#i thought it would be good in the intellecutal way

[cloudsthatglowinthenightsky]

i just watched the first knives out movie and it was actually genuinely soooooooo good like wtf dude 😭😭😭

[robininthelabyrinth]

LXC offhandedly says something about his relationship with NHS that would be totally innocent from *anyone* else, but sounds scandalously filthy coming from *him*. Bonus points if it's around LWJ and/or WWX and they are floored. Double bonus points if he did it on purpose for revenge over having to listen to *them* all the time. - 🦇

Petty - ao3

The first time was an accident.

No, that wasn’t right. More accurately, the first time was entirely Wei Wuxian’s fault.

(Lan Xichen sometimes thought, not very kindly, that many things were, more than Lan Wangji would necessarily admit to. He had not yet settled with himself if those were his actual thoughts or if it was merely bitterness about everything that had happened and in which Wei Wuxian had played chief role, but that was one of the things he was working on, for himself.

After all those years of being deceived, it was important for him to get to know his own mind, his own thoughts, and to be sure about them.)

“It’s good to see you out and about,” Wei Wuxian said warmly to him when they met again, as if Lan Xichen had only been confined at home with a brief illness rather than in strict seclusion for over a year.

Lan Xichen thought, perhaps, that Wei Wuxian was attempting to translate for Lan Wangji, standing beside him, practically radiating welcome and hopefulness and other such things that Lan Xichen honestly wasn’t equipped to deal with at the moment and had been purposefully ignoring. If so, it was not a very accurate translation, and unnecessary – no one knew his brother better than him.

Certainly not his brother’s long-dead lost love, who hadn’t even known.

“Indeed,” he said, not smiling, and Wei Wuxian’s own smile faded a little, as Lan Wangji’s own hope already had. “Nie Huaisang will be coming to visit me, and I plan to host him at the hanshi.”

That might also have been at Lan Wangji’s request, although only obliquely, if at all – even when he had appeared at his weakest, his most fallible and pathetic, Nie Huaisang had always been as stubborn as an ox (as stubborn as his brother), and no one could make him do anything he didn’t want to do.  This included running his own sect, no matter how much they had tried, and it also included actually listening to the people he’d just begged to solve problems for him. Lan Xichen could remember all the countless times Nie Huaisang had sobbed on his shoulder, and Jin Guangyao’s, too, until they’d given him advice, at which point he would thank them effusively and merrily go along and do whatever he felt like doing regardless. He was very good at getting his own way in the end.

As subsequent events had shown.

Lan Xichen could tell from the expression on Wei Wuxian’s face that he didn’t understand why Lan Xichen would choose to break his seclusion to host Nie Huaisang of all people, especially when he had declined all similar efforts by Lan Wangji, but he wasn’t especially inclined to explain.

If he even could.

How to explain that contemplation had shown that he had been the one to fail Nie Huaisang and not the other way around? Long before they’d ever sworn brotherhood, he had promised Nie Mingjue to watch over Nie Huaisang and aid him whole-heartedly in all his endeavors. Nie Mingjue had always worried, first and foremost, that Nie Huaisang not be lonely, knowing that his brother, born with a weak body, had long struggled with finding his place in his martially-inclined sect – everything else was secondary in Nie Mingjue’s mind, even Nie Huaisang’s personal safety. He’d always said that Nie Huaisang was a proper Nie in that fashion, that he would devote every part of him to the things he loved no matter if it meant death, and there was nothing anyone could do about it; all he’d ever wanted, instead, was for Nie Huaisang not to be alone as he did so.

Lan Xichen had sworn to be there for him.

He hadn’t been.

He’d sworn to stand beside Nie Mingjue, too, promised it in his heart and in the eyes of all the world, and he’d even meant it when he’d done so. And then, despite it all, he’d spent nearly half his life supporting and shielding his murderer – he’d broken so many promises. To the Nie, to himself. The only thing Lan Xichen could do to atone for those failures was to try to do better: to learn from what he’d done, to teach himself what he’d lacked, to make up for his deficiencies. To live up to what little remained of those promises.

And so, if Nie Huaisang wanted to see him, he would see him, even if he had seen no one else.

Wei Wuxian didn’t understand that.

Couldn’t, maybe.

Wei Wuxian was his brother-in-law, he made Lan Wangji happy, and Lan Xichen was grateful for that. He was even grateful, in a painful, agonizing sort of way, for Wei Wuxian’s help in revealing the truth about Jin Guangyao and his dark deeds. But Wei Wuxian forgot pain as soon as it happened and believed everyone else ought to be the same: they were together now, so never mind about all those years Lan Wangji spent alone and in mourning; Jin Guangyao had been a murderer, so never mind about all the good things he’d done or the good times they’d shared; Lan Xichen was out of seclusion, so clearly he’d gotten over everything that had happened.

At least for Lan Xichen, pain did not work that way.

“Well, that’s nice,” Wei Wuxian said after a while, when the silence had gone from merely familiar to actively awkward and Lan Wangji was staring at the ground, his hopes dashed to bits, even though that had not been Lan Xichen’s intent. He loved his brother very much, but he couldn’t heal himself fast enough to assuage Lan Wangji’s guilt at winning his happiness at the expense of Lan Xichen’s pain, nor did he intend to try. “I didn’t know he was coming.”

Lan Xichen did not point out that he was Sect Leader, not Lan Wangji, and that his word was final regarding who did and did not have the right to enter the Cloud Recesses at any time. It would be petty.

He was trying not to be petty. It was very hard.

“I hope to spend some quality time together with him,” Lan Xichen finally said, some meaningless filler designed to let them get out of the current conversational impasse, and was bewildered when Wei Wuxian, possibly inspired by the high tension of the moment, burst out in raucous laughter, reaching out to elbow Lan Wangji in the side.

“I bet you will,” he said, his tone almost jeering. “Quality time, yeah? Just the two of you together in the hanshi and everything.”

It wasn’t until Lan Wangji’s ears reddened slightly that Lan Xichen comprehended what Wei Wuxian was implying. That he had left a year’s seclusion because, what, he wanted to hop into bed with Nie Huaisang?

The mere notion was so puerile that it could barely be considered as rising to the level of a joke, the implication not only crude but actively cruel and disdainful of all the work Lan Xichen had done to put himself back together over the past year, and Lan Xichen had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to respond.

He glanced at Lan Wangji, wondering if his brother would say something – apologize, maybe – but he was clearly unable or unwilling to help. Finally, he shook his head and walked away.

That was the first time.

-

The second time – and many of the other times thereafter – were not accidental at all.

Talking with Nie Huaisang had been wretchedly painful but cleansing, necessary, just as his silent and extended contemplation in seclusion had been. They had not wholly forgiven each other for everything that had happened, whether the harms they had knowingly or unknowingly inflicted or for the agonies they had each suffered, but they were on a path to get there together – each one of them agreeing to learn from what had happened, to try to extend trust to each other, real trust, so that neither of them had to continue on their lonely roads alone.

