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klausinamarink · 2 months

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You Said I Would Live, So I Did

rating: M | cw: temporary character death, minor gore, blood and injury | wc: 3k | tags: angst with happy ending, canon divergence, disabled Eddie, hurt Steve, injury recovery | prompt: Love is healing each other’s wounds

sequel to this

written for @steddielovemonth

If Steve had nearly lost his voice from that nervewrecking day when Eddie had floated in the trailer park, then Steve was shredding the column of his throat into nonexistence as the exact thing was happening in the Creel House attic.

Eddie’s right arm was broken thrice. His left leg followed soon after. Then his left eye burst with a horrid pop, splurts of blood already staining the side of his face.

All Steve had to do was keep watch of Eddie while the others went to the Upside Down to distract the bats and kill Vecna. All he had to do was to wait for the right moment to return the headphones over Eddie’s ears.

But then the Cunninghams had come over with Jason Carver and a few of their friends.

It wasn’t easy to fight them off, especially when Carver held him at gunpoint while the adults instantly believed Eddie was currently listening to Satan’s messages to destroy their perfect town. But Max had come in swinging. Literally. She had held onto Steve’s trusty nailbat and showed them another reason why she liked the moniker Mad Max.

Steve had his back turned on Eddie for too long.

After the last adult finally scuttled and Carver went unconscious on the ground, Steve couldn’t use the music in time.

Eddie suddenly dropped. Steve just barely caught him in time before his body hit the ground.

“I got you, Eds. I got you right here. You’re gonna be okay. We’re taking you to the hospital-” Steve was rambling, trying to keep his composure as he held onto Eddie. Because he can’t take Eddie to the hospital without making his boyfriend cry out in pain whenever he moved an inch.

“I wa- I want-” Eddie was gasping for air, choking on nothing and everything. His chest was frantically raising up and down, each round making his breath more winded. Steve swore he had heard a few of his ribs breaking right before Eddie had fallen.

“What is it?” Steve asked as calmly as he could despite the wet tremor in his voice. He wanted to look away from Eddie’s face, half of it streaming out thick blood and viscera from the socket. His surviving eye was still glazed over with a few specks of brown with a red tear stain dropping down his cheek.

“W-Wayne,” Eddie gasped out painfully, “I want Wayne!”

“He’s on his way right now.” Steve lied. He had no idea if Wayne and Nancy and Robin were okay and actually coming back. He twisted his head over to Max, whose terrified gaze hadn’t left Eddie since he started floating. “Max! Call an ambulance!” He couldn’t believe how much of his voice still held.

Then Max was staring at Steve, her blue eyes welling up as she started shaking. Steve looked back to see Eddie had gone limp. His heartbeat, frantic and jackhammering against Steve’s palm just seconds ago, was no longer there.

“No. No, no, no-” Steve’s voice stopped working then, even when a sob worked its way out of his ruined throat. He pulled Eddie closer, his hand cupping the back of his head when glowing red cracks started splintering the wood right underneath them.

—

There was still blood under his fingernails.

Steve stared at them dully. It was a better distraction than the mechanical beeping and the faint throbbing on his sides. The demobat bites were long stitched-up during those early chaotic hours of waiting. His throat had already been looked at, but nothing but a pack of ice, water, and an easy rest was prescribed.

Steve had almost laughed. He hadn’t gotten an easy rest since he saw a monster burst out of Jonathan Byers’ ceiling.

He couldn’t lift his eyes up. Not because he was tired, no matter how his brain felt it had turned into jelly and dripping out of his ears, but if he brought his gaze up, then he would still see Eddie.

Eddie, who laid in bed with half of his body in thick casts and bandages around the left side of his face and an oxygen tube down his throat, comatose even after two and half days. Eddie, whom Steve had promised over and over to protect him even before Vecna laid his nasty claws on him.

But Steve failed to do exactly that and had let Eddie die.

Because of him, Vecna’s plan succeeded and tore Hawkins in half.

