#i would eat glass before i leave hawke in the fade HOWEVER

[veitchiin]

its not the case in my world state bc i have feelings and thoughts but when hawke doesnt return to anders in inquisition, what would he do? like. would he wait. would he keep waiting wherever they separated? when would he start looking for hawke?? where would he start? how would he make sure hawke could find him too if they missed each other? do you think he'd believe hawke finally abandoned him for good? could he accept that? would he look for hawke at all if it were the case? how would justice react? would it see it as a weight lifted off of anders' shoulders? an ubending distraction finally gone? or after however long spent with hawke would even it have gotten attached to them? would it see their disappearance as yet another unfair wound inflicted upon anders?

how would anders know anyways? varric sends a letter but he has no address and with how varric speaks of anders in inquisition do you think he would even send it to him? i mean who else right besides hawke's surviving sibling IF theyve survived, uncle gamlen? neither of them would be able to tell anders right.

so how long would anders sit in this uncertainty? have they left him? were they tired of running? tired of him? did they start resenting him for all the harm he's brought upon them? are they hurt? have they been restrained, captured? are they looking for him in places he isnt?

how long do you think until he starts believing them to have died?

how long will he grieve?

when will he move on?

would he ever be able to?

does he ever hold Dog (hawke's mabari) to cope with the loss?

what memento does he hold on to, in the deep of night when the cold their body left behind bites the hardest?

[taiyakiiwrites]

can i get a drabble or headcanon drabble mix for Hawks when the person he loves gets badly injured and they’re in the hospital in a coma? they aren’t dating but he loves them and they’re just kinda like best friends with feelings for each other. or they can be dating i really don’t care i just need angst.

— count to 3

pairing(s): keigo takami x gn!reader

wc: 480+ words

content: pre confession, so much angst™️, keigo having so much damn trouble figuring out his feelings, overprotective hawks ✨✨, VERY quickly written drabble because the minute i saw this i had to write it and it may or may not be unedited

notes: thank you so much for the excuse to write angst 🙇🙇 this whole blog has been fluff on end and WHEW. it has been a HOT MINUTE since i got to do something like this >:)) i hope you enjoy it!!

⇉ requests are open!! || masterlist || rules

you didn’t have to push yourself

backup was already on their way

you could have waited, stayed hidden behind the buildings

but no

you had to be a hero

you had… to… to be…

why was it so hard to remind himself of what happened?

he’s never been selfish in his life

so why?

why is it that the one time he wants something, he can’t get it?

you two were just friends—it’s been that way for years

so why did he burst into the police station the minute it was reported that they found the villain?

why couldn’t he control himself when he was finally face to face with your killer?

why did the workers have to hold him back? part of him thinks that if they didn’t, it wouldn’t be that hard to believe “an eye for an eye” would apply to the situation

well

no worries

he was going to have plenty of time to think

plenty of time

the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall has long since faded away.

keigo has started to lose track of how long it’s been since you fell unconscious. the hospital is almost his second home—the chair beside you his new bed. it may be ruining his spine sleeping there. if things continued, his hero work may suffer. not like it wasn’t already. either way, he doesn’t want to be gone the day you wake up.

if you wake up.

the possibility has been plaguing him, dwindling in the back of his mind. the doctors spoke to him after you were found and taken in, strung up to ivs like a puppet on a string. the first thing they reported was the chances of you… you not waking up was…

the only thing that reminded him of the time passing by was the journal on your nightstand. he started to write down every day’s events for you, so if when you got better, you could catch up on everything you missed. it was filled with his thoughts, empty wrappers of your favorite candy whenever he’d eat them, coupons to meals at expensive restaurants, and whatever he thought you’d like to see. he did know that you like hearing him talk the most, though—hear what went on in his head. so, he put in as much effort into the entries as he could.

however, the writings were rather mundane. you’d think being a hero, life would be filled with crazy adventures and epic tales that would leave you on the edge of your seat. maybe it was just because you weren’t there with him in his stories: laughing with him, crying with him, soaring through the skies as the sun set on the city, the last visible beams of light gripping desperately onto the glass of the buildings around. he sometimes feels like that very sunset.

every day before he falls asleep in that godforsaken chair, he can hear you: a distant melody thousands of miles away, yet right by his ear at the same time. he can hear your last conversation:

“(y/n). (y/n). send me your location right now.”

“keigo, it’s fine. i got it under control.”

“come back to the agency.”

“what? no!”

“you can’t defeat them!”

“i just need a few more minutes.”

“we can’t risk that.”

a chuckle. “you’ve never been a patient person.”

“you can’t joke in a situation like this!” he slammed his desk. “now isn’t the time to be a hero! god, has your skull grown even thicker than before? you can’t defeat them!”

silence.

then… “keigo?”

“what?!”

“… can you do something for me?”

“what do you want?!”

“… count to three.”

“h-huh?!”

“count to three.” your voice was so… cheery.

“send me your location.”

“keigo.”

“no, send me your location.”

“…”

he hesitated. “… 1.”

silence.

“2.”

silence.

“… 3.”

you hung up.

maybe it was inevitable.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

When We Were Young Part Four

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader Rating: T Notes: Not beta-read I hope everyone's had a good week and is doing well :) Thank you for all of the likes/reblogs/replies!! Warnings: Uuuuuh none Summary: “I’ve never come across a boring case, Lord Dawson. Some have perhaps been easier to solve than others, but the truth is never boring.” 

“You seem a little agitated, if you don’t mind my saying so.” You did mind her saying so, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be irritated with Mrs. Lloyd. She was Uncle Cornelius’ housekeeper, had known you since you were very young, and was familiar with your moods. “I’m not particularly looking forward to this evening,” You excused. Mrs. Lloyd glanced at you in the mirror as she adjusted the off-the-shoulder sleeves of your royal blue evening gown. “Could it have anything to do with the fact that Lord Dawson will be in attendance?” She asked. “Among other things,” You replied stiffly. She hummed, lifting her hands to smooth over your hair. “Shall I tuck a flower into the braid? I got a lovely bunch of gardenias at the market this morning,” Mrs. Lloyd offered. She didn’t wait for your answer before she headed for the door. “Why gardenias?” You asked, turning to look at her. “They symbolize purity and gentleness,” She told you. You grimaced. “Are there any flowers that symbolize resentment?” You asked. Mrs. Lloyd frowned. “Petunias. But I didn’t buy any of those.”

-- “It’s the last thing this country needs, reform,” Mycroft had been prattling on for nearly twenty minutes now. Most of the men’s voices uttered murmurs of agreement, though you noted Sherlock’s was absent. You glanced in his direction to find him eyeing the man that had been seated across from you. Lord Fredrick Adelbert Dawson did cut a fine figure, you couldn’t deny it. With a sharp, pointed jaw, dusty blonde hair, hawk-sharp steel blue eyes, and an aquiline nose, he tended to draw the eye of many a young lady. He had even drawn yours when you’d first met him. And then you’d had a conversation with him and any interest you’d had faded quickly. You lowered your eyes to your plate as you saw Sherlock’s gaze flit to you.