It might be nearly two decades late, but Lan Xichen was determined to make good on his promise to Nie Mingjue, and Nie Huaisang equally determined in his own way to live up to what his brother would have wanted now that it was an option.

One unexpected aspect of this, interestingly, was how the clash between their values – Lan sect rules, Nie sect principles – gave rise to any number of very interesting analytical conversations. Nie Huaisang was a poor scholar for rules that required rote memorization to learn, but he understood his sect’s moral code down to his bones, well enough to be able to fashion himself a path within it. When pressed for his thoughts on any given subject, his arguments were well-fashioned, logical, and difficult to refute.

Lan Xichen had not enjoyed himself so much in years.

Even in the days when he had wholly believed in Jin Guangyao, his former friend was simply too facile to have a proper back-and-forth with: he would always yield, or seem to, or else dance around the main subject until they were on another on which they could agree; he had always prioritized good feeling over intellecutal growth. He’d never understood what enjoyment could be gotten out of standing your ground on some theoretical or philosophical issue.

At any rate, one of the points Nie Huaisang had won, curiously enough, was in regards to the subject of pettiness: bad in large doses, but acceptable in small, in his view. He compared it to venting frustrations or to understanding and indulging oneself in the positive sense – if you’re a petty person, he said matter-of-factly, you can try to improve yourself, but you’re not going accept yourself unless you just admit it. If that’s the sort of person you were, you wouldn’t get anywhere constantly resisting the urge to fight things out in petty, stupid ways.

Sometimes you just wanted to get into it over something stupid because otherwise you’d get into it over something important, and that was, in Nie Huaisang’s view, not a bad thing: if someone got in your face, get back in theirs.

Lan Xichen was, in many ways, a petty person.

“So, how is Nie Huaisang doing?” Wei Wuxian asked when lunch was not entirely over. Etiquette dictated that Lan Xichen had to respond, and family rules that he knew Wei Wuxian knew made clear it was impermissible to talk over meals: the only acceptable solution, therefore, was for him to consider his half-eaten meal as already complete, respond, and wait until dinner to fill up. And all because Wei Wuxian simply couldn’t wait another half-ke to blurt out his question, because he was too free and unrestrained to honor the rules of the family he had married into just because he personally didn’t think they were important. “Where is he, anyway? I would’ve thought he’d be here with us.”

Lan Xichen put down his bowl with just a little extra more force than he should, enough to make it clink against the table, and Lan Wangji’s eyes tightened a little at the unusual display of irritation.

“He’s still in bed,” Lan Xichen said mildly. “I’m afraid I rather wore him out last night.”

Wei Wuxian choked, misunderstanding, just as Lan Xichen had intended him to.

They’d gotten onto an interesting subject of conversation and had ended up talking most of the previous day’s afternoon and evening, as it happened, and Nie Huaisang was still a sect leader, with important business to attend to; Lan Xichen was fairly sure that after he had retired at the usual time for his sect, Nie Huaisang had worked until nearly dawn. Anyway, Nie Huaisang wasn’t much for set meal-times, not even by Wei Wuxian’s lax standards; he’d shared an early breakfast with Lan Xichen before going to sleep.

“Perhaps you can speak with him later, if you need him,” Lan Xichen said, folding his hands in front of him. “I will pass along your regards when I return to the hanshi. Which I should do now, in fact: I have some correspondence I need to attend to.”

Lan Xichen wondered if Wei Wuxian even noticed that his words signified Lan Xichen’s graceful removal of the work of sect correspondence from Lan Wangji, returning it into his own hands. Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji had managed sect business between them during Lan Xichen’s seclusion, and both had recognized that even though he had emerged from that seclusion he was still very much in the midst of his recovery and neither had tried to push him back into the role of Sect Leader. His announcement that he needed to attend to correspondence indicated that he was shouldering that burden once more – moreover, it was, by Lan sect standards, a rather vicious snub to make the announcement of the transition a public one, however subtle the wording, especially when he did not similarly make any sort of announcement regarding the work his uncle was managing on his behalf.

Petty.

Unnecessarily petty, really – it wasn’t Lan Wangji’s fault that he’d married a man who couldn’t even after all this time comprehend that sometimes you valued something because someone else did, even if you yourself didn’t care for or understand it.  

It was, however, his fault in not putting a stop to Wei Wuxian’s rudeness.

It wasn’t actually hard for a grown man to at least try to respect a rule as basic as do not speak during meals, or for that matter the one about not making tremendous noise late at night when you knew everyone else was sleeping. Having previously been in seclusion, Lan Xichen wasn’t aware of how bad it had gotten, with disciples rearranging their living quarters further and further away from any place Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian might be found breaking the rules against excessive promiscuity – and really, Lan Wangji should know better. No one was asking that he refrain from being in love, even extravagantly so, but they did live in a community, and he ought to have basic respect for others, even if it meant occasionally saying no to his beloved long-lost and miraculously reunited lover.

Lan Xichen knew how hard it was for him to say no, of course; he suffered from the same generosity of spirit as his brother. But hadn’t everything that had happened a year ago shown the folly of always saying yes?

-

“Ah, Wei-xiong,” Lan Xichen said a few days later when they crossed paths in the middle of the day. “Are you on your way to the apothecary? Could I ask you to pick up a few items for me?”

Wei Wuxian shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, presumably still aching from the bout of early afternoon delight that he and Lan Wangji had been indulging in over by the cold spring – which was meant to be a place for cultivation for all, not a private garden in which the young master of the sect could frolic like one of his pet rabbits. It would have to be cleaned before anyone else could use it, and Lan Wangji was undoubtedly back there giving those orders now, his forehead ribbon no doubt askew from having been utilized in private activity before being hastily replaced.

“Certainly, Xichen-xiong,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Some ointments of the sort used for stretching and to ease pain,” Lan Xichen said. “Huaisang has been complaining of soreness and stiffness as of late.”

He had, of course – among his misfortunes, Nie Huaisang had been born with something of a crooked spine, and his lower back would sporadically spasm, causing him great pain. Not that that was what Wei Wuxian was thinking of, of course.

“I’ve tried using my hands on him,” Lan Xichen added, allowing himself to sound regretful – which he was, as he hated to see Nie Huaisang suffering. “But he says it’s not enough, given the, ah, magnitude of the issue. I want to get him some relief and make sure he’s comfortable…I’m sure you understand.”

He was sure Wei Wuxian did not.

“Uh, sure,” Wei Wuxian said, barely bothering to hide the fact that he was giggling under his breath. “I’ll grab some for you, no problem…you should really ask Nie Huaisang to give you some, uh, books. To provide you with some guidance.”

“He’s provided several,” Lan Xichen said peaceably. Nie Huaisang was extremely fussy; naturally he would ensure that Lan Xichen was well supplied in guides on massage before allowing him to tend to him. “But thank you for the suggestion.”