Even though it was a fucking miracle that Eddie’s heart started pulsing again, Steve couldn’t forget it. He could scrub the blood and grime off himself and the high-pressure of his shower wouldn’t do shit to erase the sudden lightweightness of Eddie’s body in his arms. Steve’s stomach swooped with nausea at the recollection. He had always complained of Eddie being so heavy despite his flat ass whenever Eddie had taken the opportunities to randomly launch himself at Steve, who had always caught him even if he was already holding something.

He never wanted to know how light Eddie had felt after dying, but now he does and it was going to forever haunt him.

The doors opened. Without looking, Steve greeted tiredly, “Hey, Wayne.”

Big mistake. He heard the man pause before his boots strode over to him. Neither of them hadn’t talked in between the chaos of the ‘earthquake’, the brief volunteering at the high school, and Robin’s attempts to distract him out of the hospital. Now, they were in the same room and Steve braced himself for a punch. Actually, Wayne wasn’t that physical. So Steve braced himself for a cold warning to leave and never show his face again.

Instead, Wayne gently clamps a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

It makes him look up then. Wayne’s wrinkles had deepened and his eyes were slightly red. He looked more exhausted than Steve had ever seen.

“You need to rest up,” Wayne said gently. Why was he still nice? He shouldn’t be. Not after Eddie-

Before Steve could protest, Wayne led him to a small couch at the corner. It was horribly uncomfortable and itchy but once he laid down, Steve immediately fell asleep.

—

Steve hated dreams.

Most times, he lost the fight. He was manhandled, forced to watch as Carver shot a bullet into Eddie, splattering brains across the ground and walls. Sometimes it was Max who was shot. Whenever the floor broke apart, Steve let himself fall and burn in the gate instead of dragging Eddie away. Eddie’s bones broke, all four limbs like the others. Sometimes his eyes melted first. Sometimes his ribs burst out of his chest. Sometimes his neck snapped as well. Sometimes his skin peeled itself from his hands and turned into claws. Sometimes he came back fine and unharmed but then he dropped with wide unmoving eyes. Sometimes it was one of their dates that never went that way it had actually happened because Eddie would float up and then they were in the attic again.

Every time, Eddie’s mouth twisted into a snarl, “You’re a shitty liar, Steve Harrington.”

Steve started to lose count how many times he’d woken up with a scream caught in his throat.

—

Three weeks later after Vecna shattered half of his body, Eddie woke up.

Steve wasn’t there when it happened. Robin and Dustin had pushed him to shower and change so he went to his house, sat under the shower as it turned cold for probably an hour, and came back to the hospital just in time for Dustin to suddenly shove his face against Steve’s chest and blubbered out-

“He’s awake.”

In another universe, Steve would have sprinted immediately towards Eddie’s room with nothing but immense joy.

Instead, he felt utter cold numbness as Dustin took his hand and dragged him there.

There were doctors fretting around Eddie. Wayne was holding Eddie’s uninjured hand like a lifeline with teary eyes. The other kids were clamoring at the foot of the bed.

During the commotion, Eddie’s eye had flickered over and met Steve’s. There was a crinkle of hope and relief behind them.

Steve was back in the attic, split between the before and after of Eddie’s eye losing life behind them, mere seconds before the ground split.

For the first time, Steve ran away.

—

To his credit, it had taken a week before anyone found him. And by anyone, it was Robin of course.

“What are you doing here?” Robin wrinkled her nose as she looked down at him, hands in overall pockets. She was upside down from where Steve was laying down.

“Enjoying the view.” Steve gestured up with the can he was drinking from.

Robin looked at the sky and glared back down at him, “It’s cloudy and about to rain, smartass.”

Steve giggled, chasing the tipsiness while it lasted. He never stayed high or drunk long enough after the Russians injected their truth serum in his veins. “You called me a smartass.”

“Jesus, Steve,” Robin groaned as she squatted down and pulled him up to a sitting position. Steve tried to swat her away but she refused to let go.