“Come now, gentlemen, I do believe we’re boring our companions,” Cornelius chuckled, casting looks around the table, “Perhaps Mr. Holmes could tell us about the case he’s currently working on?” You felt yourself grow tense as everyone’s attention shifted to Sherlock. If he was rattled by this sudden spotlight, he didn’t show it. His face retained its usual mild expression; the only noticeable change was a now quirked brow in Cornelius’ direction. “What is it you’d like to know?” He asked. “Whatever it is you can tell us,” Cornelius pressed. “I’m not sure there’s much Sherlock can say about this one at present,” Mycroft’s voice was tight as he reached for his glass of wine. You watched him take a rather long sip before he lowered the glass to the table. The hand that had been holding it rested on the cloth, balled into a fist. “Is it because it’s confidential, or is it simply dreadfully boring?” Lord Dawson asked. You cast Sherlock a glance, watched him tip his head and narrow his eyes at the question. Oh dear. “I’ve never come across a boring case, Lord Dawson. Some have perhaps been easier to solve than others, but the truth is never boring.” “The truth?” Dawson repeated, brows raised in amusement, “What excitement can one find in the truth?” “About as much excitement as you find at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Is it still under the management of Madame Vestris?” “Sherlock,” Mycroft hurried to hiss from the other end of the table. But the damage had been done. You watched as the blood drained from Dawson’s face. The comment had landed with the other gentlemen at the table, and, unfortunately, with you. Uncle Cornelius, in one of his more intoxicated states, had once made mention of ‘the pretty ladies he’d been in the company of’ at the Theatre Royal. You weren’t naïve; you knew that they were ladies of the night. You reached for your glass of wine, avoiding the eyes of both Sherlock and Lord Dawson as they looked to you for a reaction.   “I quite loved H.M.S. Pinafore!” Cornelius piped up in the hopes of breaking the tension. -- After dinner, the ladies had adjourned to the sitting room for a glass of wine and some conversation; the men had remained in the dining room for brandy and cigars. You had only been able to stand the chatter for a few minutes before you excused yourself. You stepped out into the garden, sighing into the night air and allowing your shoulders to sag just a little. Dinner had been no less than a disaster. Even after Cornelius had moved the conversation on, there had been glares and harsh words veiled as polite conversation between Sherlock and Dawson. You had hated it; you knew that this would be awful, but you couldn’t have fathomed it would be nearly this bad. “Are you cold?” You jumped at the sound of his voice. Sherlock held his hands up in apology as you brought your hand up to your chest, feeling your heart pound. “No,” You lied, the word harsh in your irritation. If he knew you were lying, he didn’t call you on it. Sherlock turned, beginning to wander around the garden in silence. You rubbed your hands over your arms, trying to warm them as he was looking elsewhere. As you saw him turn back toward you, you quickly lowered your hands, clasping them in front of you. “What are you doing out here?” You asked. “I wanted some air,” Sherlock excused. “There’s plenty of air inside.” “And you?” Sherlock asked, “What drew you out?” “... It was too warm in the sitting room,” You fibbed. Sherlock hummed, clearly unconvinced before he began to wander the garden again. “Did they teach you to lie at finishing school?” He had meant it to be a joke, but you nodded and said, “In a way.” His brow furrowed. “Explain,” He requested. You looked down at your hands, considering. “Well... You’re taught to comport yourself according to the rules of society. How to sit, how to eat, how to smile, how to speak, how to laugh. And you’re taught to act that way regardless of however you may truly be, or however you may feel. You learn to become someone else, for the sake of society...Though everyone tells you that it’s for your own sake.” When you looked at Sherlock, you found him watching you closely. “...Promise me you’ll find Enola before Mycroft does,” You pleaded softly. His mouth turned down in irritation. “I’m doing everything I can, dove,” Sherlock swore. “If you were doing everything, you wouldn’t be taking breaks to ruin dinner parties,” You retorted. Sherlock grunted, turning away from you. “Your Lord Dawson is quite the character,” He commented. The butterflies in your stomach began to swirl about in an uneasy flurry. “How so?” You asked. “Well, he’s quite blunt, firm in his opinions. He seems to be under the impression that you’re meek, soft...Though maybe that was the fault of the gardenia,” he glanced back at you. You let out an irritated huff, reaching up and yanking the flower that Mrs. Lloyd had put in your hair out, tossing it on the stone bench near you. You glowered at the sight of Sherlock’s amused smile. “I’m sure Mycroft will be quite cross with you for what you said to Fredrick,” You commented. “Fredrick?” Sherlock repeated, stopping in his place, a thread of incredulity in his tone. You arched a challenging brow, silently daring him to comment on the name further. Rather than press, Sherlock said, “I’m sure Mycroft is already taking the pains to smooth things over. You’re familiar with Dawson, do you think he’s amenable?” “Your brother has a reputation for being persistent to the point of ruthlessness. I’m sure his success is imminent.” “I wasn’t asking you about my brother,” Sherlock pointed out. He tucked his hands behind his back, regarding you. “...Could you be happy with him?” The question took you aback, but your answer was prepared - it was the same thing you’d been telling yourself for months: “My family would stop worrying about my future. It would be a weight off of their mind, and therefore mine.” “That isn’t an answer.” “Yes it is,” You argued. Sherlock considered this. “I disagree,” He finally said, “Let me ask again.” He began to cross the garden toward you in slow, steady steps as he spoke, “Would you be happy, being Lady Dawson? Attending opening day at Ascot? Wearing the latest fashions? Having your name in the papers whenever your husband takes up another of his several affairs?” Your stomach churned uneasily, heart pounding as Sherlock stared you down. “Stop it,” You mumbled. “Bearing two, three little lords or ladies? Shipping them off to school--” “Stop it!” You snapped more loudly. Sherlock went still at that, close enough for you to see the flicker of shock in his eyes. You shook your head a little bit, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment to quell the tears that had begun to prickle, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you looked at him again. “You’re just as bad as Mycroft sometimes, you know? Prodding me to see how quickly you can get a rise out of me like I’m some experiment and not a person. It’s cruel.” Then you saw it again - the flash of hurt that had crossed Sherlock’s face back at Ferndell. But it didn’t disappear this time. Instead it settled, twisting his handsome features as his eyes lowered to the ground. “You did it when we were young, too. Maybe it was fair then, maybe I was just this irritating noise-making thing that you wanted away from you. But we’re not children anymore,” You reprimanded him, “And what I may have to do to maintain my family’s social standing is none of your concern, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock looked at you then, eyes skating over your face before he met your gaze. “Your eyes are red,” He said. Irritation shot through you. “I’m not a case, Sherlock,” You sneered before you turned away, intending to leave. Sherlock’s hand caught hold of yours, stilling you. “Let go,” You hissed. “Dove.” His tone was beseeching, gentle. You didn’t trust it. “Let go of me,” You demanded. He did, and you strode away, leaving him alone in the night. -- “Are you alright? ... My dear, you’re shaking,” Mrs. Lloyd gripped you by the shoulders, steering you back into the study. “I-- It was colder than I anticipated,” You excused. You allowed yourself to be steered into a chair by the fire, folded into a blanket, the others fussing about you catching your death. No one noticed the gardenia missing from your hair. No one noticed the white petals peeking out from the pocket of Sherlock’s jacket as he bid Cornelius a good night. -- “Breakfast is on the table. And there’s been a delivery for you - it’s in your study,” Your mother informed you. You thanked her quietly before turning back to your vanity to finish pinning up your hair. You were glad to be home. Your last two days in London had been entirely uneventful. You’d met with your father’s other investor (with minimal condescension; the gentleman had actually been somewhat pleasant) and dropped in on your aunt one more time before traveling home. You hadn’t heard from Dawson, which was a relief. You’d heard nothing from Sherlock. That should’ve been a relief, but it was, in fact, agonizing. You told yourself it was because it meant that you had no news of Enola, but you knew that it was more than that. You couldn’t help but wonder what the two of you may’ve said or done if you’d turned back to him when he’d wanted you to. You hadn’t sought him out despite this curiosity, either in person or by post; he had a case to work on. Besides, you didn’t know what you’d say to him even if you did see him. You two seemed to turn to bickering when left to your own devices. Your curiosity about the delivery won out over your hunger, and you went into your study. There was a beautiful white satin glass vase sitting on your desk filled with purple hyacinths. You knew what those flowers meant well enough - you’d sent them to your Aunt Mary the last time you’d failed to send her a formal thank you note for a dinner party you’d attended at her home. Purple hyacinths were for apologies. You stepped closer to them warily, gently fingering the petals. Your eyes fell to the envelope beside the vase, and your stomach gave a little flip. Sherlock’s handwriting hadn’t changed after all this time; his penmanship had always had a crisp, almost tight quality to it. You picked the envelope up, pulling the note out. Please forgive me, dove.                                    -S.H. At the very bottom of the note was an address for Miss Harrison’s Finishing School. Tag list: @run-through-wa11s ; @thefallenbibliophilequote ; @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem ; @maan24​ ; @awkward-walking-potato​ ; @madalore​ ; @alexa-lightwood-blog​ ; @chelseaxaz ; @marwritesgood​ ; @runawayolives​ ; @parkerismybaby​

[juliafied]

“Don’t you have a home these days?” For Alistair and whoever you like!

I changed the quote a little bit, but here’s a bit of pre-Bethistair for you tonight :)

@dadrunkwriting

CW: alcohol

--

“I’m going to talk to him.”

Bethany eyed the stranger as she spoke, fiddling with the stiff leather of the buckle across her chest. Not yet supple and worn like the other Wardens’, but Stroud had told her she’d wear it in, in due time. The stranger had caught her eye a few times and glanced down at the griffon emblazoned on her chest, though she supposed he could have just as easily been looking at her breasts. She couldn’t fathom why, obscured as they were by the looseness of her standard-issue tunic, with no shortage of more visible breasts he could be ogling at the Hanged Man, but for some reason, she liked it. Perhaps it had something to do with the faint tingle she’d felt in her skin when she’d walked in and spotted him.

Felissa rolled her eyes from across the table and went back to studying the cards she held lazily in her hand. “Always did have a thing for sad, puppy-dog eyes.”

They were sad, as much as she could see through the overgrown sandy fringe on his forehead – honey brown, a little bleary, and quite lovely, actually. Bethany huffed as she got up, finishing the last dregs of ale in her flagon with only a hint of a grimace (another thing the Wardens had said she’d get used to, in due time), and strode what she hoped was confidently to the stranger’s table.

“I’m Bethany,” she said, sticking out her hand and pulling out the chair across from the stranger.

He lifted his head from its resting place on his forearms but didn’t take her hand. “You’re a Warden.”

She glanced down at the insignia and blushed a little at the realization that he hadn’t been ogling her after all. And at the fact that she was disappointed. She lowered her hand. “I am.”

“Didn’t think there were Wardens in these parts anymore,” he mumbled, voice slurring only a little and distinctly resentful.

“I’m visiting my sister,” Bethany said, and primly added, “and don’t you think it’s rude not to introduce yourself to a lady?”

This brought a smile to his lips, at least. A kind smile, summery, infectious. It was the smile of a man who had been used to laughing until recently, if the easy way in which his eyes crinkled was any indication, though the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They called me Alistair, once. And they should have told you that you renounce all rights to being called a lady once you Join, Warden-Acolyte.”

She snorted. “And how would you know that?”

The smile faded. “I was a Warden.” Alistair nodded his head towards Felissa’s table, and Bethany followed the motion to the back of Anders’ head. “So’s your friend, I think. Or it might be all you. I dunno, I’m out of practice.”

That explained the tingle, too. She sighed, suddenly exasperated. “I really can’t get away from you all, can I?”

Alistair looked at her blankly, crossing his arms. “Apparently not…”

“Oh, blast, I didn’t mean it like that. Buy you a drink?”

He glanced at his empty pint and shrugged. “I won’t say no.”

“Then don’t,” she replied, and flagged down Norah for two more pints of ale.

“So, not-Warden Alistair,” Bethany began, “what are you doing in these parts? Your accent’s Fereldan enough that I wouldn’t clock you for a local.”

“I’m visiting your sister,” he replied with that same easy smile.

Bethany laughed, incredulous, at his cheek and perhaps at the fact that he was making her laugh at all. “Oh, yeah? My sister? And what, pray tell, is my sister’s name?”

“Ah, that’s embarrassing for her, but she never even told me.”

They stared at each other steadily, Alistair having reverted into a strained but serious frown, until Norah’s slamming of the pints on the table broke the silence and they both burst into laughter.

Once their laughter had ceased, he took a long draught of his beer (barely even grimacing, Bethany noted – he must have been a Warden for a long time) and sighed. “Warden-Commander Tabris and I didn’t part on good terms.”

Bethany gaped. She’d seen the imposing Commander once, when she dropped by with her retinue for provisions at Soldier’s Peak, and she couldn’t imagine anyone parting on bad terms with Kallian and staying, well, alive. Then, it clicked – Alistair wasn’t that common of a name, after all, and—

“You’re the other warden! A Hero of the Fifth Blight!” she blurted, strangely excited, though having watched the Wardens live (and eat, and fart, and fuck, the latter twice by accident, unfortunately) had dispelled any hero-worship she might have had of them, even the Hero of Ferelden and her followers. Flames, meeting Oghren had been enough to wipe away any shimmer that might have remained even after the incident with Stroud and Michel...

Alistair’s look was unimpressed. “That’s my official title, actually. ‘The Other Warden’.”

She started to say something, mollified, but he shook his head and shrugged, something hard and flinty in his gaze. “I don’t mind, actually. Better her than me.”

Bethany didn’t know what to say to that, so she took a sip of the beer, which, though disgusting, had the benefit of pleasantly bringing a little heat to her cheeks. Alistair did the same, and she suddenly felt the urge to reach across the table and run her fingers through his shaggy hair, just a little bit. The stories hadn’t said that Warden Alistair was handsome, just told of his stalwart loyalty to the noble elf girl who had saved the world, holding the shield behind which stood Ferelden’s deliverance. But he was, now that she took a good look at him: a reddish, prickly beard didn’t quite conceal his strong chin, and Bethany thought she could spy a hint of a dimple in his bronzed cheek.

He was watching her now, and she put down the hand she hadn’t realized had twitched towards him.

“So, Fereldan Warden-Acolyte Bethany, you’re not from around here, either, so where are you from?”