Wei Wuxian nodded and saluted briefly, clearly ready to move on.

“Oh,” Lan Xichen said, as if only just remembering. “And tell Wangji that he doesn’t need to come to the meeting this evening – I know the two of you have better things to do with your time than having him listen to interminable reports on agriculture.”

Wei Wuxian actually smiled at that, as if the quarterly agricultural reports from the farms that fed the entire Cloud Recesses weren’t one of the most critical duties for Lan clan members to attend to and one that Lan Wangji had been assisting with since the age of twelve.

That task accomplished, Lan Xichen returned to the hanshi, where Nie Huaisang was scowling over the initial reports that had come in from the furthest farms in writing – he’d already offered to supplement any harvest shortfalls with the excess from Qinghe’s own extremely productive fields, but any shortage in one area could lead to shortages in others; no one wanted another famine among the common people the way there had been during the Sunshot Campaign and the hard years thereafter.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked doubtfully when Lan Xichen mentioned that he’d excused Lan Wangji from attending that evening and would therefore be doubly reliant on Nie Huaisang’s recollection of the meeting afterwards. “Lan Wangji may think you’re punishing him for marrying Wei Wuxian, which you’re not.”

“I’m not,” Lan Xichen agreed, because he wasn’t. If anything, he’d encouraged them to get together, and no matter the cost to himself, he was happy that Lan Wangji had achieved his heart’s desire after wanting it for such a long time.

“He may also interpret it as you punishing him for failing to control his spouse.”

“I don’t want him to control his spouse,” Lan Xichen said. “I want him to have some self-respect. Wangji has always greatly respected the rules of our sect and, until now, has always thought carefully before choosing to break them, accepting the consequences for doing so no matter how harsh. If I believed that Wangji truly disagreed with the rules, I would be willing to engage with him on the subject in good faith, but that isn’t what’s happening. He still believes in the rules.”

“He just doesn’t have the balls to tell Wei Wuxian that he wants him to stop stamping all over them?”

Lan Xichen huffed lightly. “I wouldn’t have put it that way.”

“But it’s what you think,” Nie Huaisang concluded.

“It is,” Lan Xichen said. “They’re going to spend the rest of their lives together – is Wangji planning on letting Wei Wuxian to win every argument without fail, no matter the cost to himself? Is he even planning on informing with him what the cost of his actions is? To always give and never take is not an equal relationship.”

“And your increased sensitivity on the subject of keeping secrets from your loved ones for, purportedly, their own good is completely beside the point, I assume?”

“The fact that I’m sensitive doesn’t make me wrong,” Lan Xichen said. “If Wangji is keeping secrets from Wei Wuxian, if he’s unwilling to rely on him or share his troubles with him, if he intends to one-sidedly sacrifice everything for him without even consulting with him as to whether he would be willing to accept such a sacrifice, then what they have isn’t a marriage.”

There was a house filled with purple gentians in the Cloud Recesses that stood as the eternal reminder of what that sort of marriage looked like, a terrible sacrifice that eventually became as much of a shackle on the recipient as it had been on the giver. Lan Xichen wouldn’t allow Lan Wangji to make that mistake.

And as for Wei Wuxian...if he truly oved Lan Wangji, he wouldn’t want it, either.

Lan Xichen certainly hadn’t.

Nie Huaisang sighed gustily. “All right, fine, fine. You know me, I’m always in favor of people standing up for what they think is the right thing even when it’s hard –” This was an almost grotesque understatement, but the friendship they were forging now was in some large parts based on the gallows humor emerging from their shared traumas. “– so I will reluctantly endorse your actions and, even more reluctantly, attend your meeting with you to take notes for later.”

“I appreciate your help. And your endorsement, of course.”

-

“Nie Huaisang has gotten much better at playing the xiao,” Lan Xichen remarked to Wei Wuxian on the day he removed Lan Wangji from the teaching roster and disqualified him from accompanying the juniors in night-hunts. “He’s a very – hands-on learner.”

Wei Wuxian snorted.

“I’ve been demonstrating the proper technique for him. Breath control is paramount, naturally, but of course you also have to know what to do with your tongue…”

Wei Wuxian was full on sniggering. “Oh, I bet,” he said salaciously. “I’m sure you’re a very hands-on teacher, eh, Xichen-xiong?”

“I want him to excel,” Lan Xichen agreed. “And that means plenty of practice…oh, I’m sorry, Wei-xiong. I shouldn’t have interrupted you – you were running somewhere?”

Right in the middle of the main pathways, no less, where the quick footfalls and sudden movement had startled countless people into very nearly raising an alarm before they realized there wasn’t anything to worry about. There were too many of them that remembered the war.

They had taken comfort in the enforced tranquility of the Cloud Recesses, before.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it,” Wei Wuxian said breezily. “Just had an idea and wanted to get back to my workshop as quickly as possible, that’s all.”

“I see,” Lan Xichen said. “I won’t stand in your way, then.”

He actually was teaching Nie Huaisang how to play the xiao, at his request – he’d made some comparisons to it while debating a matter of ethics, and Nie Huaisang was determined to learn just enough to argue back in kind.

Lan Xichen didn’t have any illusions that Nie Huaisang would stick with it any more than he’d stuck with any other type of cultivation – he’d first tried teaching him musical cultivation when he was a child without any success at all, and Jin Guangyao’s example had definitely not endeared Nie Huaisang to the concept – but it was rather nice to discuss music without necessarily focusing on the backdrop of cultivation within it.

Accordingly, he continued the metaphor with Wei Wuxian for several days running. He talked about how energetic a student Nie Huaisang was –“He’s wearing me out,” he said, shaking his head. “Draining me dry…” – and mentioned that they were having an interesting time going back and forth on the subject of fingering, despite Nie Huaisang’s claims that his weak fingers weren’t nearly as suited for quick, assured movement as Lan Xichen’s.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Lan Xichen had said, even as Wei Wuxian had nearly cried from laughter. “His fingers are very flexible, and I get a great deal of enjoyment from his enthusiasm. Skill comes later.”

“Definitely something you have to work on together,” Wei Wuxian said enthusiastically. “It gets better as you go, doesn’t it?”

In the past few days, he had brought alcohol into public places, rather than leaving it in the jingshi where the breach would be a minor one, and tried to encourage the juniors to share it with him, although they’d refused; he’d even tried to bully them into doing so using his superior age and the respect they’d owed him until Lan Xichen had intervened with ‘urgent’ tasks for the juniors instead.

He had loudly speculated regarding one sect elder’s marital affairs after the man had refused to speak with him following a disagreement, breaking both the rules against malicious gossip and those against disrespecting the older generation all at once. He had gone hunting and fishing right outside the boundary line of the Cloud Recesses in clear sight of the disciples, including several who were attempting to practice cultivation based on compassion for all creatures; several others were pulled from their usual tasks to go purify the ground according to their customs, including a careful check of their wells to ensure that the blood and viscera had not seeped into the groundwater that ran so high and near to the surface.