“Where the hell are you?” Robin asked. Steve raised an eyebrow at her and gestured to the wide wheat field they were in. Couldn’t be Indiana without them.

“No, where-” Robin snatched the beer can out of his hand despite Steve’s protests, “-the hell are you?”

Steve glared back at her. “Don’t speak riddles- ow!”

Robin hit him square on the cheek with the can, which was better than another hit on the head. Then her fists curled into the stained collar of his shirt and Steve was treated to the up-close view of her snarling teeth.

“Why the fuck aren’t you at Eddie’s side? Why aren’t you with everyone else giving him support to start physical therapy? Where were you?”

Steve swallowed. The tippiness was already gone. He had been holding it for about.. two hours? That had to be a new record.

Robin shook him violently, “Where-?”

“Nowhere!” Steve yelled. His voice carried across the fields for a few seconds before the echo died. He continued before Robin opened her mouth again, “I just want to be nowhere in Hawkins because I let that town fall apart! So what if El is fixing the fissures, none of it changes that everyone knows it’s my fault they were even there!”

Robin had loosened her grip but Steve kept going, the pieces of himself that died with Eddie he had tried to bury under the broken floorboards at that attic resurfacing. It all came out watery and salty in his mouth.

“I told everyone - you, Wayne, Dustin, Nancy - that Eddie will be fine! Nothing would happen because I would stay with him. But something happened and he died! He died in my arms, Robs, and now he’s awake and I can’t just let myself pretend that I looked away for one second and let Vecna kill him while I could have done something.” Steve sucked in a shaky breath. He looked into Robin’s eyes and tried to smile like used to.

“Steve…” Robin was no longer angry. She looked like she was about to cry.

“His heart stopped.” Steve whispered. It was a well-known fact among the party. Dumb Steve was distracted and Eddie got his bones broken and was medically dead for a minute. “I felt his heart… it just stopped.”

He had spent the rest of that week listening and feeling Eddie’s heartbeat. It had become his own song, the lifeline between them. It had both assured Steve and nearly drove him mad. It was a sacred prayer made between their devoted lips on that blissful night when Eddie had survived.

“You will live. You will live.”

Steve should have known better than to pray. No one listened to his prayers since he was seventeen.

His teeth started chattering, a habit from clenching his jaw so hard whenever he was about to cry.

“His heart stopped and I had to hold him while the gates opened.” The tears finally slipped. “Now ask me again where I was.”

Robin doesn’t. She hugged him tight, making no comment even as the rain broke out or when Steve wiped his snot over the shoulder of her shirt.

—

Steve lingered at the door for another minute before he took in a deep breath and finally stepped inside.

To his surprise, Eddie was alone. Steve briefly wondered if this was Robin’s work but he shook that away. He approached the bed quietly, not willing to announce himself yet.

“I know it’s you.”

Steve froze. Eddie made a quiet chuckling sound before he turned his head towards Steve’s direction. His sole eye had cleared slightly, more brown than white. Most of the thick bandages were removed in lieu of a simple eyepatch. There was a thin tube running out under it.

“Like my new look?” Eddie tilted his head up slowly, probably not to jostle the tube. “It’s modeled after my ancestor Edward Blackbeard. Can’t grow the beard though, something about hygiene.”

It was almost a shock how Eddie retained his humor despite the worst week of their lives. Yet it was so Eddie that Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

“If you can’t grow a beard, then your hair genetics are terrible.” Steve joked back, letting himself sit on one of the chairs.

Eddie opened his mouth to mock-retort back, but winced soon after. He was quiet for a few moments before he spoke again, slowly this time, “Apparently I have so much leftover brain juice that the docs need to drain it out before I get approved for physical.”

“Ah,” was all Steve said.

“Yeah.”

They fell into silence again, less comfortable than Steve was used to. He glanced at the casts around Eddie’s arm and leg, all covered with doodles from the kids. It clenched at his heart.

