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moominofthevalley · 4 months

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Turpentine

While snowed in together, Trystan asks the Ginovesi crew a morbid question.

Characters: Trystan Thorne, Emily Rose, Ruby Webster, Luke Watanabe

WC: 2.1k

R: Teen | CW: Talks of death & Spoilers for 2.15

CFWC Prompt: Stuck in a snowstorm

Glistening fairy lights cornered all four walls of Luke and Ruby’s apartment, the yellow bulbs warming their hearth. A tree dusted with faux snow and wrapped with pink garlands sat by the TV, brimming with gifts underneath. Honeysuckle wine and a charcuterie board made by Emily were set on the table, crackers and prosciutto splattered across. The surly detective giggled, crossing her arms at Trystan’s creation.

“You are such a showoff.”

Trystan laughed at her remark as he set the main course on the dinner table. Husks of steam slipped out of the honey-glazed duck, leaving their mouths watering. Roasted pears and plump blood sausages sat beside it, the heavenly aroma wafting around the air.

“You know I live to boast, darling.”

“I think my dish is way better,” Luke beamed, setting his strawberry spongecake beside the duck. Ruby giggled, laying a batch of cookies on the table.

“It certainly looks amazing,” Ruby said, “I can’t wait to try it, honey.”

“Ah, yes, but did you spend two days making it?” Trystan teased, pouring himself a glass of wine — a floral zest with a crisp aftertaste, exquisitely sweet and spirited. Emily elbowed him, playfully furrowing her brows.

“Anyways,” Ruby cleared her throat, “I’m so glad we’re finally home.”

“Agreed,” Luke plopped a grape into his mouth, “I don’t think I can ever handle being in a room with every Thorne again.”

Emily and Trystan shared an uneasy glance, silently unveiling mutual sorrow. Months have passed since their ungodly case in Trystan’s homeland, though the time spent there forever stained them. Emily’s mouth ran dry as Sebastyan’s and Vasili’s corpses rushed through her mind. The dagger tight in Vasili’s chest, the petrified eyes of Sebastyan as he died at the hands of another Thorne. Two ghosts clinging on their shoulders.

“It’s hard to believe our little stint in Drakovia is over,” Emily shook her head, “I wonder what our next big case is gonna be.”

“No more cheating husband cases for you?” Ruby asked, her brow cocked amusingly. Emily grinned with a mischievous shrug.

“As tempting as that sounds, I might need bigger fish to go after.” Trystan chuckled, splaying his hand on top of Emily’s.

“Drakovia has spoiled her. Good luck getting her to take the common cases again.”

“Do you think you’d ever look into…your dad’s murder?” Luke asked, almost nonchalantly. Ruby sent him a warning glance, lightly bumping his feet underneath the table. Trystan’s hands curled into Emily’s, solace in his eyes.

Emily gulped. Each time she debated looking into Jimmy’s death, there were far too many holes, far too many questions, and not enough evidence for her liking. Distant memories of bickering with Uncle Tommy and Trystan struck her, and she cringed at how horrible she became. Desperately hungry to solve the only question she had left. She refused to let her and Trystan turn into a pair of tectonic plates – subtly rubbing against each other, then drifting away forever. To not catch the death of a relationship until it’s already rotting, staining every moment with resentment and twisted words. Even the slightest possibility of another heartbreak sent her spiraling downwards.

“I’ve…thought about it,” she frowned, “One day, though.”

“One day.”

The heavy moment passed, and the Ginovesi crew - bar Malfada - began their feast. They all vehemently agreed, to Luke’s dismay, that Trystan’s duck was the clear winner. Luke’s shortcake was no match for the savory and crisp flavors of the traditional Drakovian dinner. Though his cake appeared light and fluffy, it was overly dense and oddly sour. Ruby’s cookies and Emily’s board tied for second place, both sweet and made with love. A blend of cookies framed like snowflakes, snowmen, Snoopy in Santa hats, and candy canes bunched together on a plate. The charcuterie board was a splendid still life, adorning moon drop grapes, saltine crackers, and sprigs of rosemary. Plates were stuffed and spirited laughs rang across the warmly-lit home.