In return, Lan Xichen relieved Lan Wangji of his requirement to go patrolling – “You’re married now, after all,” he’d said to Wei Wuxian, as if it wasn’t a duty shared by adult every sect member, “I’m sure you want the benefit of his company at night. Isn’t that right?” – and revoked his access to the restricted areas of the sect, including the discipline hall of which he had had sole charge since before the age of fifteen. He asked his uncle to resume the full schedule of teaching, including the classes which had previously been shifted in part over to Lan Wangji – his uncle agreed, understanding his motives, although he looked sick to his stomach with anxiety the way he always did when Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji were fighting – and had publicly chided one of the juniors for “bothering” Lan Wangji with questions regarding his cultivation.

“Aren’t you so old already?” he scolded gently, a smile fixed on his face and his eyes firmly on the junior instead of his brother standing beside him. “You can’t go running to Wangji with every little issue that comes to mind. Reflect on yourself, and take pains not to be a burden to others.”

The junior appeared very nearly on the verge of tears, and he was not the only one. He, at least, understood the significance of Lan Xichen issuing the reprimand in public – if the junior in question had truly been pestering Lan Wangji with too many questions, it would have been a tremendous rebuke to him personally; as he had not, and everyone knew he had not, it was a clear order from the sect leader that no one was to bring any questions to Lan Wangji.

“Brother,” Lan Wangji said, his voice low and hurt.

“I know you must be tired, recently,” Lan Xichen said, looking back at him with a steady, unflinching gaze. “I understand that you and your husband have been taking long walks at night.”

Through residential areas, no less, and Lan Wangji knew better. Perhaps their sect was too strict with the rules about waking and resting, strict enough that the other sects laughed at them over it, but the rules were in place for a reason. Even if Lan Wangji himself was feeling restless enough to wander at night, there were places he could go that were designated specifically for that – gardens, mountain paths, what have you – where their wanderings would not bother others who had already gone to sleep.

Lan Wangji hesitated, his shoulders rising to his ears, but he dropped his gaze to the ground and nodded, conceding the point.

He knew better.

He knew better, he cared about doing better, and he let Wei Wuxian walk all over him anyway.

“It must be difficult to go walking at zi hour and wake at mao,” Lan Xichen said. “Perhaps waking at si hour would suit you better.”

Lan Wangji looked stricken. After over thirty years of waking at the appropriate time, he would have to be suffering from true bone-deep exhaustion for him not to rise at mao hour per their rules; Lan Xichen’s suggestion, if he enforced it, would do nothing but restrict him from leaving the jingshi until that later time.

Confinement was not a punishment Lan Xichen inflicted lightly on anyone, least of all his brother. His brother, who had suffered just as much from what had happened to their mother as he had.

“Perhaps you can use the additional time to talk to your spouse,” Lan Xichen said.

Tell him that you don’t like how he ignores all our rules like he’s trying to make a contest out of it, he meant. Tell him that you wince every time he puts his foot in it, every time he offends someone he didn’t have to, every time he disrespects our ancestors and all but spits on everything they cared about. Tell him that you’ll compromise on some rules, the ones that are genuinely hard for him, but that you want him to follow others out of respect for the fact that they mean something to you.

He would do it for you, Wangji. He loves you. You don’t always have to be the one to sacrifice.

Just tell him.

Lan Wangji’s lips pressed together.

Another refusal. It wasn’t that Lan Xichen didn’t know how stubborn his brother could be, especially in matters relating to Wei Wuxian, and he didn’t really want to match wills against him – he never really had, not in all their life. He loved his little brother so very much, and so Lan Xichen always been the one to yield, the one to give in, the one to make up the difference between them. The one to encourage him, the one to look the other way: whatever Lan Wangji had needed or even wanted, Lan Xichen had sought to give him.

Even the dreadful punishment with the discipline whip had been something Lan Xichen had sought to avert, and would have, if only Lan Wangji had not so self-destructively insisted upon it.

He had allowed it to proceed only because he thought that the physical pain would give Lan Wangji some measure of relief from the enormous emotional pain he was suffering from.

But now – this wasn’t just a temporary physical pain that Lan Wangji was trying to choose.

This was the rest of his life.

Lan Xichen was not going to back down over this.

“Si hour it is, then,” he said with a sigh. Nor would he revoke the instruction he had implicitly given to the juniors that Lan Wangji was no longer an acceptable advisor, unable to guide them in the Lan sect rules that he was constantly defying by proxy. “It’s for the best, I suppose. It’ll help habituate you.”

Lan Wangji looked up sharply.

Lan Xichen met his gaze head on. His brother, he reflected, was for once the one underestimating his stubbornness.

“I understand,” he said, his words very slow and very deliberate and very carefully chosen, “that rising at si hour is customary in the Lotus Pier, if a little late. That’s where Wei Wuxian picked up his habits, was it not?”

Lan Wangji’s eyes were wide as if he couldn’t believe Lan Xichen was saying what he was saying.

Perhaps he had become infected by Wei Wuxian’s obliviousness and needed things to be said flat out.

Very well.

“The Cloud Recesses is the home of the Lan,” Lan Xichen said. “Our lives are here, guided by our rules that are laid out on the Wall of Discipline for all to see. It is the life we have all chosen, freely and without coercion – but I know it is not the life for everyone.”

“Brother!” Lan Wangji exclaimed, and he actually looked viscerally upset, the expression clear enough on his face that even Wei Wuxian ought to be able to tell what he was feeling.

“You don’t have to follow them if you don’t want to, Wangji,” Lan Xichen continued, inexorable. He, like most of his sect, disliked this sort of straightforwardness, but he was Nie Mingjue’s sworn brother and Nie Huaisang’s brother by proxy; he knew how to wield his words with the brutality of a saber as well as the grace of a sword or the gentle lilt of the xiao. “But I will not allow you to continue making a mockery of them. Not here.”

Lan Wangji looked as if he’d been stabbed.

No – Lan Xichen had seen his brother get stabbed. He had taken that better than this.

“I will write to Sect Leader Jiang by the end of the week,” Lan Xichen said, and clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling. Tell him before then. Please. “Between the two of us, I’m certain that we can find somewhere to suit both you and your husband, so that you may live as free and unrestrained as you wish.”

He did Lan Wangji the honor of not looking back as he walked away.

He knew his brother wouldn’t want him to see the tears.

-

It was, if anything, a pleasant surprise when Wei Wuxian burst into Lan Xichen’s home less than a day later. Lan Xichen had thought it would take at least three.

“What is wrong with you?” Wei Wuxian shouted, slamming his hands down on the table in front of Lan Xichen. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Is it me? If it’s me you have a problem with, say it to my face directly!”

Lan Xichen finished swallowing the tea he’d just sipped. “Not everything is about you,” he said, feeling tired. “This is about Wangji.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes were red-rimmed as if he, too, had been crying.