“You know what was one of the things he showed me?”

Steve snapped his gaze back up. Eddie wasn’t looking at him.

It was the first time that either of them dared to breach the topic of Vecna’s visions.

“W-What?”

“He showed how you were an asshole at school, but mega-worse. Made you into someone who was with me just for the sex and weed.” Eddie shrugged like it was no big deal. “Then you ran away even when I called for you to come back.”

Nausea hit Steve like a freight train. He just stared at Eddie because that was what Steve had done.

He had run away because when he saw Eddie looking at him after being comatose, Steve had seen the exact opposite of that moment’s future. Steve had been convinced that Eddie would never forgive him for not saving him and Steve would rather flee like the goddamn Cowardly Lion than face another spit of anger.

“Eds-” Steve started but Eddie was looking back at him and he wasn’t done.

“You know I never believed that last part? Because I knew what kind of person you were and you would never leave.” Eddie’s eye flashed with anger. “So why, on the day I finally woke up, you looked at me in the eye and ran?”

Steve came apart. There had to be something wrong with him, that maybe Vecna secretly targeted him before his ass got fried up, because he was good at shoving the worst of his emotions down. But he had been making more waterworks in the past month than the Niagara Falls.

Steve clenched his nails into his thighs as he blubbered out, “I’m sorry, Eds, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Eddie made some kind of dying animal noise at the back of his throat. Steve felt sick again. He was back at the stupid attic, Eddie on his lap as he breathed too fast and Steve wanted him to slow down before he choked on his own blood-

“-eve, Steve, come here, c’mon.”

He felt his upper body moving. Then he was pressed against another below him. A hand on the side of his head.

“Listen, listen, Stevie.”

Steve bit his lip and stayed quiet, waiting for what Eddie to say next.

But he only heard an ongoing rhythm of babump-babump-babump-babump against his ear.

“You hear that, sweetheart?”

Steve shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears racing down his face.

“Remember what you said that night? That no matter how we defeat Vecna, that I will live.”

“You died.” Steve blurted, “You died and I got Hawkins destroyed.”

Eddie was silent for an awfully long time. Steve felt him swallow a few times before he replied firmly, “Don’t say it like that.”

“Huh?” Steve finally lifted his head up. Eddie still looked angry but it seemed directed elsewhere entirely.

“I took that risk to be the bait. I knew that there was a fifty-fifty chance I would make it out unscathed. I knew what I had to do, but no matter what-” Eddie paused for a moment, clear drops of tears falling from his eye. “I will live.”

With a shaky breath, he smiled wearily at Steve, “And look at me, sweetheart. I kept that promise.”

Steve cried again. He desperately wanted to kiss Eddie but his boyfriend was clearly still in pain, so he carefully cupped his hands under Eddie’s jaw, mindful of the bandages and tube. “I’m so sorry I ran away. I was scared you would hate me, well you kinda did now-”

Eddie shushed him, “Please stop doing that. I never hated you, I was just mad and now I’m not anymore.”

“Still-” Steve was cut off by Eddie leaning forward, bopping his nose against Steve’s. Eddie made another wince and the two of them waited for whatever pain to subside before Eddie spoke again.

“If you promise to be there every day of my physical therapy and don’t be a dick about my missing eye and whatever of me needs extra care, then your sins will be forgiven.”

Steve gave out a watery laugh, “Easy promise.”

#klaus writes #steddie #stranger things #steddielovemonth #was eddie’s ‘death’ inspired by sarah’s death in tlou? perhaps.#also I may have written this as more loose than the og prompt so hopefully that’s fine

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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Nothing’s Wrong with Dale - Part Six

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

Story Status: Complete

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 6

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] Part Six [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four] [Part Thirty-Five]

You don’t realize how tired you feel, going over endless wedding details inside the meeting room, until you notice how restless Dale has gotten.