She blinked, the flames of the farmhouse burning bright in her mind’s eye for just a moment. “Lothering,” she said softly. “We grew up in Lothering.”

Alistair winced. “Sorry. We passed through there, before, and… well, sorry.”

Staring into her ale, she sighed. “It’s fine. Do you have a home, these days?”

His gaze turned faraway, staring right past her and Anders’ back to a place she couldn’t reach. Then, he squeezed his eyes shut, and held up his glass. “No,” he replied, and when she brought her flagon to his, he added, “besides a good pint, no,” and took a long draught.

Bethany knew that kind of misery. She’d indulged in it for a few weeks after the Joining had ravaged her body and her mind, until Stroud had pulled her out of it with a few choice words. She had no such words for Alistair now, but something about the look in his eyes made her reach across the table to lightly place her hand on his. His initial shock seemed to fade to a shy, boyish smile, which prompted her to smile in turn.

Before she could find anything to say, however, she heard Felissa’s voice behind her. “Beth, we’re leaving. You coming?”

She didn’t want to turn, but Alistair shook his head wistfully. “You should go. Darktown isn’t safe this time of night, even for a Warden-Acolyte.”

Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, but not before giving his a quick squeeze, and adding, for good measure, “I’m Bethany Hawke. Write to me at Soldier’s Peak?”

“Alright,” Alistair said, visibly bemused, but still with that shy grin on his face. “Alright, Bethany Hawke.”

“Goodbye, Other Warden Alistair.”

Her sister called once more, and in a whirl of robes, she was gone. She wouldn’t see how Alistair’s gaze lingered on the door long after she left, nor the way he rubbed the top of his hand where she had placed hers.

[spacecadetal]

New Blood (a Kakashi Hatake x OC fic) - Chapter Two

Warnings: Use of violence, violence, use of knives, swearing, drinking, death mention, death

Read on AO3 or below the line

Previous Chapter

The majority of shinobi were home in the village so this called for a welcoming party for their new comrades. Eight new people had come to Konoha to assist in training the genin and to say thank you to those eight people it was up to the shinobi to make their new comrades feel welcome.

Teamwork.

“We need these people to feel like a part of our family” Tsunade had said as she informed the high level shinobi of her idea. In reality, Tsunade just wanted an excuse to get out of the office and have a drink.

Kakashi sighed as he stood outside the Hokage office overlooking Konoha. With no effort, he had jumped up from rooftop to rooftop instead of taking the treacherous stairs to the top. Kakashi values teamwork, it was heavily ingrained into his values but sometimes a guy just wanted to re-read Icha Icha at the cliffs and enjoy the peace and quiet. Did he have anything better to do? Truthfully no. After all, it was best to get acquainted with the new people. Who knew how long this temporary mentorship would last and besides, it’s not like he had to talk to them.

His mind went to the untrained one. The one with the dark hair and darker eyes, a scowl on her face the last time they had met. Maia Setsudan. Would she approach him? Make a snide remark to him?

Not known for his timeliness, the party had already started by the time Kakashi arrived. That wasn’t an issue for him, arriving on time to these things would just be agony for Kakashi. Sitting around waiting for the influx of people slowly arriving would drive him insane and with these sorts of things, the shorter the event the better.

Walking in, he saw familiar faces. Tsunade was already half a bottle of sake deep from what he could gather, watching from the corner with Shizune by her side. Asuma was chatting away to Iruka, a cigarette hanging from his mouth that flapped about as he spoke. Gai was telling intense and enthusiastic battle stories to a group of the new chunin. Maia. Alone with a glass in her hand, watching everyone else chat among themselves. Kakashi noted she seemed like a fish out of water, just as he did at social gatherings.

She had noticed his stare, quickly he looked away, hoping she didn’t take it as an invitation to approach him. Kakashi decided to approach someone he knew instead. Kurenai, standing against the wall next to the window with her arms crossed and close to her chest, staring down the room with her crimson eyes.

“Anything interesting happened so far?” He asked Kurenai.

“If you’re asking if Gai has made a fool of himself already, the answer is yes. But despite that, the new guys seem to be eating it up”

Kakashi let out a small chuckle. At least Gai was getting the validation he deserved. He was a worthy ‘rival’ after all.

“What do you think of the new people?”

“So far? They’re alright. Basic level chunin. Might help the kids out after all but her…” Kurenai looked into the direction of the lone girl in the corner of the room, “... I don’t know about her”

Kakashi looked to see Maia standing there leaning against the wall, still alone and watching like a child who didn’t know how to join in. Then suddenly she wasn’t alone. Iruka had gone up to her and as soon as he started to speak, her eyes had lit up, finally having company.

“What’s rubbed you the wrong way?” Kakashi asked out of curiosity, trying to gain another perspective on the matter. Watching as Maia smiled brightly as Iruka shook her hand.

“She hasn’t been trained by an academy, who knows what she knows or who trained her, she could be teaching the kids the wrong things”

Kakashi nodded as Kurenai spoke, sharing the same concerns.

“But then again, if the Hokage trusts her then so should we” Kurenai said, remembering the Hokage wouldn’t do this if she didn’t trust the people she brought into the village.

“All I know is that she told me her mentor was missing-nin” Kakashi said, sharing all the information he had with Kurenai.

“Missing-nin?” Kurenai became alarmed, shooting back the last of her drink. “Well that is interesting isn’t it?”

There was a moment of silence between the two shinobi. Kurenai thought hard, trying to connect dots. Missing-nin sounded like a whole bunch of trouble. If she was trained by missing-nin then that means the mentor in question had to be powerful enough to have evaded death when the first squad to kill them were sent out. This was highly questionable and alarming indeed.

“Might do some digging. If I find anything out, I’ll let you know” Kurenai, leaving Kakashi by himself to approach her husband.

Across the room, Maia took no notice of being stared at by others as if she had an extra head. Instead she was enjoying Iruka’s warm introduction and friendly chatter.

Maia wouldn’t say she had anxiety about these events but she wasn’t exactly in her comfort zone. So used to working with her team back in the kitchen that the idea of having to meet new people slightly terrified her, especially people who were on a whole other level than her. Used to being the pick of the crop, now she sat at the bottom of the barrel.

“You don’t like these sort of things?” He asked politely. Leaning against the back of the wall, next to her, swirling his drink in his hand.

“I do, it’s just… I don’t know anyone” Maia admitted, squeaking quietly and looking down to the floor.

If this was a party back at her old family's house then she would have been the life of it, having a grand old time. Joking and goofing around with her fellow chefs. It was about being comfortable, and Maia was certainly not. However she appreciated someone making the first move and approaching her instead of trying to force herself into a circle somewhere.

“Well, you know me now” Iruka offered. It was kind of him.

Maia smiled, it felt good someone was giving her a warm welcome. Not instantly interrogating her about herself unlike some . She could feel him staring at her, anytime she dared to look he would avert his gaze somewhere else. Maia didn’t even know why. Did he think she was some spy or she was going to destroy the village?

‘Go away!’ Maia wanted to shout at him so badly.

“Why don’t you come with me, I’ll introduce you to some people. And you’ll be with me so it won’t be so awkward” Iruka offered and Maia gladly accepted.

Initially joining a circle, Maia was introduced and everyone seemed quite happy to meet her. There was a man named Asuma, his wife Kurenai by his side. He didn’t hesitate to tell her all about his student, Shikamaru, who skipped the rank of chunin and went straight to jonin. Asuma spoke about him with pride. Then she was introduced to a fellow new mentor, Kaiyo, a chunin from the Land of Mist. He was nice and polite, chatting to her about the adjustment it is to go from storms and cloud covered skies to the warmth and heat in the Land of Fire.

Kakashi watched as Maia worked the room. Smiling and shaking hands with others. Laughing with some. Iruka by her side the entire time. Sure, he was pleased to see her warm up to others, even if she hadn’t warmed up to himself. Watching as Kurenai listened intensely to every word Maia spoke, wondering what she could possibly be saying to the group. He was yet to trust her yet and hoped someone could give him a reason to.

“So, Maia. Do you have a preferred nature release?” Kurenai asked, her arm linked around her husbands.

“Yes, I tend to use more taijutsu in combination with wind release,” Maia warmly explained.

“You know who you should talk to? Maito Gai, he’s an expert in taijutsu!” Iruka pointed to a man on the other side of the room.

The guy looked like a real life action figure. Strong, perfectly groomed, and extremely enthusiastic. Seemed like a great storyteller too. Maia would keep that in mind.

“But you forget my dear Iruka, I am a master of wind release!” Asuma said, puffing along on his cigarette. “If you need any help, Maia, I’m your guy!”

Maia smiled warmly, feeling incredibly welcomed by the group. This was certainly unexpected, she thought this night was going to end in disaster.

“I’m just going to get another drink” Maia told Iruka, leaving the circle to make her way to the drinks table.

The smile on her face faded as she saw who was standing next to it. Kakashi.

Was she going to interrogate her more? Accuse her almost killing her student again? She was having a really good night and definitely did not want any of that trouble. Considering to just go back later when he was away from the table, a little voice said to her ‘no, we're absolutely not doing that ’. It was the voice of three drinks Maia, a lot braver than zero drinks Maia. Besides what would she say to the group if she came back without a drink? ‘ I didn’t get a drink because Kakashi kind of intimidates me ’. That would sound so ridiculous.

So she approached the drinks table, paying no mind to the man hovering like a hungry seagull, his eyes watching her like a hawk. Trying to find a bottle honjozo sake among the various bottles littering the table. Eventually Maia found the amber bottle, poured the rest of it into her glass, and was on her merry way.

Kakashi watched as Maia poured the sake into her glass, walking away without a second glance. Surprised she had walked away without a comment to remark, though he was thankful they didn’t have another confrontation. If she was going to leave him well alone, then who was he to complain?

Eventually, he grew tired of the party. He had done his part by showing up at least. It was time to sink under the covers and read till he passed out. As he walked away, a voice called after him.

“Leaving so soon, Kakashi?” Gai said loudly, gaining everyone’s attention in the room.

Including Maia, who caught his attention for a moment before she looked away uncomfortably. Kakashi didn’t say anything back, instead giving a prompt wave goodbye and turning his back on the room so he could leave in peace.

It was safe to say, Maia had a good night after Kakashi left, though she had been having a good night despite his presence. Maia didn’t hate Kakashi. In fact, she felt as if she had to prove something to him after their first interaction. His presence made her feel uneasy, reminded her of every single person who looked down on her due to her circumstances.

Maia spent the rest of the night laughing with Iruka, vowing to hang out some time as they both wandered the streets of Konoha trying to get home.