“Good God!” Emily groaned, swallowing a bitter slice of Luke’s cake, “What the fuck did you put in this?”

Luke’s eyes widened, “Do you not like strawberries?”

“Try it yourself! I don’t even…” Emily spat out the remaining bits, nearly gagging.

Reluctantly, Luke cut himself a small serving. Trystan and Ruby cackled as his face turned red, spitting the remains onto a napkin.

“Jesus!” Luke shivered, “Okay–I think I know what happened.”

“What did you do?!”

“...I may have used salt instead of sugar.”

“Oh my God!” Trystan laughed, slapping his knee, “You are a horrible baker!”

“It-it’s not my fault!” Luke said sheepishly, throwing his hands in the air. Ruby snickered, patting his shoulder.

“Babe. You literally made the cake.”

Rounds of laughs echoed through the kitchen, contentment and joy present on the soft New York night. Blissful moments fell around them as heaps of snow tumbled down like raindrops, piling up minute by minute.

* * * *

Standing by the window sill, Emily’s eyes tracked the ebb and flow of snowfall. Faint Christmas tunes slipped through the window crack, presumably from the neighbor. She hummed delightedly, eyes shut at the still moment. Moonlight burst into the room, dimly lit and warm despite the glowing chill from the glass before her. The swell of nearby trumpets and saxophones and Earthly beauty brought her to ease.

“Don’t tell the others, Detective, but your charcuterie board was my favorite,” Trystan grinned, sitting beside her.

“Oh really?” Emily smirked, “Are you sure you’re not being biased?”

“Hm,” Trystan gave her a so-so gesture, “Definitely not.”

Cupping both sides of her face, Trystan’s pupils widened fondly. Emily turned slightly, kissing his palm.

“Your hands still smell like garlic!”

Trystan chuckled, sniffing his hand. Sure enough, the pungent odor attacked his nose. He shrugged it off, focused on the gruff detective.

“I love you, my little moon!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know! You’re a bit…glum. And very short.”

“I am 5’3, you tall shit!” Emily swatted his arm, “I would call you my ‘sun,’ but you’re more like a little dog.”

“What? How?”

“You follow me around all day. And listen to my orders – for the most part.”

“Not to ruin the moment,” Luke announced as he pointed to his phone, “There’s a snow squall warning. It’ll clear up tomorrow morning, but you guys will have to stay the night.”

“How fun!” Ruby squealed, “It’ll be like a sleepover! I’ll go get blankets so you two can sleep on the couch.”

She disappeared into the hallway closet, hunting for the thickest blankets and pillows possible. Luke cocked an eyebrow, unamused as Trystan and Emily sat on the couch across from him.

“So when you said you loved Ruby’s cookies you were lying?” He asked Trystan, crossing his arms in faux-anger. Trystan chuckled, unashamed.

“I did love Ruby’s cookies – they were phenomenal. Much better than your shortcake anyway,” He teased, “Emily’s just happened to be my favorite.”

“You two are such children,” Emily said, snorting. “I–”

Darkness surrounded them. The only light left was the waning candlelight on the kitchen table. Gusts of wind flickered from the cracked window, a biting chill creeping up on their skin. Concerned, Ruby poked her head out of the closet.

“Hot-diggity-daffodil!” Luke proclaimed, “I guess the power’s out, too.”

“We can see that, Luke.” Ruby returned with a bundle of blankets. The crew settled in the living room, the window now shut, bottles of wine and lively candles by the coffee table. An easy silence shrouded the room, with only the croaking rats in the walls and the crackling candles to distract them. They all sipped the remains of the honeysuckle wine, sweetness trickling down their throats like candle wax melting onto the table.

“I have an idea,” Trystan cleared his throat, “It is a bit morbid, though.”

“What is it?” Ruby asked, curious.

“In Drakovia, we go around in circles asking certain…questions. Usually around New Year’s, but we’re in the middle of a snowstorm. It’s not like we have much else to do.”

“What type of questions?”

Trystan sat still, contemplating. An eerieness in his eyes, a peculiar tenacity about him. He flinched at the briefest second, then shrugged.

“If you were dying, how would you like to pass away? What would you like to have with you?”