While he’s always moving in small ways—shifting his weight, running his fingers along objects near him—after hours of debating what flowers should be ordered and arranged in what manner, what songs should be chosen, seating charts to be agreed upon, he has clearly reached his limit. Thinking back, he had similarly begun to get anxious this morning, but that lesson ended sooner.

While not feeling it nearly to the extent Dale is, you realize you too have begun to feel rather cooped up and sore from sitting at the same table for so long, bent over charts and papers. Since Dale is quickly reminding you of your youngest nephew when he desperately needs to relieve himself, you petition for a rest to step away from the arrangements.

Dale leaps to his feet nearly as soon as the words are out of your mouth. “A lovely idea.” He reaches a hand down to you, an offer to help you to your feet he offers thoughtlessly these days, his eyes on his grandparents. You appreciate his instinctive manners more than you expect, along with how agreeable he is to your suggestion. “I believe a chance to stretch our legs is just what we need before we tackle our next task.”

Grandmother smiles. “Of course, I forget how full of energy you young ones are.” She gestures out the large windows to the east garden. “Take your fiance for a stroll, sweetheart. My eyes would appreciate a rest even if my legs would not.”

You’re hopes to talk with Dale alone, for even a few minutes, are put on hold when Grandfather stands as well saying, “I think I shall accompany you.”

“Of course,” you murmur even as Dale tucks your arm under his to lead you outside. He’s cooler than you expect, even through the layers of his sleeves, but firm.

When you step onto the grounds, the breeze is welcome, even with the clouds reminding you of earlier in spring rather than how you think the weather should be this far into Pentary. You relax as you leave the more stifled indoor atmosphere. Dale must agree because you can feel tension leak out of him as you begin to leisurely walk toward one of the garden paths.

Grandfather’s reminisces about his own wedding, and how much simpler it was back then, are interrupted when the head gardener comes up to ask him a question. You’re mildly surprised when he waves you and Dale to continue on your stroll while he speaks with the man. Perhaps he really had just wanted to take a walk himself instead of some outdated idea of chaperoning.

It’s perfectly acceptable for a betrothed couple to take a walk alone together, but you’d never been particularly inclined with the original Dale. A slight shiver of nerves—good or bad, you can’t tell—races down your spine at the thought of doing so with this Dale. And you want to know what he’s like on his own, without the others around, because if you are married, you’re going to be seeing a lot of him alone. You want to know if you’re making a mistake, going through with this. You want to find that out sooner rather than later.

“I confess, I had not been aware of how many details and decisions needed to be made for a wedding,” Dale says. He’s turned his face towards the sun, reminding you of a cat, and you notice his skin, which had gotten alarmingly pale during his sickness, appears to be well on its way back to its healthy golden luster. He turns to look down at him and his eyes are the least dilated they’ve ever been allowing the blue in them to almost glow. “It truly is quite a lot.”

You smile shyly up at him, glad this Dale doesn’t mind admitting to not knowing something, even as minor as this. “In truth, neither had I. I’ve only been to a handful, and most of them as a child since my siblings are older. It seemed far more effortless then.” It seemed that, especially when you were younger, everything merely happened to you, around you. Your place as the youngest, as the sickly one, as the extraneous one, meant you had very little control over any part of your life.

You used to think if you were cooperative and obedient, that you would be good enough. That your family would let you find yourself and discover you were your own person. That they might express some semblance of interest in you. You eventually came to realize that wouldn’t be the case, but you had no idea what to do about it at the time. As you grew older and healthier, you managed to carve out small pieces of your own autonomy—snuck time for people you liked or hobbies you enjoyed—but you mostly played your part.

Your betrothal to Lord Dale of Northridge had seemed like the best opportunity to start anew. An opportunity to arrange things as you liked them, to have someone who was forced to look at you. You hadn’t been wrong exactly, and Dale had seen you to some extent, for all he was clearly only mildly satisfied with what he saw. You’d adjusted your plans accordingly though, not given up on them.