Next Chapter

[trvelyans-archive]

this is not how celandine expected her night to go.

well, she probably should have expected their date to hold many surprises when hawke pulled up to her estate in a clunky cream-coloured van with a faded mabari painting on the driver's side door. he was dressed better than his car looked, however, in a beige tweed suit jacket with a navy blue and gold striped tie, an outfit entirely unsuspicious to the guard detail at the gate. though the fact he looked handsome wasn’t a surprise to her.

he met her at the door, smiling widely, his face bare and freshly shaven and his normally unkempt curls swept away from his forehead to reveal a warm stretched of tanned, slightly wrinkled skin.

"good evening, lady trevelyan," he greeted with a genuine smile and a faux orlesian accent, holding his arm out for her to take. "you look stunning, as per usual."

she rolled her eyes, pretending not to be pleased that he had noticed the calf-length navy blue dress she wore specifically because it matched the blue of his tie. (which wasn't unexpected on her behalf, since she asked him to send her a picture of what he was wearing on their date earlier that day for this reason.)

"now," he said after clearing his throat, dropping the accent, "where exactly am i taking you? because i tried to look the restaurant up, but..."

"you wouldn't be able to find it," she informed him matter-of-factly, giving a curt wave to cullen's second security detail on the lawn as she stood aside to let hawke open the passenger side door. "i didn't give you the orlesian name for it."

"ah. i see." she slid into the car and pulled her purse onto her lap as he ducked his head inside to look at her. "you wanted to keep it a mystery, then?"

"maybe," she replied, a small smile playing on her lips.

he returned the gesture. "good tactic," he said quietly. "a little bit of mystery is pretty sexy. though..." he made a conscious effort to look her up and down. "i doubt you could get any sexier."

the door closed and he sauntered around to the other with a wink, leaving her alone in his car, thankful for the darkness that hid her furious blush.

it smelt faintly of alcohol and wet dog in the van, with an underlying smell of hawke's peppery cologne beneath it that only grew stronger as celandine turned around to look in the backseat. there was a black and white crochet blanket thrown over the patchy brown leather cushions, and a guitar case studded with stickers nested on a pile of empty water bottles with labels faded and peeling away. a few of them rolled onto the floor as the car jostled when hawke climbed in beside her.

"you're going to have to give me directions," he said as the car started. "it's a fancy place, right?"

"yes," she responded, glancing out the window as he buckled himself in, smiling to herself. "you wouldn't know it."

"ouch," hawke said in a voice that lacked any sort of pain. "you've really hurt my feelings, there, celandine."

"will it help you feel better if i pay?" she asked.

he snorted a laugh as the car pulled away from the curb. "oh, i thought it was sort of unspoken that you were paying anyway," he said. "after all, i am providing transportation, free of charge."

"so selfless," she murmured in an awestruck voice. "though you should be paying me for making me sit in this heap of -"

"don't you dare diss this car," hawke interrupted, though she could hear the amusement in his voice. "he's been with me through too much for that. you'd hurt his feelings."

"fine," she replied. "but only because you asked nicely."

he shook his head but chuckled anyway, trying not to look too much like he was enjoying himself as they drove through the gate and onto the wide neighborhood road, his hand coming to rest comfortably on her knee.

getting to the restaurant was an ordeal in and of itself, starting with hawke nearly speeding through three stop signs on celandine’s street that were shrouded in dense shrubbery and ending with hawke grumbling about the valet as the greeter ushered them into the building. "who does he think he is?" he muttered into celandine's ear. "my car is fine. old and dirty, i guess, but it's fine."

"then why does it matter what he thinks?" she says to him over her shoulder, words quiet to blend in with the almost eerily silent atmosphere of the restaurant. "i like your car."

"you were complaining about it earlier!"

"yes, but i like it because it's yours."

it wasn't enough to shake his frown, but it was enough to make his eyebrows un-furrow as they took their seats.

as she requested earlier that week when she made the reservation, it was a table well-hidden from the front windows but still visible to the other patrons. even so, celandine couldn't help but shift nervously. she had seen more than her fair share of journalists tailing her around the city for the past few days with the elections coming up, and the last thing she wanted was to be spotted. she hadn’t even thought about it until now, but she hadn’t been leaving her mansion for a reason.

hawke was looking over the menu with a hand finger-deep in his hair, the small orange light hanging above them making his curls look like a smoldering fire. "do you eat stuff like this often?" he asked, sounding disgusted and a little unsettled as he moved to wipe his forehead with the back of his wrist.

"like what?" she replied.

"like..." he cleared his throat. "chili pepper coated chicken breasts with a topping of baked nug skin and garnished with elfroot puree. wow."

his eyes flicked towards her. "is this what your chefs will make if we eat dinner at your estate next time?"

"you think this is going well enough for there to be a next time?" celandine teased.

hawke rolled his eyes and gave her a humorless chuckle. "yeah, yeah," he muttered. "very funny."

he reached across the table for her hand, brushing his knuckles against hers before intertwining their fingers together. it was something he had only done a few times before on their previous date when they attended a gala together, but that was at least a month before, and the action should've still felt special.

it should’ve, but it didn’t. she had barely even realized that he had done it - she was sitting stiffly in her chair, back straight and rigid, keeping an eye out for anyone with a camera pointed at her.

hawke tugged on her hand to get her attention.

"are you okay?" he asked sweetly and with enough worry that it made her teeth ache.

"yes," she responded, turning herself fully towards him. "yes, yeah, i'm just... looking for any journalists. they've been hounding me everywhere for days with elections in just a few weeks."

he frowned. as much as she wouldn't admit to it, he looked cute when he was concerned. too cute for his own good, probably. "why is that so bad?"

celandine heaved a sigh, looking down at their hands, at the curl of hawke's fingers against her palm, at the old scar running up the side of his wrist. "i just don't... i can't explain it, hawke. you wouldn't understand."

"try me," he invited warmly. "maybe i'll surprise you."

she was about to answer when his face fell, like something unpleasant had dawned on him. "oh," he murmured, voice and gaze suddenly distant. "is it... are you ashamed to be seen with me?"

celandine's eyebrows shot upwards. "no, hawke, of course not!" she hurried to say.

he interrupted her before she could finish, however. "it's okay," he said to her assuredly, almost nonchalantly, talking as if it had been so incredibly obvious this entire time. "i get it. i would be too if i were you. after all, i'm..."

his chin dropped to his chest as he looked down at his clothes. celandine leaned across the table to hook her forefinger under his chin and drag his eyes back up to hers.

"you're handsome and smart and sexy and talented," she finished for him. "it's not you, hawke, it's everyone else. i don't want anything or anyone to intrude on our time together. we don't have much of it today, after all."

he looked more than relieved after she finished speaking, adjusting proudly in his seat, holding himself a little higher. maker. he had no right to make her feel better so easily, especially with her stomach doing somersaults the way it was. "now, celandine," he began in a low voice, drawing her out of her thoughts only to see a pair of dark eyes glittering at her, "is that the type of thing someone who wasn't planning another date would say?"

she flushed profoundly until she was a shade of red that surely matched that of the velvet chair she was sitting on. "you're lucky you're handsome," she commented, pulling her hand out of his and smiling at whimper he let out as she reached for her wine cup and sipped it.

a tense silence followed in which hawke never managed to tear his gaze away from her. it felt like minutes - hours, even - but it was really only a few seconds. finally, when he cleared his throat and spoke, it was like resurfacing to warm summer air from beneath the surface of water so hot it was steaming. "can i be so bold as to suggest other plans for our evening?" he said.

celandine looked upwards toward the stained glass sun roof in the ceiling above them, noting the darkening of the sky that she felt had happened far too quickly. "if you're going to suggest taking me out to the country to see the stars, you hopeless romantic, i'm afraid to tell you that i do not think your car would make it."

"again with the car!" he said in exasperation, leaning back in his chair and throwing his hands up. "the mabari mobile is a perfectly formidable vehicle -"

"the mabari mobile?"

hawke's face burned a brilliant shade of pink.

"now are you ashamed to be seen with me?" he whispered miserably.

"slightly," she answered with a smirk.

he sighed and propped his elbows up on the table, dropping his head into his hands. “what i was going to say before i humiliated myself was that you should... uh... come watch me sing tonight?” hawke said quietly. “there’s an open mic night at this bar called the hanged man that i go to all the time, and varric texted me and told me that there weren’t many acts tonight...”

celandine’s nose wrinkled. “if varric’s there -”

“he’s not,” hawke hastened to say, reaching across the table to grab her hand again. “he’s not. he just left a few minutes ago to go play cards at our friend aveline’s house.”

she blinked at him. “your friend, hm?” she repeated, trying to sound casual about it. 

he gave her an indignant snort. “my very married friend,” he clarified. “and i didn’t take you for the jealous type, celandine.”

“i’m not,” she shot back. she was the jealous type when something mattered to her, but she’d never confess that on a third date. or a fifth date. or even a tenth date, probably, because she’d never reached that with anyone before and couldn’t know for certain until she made it. “anyway, continue what you were saying earlier...”

there was a grin on his face as she squeezed his hand to try and coax the rest of the explanation out of him. “so i was going to go play at the bar,” he said, “after we were done, of course, or if you... wanted to do that, instead?”

she glanced around the restaurant, letting out a wary sigh. “i don’t know, hawke,” celandine murmured.

“i know you probably had to reserve this table weeks in advance, and i know the food here is definitely way better - if a lot weirder - but...”

he trailed off, expression hopeful, gaze soft.

“it’d mean a lot to me for you to be there,” he confessed. “i know you’ve heard me preform before, but i’ve been working on some new stuff that i think you’ll really like...”

biting her lip, celandine took another look around the restaurant before her eyes settled back on hawke’s face.

“okay,” she said.

and that’s how she wound up in hawke’s car again, except instead of driving her home, he’s driving her in the opposite direction towards the hanged man.

every third streetlight is burnt out; every fourth is flickering. dogs bark at rickety bikes that speed past their fences even though the sun has long since sunk beneath the horizon and groups of tipsy people talk and laugh as they make their way down the street that’s, for the most part, lined building-to-building with bars and restaurants. celandine leans her head back against the headrest of the passenger seat, her thumb tracing circles on the back of hawke’s hand while she stares out the window.

“where is this bar?” she asks.

he flips on his turn indicator and pulls down a road that’s lit even less than the previous ones have been. “you wouldn’t know it,” he tells her with a hint of shyness. “it’s near my uncle’s old place, and he lives next to the docks. well, next to the factory district that leads to the docks, anyway.”

“are you going to take me to meet your uncle afterwards?”

he lets out a bark of laughter that’s a little too loud. “definitely not,” he responds. “never.”