“You’re not seriously planning on kicking him out of the Cloud Recesses because I broke a few of your rules, are you?” he asked, biting off each word individually. “He’s your brother. He’s a perfect Lan – he ran your sect for a year!”

“Our sect,” Lan Xichen corrected. “Wangji will always have a place here, as will you.”

Wei Wuxian crossed his arms over his chest. “Then why is he convinced that you want him to go?”

Lan Xichen sighed.

“I’m sure his knees hurt,” he said.

“…what?”

“His knees,” Lan Xichen said. “From all the kneeling he’s been doing.”

Wei Wuxian looked truly bewildered now. “Are you – making a sex joke?” he said. “Now?”

“No, though I’m unsurprised you took it as one,” Lan Xichen said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m referring to all the kneeling in penance that my brother has been doing to atone for all the rules he has been breaking on your behalf. You wouldn’t have noticed it, as I assume he’s been deliberately hiding it from you.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him. “He’s been kneeling?”

“Wangji cares very deeply about our sect’s traditions,” Lan Xichen said. “He would never have been made the head of the discipline hall if he didn’t. He knows them backwards and forwards, better than anyone except for my uncle and the sect elders that specialize in it. They’re important to him.”

“But –”

“He keeps track of every rule you instigate him into breaking,” Lan Xichen said flatly. “Every single one, large and small, major or minor, and he tries to do his best to pay for what he’s done because he’d rather kneel all night without getting any sleep, rather hurt his hand copying out rules, rather endure a beating or two if it means he doesn’t have to tell you to stop.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth was slightly agape.

“Do you remember the story I told you about our parents? I shared that story with you for a reason, because I wanted you to better understand Wangji. We all carry the scars our parents left on us, and he’s no different. He’s so afraid of imprisoning you the way our father did our mother that he has decided to follow in our father’s footsteps by sacrificing everything for you.”

“I don’t – I don’t want him to sacrifice anything for me!”

“I know,” Lan Xichen said simply. “That’s why I said that this wasn’t about you. Yes, now that you live here, you should follow our rules, or at least respect them – and respect means respect, not playing around to see how many loopholes you can find in them. Do you think we don’t know about them? That no one in the history of our sect has ever figured out that ‘do not take life within the premises’ could be subverted by taking a life directly outside of it?”

Wei Wuxian was silent.

“We follow the rules because we want to,” Lan Xichen said. “They’re the rules our ancestors put together and handed down. They are meaningful to us, even when they are awkward or seem pointless. Even when other people laugh at us or belittle us or act like we’re stupid for choosing to behave the way we do.”

Wei Wuxian winced.

“Your conduct would be a problem if you were a guest,” Lan Xichen continued. “But you are not a guest. You are Wangji’s husband, my brother-in-law. You are family. If you do not wish to obey the rules, you do not have to, and you will still be welcome here. But Wangji wants to obey the rules – it is only that he fears losing you more.”

“How long have you been having this argument?” Wei Wuxian asked, because he wasn’t actually stupid, merely oblivious.

“I started taking away his responsibilities on the third day following my exit from seclusion,” Lan Xichen said. “I have steadily escalated it with every rule you have incited him into breaking with you since. And still, he refused to speak with you.”

Wei Wuxian’s hands were clenched into fists. He looked down at them.

“I know how much you love my brother,” Lan Xichen said. “If he had told you that it mattered to him, you would have found a way to reach a compromise with him – of that I have no doubt. But if it wasn’t the rules, it would be something else; some other thing that he would choose to sacrifice, another situation where he would choose to endure agony over having a mildly uncomfortable conversation with you. That was why I couldn’t just reach out to you directly. It had to be him; he had to be the one to tell you.”

“I understand,” Wei Wuxian said. “I don’t…I’d rather find it out over this than have him throw away his life instead of telling me I was being stupid.”

Lan Xichen nodded. That had been his fear as well, and the reason that one of his first moves had been to restrict Lan Wangji from going out on night-hunts.

“I’ll talk to him,” Wei Wuxian said, and scrubbed his face. His eyes had started tearing up again. “I’ll – I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him understand that it’s not – he can’t just do that! He didn’t even ask me if I wanted him to give all of that up for me; he knew I wouldn’t want him to, that’s why he didn’t ask, and he just went ahead and did it anyway. He didn’t tell me that he was suffering, that you were taking away his responsibilities! He didn’t say a single word, and I just blithely carried on thinking everything was fucking all right and all the while he was suffering, and – and he – he…oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Lan Xichen blinked.

“I did the exact same fucking thing to Jiang Cheng!” Wei Wuxian exploded. He leapt to his feet. “I’m such a fucking idiot! Lan Zhan and me, we’re both – we’re really well matched, aren’t we?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll talk to Lan Zhan,” he said again, and he looked grimly determined the way he had in the war, the same expression shining through even with a new face. “Don’t worry, Xichen-xiong. I’ll make him understand.”

He turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

Lan Xichen watched him go, thinking to himself that he might have inadvertently done something good for Wei Wuxian as well through all of this. And perhaps it would help Lan Wangji’s own crisis to see Wei Wuxian going through the same – because Lan Wangji’s crisis had already taken place.

He could have lied to Wei Wuxian’s face over why they were leaving. He could have chosen not to tell him that Lan Xichen was forcing him out, cutting him off; he could have kept it secret, hidden, could have come up with some story or just left it all unsaid. If he was truly determined to never let any of his pain onto Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, he could have done that.

He’d chosen to come clean instead.

Maybe now they’d be able to move forward as equals, as partners.

(And, if they were really lucky, maybe finally reaching agreement to stop breaking all the rules all the time would mean that they’d stop having sex on every possible available surface and keep it to the jingshi and a few gardens. No one else needed to see that. Really.)

-

“I see that Wangji-xiong and Wei-xiong are now even more disgustingly in love than ever before,” Nie Huaisang said. “And that Wei-xiong seems to have finally gotten over his obsession with defying authority through violating each and every one of the Lan sect rules. I was only away at the Unclean Realm for three days, you know.”

“I work fast,” Lan Xichen said with a smile.

Lan Wangji had come to him, eyes red, and put his head in Lan Xichen’s lap the way he used to as a child, and they’d talked. For hours, they’d talked, in the slow and halting way they had – where each word was carefully considered, each emotion analyzed, and only a quarter of conversation was said out loud – and at the end of it, they were both completely wrecked, but stronger for it.

They’d talked about their parents, which they had never verbalized before; they talked about Jin Guangyao, and Nie Mingjue, and Wei Wuxian, both past and present. They talked about their ruined expectations, their hopes, their guilt; they talked about the rules that bound them both, the ones that served them as both strength and weakness, the foundation on which they relied in their times of doubt. They talked about love, and fear, and anger.

They’d promised to never to need to have to have this conversation ever again, and they were both very determined to keep that promise.