So what if your husband was spoiled and heavy-handed? Plenty of noblemen were, it's not as though that was a true surprise. You’d still thought this was the best way forward. He’d probably have played the part of a decent husband and Lord for a bit. As he took over Northridge’s management and married life, you expected him to treat the endeavor like a child with a new toy, likely long enough for the two of you to take the reins of Northridge from his grandparents and for you to get with child, before he grew bored and resumed spending his time in pursuit of his own hobbies.

And that had been fine.

Not ideal, but fine. Grandmother and Grandfather Northridge were quite lovely, managing the Northridge holdings would have given you plenty to do, and you wanted your own family.

Strange how so much and yet so little could change in the matter of a week or so.

“Doesn’t it?” Dale says thoughtfully, breaking through your thoughts. “I barely noticed any of these details,” he waves his free hand vaguely in the air to his left, “and now it's all I can think of. They certainly act as though these small decisions are of the utmost importance. Do you think the choice of flowers has the potential to ruin the rest of our lives?”

The glint in his eyes betrays his opinion and your smile widens. “Of course, my lord. How could it not?”

“Quite.” Dale grins in response, guiding you around a little pond. “Do you have any notion of how much is left to decide today?”

You consider his question. “I believe we settled on the music and therefore what’s left is to decide on what food we’ll be serving,” you say slowly. Grandmother is the one running the show so to speak, but she’s been soliciting both yours and Dale’s opinions. It’s novel to have your opinion requested, instead of being told what to do or to sneak your own choices where it couldn’t be noticed. It’s… really nice, actually. “The clothiers will arrive tomorrow so we do not have to do anything with wedding clothes today.”

“I’m looking forward to that, actually,” Dale says with a cheeky smile. It’s interesting to see where he and the original Dale overlap. You had noticed that he was dressed quite every time he appeared at dinner, but you thought that had more to do with trying to make himself look healthier or more like what the original Dale would have worn. Today, he’s wearing a very richly embroidered dark blue jacket with a matching embossed waistcoat that fits him quite well.

“I’m not sure I am,” you admit. “There’s a bit more tailoring and poking when it comes to women’s layering than men’s.”

Dale’s eyes draw down your form, taking in your dress and lingering on your skirts—layered with stiffer fabric to give them a fuller appearance. “I imagine so.” His gaze returns to your face, but he takes his time doing so in a manner that makes you breathless for reasons you can’t determine. “I’m sure we can find the right style to suit both our figures.”

“Right,” you reply, having lost your train of thought in the face of his attention.

“I hope the other events Grandmother wants to have don’t require a similar number of decision making,” Dale says, his eyes drifting back to the garden as he turns you down the next path. “We’ll still be planning by the time they finish.”

You follow his lead, the reminder of such social events snapping your focus back to the conversation at hand. “I’ve no idea how many she finishes to even have.” Your grip on his arm tightens with your anxiety. Your teeth tighten around your bottom lip. “I hope she doesn’t wish to have more than three or four, like Steward Bilmont said. I—”

A tug on your arm cuts off your words as Dale flails with a small yelp of surprise. Your hand fastens over his own as he falters, ankle turning as a brick from the path dislodges and falls into the small stream.

“Oh!” You pivot, reaching out for his other hand and trying to keep him from ending up in the water. His hand latches on to your arm after a second of wild swings through the air. His hand is strong, fingers like iron as they hold onto you accompanied by small pin pricks of pressure you don’t understand. Paying his strength no mind, you widen your stance to better steady him. In only a few seconds, you’re able to walk you both back a few steps onto the rest of the path.

When he seems able to stand on his own, you let go with one hand to crouch down and pick up his cane. Handing it back to him, you ask, “Are you alright?”

He accepts the cane back almost sheepishly, seemingly more embarrassed by the incident more than anything else. It's the first time you’ve seen his cheeks this dark—neither Dale seemed particularly inclined to shame. Like so many, he has the same inclination when not feeling up to snuff—pretend like you are regardless. No one ever likes to acknowledge their own limits, but you’d been sick enough that you had no choice but to recognize them and act accordingly. Of course, it's possible Dale doesn’t know what his limits are these days.