“oh.”

silence follows, and then hawke does a double take. “oh, not because - celandine, not because of you,” he clarifies. “my uncle is a disaster. and he’ll probably have something to say about your politics, and frankly i don’t want to get my hands dirty tonight if i have to kick the shit out of him.”

she giggles - giggles, like some sort of school-aged girl - and lets her eyes flutter shut. “i can handle myself,” she informs him playfully.

“oh, i know that,” hawke replies. “i’d just do it for myself, really. him being an ass to you would just be a convenient excuse. but not tonight. maybe another time, if you’re lucky.”

like a broken record, she’s giggling again, and hawke holds back his own laugh by raising their entwined fingers to his lips.

it only takes a few minutes for them to reach the hanged man, which celandine can see from down the block because of the yellow neon sign of a man being strung up from the rafters by his feet (that is a little more than alarming), but it takes the same amount of time for them to find parking. apparently, the bar isn’t going to be as empty as varric said. they eventually find an empty patch of grass in a poorly lit back alley.

hawke opens the door of his van and slides out. celandine moves to ready herself for him to come over to her side and help her out, but she stops when he doesn’t shut the driver’s door behind him. she doesn’t have time to ask him what he’s doing when she realizes that she’s taking off his suit jacket.

“what are you doing?” she asks.

he throws it into the back seat. “if i show up wearing that, they’ll think i’m a douchebag,” he tells her as he undoes his tie. “this, too. your dress is fine, though. everyone’s just going to be distracted by how good you look.”

the tie lands on top of the jacket and just dangles over the edge of the seat, and by the time celandine’s looked back towards hawke, he’s unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. “what are you doing now?” she asks.

he’s stripped himself down to his undershirt with the dress shirt open on top and the same suit pants on the bottom, though they’re hanging a little lower on his stomach. he’s right - the new look will fit in a lot more with the bar scene, she suspects. and he looks... well, more handsome than he did before, if she’s being honest.

but she’d never admit it.

“can you get my - no, nevermind, i’ll get it.”

she watches as he clambers back into the car and fishes out his guitar case, accidentally smacking it against the ceiling light before pulling it out into the cool night air. despite how uncoordinated it seems, the thought of him doing this every night or once every few makes her smile, “come on,” he says warmly. “they won’t bite. hopefully.”

he probably doesn’t even have enough time to notice her rolling her eyes as she pushes the door open and follows him outside.

it’s a different part of town than they were in before, as she expected, but the air still feels slightly uncertain. it’s the only the thing that’s stayed the same the whole night. despite the fact that, deep down, she knows no one would ever find her in a bar so crudely named, she’s still scared that someone is going to ruin their night. especially now that hawke is in such a good mood.

he loops his arm - the free one that’s not toting a massive leather guitar case - around her waist and pulls her close to him. “thanks for coming, by the way,” he murmurs in her ear. “i think you’re really going to like the set.”

they’ve reached the doors, and yet, when hawke moves to open the door, she stops him.

“i don’t want to ruin it for you if someone recognizes me,” she says nervously, wringing her hands together out of guilt as she stops on the sidewalk in front of the blinking open sign. “you don’t know how many times people have stopped me recently. i was in the grocery store the other day holding a box of tampons when someone tried to get an interview.”

hawke slings the guitar case over his shoulder, returning to her with a frown. “okay,” he starts. “so... what do you want to do, then? we can leave if you want to, of course...”

“no, no, we can’t,” she tells him - she insists. “you want me to be here, and i want to be here for you. it’s just...” a sigh escapes her lips. this would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so kind and she wasn’t trying so hard not to say something that might hurt his feelings. “is there a v.i.p booth? or can i... hide behind the bar? or -”

“hang you from the ceiling?”

“as long as no one can see up my dress.”

he snorts, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to think of a suitable solution. “well,” he begins, “i’m not sure about v.i.p booths, but...”

and then his face lights up, eyes crinkling at the edges as he flashes her a dazzlingly white grin. “i have an idea,” he says, swinging his guitar case down from his shoulders and passing it to her. “give me one second.”

he disappears in a flash, and she’s left standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar, awkwardly holding onto his guitar case and rocking back and forth on her feet as she nods at other people entering the building. 

she doesn’t get nervous. ever. and she can always handle the press - well, not when they’re harrassing her while she’s trying to buy tampons, but no one can do that. and yet she’s nervous for this. and she doesn’t really know why. she can convince people to stop making a scene with a snap of her fingers if they decide to start; she’s bribed people more than once to get them to stop talking. if someone decides to make a fool out of her during hawke’s show, she’ll have no problem doing either of these things.

but she doesn’t want anyone to do it in the first place. that’s what’s making her so antsy. she just wants to be here with hawke for a few hours. she likes him too much for her own good.

the sound of him running up behind her snaps her out of her trance, and she greets him with a sort of panicked expression like he stumbled onto her secret pile of treasure. still, thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice. as he tries to catch his breath, he holds something out to her, smirking.

“a pair of sunglasses?”

“yeah!” he straightens up and licks his lips, taking them from her and unfolding them. “they’re not that big on me, but i think they’ll be almost comedically big on you, so no one should be able to recognize you, anyway, if that’s what you’re worried about. plus, everyone in there is drunk or trying to be, so...”

he eases them onto her face, missing both of her ears and stifling an affectionate laugh as he realizes.

“yes, it’s very funny,” she grumbles, taking them off and adjusting them until they’re sitting comfortably on her face. “such a comedian, hawke. are you sure you don’t want to do stand-up, instead?”

he swings his guitar case up onto his back again and takes her hand, pulling her close until they’re chest to chest. “the only person worth making laugh is you,” he tells her softly, reaching up then to tuck a strand of dark golden hair behind her ear. “and since you never laugh at my jokes, i’ll stick to music, thanks.”

she must look like a lovestruck idiot, standing there with a pair of his scratched up sunglasses on her face, fingers latching absentmindedly onto his waist as he cups her face with both hands and rests his forehead against hers. she can’t help it, and she can’t bother to try and pretend otherwise. “you look cute wearing those,” he comments quietly.

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” he replies. “i like seeing you wear something of mine. i’d like to see a whole lot more of it...”

celandine feels her breath hitch in the back of her throat as he brushes his lips over top of hers -

and then he draws away, arms falling down dramatically by his sides, an evil look in his eyes. “but we should get inside,” he tells her. “don’t wanna miss it, now do we?”

she can barely believed he managed to trick her so easily - she’s left gawking after him as he turns on his heel and cuts a straight line towards the front door of the bar, walking with too much confidence for a man who isn’t normally so cocky. and who shouldn’t be, frankly, because she could get the better of him just as easily. and she’s going to.

she hurries after him until she’s practically stepping on the backs of his heels. “hawke?” she asks,removing the glasses to see him better.

“wha -”

the word disappears in his mouth as celandine presses her own to his. he kisses softly, at first, slowly; whatever game they were playing, they both lose, because while she winds her arms around his neck he combs one hand through her hair and lets the other linger on the small of her back, and even though he’s the one who makes a noise first - a loud, hungry groan - she feels one of her own soon follow. she can’t even tell if she makes it, however, because all of a sudden hawke’s walked her backwards and is caging her body with his against the wall of the bar. 

he just started teasing the tip of his tongue against her bottom lip when she abruptly pulls away, looking at him as innocently as she can manage. 

“you’re going to miss it, hawke,” she says in a voice as soft as silk while batting her eyelashes in his direction. “and you wouldn’t want to -”

he kisses her lips once more and then plants another three kisses beside her mouth before grabbing her hand and pulling her inside without so much as another word.

most of the room is packed, but there’s a few seats up front that are empty, and celandine luckily manages to snag a whole table to herself while hawke deals with the sign-up for the open mic backstage. there’s a few acts in front of him - some juggling for some reason, some rap, and a few decent covers - and then finally, when he takes the stage, she’s already beaming ear-to-ear at the sight of him, sliding the glasses further down on her nose to see him properly. he looks a little sweaty, she thinks to herself, his curls in a reckless halo around his head like they almost are.

maker. he’s so handsome.

the crowd must recognize him, because the instant he’s comfortable in his stool and looks up at the audience, they let out a chorus of drunken whoops. “thank you, everyone, thank you,” he chuckles good-naturedly. “i’m actually going to be singing my own song tonight, and it’s for... well, it’s for someone who’s really special to me.”

celandine bites her lip, watching him and holding back a breath as he meets her eyes. suddenly, she’s glad that the sunglasses are big enough to hide the blush on her cheeks. if he knew he’d flustered her again, he’d start laughing, and...

well, she wants to hear his song. it’ll definitely be better than stale wine and stuffy waiters. though it definitely won’t be as good as kissing him. nothing she can think of really is.

---

kind of inspired by this and this

[setepenre-set]

Pleasant Is the Fairyland  (chapter 9)

Megamind/Roxanne

T rating, Labyrinth AU

The Goblin King Megamind is running out of time–he must take a consort. The King declares he will have no one but Roxanne Ritchi—and so Roxanne finds herself whirled away from her unfulfilling, ordinary life…to the Labyrinth, at the center of which is a secret, the King promises, if she can find it. A secret with the power to save a world, or to condemn it to Nothingness.

AO3  |  FFN

(links disabled so this will show up in the tumblr search tool. I’m going to reblog momentarily with the links; look for it in the notes)

____________________________________________________ 

The Goblin King’s eyes flickered open and Roxanne’s face swam into focus above him, her blue eyes looking down into his with an expression somewhere between concern and relief.

Disoriented as he was, it took him several moments to figure out what was happening. It wasn’t until he felt her legs shift very slightly beneath his shoulders, felt her hand slip beneath his neck to cradle the back of his head, that he realized his head was actually in her lap.

The realization froze him in place and the overwhelming flood of sensation whited out his thoughts in a rush of warmth and softness. Her thumb stroked gently across the back of his neck, over the curve of where it met his neck and—

The Goblin King sat up so quickly that his forehead barely missed colliding with Roxanne’s, only her instinctive reflex of jerking her own head back saving him from yet another concussion.

He regretted sitting up immediately, as what felt like all the blood in his body rushed up to his head, making black-winged butterflies dance at the edges of his vision—sable wings fluttering and multiplying, fluttering and multiplying until they threatened to blot out the world. 

—Roxanne’s voice, saying—saying something—something that—

The roaring of his blood in his ears became the hurricane wind of the black butterfly wings. He swayed in place and—

Oh, no, thought the Goblin King as he fainted for the second time.

He woke up again with her shouting at him.

“—swear to god if you don’t stop being so stupid I’m—”

The Goblin King squinted up at her blearily. His head wasn’t in her lap this time, thank the seas and stars for small favors. Instead he was lying flat on his black on the cool grass, with Roxanne kneeling on the ground next to him, bent over him. There was more anger than relief and concern in her expression this time, and her eyes glittered with rage.