Lan Qiren had agreed to work with Wei Wuxian regarding which rules could be bent and which ones ought not be – finally giving him the full version of education he’d missed out on when he’d been returned home too early by Jiang Fengmian all those years before, because copying rules didn’t mean understanding them – and Lan Xichen had returned to Lan Wangji all the responsibilities and privileges he’d taken away from him, much to the relief of all the juniors that had been suffering through their fight.

(Lan Wangji confided in Lan Xichen that he was relieved that Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi had been away on a long visit to Lanling Jin throughout the entire debacle, and Lan Xichen wholeheartedly agreed.)

“That you do,” Nie Huaisang said. “Did being straightforward help?”

“More than expected,” Lan Xichen conceded. That had been one of the things he and Nie Huaisang had been discussing these past few weeks, the merits of straightforwardness against obliqueness, and they’d both argued both sides of the issue, given their personal experiences. “I will grant you that it served its purpose well in this situation.”

“Good,” Nie Huaisang said, and put his chin into his hands. “Now tell me, what’s this I hear about you and me being the subject of a series of apparently godawful sex jokes?”

Lan Xichen froze.

Nie Huaisang grinned.

“It was…a metaphor?” Lan Xichen tried. “A means of communicating with Wei Wuxian while not acknowledging the ongoing situation, and a message about paying attention to underlying meaning.”

“Try again,” Nie Huaisang said gleefully. “You could’ve done that without invoking my name.”

“Who else could I invoke? I spend all my time with you!”

All the time he wasn’t being Sect Leader, that was. If there was one good thing that had come out of this entire debacle beyond his heart-to-heart with Lan Wangji, it was that Lan Xichen had been so anxious over Lan Wangji that he had forgotten his own fears about resuming his position, and now that he was back, it didn’t seem as scary as it had when he’d been alone in his room in seclusion.

Nie Huaisang did not appear especially moved by this eminently logical argument. He put his hands over his heart and fluttered his eyelashes, saying in an affected, almost operatic voice, “And all this time I never knew you felt like that, Xichen-gege –”

Lan Xichen choked.

“To think that all of this time that we spent cloistered together, pure as virgins, we could have been doing all sorts of things – using my, what was the term used, ample assets –”

Lan Xichen wondered if it would be possible for the ground to swallow him up at this very second. Failing that, a sect emergency would do.

Possibly an invasion?

“– and this, of course, refers to my extremely large…stock of picture books.”

“Huaisang…”

Nie Huaisang laughed at his face and settled down across from him. “I’m not ready to court or be courted,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No,” Lan Xichen said. “I’m not either, I don’t think.”

He was starting to think that he might be one day, though. That there would be a day – a distant day, far in the future, just barely coming into view – where his days would be more all right than not, where he could make decisions and be confident that he was making them for himself and not to cover up some mess of trauma.

And maybe, when that day arrived for him, it would also arrive for Nie Huaisang, who was himself digging himself back out of the deep pit he had made in his soul seeking his lonely vengeance.

“Still,” Nie Huaisang said thoughtfully. “Since Wei-xiong and Lan Wangji are on their way here right now to join us, and given that I’m already crushing your hopes and dreams…”

Lan Xichen foresaw a great deal of mockery in his future, and he was almost looking forward to it.

“…do you want to pretend to be making out on the table that they’ll have to drink tea off until they catch us and plead for mercy?”

Well.

Lan Xichen did always say that he was petty.

[magalidragon]

dragon in a waterfall | a “bird on a wire” drabble

I don‘t know where this came from but I wrote it very fast at lunch. It is a missing piece to “bird on a wire” aka the Princess and Bodyguard fic. It is vaguely referenced in one of Dany’s thoughts in that fic. This is ANGST. Apologies for boo boos.

There was a ringing in her ears when she flicked her eyelids up, confused, wondering how come an alarm was going off-- shouldn't it be the middle of the night?  Was she sleeping this entire time?  Perhaps she was dreaming?

She tried to sit up, her chest aching, pressed on concrete, her evening gown torn from her shoulder and the skirt ripped in several layers around her knees and feet; she was really cold.  She never was cold; dragonblood, everyone joked, kept her running hot even if the frigid climes of the far North.  Except now she shivered, head to toe, her skin pebbled to gooseflesh.  The ringing was getting worse, when she tried to sit up, and she blinked again, her cheek scratched, and her side damp, like she'd landed in a puddle of water.

And she realized she was not dreaming.

Oh no, this was a nightmare.

"Jon!" she screamed, her throat vibrating from the exertion, the volume in her scream.  It came from her collapsed lungs, expanding them painfully, the horror at what had just happened settling into her memory, returning from the blacked out moment on the concrete.

She tried to stand up, but Barristan was grabbing her around hte middle, liftin gher bodily from the ground; her shoes were missing.  Her bare feet scrabbled on the cobblestones, unable to gain traction, her arms flailing, scratching at the bodyguard, refusing to listen to his commands.  Viserys was screaming for her, from the backseat of an SUV, before the door slammed on him, and she thought she heard her mother sobbing for her as well, and where was Rhaegar?  Did it even matter?

Nothing mattered.

None of her family mattered to her, because she had realized now what had happened, and why there was a damp spot on her side, and her body bruised and battered, and the chaos swarming them.  She could only see, tunnelvision, everything black on the edges of her sight, the figure lying in the center of the courtyard, blood pouring underneath him, Ser Arthur hovering over him, staunching bleeding with the shawl that had formerly been around her shoulders, and now was trying to keep blood in someone's body.

All she could see now was a hand, off to the side, fingers unmoving; fingers that had been in her palm only moments before, that had squeezed her hand deftly, when no one was looking, before she entered the Casterly Rock gardens for that evening's outdoor gala, to celebrate Rhaegar's coronation, while on a tour of the Westerlands.  It was never meant to be, it seemed someone was unhappy with that idea, and they'd decided to slip in under the guise of a waiter?  A driver?  Another bodyguard?  She did not know, nor did she care.

BEcause whoever it was had called her name and she turned, and then there was a shocking pain in her side and then she went flying on the ground, because Jon had lunged in front, throwing her behind him, and taken the hits instead.  At least, that's what she had envisioned in her mind, everything blurry and fuzzy, but it was making sense.

And he was lying there, dying on the stones, and she was somewhere else, ignoring Barristan as he tried to wrap a bandage around her, in the back of an SUV, while she clawed at the glass window, the door handle, screaming and desperate, not feeling anything but the need to get to him.

"Jon, Jon, Jon!" she repeated, delirious, screaming, her throat hoarse.  She spun on Barristan, trying to crawl over him, over Ser Gerold, who was barking at the chauffeur to get them to the pre-arranged hospital and ensure there was a full detail there.  "Let me out ! I'm fine!  Let me out! I need Jon!"

"Princess you're injured!"

"No I'm not!" she howled, evne though her hands were red, staining the inside of the SUV, and her head was swimming, everything staring to get fuzzy again.  Gerold was saying she was in shock, she had to stop, but she kicked at him when he moved to wrap her in a blanket, and continued to sob for Jon.

