my large lecture classes and I didn’t realize I was sharing the hall with the Siren Queen.”

As the words left his lips, he couldn’t help wish he erase everything he’d just said. Talking with a lady - a beautiful, captivating lady - was apparently not one of his many skills. Anne took it in stride, though.

“I doubt that. You must’ve been a man of the sciences. I, however, kept myself as far from biology and chemistry as I could. You would’ve found me in the English lectures, analyzing sonnets and arguing with grown men over Sophocles.”

“I can only imagine. And your book, Anne! Have I read it?”

“Likely not. It was just a small little thing about living in a small town - the people here and their experiences. It rather makes me wonder that I didn’t take up psychoanalysis.”

“You’ll have to lend me a copy. I grew up a small town myself, with family in Alberta.”

“How did you end up on the island?”

A warm look passed over his face, shadowed with a residual grief and longing.

“My father was a traveler. But then he met my mother here on PEI and decided his traveling days were over. I believe her family was actually from Avonlea.”

Anne had begun to clean his hands, giving the space between his finger careful attention. He hissed against the burn of the small cuts that plagued his skin, but her kind touch distracted him against the sting.

“Now I understand why he would drop everything and pursue one woman,” he said distractedly. Anne’s eyes snapped up, but she was quick to busy herself with rinsing the rag out.

“I’ve given you my interesting fact. What of you? What are your fine accomplishments?” she asked, eager to change the subject. Gilbert blinked a few times, tensing uncomfortably.

It wasn’t that he wanted to hide the truth about him, but it was so much easier to be “Just Gilbert” instead of who he really was - at least, here with her.

“There hasn’t been anything particularly outstanding,” he said unconvincingly.

“You’re a doctor , Gilbert. You mean to tell me in your entire life, there hasn’t been a single achievement?”

“There may have been a few,” he shrugged. “But I’m not a published author, and I haven’t rescued anyone from the sea recently.”

Anne let out a tired exclamation, and Gilbert raised his free hand in surrender.

“Alright, alright. I delivered a child when I was fifteen.” That news was enough to have Anne halt her ministrations completely and stare directly at him with wide eyes. “It’s what convinced me to become a doctor. That amongst...other things.”

“Well, that is indeed a feat!” Anne said, impressed. “How did you know what to do?”

“I watched someone deliver a baby calf once. As it turns out, the general mechanisms of labor are the same.”

Releasing a hearty laugh, Anne shook her head.

“I fear I must return the sentiment. The more I learn about you, sir, the more I am amazed.”

He certainly hoped so.  The feeling was more than mutual. As the minutes ticked by, Gilbert found himself free falling at every spare look, every touch, every word she spoke. He listened to her stories intently, a steady smile on his lips as she filled the room with imaginings and laughter. She was the most peculiar girl, one who had set her friend drunk when they were children and broken her ankle after falling off of a ridgepole. She’d inspired poetry in pupils and accidentally sold her neighbors cow. But, oh, she was intelligent and humble, rich in spirit and love. Gilbert had forgotten she was bathing him in water, but merely felt the warmth of a growing infatuation as steam around him.

She only quieted herself to clean his face, when she had to draw near enough to him that her breath was on his lips. Moving the cloth across his cheeks, she studied him the way she might study a constellation, marveled and struck.

“You’ve many freckles,” he commented lightly. This struck a chord in her that made the warmth in her eyes turn cold and hurt. She pulled back the cloth and placed it in her basin.

“I do believe all your wounds are clean,” she said formally. “At least above your waist. I’ll leave the doctor to examine the rest of you. I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

“Wait, Anne, wait!” he said, frustrated. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t my understanding that freckles were a bad thing. I quite like them.”

“It’s indelicate for a doctor to comment on a person’s looks, regardless of his preference.”

“You’ll have to forgive me. I am still a novice doctor, so I thank you for your advice. But please, Anne, don’t be mad for keeps. If our conversation just now was any indication, I’d bet that you and I could be good chums.”

His efforts seemed to be futile, if her caustic eyes and narrow brow told him anything. Then she sat down beside him as prim and straight backed a finishing school youth and picked up her cloth again.

“I seem to have missed a spot on your face, Doctor.”

“Well, then by all means,” Gilbert began. She wiped the cloth over a smudge of dirt on his cheek, sucking in a sharp breath when he leaned ever so slightly into her touch. “Please continue.”