“—going to kill you myself, you careless—”

The Goblin King made a weak noise of protest and Roxanne planted one hand on the center of his chest, pinning him in place and holding him there on the cool grass.

“Do not even think,” she snapped, “about sitting up like that again.”

The Goblin King made another weak noise, eyes wide. Roxanne made a low, growling noise of frustration and pressed down with slightly more force. The Goblin King’s breath caught.

“You,” she said, “are going to stay here, and I—” she glared at him, “am going to pick some more grapes. And when you have eaten them, we can discuss—discuss, mind you—the possibility of you sitting up. Got that?”

“Ah?” the Goblin King managed, breathless still at the force of her, at the storm of her protective anger.

“Fantastic,” she said, with even more vicious emphasis.

She took her hand away and paused for a moment, as if she were just waiting for him to try to get up against her orders. The Goblin King, however, was too stunned to make any attempt of the kind. 

Having apparently satisfied herself of his complete capitulation, Roxanne then stood up, gave him one last sharp look of warning, and then turned away to yank down bunch after bunch of grapes from the tree above them with what seemed to him to be an excess of force. 

The Goblin King remained meekly where he was during her massacre of the grape clusters, and he made no protest when she knelt down beside him and began pulling grapes off the clusters one at a time and thrusting them towards his mouth. He opened his mouth to receive them more out of self-defense than hunger.

He’d never realized before that it was possible to feed someone grapes vengefully.

“You,” Roxanne said, shoving another grape into his mouth, “are an idiot. You’re not well; you do realize that, don’t you? Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? The color of your skin?”

“—supposed to be like that,” he protested, voice weak.

“What, translucent?” she said sarcastically, her disbelief and impatience with his attempt at obfuscation clear. “Don’t deliberately misinterpret. I’m not talking about the fact that it’s blue. You look waxen. The dark circles under your eyes are so bad you look like you lost a fistfight and you weigh about as much as a housecat! Why don’t you take care of yourself?”

The Goblin King opened his mouth to protest again and she glared at him and pushed another grape into it before he could speak. 

“Carry some snacks around, for god’s sake,” she said. “These could have been toxic and I wouldn’t have known, since you were unconscious and I couldn’t ask you.”

“Not toxic,” he said, voice still dry and thready.

“Or enchanted,” she said.

“That either.”

“What a relief,” Roxanne said, spitting the words out like they were sharp things she’d like to stab him with.

He held out a hand as she started to feed him another grape. Roxanne narrowed her eyes at him, but she handed him the grape, watching him like a hawk. 

The Goblin King couldn’t stop his hand from shaking, but he managed, with great effort, not to drop the grape, and to successfully bring it up to his own mouth, place it between his lips, and chew. 

Roxanne gave a disapproving sniff, but she dropped the rest of the bunch on his chest and leaned back against the silvery bark of the nearest tree, devouring her own cluster of grapes as she watched him eat.

He’d meant, once he was finished eating the bunch of grapes, to sit up and prove to her how perfectly fine he was, but after he swallowed the last grape, he found he was too exhausted to even try. Instead he closed his eyes and sighed.

Just a moment of rest. Just a moment, and then he would get up and they would continue on their way. Just a—

He slept.

____________________________________________________

Roxanne saw the moment that the Goblin King slipped into sleep—slipped into sleep with a soft, relieved sigh, like someone slipping into a warm bath at the end of a very long and difficult day.

Which really only drove home how right she was about his general state of health—it hadn’t been anything like a long day, hadn’t even been a full one. And yet he looked exhausted. Beyond exhausted. Like someone losing a battle with a long-term terminal illness.

She sat very still and watched him sleep as the last of the sunlight faded and night fell, as some unseen things in the branches of the trees, insects perhaps, or maybe birds, began to sing, sweet and soft, like glass and crystal chimes stirred by the night wind. 

She looked up, then, and watched the sky as the stars came out, strangely close and disconcertingly rainbow colored, jewel-toned and bright. The moon came out as well, came out after the stars, full, very full and very large, much larger than it should be. 

At first Roxanne thought the size of the moon the reason why she felt so unsettled looking at it, but then she realized that the surface of it looked different than the moon she was accustomed to—smoother, without any of the large, predictable dark patches her eyes kept searching for. And yet something about it seemed…oddly familiar—not a completely alien thing, but something ordinary that had been warped.

(the dark side of the moon)

As the unsettling moon rose higher in the sky, the leaves of the trees began to shine like moonlight themselves, a steady, silver-white glow that dappled the dark grass and the face of the Goblin King, illumination and shadow.

The night was cool, but not cold, and at last Roxanne stirred, shaking herself slightly, as if shaking off the spell of the moon’s silver fascination. She glanced back down at the Goblin King, still sleeping, and then she sighed and reached for the clasp at the base of his throat, the one that held his collar and cape in place. 

Clasp and cape and collar parted beneath her hands, silk and leather unfurling at her touch like the petals of a strange, dark flower.

She spread the material of the cape beneath him like a blanket and lay down beside him on it. He made another of those soft sighing noises as she curled up beside him, and turned his face  towards hers. 

Roxanne placed one hand on his chest, palm-down, where she was able to feel his heartbeat, able to feel the rise and fall of his breath.

 After a time, her eyes slid shut and she slept as well.

____________________________________________________

…to be continued.

____________________________________________________ 

Day four of my birthday week celebrations! I hope you all enjoyed the new chapter. Thank you to @displacerghost​ for beta reading this...and also for giving me a (more gentle) version of Roxanne's lecture to the Goblin King about his health. I know you can tell that's where I got the description of how vividly ill he looks, Ghost—thank you for seeing me...and for saving me, my love.

[gaysparkler]

Of Darkness and Light Within: Chapter 3

Rating: T

Summary: “If you’re looking to start a life, you could stay. I can help you.” Life had not been easy for Frederic Hawke since his family’s hasty departure from Lothering. Losing his town, his younger sister, everything he had ever known. With the help of newfound friends, including a mysterious white-haired elf, he keeps his enemies and his own darkness at bay. A retelling of canon events.

Pairing: Male Hawke x Fenris

AO3 Link: Here

The next days were hectic. Completing task after task, collecting coin until it no longer fit in Hawke’s purse. He had to find a hiding place to make sure that Gamlen would not put his hands on it. He enchanted the bag, too, to further assure that no one but him could open it. On the streets, he lost count of how many people wanted to kill him. After he refused to kill a noble who was helping out Ferelden refugees, Meeran said he would regret it. Hawke paid that price with unexpected daggers grazing his skin and an ambush. Thankfully, he had help to defeat him. He got out of the fight with new scars on his back.

One day, after getting rid of a group of pirates, as well as discovering a government conspiracy, Hawke counted the gold coins he had in his purse and was astonished to discover he had enough for the expedition. He hid the money again, then left the house to go visit Fenris. In his arms, he brought a large basket with food and blankets. He had suggested that he would help his friend settle in the house. He would not even be surprised to know that bodies still littered the hallways. He pressed the basket against his hip to free one of his hands and knock with the other. Fenris opened the door seconds later.

“I’ve brought supplies,” Hawke said, smiling.

“You really did not have to do that,” Fenris replied.

“Please,” Hawke walked in the mansion. “I know you must be freezing in there.”