If he dies, I will die too, she thought, the last image before she passed out, of his face, before he'd pushed her, before everything went to the seven hells, when for a brief moment, they were a couple entering a party, to enjoy an evening, to dance, and maybe kiss under the stars.  His shy smile, tugging at the corners of his lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling, so very handsome in his black suit, and even with that wiggly little wire that came out of his ear and threaded down his neck and arm to the microphone in his hand.  She jokingly called it the Sea Snake.  She'd given it a name, after the famous Sea Snake himself, saying "Corlys must be with us today" when he had to wear it around her.

He had been smiling because she whispered to him that they were practicing for a real date, one day, and it had been joyful, but sad too, because they didn't know when or if or how they could ever have such a day.  A day where he was Jon and she was Dany, and they were just out having fun.  They were strangers in a bar, they met, and they went back to his place or hers, and then coffee the next morning.

It was easy to pretend, because she knew they couldn't have it the other way.

Not yet.

They were working their way there, they were going to try, one day, but not yet, because things were too new with Rhaegar as king and Viserys was sick and too many changes at once were too much for her family to handle.

And now it was all gone.

She was going to lose him, before she could ever really have him how she wanted.

Stolen kisses in alcoves, disappearing in crowded dance floors in illegal clubs, and running into the night from hidden passageways, with sometimes months in between each.  She lived in a constant state of missing him, aching for him, even when he was inches away from her, always there, her protective shadow.

He had his hair back that night, like he did on big events, to keep it from his face, and she'd joked in the car over-- it had just been them-- that he looked like an aging hippie.  He teased her that he thought he looked like a young intellecutal.  "You, an intellectual?" she joked, kissing his knuckles.  "The man who has comic books on his nightstand?  Hardly."

"I'll have you know those comics are pretty deep, talking about man's fight against nature and his own inner self."

"Jon, it's about a cartoon Night's Watch ranger."

"Exactly, he's fighting against his internal demons because why else would he join the NIght's Watch?"

"You did."

"Aye," he admitted.  He turned to her, and stole a quick kiss, only because the partition between them and the driver was up.  He whispered, earnest, squeezing her hand hard.  "And it brought me to you."

She brushed her hand over his cheek, regretfully sighing when the car came to a stop.  "Hold my hand before we go in?  Just for a moment?  We can be on a first date."

"Save me a dance," he murmured, kissing her again, chaste, breaking away quickly to step out of the car first, to run around and hold open the door, and she blinked back tears, and plastered her smile on, breaking her cheeks and forcing it back, so when she climbed out of the car, waving at the crowds that had gathered outside Casterly Rock to see the royal family and other assorted celebrities enter for the grand event, she would be envied and beloved.

Daenerys, Princess Royal, didn't everyone want to be her?  She was so beautiful, so famous, so lucky.  She could have anything she wanted-- a horse, cars, planes, a castle even, and she never had to work, never had to give up anything for it, because that's the type of life she could have.

And they never knew that the glow to her cheeks was from sobbing before they left the hotel, the shine in her eyes was unshed tears, and her heart was breaking, each and every single day.

The Dragon Queen, the tabloids called her, even if she was but a princess.

She dreamed now, a world that was not her own, and perhaps she was dead.  Was this the afterlife, have I been burned like my ancestors before me, she wondered, drifting through trees, the ground soundless under her bare feet.

And she emerged in a beautiful clearing, with waterfalls in a pool, crashing against stones, jagged and lurching upwards from the ground.  It was breathtaking, snowcapped mountains surrounding the valley, hiding it from anyone who dared to enter such a peaceful sanctum.  She smiled, her fingers dragging along some flowers bunched around the rocks near the pool-- blue winter roses.  They smelled so sweet, i twas like they were emerging from a wall of ice.

She tugged on one, and lifted it to her nose, inhaling the lovely aroma.

"They make me think of you."

Turning at his voice, she was not startled-- of cours ehe was here with her.  He approached slowly, not in the all black suit he'd been wearing or the black uniform he favored or even his clubbing attire of black leather and boots.  He was relaxed, just like her, barefoot and free, white button down and loose gray pants.  She noted she was in a white dress; are we getting married, she briefly wondered.

She let him take the flower from her fingers, reaching to tuck it into her hair, his hand dragging down her jaw and to her throat, his finertips alighting on her pulse.  "Jon," she gasped, hands upon his chest.  "Is this just a dream?"

"If it is a dream, then it is a good dream," he answered, lifting her lips to his, kissing against the backdrop of the falls.  She moaned softly, returning the kiss, and clutched at his shirt, desperate for it, praying it would never end.  Except it did, and he broke away, the side of his nose against hers, breaths mingling.  "Blue winter roses are strong and survive in the harshest of winters, like you do Dany.  My dragon."

She blinked away tears.  "Are we dead?"

"No."

"Then where are we?"

He glanced around, smiling and shrugged.  "Appears we are in the North...I remember this place.  I came here as a boy."

"It's beautiful."

"So are you."

She wanted to stay there forever; she knew it couldn't be.  "We could stay a thousand years," she said, watching his face, the happiness there and then the sadness, his gray eyes clouding over.  "No one would ever find us."

"We'd be pretty old."

THen we'd be pretty old, we could grow old together, you and I, away from it all.  She allowed him to embrace her, kissing her, and swallowing her up, the dream falling away, like water trickling through her fingers.

And she woke up, lying in a bed, harsh hospital lights on her, and a tube in her nose.  She was stiff, cold, awkward.  The linens were scratchy and they'd placed her in a gown.  She had an IV in her arm, which she ignored, turning and struggling, her strength returning.  An alarm beeped, like the ringing in her ears from after hte attack, and someone  yelled that the Princess was awake.  I have a name, she thought, her feet hitting the cold title floor.  She whipped off the oxygen tubing around her ears and nose, fighting at the IV line connected to a stand next to her.

A door burst open, her mother rushing in-- still in her deep plum evening gown-- with a doctor and a nurse and Barristan.  "Your Highness!" Barristan exclaimed.  "Please, the doctor did not want you moving."

"Daenerys, darling, please listen to them," her mother called, grabbing for her hand.  "You need to rest, you've been hurt!  Oh gods, please just stay put for once in your life, stop trying to run away!"

No!

"Jon!" she exclaimed, pushing at them.  "I need to see him!  Is he dead?"

Barristan shook his head and Rhaella pushed her towards the bed in the brief moment she paused, focusing on the old guard.  "No, he's in surgery, please, do not worry about..."

"I have to worry about him!" She knocked away a nurse who was moving for her IV, after the doctor said something about a sedative.  "Don't you drug me!  I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and I am the Dragon's Daughter and you will not stop me from seeing him!"  All the strength inside of her raged, fire flaring from her eyes and heaving in her chest.  She did not care.  "He is my Jon, he took a knife for me, and I will not be pushed aside like a simpering little girl!"