Quietness surrounded them once more, their breaths slightly more tense and strained. Emily sat closer to Trystan instinctively, craning her head against his shoulder. The candles continued to wail, as Ruby cleared her throat with somberness in her eyes.

“I think…if we ever got one,” She glanced at Luke, “I’d like to have a little cat in my lap. And Luke to hold my hand. And maybe a cup of tea, but only in that calico-printed mug you got me for our anniversary.”

Luke wiped feeble tears from Ruby’s cheek, a rare solemness on his face. He grinned weakly, pressing a kiss on the side of her face. Ruby’s heart swayed in the lull air, her hand tight in his.

“I need Ruby next to me, laying by me. And I want it all to be quiet,” Luke murmured, “I don’t want to be able to hear anything. But I want there to be a window. So I can look up at the sky one more time. I don’t care if it’s day or night…that’s all I want.”

Silence lay steadily upon them, the croaking rats having vanished. The candles remained lit, embers mute and growing frail. Warmth bloomed between them, huddling closer together. The moon climbed further into the night sky, its silvery rays illuminating the apartment. Trystan fiddled with his fingers, as Emily’s hands rubbed circles around his legs. It was like muscle memory. Rituals and silly minuscule traditions became more familiar to the two of them with each passing month. Chopping garlic cloves, peeling oranges, collecting ugly trinkets.

“I’d want someone to play old Drakovian music…the songs my father showed me as a kid. And,” Trystan grinned at Emily, a smile so unabashedly bold and bare it nearly brought her to tears, “I want you to kiss my forehead. And rub my feet.”

Emily pecked the top of his head, her eyes burning as Diana’s kind words echoed in her mind. Trystan wiped away her tears, tenderness with every touch.

She was familiar with death. A one-sided friendship, a shadow lurking behind her with every step she took. It offered no hope and no excuses. The only things bereavement brought were ghostly memories and pearls from the past rolling in her hand, daring to be dropped. Her fingers trembled, her mouth dry as she urged herself to go on.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” Emily said finally, slightly panting, “Every single one of them died in pain. And alone. Sonja. Bethany. Nadja. Sebastyan. I don’t want it to be like that. I want to be ready. And...Trystan next to me.”

They all leaned against each other. The candles shined well into the night, fickle and bright. Empty wine bottles scented the room, warm and heady. Emily shut her eyes, picturing herself as a sleeping child being carried to bed after a long drive home. Laughter through the walls, the ticking of a nearby clock, soft jazz slipping through the window, a kiss on her cheek. Perhaps it’d be good to her. Just a brief second and all that’d remain was a tombstone with her name.

Emily unveiled her vision, the rest of her friends in tears. Trystan stroked her hair gently, still smiling. It was simple. It was clear.

“All we want is everything we have,” He said, their faces inches apart, “And I’m the richest man in the world.”

* * * *

Ruby and Luke shut their bedroom door, Emily and Trystan now alone on the couch. With her legs in his lap, he rested a hand on her thigh, tracing lazy circles. The candles had long died out, leaving only moonbeams and constellations to light up the room.

“Em?” Trystan whispered as Emily moved over to lie on his chest. She gazed into his argent eyes, exasperation clear on his face.

“Mhm?”

“Do you remember when I refused to go on that plane? All those months ago.” Emily snorted quietly, Trystan gliding his hands along her back.

“Of course I do. I knew you weren’t going to.”

“Do you remember what you said to me after that?”

“Mhm. I told you there’s a reason partners and romance don’t mix well. That it’s trouble waiting to happen.”

“And then I told you that I just so happen to like trouble.”

They smirked, noses crinkled and eyes bagged. Trystan cupped Emily’s chin, palms still smeared with the scent of garlic.

“I’m glad we’re partners.”

“I am too.”

* * * * A/N: Happy holidays, everyone! Thank you for reading this – I came up with this idea FOREVER AGO but was never able to execute it until now. I’ve always loved the idea of thinking of death, not as something to fear (though I still struggle with that), but rather as something that is just a little moment. That’s painful, and maybe not necessarily beautiful, but something that just happens organically. Like that one poem that’s like “I hope death is like being carried to your bedroom as a child.” I actually wrote a poem about that, if anyone would be interested in me posting it. Anyway – thank you again for reading!

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