“Yes, sorry about that,” his voice is purposely light. “Lost my footing there. Obviously I should have been using this,” he brandishes the cane, “with my other hand since I had you to keep me steady on this side. Thank you.”

“You should still sit down,” you say, ignoring the brush off—too aware of how he hasn’t actually let go of your arm, that there’s a fine tremor going through him. You begin ushering him in the direction of the shaded bench you’d likely been heading towards anyways. “You’ve really only been getting up for meals the past few days,” you fuss. “Best not to overexert yourself.”

“I don’t need to sit, I’m not truly injured,” he protests, but he lets you guide him where you please. As you pull him down to the bench with you, his voice is firmer as he assures you, “I’m fine.”

“Even so,” you say, acknowledging his words, but encouraging him to stay seated as you study his ankle. It doesn’t look broken or sprained—his boot is high enough that it should have kept it relatively straight despite the ground shifting beneath it. “You don’t want to set your wonderful progress back, now do you?”

“Of course not.” His indulgent tone brings your eyes back to his face where you can see some amusement in his eyes. “I appreciate your concern, sana.”

“What does that mean?” you find yourself blurting out the words without thinking. When his eyes brows raise, you swallow, committing to the question. “Sana”, I mean.” It sounds almost like an endearment, but that can’t be right and you need to know, need to know if it’s an insult or just means betrothed or whatever else so you can stop thinking about what he keeps calling you, so you can stop thinking it's more than it is.

Dale adjusts himself more comfortably on the bench, leaning his can against the seat and spreading one arm along the back behind you. He hums thoughtfully, “Hm, I’m not sure there is a precise translation.” He rubs his chin, eyes unfocused, as he thinks. Not ‘doctor’, but perhaps more akin to ‘healer’. It’s not strictly referring to a profession, more of an attitude and a facility for healing, beyond the physical or the chemical.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Your help with my recovery, even though I did ask nor did anyone expect you to do anything, your focus and your teas—the advice given to the cooks for my meals,” he trails off with a shrug. “It just seemed to fit.” His eyes sharpen back on yours and he straightens at whatever expression must be on your face. “Does it offend you? Because I can—”

“No!” you say hastily. You try to order your thoughts, because you’d felt a little flattered before, when you weren’t confused or assuming the worst. He can’t get the wrong impression. “No, I don’t mind.” You tug on the bottom of one sleeve before you stroke it so it lays flat again. “No one’s ever said anything like that about me before, that’s all.” You push some of your curls out of your eyes. “I was the sickly one, not the one who helped others get better.”

“Well, I feel as though you should receive credit for the rapidity of my convalescence,” Dale says firmly.

“I have no formal training,” you protest. “I’m not—”

“You have true experience, self-won,” Dale interrupts with surprising vehemence. “What could be more valuable?”

You flush and look down. Whenever your family spoke of your illnesses and recovery, they spoke as if it were down to luck and your doctor’s expertise that you survived. And you think that’s true, to some extent, but regardless they don’t even seem to think about what it must have been like for you. They act as though you slept through the first half of your life. But you didn’t. You remember quite a lot of the experience and you actively managed your health and conditions as much as you were able to. It's remarkably validating to hear Dale acknowledge that. “I suppose,” you allow.

A finger tilts your face up so that your eyes meet his intent, always so intent, gaze. “So it doesn’t bother you?”

You shake your head slowly. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Good.”

His hand drops away from your face. There’s no tension left in his body as he settles loosely against the back of the bench, tilting his face to the sun, obviously content and delighted in this beautiful afternoon. He doesn’t seem to notice how you watch him, although you think he must be aware of your scrutiny on some level. “It was so dark for so long,” he murmurs. “How I’ve missed the sun.”