They didn't even tell her what had happened ot her; she guessed from the bandages wrapped around her middle, the ache there, that hte knife had swiped her, but not enough to do significant damage, as she could walk and talk.  They all stared at her, stunned, but she didn't care, pushing Barristan aside and struggling towards the door.

Rhaella drew her shoulders back, voice cold.  "Get her a chair, at least a robe, she will not be stopped."  She smirked.  "I know my daughter."

"But Your Highness," a doctor began, but silenced upon the glare Rhaella shot him. He nodded meekly and hurried out.

She collapsed into a wheelchair, head in her hands, and allowed htem to wrap her in a red robe that had bene in her hotel room last she remembered.  Time meant nothing to her; it could be days later, or hours, and she grabbed at Missandei-- her best friend of course had managed to get in-- when they went down the hall, seeing her urnning towards them from an open set of elevator doors.

Missandei cried, grabbing for her.  "Oh gods Dany!  I was so scared!  You're alright?"

"Jon was stabbed," she said hollowly.

Understanding, Missandei pushed away a nurse and took the chair, pushing her where they led, into an elevator, up a few flors, and down some hallways.  They pushed her into a room, dark, only lights from the operating suite it flanked, and she realized it was where the doctors and nurses scrubbed up before surgery.  She forced herself to her feet, grabbing the edge of hte window, staring at the activity going on in front of her.

Doctors and nurses flurried about the prone body on the table, bloodied materials tossed on the floor around their feet and tray tables at their elbows.  There were flashes of metallic objects as they worked, and monitors seemed to be hanging and standing everywhere, she couldn't focus on one or the other.  Some had lines going across them, numbers blinking and flashing.  Others magnified the activity going on on the table, all red and confusing.

There was something pulsing in the doctor's palm and she realized in shock it was his heart.  They were fixing his heart, stitching it together.

But that's my job.

That's my heart too.

"Is he going to be okay?" she croaked.

Someone said that he'd been stabbed seven times, one straight to the heart, and the doctors were doing all they could.  Her mother lightly touched her elbow, whispering.  "He did his job Dany.  I know you were close darling, but he did his job.  He protected you."

No we weren't just close. It seemed Barristan had realized that, even if her mother hadn't yet.  They would soon, because she wasn't going to stop.  She whispered, shaking her head.  "He saved me, Mother.  he didn't protect me, he saved me."  He saved me in all the ways you can be saved.  So many, many ways.

"We need to get you back to your bed," Barristan murmured.

She shook her head.  "No, no I am staying here.  I'm not leaving and when he's ou tof surgery, yo uwill bring me to his bedside."

"Dany," Rhaealla began.

She whirled on her mother, shouting.  "No!  No Mother, I love him, don't you get it?  He's not just my bodyguard, he is the love of my life and he's lying there on a table, bleeding for me!"  Her shoulders shook, the wails taking over her, and she released everything she'd been holding in, unable to take it, and fell into the chair, no longer able to speak, because she missed him and she hurt everywhere.

It was out, the secret was out.

Months and years of hiding, gone now, and she didn't care.

Time passed; she knew htey drugged her and she drifted away into a dreamless state, and came in and out, noticing that Rhaegar was there and then her mother, and she caught snippets of them saying Viserys had gone catatonic and was being taken back immediately to Summerhall for treatment.  She thought she heard Rhaegar say something about "if he pulls through we need to move him" and her mother saying that "it wasn't time for that."

She wanted to be out somewhere, in a club dancing, partying, and she wondered where Drogo wa shaving one of his latest raves and bashes.  It would be fun, she thought, tasting the alcohol on her tongue, her nose burning from smoke.  She came to again and this time there was no one in the room except Barristan, who ordinarily was her mother's guard, and for some reason was here with her.

"Barristan," she mumbled, blinking; her eyelids felt like there were weights on the lashes.

Barristan smiled and touched her hand, whispering.  "Princess."

Understanding, she tried to sit up, panicked.  "Jon, is Jon..."

"He's out of surgery.  Come Princess.  Before your brother finds out."  Barristan helped her from bed, into a wheelchair, and bundled again.  He took her from her room, in a fancy private suite, and said something to the other Kingsguard, so many of them flitting about, in their black suits with white shields on the lapels.

In another wing, in a smaller room, with a window looking from the hall into it, he pushed her towards a bed, where Jon was lying, his chest marred with bandages and tubing, arms locked down from wires and monitors.  There was a tube for oxygen around his nose, but no ventilator, and monitors beeping erratically around him.  Barristan leaned down, whispering.  "His heart rate has been...worrying.  It keeps dropping.  They needed to shock him twice."

Tears did not fall now.  She pushed herself forward, towards the bed, her limbs clumsy.  He was so still.  He was sleeping, but it was scary, because his skin was ashy and his cheeks gaunt-- had he always been so thin?  She traced his collarbone, where a few lines went into his skin, and along his pulse.  It thrummed under her touch.  There were dark bruises under his eyes and his dark curls were lank, pushed under his head and out of hte way.  She noted that his muscles were hidden under bandages, but he was strong, in so many ways, and he would recover.

He had to.

She touched his hand, sliding hers into it, and held tight.  It was limp against her.  "Jon please," she whispered, squeezing.  She leaned in, lips against his ear, begging.  "Please I need you.  I love you.  Come back to me."

Careful of everything, she crawled onto the bed next to him, her head beside his on the pillow, and she ignored Barristan trying to say that maynbe it wasn't good for her to be there, they should get her back to her room.  No, I'm not leaving. She kissed the corner of his mouth, sighing.  "Jon, come back to me, I love you, you can't leave me.  You're mine."

A monitor beeped.  She darted her eyes towards her, the heartrate increasing, and then steadying.  She knew it would.  He could hear her; he was in that clearing somewhere, waiting for her, and she closed her eyes, to fall asleep and go visit him there.

"Da....da..."

The raspy sound kept her from falling into that world, her eyes springing open.  "Jon?" she breathed, looking down at his face.

His eyelids fluttered, cracked lips trembling.  "Da...ny."

"Jon, oh gods Jon," she cried, kissing him, holding his face in her hands.  "It's me, I'm here."

His eyes opened, giving her a glimpse of the cool gray, and his lips pulled back, barely.  "Da-ny," he slurred.  "Love..."

"I love you, I know, don't talk.  Don't talk, I'm here."

They would deal with the repercussions later, the fallout from the attack, from everyone knowing.  Of course they knew now, because she thought she saw Arthur in the hallway which meant Rhaegar was nearby, and when her brother the King discovered that his sister the Princess, was in love with her bodyguard, it would have to end.  It would be too difficult to maintain impartiality, it would look wrong, and it could never happen.  He could not be her match, because she was the Princess of hte Seven Kingdoms and he was just Jon.

She didn't care right now.

It would fall out the way it would fall out.  They could deal with it then.

Right now, he was alive and in her arms, and that was how it should be.