Fenris rolled his eyes, tried to hide the small smile he could not repress and let Hawke set the basket down in his room, which was definitely the cleanest space in the house. Hawke pulled his hair back and tied it with a thin leather strap to keep it away from his face. He rolled his sleeves up, put his hands on his hips and glanced at Fenris.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?”

~~~

They spent the next hours scouting every room of the vast mansion, scrubbing floors and walls, Hawke intentionally avoiding using magic to help. Fenris was grateful, although he did not voice it. He hoped the small smiles were enough. Sometimes however, magic was necessary. When they stumbled upon a dead body, which happened a lot more often then Hawke wanted, Hawke would levitate the body off the floor and put it outside, where it could be safely…disposed of. Room after room, they cleaned, moved bodies away, threw out broken furniture, put books back on the shelves, swept the floors and straightened paintings and portraits until their stomachs rumbled with hunger. They took a small break, eating bread, cheese and apples on the floor of the room they were currently working on.

Fenris was dusting off a dresser when he froze. His eyes had wandered up the wall, to the portrait hung above the wooden piece of furniture. A likeness of Danarius, and it was so accurate and realistic that it was like standing in front of him once again. Hawke’s humming stopped. Fenris heard footsteps behind him, felt a new warmth at his side. His eyes would not leave the painting.

“Danarius?” Hawke asked. Fenris nodded. Hawke moved, reaching up to grab both sides of the frame and Fenris almost stopped him by force of habit, a twitch in his arms, his fingers curling over nothing, backing away when he realized what his body was doing without his head controlling his limbs. Hawke plucked the picture off the wall and walked outside, Fenris on his heels. He set the painting down on the gravel.

“Do you want me to do it?” Hawke asked, a small flame in his palm. Fenris shook his head. He ran back in, found his sword and brought it outside, where Hawke was waiting. With a nod, Hawke lifted the painting off the ground and held it in the air with magic. Fenris slashed though it with a scream. He felt his markings light up, the pain worsening. The two broken pieces floated still, so Fenris kept going. He cut again and again and again until the painting appeared to be more like dust than a frame, wood, and a canvas.

“Stand back,” Hawke warned. Fenris listened and Hawke snapped his fingers. Whatever was left of that likeness was burned away in seconds. They walked back in the mansion side by side. Fenris did not look back at the pile of ashes.

Night had fallen when all the rooms had finally been ordered. Fenris could finally breathe and smell clean air instead of decaying bodies and dried blood. He made a mental note to thank Hawke later for helping. Without him, he doubted he would have done much in the house. They retreated back to Fenris’ room, although now he could use any he wanted, and sat at the table by the fireplace. Fenris brought a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Would you like some?” he asked Hawke.

“Please,” Hawke courteously agreed. “I never had the chance to drink Tevinter wine.”

“I hate to bring your hopes up, but it tastes like despair and tears of slaves,” Fenris deadpanned. He could not hide the smile on his lips when Hawke laughed.

“You actually made a joke! I can’t believe it!”

They drank together, glass after glass, but not so much to get themselves completely drunk. The tips of Fenris’ ears felt warmer than usual.

“Your magic…It doesn’t feel like the one the Magisters use,” Fenris said, softly. Hawke smiled at him.

“I was always better at healing. Besides, my father did not want me and Bethany to use flashy fire spells, or anything dangerous. I used my magic to make scraped knees disappear, help out on the farm, or solve little issues in the village,” Hawke replied.

“Were you not scared of the Templars?”

“Of course I was. We used to move around a lot to avoid them. But, in Lothering, we didn’t want to leave. We had a lot of friends there, and me and Bethany were older. My parents were not as afraid that there would be accidents. So, we stayed. Until, well.” Hawke’s eyes left Fenris’ and stared at the floor instead. Hawke never pried when Fenris did not want to talk about something, so he dropped it.

“Why—how does your magic feel so gentle?” Fenris asked, changing the subject. Hawke immediately lightened up.

“I’m a healer,” he simply replied.

“I’ve seen your eyes glow sometimes. Are you like that abomination?”

“No! No, not exactly. I do call on the help of spirits, but I’m not possessed, not permanently anyway.” Fenris flinched ever so slightly, just enough for Hawke to notice. “When we came to Kirkwall, we came across a hoard of darkspawn. There was an ogre among them. Bethany ran forward—I still don’t understand why she did that, she never really used close-combat magic… She ran forward, and the ogre caught her in its hand,” Hawke’s voice was barely a whisper. He closed his eyes. Fenris’ hand twitched, so close to Hawke’s.

“It crushed her,” he continued. “Carver killed the beast when I went to her side. I tried to do something, but I wasn’t powerful enough. I felt—something, through the Fade. Calling to me, offering help. I accepted. My magic had never been so strong before. We worked together, but…it was too late. The spirit told me to let her go, and I had to. It left me, but it’s always close, ready to help if ever I need it.”

“I’m—” Fenris did not quite know how to reply to Hawke’s confession. “I am sorry for your loss, Hawke.”

“Thank you.” Hawke’s smile was sincere. “I hope I didn’t scare you off, with that spirit business.”

“Hardly,” Fenris replied, taking a sip of his wine. “You’re not like the other mages I’ve met.”

“Much more good looking, right?” Hawke asked with a humorous tone.

“Don’t push your luck.”

[royal-writer]

“I’m not leaving you”

steeples my fingers- this is how It Should Have Gone

She looked up, and was surprised to see how much had changed. The previous chaos surrounding the ship was now filled with a bleak, fearful outlook. Some people were babbling. Others soberly going back to their work. Glances were cast their way. Scared. Angry. Confused. Activity once more was taking over the deck as people tried to piece together the puzzle to the bizarre attack and find the missing culprit behind it.

Essätha ran her fingers slowly over the side of Amon’s face delicately; trailing along his sideburns.

Her only interest; her only concern at the moment, rested on his well-being.

Lifting her free hand where it lay against the sodden clothing on his breast, she gestured to Sulhadur as his wandering eye captured her. Nothing about his vacant, haunted expression registered to her. He was too far to study, and the fibers of her worn heart were strung too thin. The condition of anyone else on this vessel wasn’t in immediate life-threatening danger right now, except for the violently shivering nobleman in her lap.

“Sssulhadur!” Her sharp cry cracked from a dry throat.

The Dragonborn roused from their inert form. The glass-eyed complexion turned towards her. His armor clanked and rattled quietly as he trod across the ship’s deck to approach her.

“What is it? Is there anything you need?” His voice was strained. He nervously licked his chops.

A shape moved behind him. All the muscles in the Yuan-Ti woman’s body grew tense as she reached for the hilt of one of her daggers. Subconsciously, she lulled Amon’s head closer to her chest in a protective manner.

Not again. Not again, you dirty bastard.

As they stepped to the paladin’s side, she realized their stout form was not a crouching figure, but rather, a dwarf. Their gaze was sympathetic. The mist blowing up the side of the boat as it rocked had left the wisps of their auburn hair not tucked tight enough in their braid kinked and frizzy. Their face was gentle and creased with years of laugh lines.

Her heart settled, gradually. Her eyes looked on at the offering in their callused hands. Mounds of blankets. They were dry, and in varying degrees from itchy well-used wool to newer, neatly folded linens. All plain colors.

She squinted. She mused. How probable was it that simple cloth could be lined with hexes and dangers?

She risked it, a bit unsure. Taking one to start, she began to wind it around the Illiad heir in a swaddle. It kept the breeze from further drawing him chill, but it wouldn’t be enough.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Sul, could you please help carry Amon below deck for me?” she breathed. “I haven’t the upper-body strength, and he needs to get out of this weather and in some dry clothing. His soaked garments are going to catch him chill.” Her eyes drifted towards the stranger. Tension rippled down her spine. Curtly, she spoke to him directly, although her eyes moved towards the figure of the ship’s captain: “Sir, would you happen to know a safe place for us to lay our friend to lay?”

“Aye, she’s right,” the dwarf nodded solemnly. “He needs to get of those clothes. Come with me, lass, I’ll show you a place he can rest.”

Rest. Rest, she wanted to spit. He wasn’t resting, he was out cold. He wasn’t going to wake up and feel well-rested. He was going wake exhausted, aching, and in pain.

She swallowed her bad attitude back before it caused any trouble. Before she snapped. Before the serpent inside rose its head to strike; fangs out. Perhaps literally.

This wasn’t the dwarf’s fault. This was that- god impersonator's fault.

As Sulhadur lifted Amon up from the slick wood decking, Essätha studied the placement of his arms. She gave a soft murmur, concern lining all the features of her face. With care too innocent and genuine for either the dragonborn or dwarf to stare, she lifted the nobleman’s head to tuck the soaked bunched-up form of her cape beneath him to rest and keep him elevated. She was ginger in how she leaned his head; not wanting to move him too much or too far and obstruct his breathing on an already sure-to-be raw throat. Her fingers brushed over his colorless sheet-white features tenderly. Beneath the hollow areas beneath his eyes, her fingertips brushed, before checking her wrist over the ragged air escaping his mouth and nose.

Clearing his throat, the dwarf lead them down the stairs and to the second level of the ship. As they took to the steps, she hovered at the Illiad’s side in the passage. There wasn’t really enough room for her to remain at the paladin’s side to keep a watchful hawk-eye on him, but she compacted herself to the far side so not to trip him up. In her hand, across the distance, she held one of Amon’s in her grasp. It was alarmingly lifeless; the only sign of vitality being his unsteady pulse.

They moved around the hanging hammocks and supplies laying about; mostly the sailor’s small personal trinkets on this level, and slipped towards the bow of the vessel. The dwarf indicated through a narrow door into a kitchen, and from there to a room hardly big enough for them all to squeeze into connected.

A cot lay pushed against the wall, slightly off-color in places from age and what Essie presumed to be dried blood they’d tried cleaning out of it long ago. Sulhadur crouched down beside her along the bedding, and gradually leaned over to lay Amon as slowly as he could into the sunken shape. He was lay prone, and sprawled out.

She pushed right between them, to a disgruntled sound from the paladin. Her eyes swept from Amon, over to the dwarf, and around to Sul.

“Could the pair of you fetch me some towels, some clean water, and something soft for him to eat when he wakes? Preferably something like bananas,” she mused thoughtfully. “And Sul, if you wouldn’t mind looking for Amon’s trunk and seeing about getting him some fresh garments, I would appreciate it.”

The dwarf nodded. “I can do that,” they crooned gently, before pushing through the doorway and disappearing.

Her eyes landed on Sulhadur. He hadn’t moved.

“… Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he rasped. “Maybe we could wait, and ask someone else to do it. I don’t like the idea of leaving the both of you alone, unprotected.”

A thin laughed escaped her. Her? Unprotected? That was laughable.

“I can protect him,” she stated. Her tone was confident, and a bit arrogant. For a moment, iridescent colors moved over her face. Where they moved, an emergence of scales followed. “If anyone enters without my consent, they’ll be in for a surprise,” she reminded him. There was a promise of danger hidden in her tone.

Doubt still lingered in the golden spheres of the dragonborn’s regard. The formation of extra scales preceded rapidly beneath his staring. He didn’t push it however, merely replying, “I’ll be right back.”

The door opened. She’d already turned away by the time it shut, her gaze darting over Amon’s trembling frame beneath the wet blanket. Blue veins were standing out beneath his skin as though it was made from paper. His breathing was no longer as labored, but wheezed uncomfortably nonetheless.

Methodically as though she was running on auto-pilot, Essätha stripped away the blanket. It was drenched all the way through, and made a wet flop onto the floor as she tossed it in the direction where Amon’s cloak lay rumpled. Much as she hated to fold him around like a ragdoll, her fingers dug into the material of the jerkin, and heaved. He rolled enough like a spineless jellyfish; limbs flopping. His breath hitched as though the action had been painful.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t react from her apology. She didn’t really expect him to, but meant every bit of it.

Wiggling his jerkin off proved as complicated as she expected. The wet garment was heavy and suctioned to the clothes he wore beneath them. It took a bit to weasel one arm out from the sleeve before she could unbutton his shirt below and slide off that sleeve too.

Grunting as she wished she’d spent more time actually performing some manual labor in her life, Essie rolled him over to his other side, and repeated the process. His jacket joined the pile of growing soaked material, and then a button-up. It was followed by a plain undershirt that she had to fumble over his head.

The shivering increased. His teeth chattered in his comatose state.

“I’m sorry,” Essätha whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Her heart clenched, and seized. The dread was clawing up from her stomach, and into her tight throat. Fear hazed her shaky vision as she curled aside the equally wet blanket around his lower half, and began to wiggle around his belt off his person. She only made it part way before realizing how much of a pain in the ass it was, and that his slacks were loosened enough to now shimmy down his legs.