It had been cloudy and rainy since your arrival a few weeks ago and then Dale had shut himself in his chambers with no light, but you don’t think that’s what he means. You’d never really thought about it, but the Depths were probably quite dark. You’d thought it must not be to demons and spirits, but maybe it was dark even to them. You lean back against the bench as well, and try not to think about differently this whole day would have gone, if the Dale you first met was here instead.

One part of the conversation from earlier nags at you. “About your friend…”

“Hm?”

“The one from Vaomen,” you say slowly, wondering if this is the best way to broach the subject.

Dale stiffens immediately, so perhaps it was not. His eyes pop open, find your own instantly. “What about him? He is of no consequence now.”

His voice is flat and hard in a way that's unsettling in how different he’s spoken before. You regret bringing this up, but there’s no way out but through. “I know Grandmother is rather… set in her ways. But perhaps there’s another way your friend could come. I could—”

“No,” Dale cuts you off, looking more uncomfortable and wooden than he ever has before.

You nod jerkily. You’d thought this would be a good way to bring up what happened to him, but perhaps it's not. Perhaps it's too soon. You’d not thought too long on how he might react and you regret even broaching the subject.

His countenance softens and he sighs. “No, it's alright. It was foolish of me to even mention him to them. It had…slipped my mind, Grandmother’s attitude.”

You think back to this morning, where he needed a reminder for information he already knew to really click. You wonder if that had also happened when Grandmother reacted as she did when a person who just lived in a country associated with demons came up. “She’s rather… passionate about the subject, but you could invite your friend another way.” You want him to know that you aren’t writing him off just for what he is, but you don’t know how.

When he stares hard at a tree and just shakes his head, you don’t think it’s working. “No, it’s best not to upset her.” He gives you a weak smile. “We already finalized the guest list as it is. I’d hate to have to rehash all that.”

You reluctantly let the topic go. Surely, there will be a better time for this discussion. A time he’s hopefully feeling less defensive. “Of course. My sister and mother argued about the guest list for her wedding until the week before.” There’s gratitude in his eyes for the subject change and you let that warm you. “The last few days I barely left my rooms in case they tried to draw me into their argument—they drafted anyone they came across into the fight.”

Dale opens his mouth to respond when a sharp whistle gets your attention. You both turned to see Grandfather jerk his head back towards the house before heading that way himself.

Dale picks his cane up and pulls himself to his feet, offering his hand once more to you. “I certainly have no wish for these debates and decisions to drag on longer than they have to.”

“Yes, I’m rather relieved it's going as smoothly as it is.” You accept his arm once to head back and a companionable silence envelops you.

“I was remiss in our lessons this morning,” Dales says abruptly. “Does Steward Bilmont have your family history as well?”

You frown in confusion, not understanding why he’s asking. “He does, but it is not as though you knew before, my Lord.”

“An oversight on my part,” he says smoothly, but a frown is drawn across his face. “If we are to be wed and our families joined, of course I should know of your family as well.”

It’s nice, to think he might show more interest in you than Dale ever had beyond what he felt he needed to know and yet you still felt the urge to say, “I suppose. They will not have nearly as much bearing on our lives as your family will. We will live in your family estate, with your grandparents.”

His frown deepens as he looks at you, his gaze searching. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem to find it, but he doesn’t argue further. “As you say,” he replies evenly. “Still, I would like to learn about those attending our wedding at the very least. Surely it would be rude if I were to meet one of your sisters and not even know her name because I was ignorant.”

You smile at his consideration. “Of course.” Maybe you’re a fool for trusting a demon, especially so quickly. But you do and you want to. You want to trust Dale. You want to like Dale. You want to build a life with him. “I’d be happy to tell you whatever you wish to know.”

Dale’s posture finally seems to ease once more and he smiles. “Thank you. I shall hold you to that.” His smile turns almost impish with that promise. It suits him.

“I would expect nothing less,” you reply with an answering smile.

[Part Seven]

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