Tearing off the boots, they sloshed with water inside. She pitched them both aside, then his socks, then the remainder of his trousers that were bunched around his ankles.

Indifferent to the fact the man was only in his small clothes (she’d seen more of men before), the scaly woman moved to sit by his side at the edge of the cot. Her eyes drifted over his torso mutely.

Thin, faded lines of white marked his chest. They nearly blended in to the discolored paleness of his complexion.

Scars, she realized stupidly after a numbing moment.

On a thoughtless impulse, she reached out to run her finger along one that seemed to follow the outline of a rib. He jolted in his unconscious state, shuddering.

How many of these from battles barely won, and how many from losses too great a burden to show?

She swallowed the dark worrying thought down to the squirming pit of her stomach. In some ways, she’d seen enough conflict to know the price of victory rarely came without sacrifice, and the worst shame for some of them more often lay beneath the skin.

Before she could reach for one of the damper blankets to use as a temporary cover, a knock on the door, and it opened. Once more, her hand shot to the hilt of her dagger as she whirled her attention towards it.

Only the dwarf. A polite smile, unafraid. In his arms, rows of folded towels.

Her legs she tried to bid strength to stand into. Though the strength she did have, her mind was troubled at the very idea of leaving Amon alone again. She’d been so focused on the swaying of the damn boat, and if the tiefling-

She drowned that thought away, opening her arms up gratefully as the dwarf approached her instead.

“We aren’t in any bananas, ma’am,” they informed her. “However, if’n you’re looking for something soft, I’ve got some vegetable soup. We got some apple sauce too on hand I could warm for your friend there.”

The towels were pushed carefully into her arms. She nodded. Her head felt disconnected from her body.

“Both would be nice, thank you.”

The dwarf nodded calmly, and slipped out the door.

Taking in a deep breath, Essätha let it out faintly. She turned her waist back towards Amon. Flickers of magic danced along her fingertips, as a mild breeze whisked over him.

His brow creased and nose fidgeted with discontent.

Cursing softly, Essie held her hand closer towards his hair, and repeated the action. Droplets of water came flecking out on the cot and over her arm. She dropped the towels at the edge of the make-shift crude bed, removing only one for now, and began to soothingly circle it over his hair. It tufted up areas like a crudely shaped spiked mop.

“I know you’re cold,” she lamented; her voice growing soothing as she murmured, “I’ll have you warmed up soon, I promise. You’re going to be okay, Amon. You’re going to be okay.”

The nobleman panted in his unaware state, twitching.

She hurled the saturated towel aside to grab another, and start patting him carefully. His breathing was steady, even if weak, as water dripped beneath the wet cot. A similar sound of water sloshed against the exterior of the ship. It rocked firmly as, unknowingly far above, the vessel was being directed to turn around.

Another knock at the door. Her hand ghosted in the direction of the blade, but didn’t come close to grasping it. With the sound of rattling metal armor, she knew who to expect as the door swung open.

“I’ve got his luggage, and the cook kindly informed me where I could find more blankets down in cargo,” Sulhadur informed her, hauling both in the cramped space of a room.

She nodded, extending her arms out to accept them.

“I’m staying with him.”

“I’ll stay with you both.”

Essätha observed his features this time. “Do you not think of me as ‘capable’ or ‘independent’ enough to look after myself, and Lord Amon?”

A hard stare met her own. Sternly, Sul responded: “I didn’t say that. There’s someone on board that just slit this man’s throat. We don’t know where they are, or who their next intended target is. The suspect could be anywhere.”

“I appreciate your knightly code, Sul, I do, but everyone’s now aware that there’s a murderer on board, and after they rounded everyone up on deck to an interrogation process, I’m fairly certain we can rule out everyone accounted for,” she stated. “The crew is going to be keeping a watchful eye out, and they know we have our guard up now, so if anyone else has any hostile intent, they’re going to lay low a while. We’ll be safe, I promise. I can, and will, be plenty loud if anyone comes in here.”

“Go and help the others search,” she finished in an urgent tone. “Go rest. Lord Amon only needs one person here to watch him, and I know a few things about medical care. I can take care of him, and myself. We’ll be fine. I assure you.”

There was something about the Bahamut follower’s appearance that she realized seemed more than just troubled or uneasy. His foot had a jittery shake to it where he stood, placing most of his weight into one favorable leg. He gave a barely-there sigh, nodding with understanding.

“Right.” With a stiff bow, he turned for the door. She tried to find the words to say to acknowledge his unease, but her mind drew a blank.

He’d be fine. He probably just needed a little time to shake off the sudden, violent, unpredictable scenario of the entire event. It surely had shaken most of them up a bit.

Lobbing another balled-up sopped cloth aside, Essätha rhythmically circled and dabbed Amon’s chest and down to his legs. Her other hand she continued to spiral magic off of; simple words and gestures to common the faintest breeze. It was beginning to at least ruffle his hair a bit, which meant it was drying somewhat.

When the last towel came away barely damp, she leaned over his trunk to select what she hoped wasn’t any expensive articles of clothing. They appeared plain enough, anyway. She slid one leg and then the other into the slacks and awkwardly tugged them up his thighs and over his wet undergarments; the only thing she was unwilling to mess with and risk humiliation or steal his dignity by removing.

She laid a rolled shirt at the edge of the cot. Inhale, exhale.

Wrapping her arms beneath his, she hugged Amon to her chest and leaned back. Her spine strained; her lungs collapsed. With a wheeze; her face against his shoulder and strands of her black hair sticking to the wet spots here and there on his skin, Essie held his limp body against her to force him to sit up. He mostly sagged against her, but it was enough. With an arm wound around him to keep him from toppling in any direction, she slipped the garment over his head, and pushed his arms into the sleeves.

Gods, he was a lot of man. She could only imagine trying to do this to Abernathy or Sulhadur, and immediately cringed. Rest in piece her vertebrates. The thought alone made them ache with misery.

He breathed against the nape of her neck slowly, tickling her. It was such a strange sensation when her mind was still wrapped up in worry about his health. Part resisting the need to laugh, part too scared to after what just occurred. Yet at the same time, she felt comfortable and at ease enough by his presence that if this situation were different she wouldn’t feel the urge to hide it. Just the other day, they were joking and throwing playful jabs at each other in the city, and it had felt normal. The sun was out, their lives didn’t feel endangered, and she’d felt more vivacious and carefree than she had in what felt like a lifetime.

He made it easy to feel normal.

Bit by bit, her arms trembling, Essätha lowered him back into the bunk. She practically sank over top of him, her limbs wanting to give out from the task. She twisted around, a shaky arm grabbing a blanket from over the top of the pile, and flicked it out over him to smooth into place. Her hands began tucking, wrapping him up like a warm burrito of comfort.

With each pass of her hands over the blankets as she smoothed away the lines and folds, another wave of magic seeped into the cloth. It warmed beneath her touch in small sections. She continued to repeat the process while adding more and more layers from head to toe, tucking him in as thoroughly as she could so that only his head was visible.

She carded her fingers through his locks again. Another small whisk of air through, pushing the hair away from his face some more.

“You are a strong, brave man,” she whispered softly. “You’re going to get through this.”

Naturally, the unconscious man didn’t reply. Only breathing slowly now, as his shakes began to lessen.

She swung her legs on to the side of the cot that clearly didn’t have enough space for two to lean over him. The warming magic rays of Prestidigitation rippled out in a fog of deep plum purple, whisking over the material.

“I’ll keep you safe.” The words were a hush. A promise he wouldn’t remember, but she would.

Gradually, her body sank down to lay down beside him. There wasn’t enough space for her, leaving her to teeter on the very edge of the material. It was enough; her eyes scanning over him, her hand moving over the blankets. She pressed as close as she could in hopes of sharing her body heat with him, with her arm draped over his torso to continue the ritual spell and the other wound up to rest her fingers laced through his hair.

His breathing patterns followed his. The sound of his heart began to follow her own intimately.

The world was passive, and indifferent. The lull of their synchronized breathing alone filled the room.

“It hasn’t been easy, has it.” Her voice was barely a breath, nestled against his shoulder. “But look at how far you’ve made it through. See what your calm diligence and fight has given to you. See how your strength has pushed you through, this far.”

“You’re going to be just fine, because of that power inside of you. You’re an unyielding force with a steely resolve. You’re a man of dignity and grace, with a good and caring heart. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.”

Taking her hand out of his hair, she reached beneath the blanket and found his hand. She gave it a supportive squeeze, and held it loosely in her palm.

“I believe in you. I’ll be right by your side through this. You’re not alone, Amon. You’re not alone anymore,” she whispered, her words falling on deaf ears. Her voice teetered; falling into a quiet rasp: “Just come back, m’lord. Hold on to the world, because it still needs you here. Don’t let go.”

Her hand squeezed his once more, and this time, didn’t lax.

“Please. Don’t let go. I’m right here. I’m right here, with you. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me. I’m not leaving you.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His head throbbed. He stirred with a weary groan. The world was muffled as though he had gotten stuffed in his ears. Everything ached. He was chilled, but surprisingly not as frozen as he thought he should be. He remembered the icy plunge, just barely. Darkness. Cold. Suffocating. So much pain, and so much cold.

His throat itched and ached. He tried to clear it, to no avail. It felt sticky and dry.

Between the ringing in his head and the disconnect between his brain and body, a soft voice spoke. The words didn’t make sense, but the tone was enchanting.

Amon cracked his eyes. In a dense fog, in a ill-lit room, he could barely make out the shape of a face looming over him. Their eyes were made of amber fire; glowing with light.

He groaned once more. An angel? If he was dead, he would see no such divine beauty. Heaven would not accept something like him.

But if this was not heaven, and hell did not have such ethereal beings…

Trying to focus his attention on the movement of her lips, and the faded static of words in his ears, he struggled to understand what she was speaking.

“… You just rest now, m’lord. Don’t move, don’t try to get up. If you need anything, tell me.”

Need anything…? A new body, he thought darkly. Every joint, every bone, every muscle felt stiff and leaden with the cold aches.

His vision began to clear, only enough to recognize the shape of the face as he struggled to see the outline of those full lips to read.

Essätha.

The Illiad wasn’t surprised. The previous delirium thought of her enchanting appearance was already far gone; erased from his memory, but she was a strangely calming and reassuring sight all the same. She had a way of hovering, but she was always there when he felt the helpless rebound of his misdeeds surge up to swallow him like the lake had tried to.

She had a way with being there, no matter what he said or did.

It still befuddled as much as it made her endearing. She just didn’t quit on broken things, did she.

A hand squeezed his. He barely recognized it beneath the blankets, and tried to return the favor. She deserved a little solace, for all her hard work trying to keep his battered broken ass alive.

Her smile lit up the room, even being small with relief, it still touched her butterscotch eyes.

“Get some rest, m’lord,” she stated; his mind processing her lip-reading and trying to process the distant sound of her voice. “I’ll be right here. I’m right here, by your side. I’m not leaving you. I’m staying right here with you. I promise.”

Not leaving him.

Not leaving him.

Not leaving… him…

His eyes slow-blinked in their half-mast state. They sealed shut, closing off the world. He was too tired. He hurt too much.

What an odd, utterly bizarre, strange woman.

He drifted, dragging back down to the depths of unconsciousness. His body convulsed and shuddered, still fighting off the cold and trying to drag the warm air in. Despite hardly being able to feel, a seedling spread of warmth seemed to appear and dissipate randomly on his chest. It was nice.

Not leaving him.

In the back of Amon’s mind, he saw the vision of yesterday. The growth of her smile, and then the fall of it in wide-eyed terror. The way the breeze over the lake looked before they’d boarded, spiraling the loose sections of hair framing her face and the distant look in her expression as she stared vacantly off. So much of it left him with questions. He wanted to respect her privacy, but there was something just beneath the surface he couldn’t quite grasp about her and he could swear by the look in her eyes, sometimes it looked like she wanted to explode and say it herself.

What secrets was she hiding?

Not leaving him.

Not leaving him.

Her exhales were fanning across his neck. It was warm. Comforting. Enjoyable, even.

He let go. He slipped away, and allowed himself to rest. He held to her hand before slumping back into the dark, and put his faith and trust in her words, and careful hands.