#yes the halo became his blind fold | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

talietikasero · 3 years

Text

Aria of the Sol

So, this is a preview (with brief context before each scene) for something I’ve been working on for a while. This is a “what if" scenario following the "Aria was revived” ending (/ original implication?). Set in the three-week gap between Revelator and Strive.

[Check it out on AO3]

Scene 1 (Chapter 1): Aria wakes up in the hospital and meets her daughter and son-in-law. [Inspired by “Ch’io mi scordi di te?” by rex101111]

[November 25. Illyrian Royal Medical Center, Patient Room 107. 11:02 am] Approximately five days had passed since she was checked in as a patient. If only she knew the collective shock from the medical staff and those who were waiting to visit their family members when they saw her unconscious form being brought into the facility by Sol nearly kicking the doors off, who had Ky and Sin trailing right behind. Those standing outside were treated to the sight of the Gullinkambi Dark acting as the group's transport, with Daryl's fleet right behind as they were all returning to Eastern Illyria.

“She gonna be alright?”

“Let’s hope so.”

“You’re good to go, Johnny. Thanks for the lift.”

“Anytime.”

“Daryl, drop the girls at my home. Dizzy will be waiting outside.”

“Understood.”

Inside her head, memories of who she was started flooding in from two clashing sources. Source A had recent memories about her days figuring out what it’s like to be human. People tracking her down, one annoyed she got away, another insisting she take off the mask so he could see her face. Source B saw nothing but death and destruction, whether it was from her hands or not. Humanity hated her for this, but she didn’t care. Those foolish “knights" who dared oppose her. That grumpy old man who, against all odds, survived fighting her on seventeen different occasions. Out of those eleven brave souls who participated in the tournament that led to her release, one stood above the rest. When she saw him, it was then that she remembered herself —who they were – before taking her final breath.

“H… How could I have forgotten you? If only we could have talked one last time… Just the three of us…”

“…Justice…? That’s right… The man who created us… our boss! I won’t rest until you lie writhing in agony before me!!”

Vision hazy, she stood alone in a void that seemed all too familiar before seeing two others in front of her. This strange woman with a halo and a pumpkin motif who mirrored her in physical appearance down to the face simply smiled, where the armored monster who she admittedly was frightened by stood idly and stared before nodding. They faced each other, joining their hands before merging as one. She saw her own reflection, still dressed in her researcher clothes. Her identity became clear.

She is Aria Hale, one of the key researchers assigned to the Gear Project.

Various figures and faces she couldn’t put names to appear one by one, two of which appeared to be her old colleagues still dressed in their white lab coats. She wanted to call out to them before refraining as they changed into strange attire. One was covered from head to toe in a hooded robe that looked more like a straitjacket than anything, where the other was clad in red, black, and white, and was the reason for her demise seven years prior. Was this truly how they were in her absence? Everything suddenly went blinding white.

Aria had regained consciousness. Nose crinkling at the sterile "lemon" scent, her eyes slowly opened to see the dimmed fluorescent light above. "Nnnngh, where am I?" Her sudden awakening startled the nurse who was doing her hourly check-in, causing her to rush out the door and call for one of the main physicians. Whoops. Curious about her surroundings, she saw that she was dressed in a light blue hospital gown and had been hooked up to a system that tracked her life signs. This wasn’t the project complex infirmary. Where exactly was she?

When the nurse returned following a doctor, Aria apologized for the unintended scare, to which the latter understood and said she overreacted. After a series of questions regarding any possible issues and if she had any dietary restrictions, the doctor had another staff member bring her something to eat and drink. She wasn’t listening to what they were discussing but did catch “well now that she’s up, please contact his majesty.”

[1:15 pm]

“That was unexpected.” The breakfast she ate wasn’t the subpar hospital food she recalled from back then. Rather, she was given a bowl of freshly chopped fruits, some toast and berry cream cheese, and a mug of coffee with sweet cinnamon cream and sugar mixed in. As an afternoon treat, she was also left a fruit tart, along with a kettle of hot water, a small assortment of tea, and two cups.

Aria was passing time with a copy of the local newspaper in hand while the radio played music, trying to wrap her head around what she was reading. The main story reported that there was this worldwide battle ranging from Illyria to the Japanese Colony. The article detailed various heroes fighting against someone named Ariels's forces; assassins, pirates, a doctor (with a paper bag on his head? What in the hell), some soldiers (oh my god just how large is that man with the helm?), and... is that a girl with wings? What exactly did she miss? Despite not knowing who this blue-haired girl was, she couldn't help but feel a little proud of her, reading the positive things the people were saying. "She saved my life!"

"She refused to abandon us."

"She's like an angel! No, a goddess!”

“If she were Queen, she’d make a perfect match for King Ky.” The hospital's usual noise of medical staff chatting or yelling life-saving orders, wheels on carts and beds rolling, and footsteps were present, but she heard what sounded like a group of people headed towards her room. She folded the paper and placed it on the table next to her bedside, figuring she'd finish reading it later. If there was something that caught her attention, it was the weekly news recap radio broadcast stating that the Gear Maker has turned himself in.

“The ‘Gear Maker’… Asuka’s been arrested?”

"Ah, here we are."

"Thank you."

"Thanks, doc."

"This is exciting! I can't wait to meet her." Was her head playing tricks on her? Those muffled voices on the other side of the door sound familiar yet entirely foreign. Still listening, she saw herself in the mirror the nurse had left earlier. "Well, if they come in here, I can't look disheveled." She lowly muttered as she touched up her appearance; it wasn't too bad, just a light sign of tiredness (she wanted a haircut too.) “…When did my hair become… two-tone…?”

First, she heard a soft, feminine voice. "I think it'd be best if she saw you first. I don't want to scare her. D-don't give me that look, Dad!" Scare her? How could that happen when she'd already seen the worst horrors imaginable?

"Dizzy, look at me. You're not scary. But I see what you're getting at." Whoever the second person in this conversation was, she could sense they were reassuring her of something. It sounded like they were together in some way. "I think she'd be happy to see you." Her eyes widened as the third voice caught her off guard. Is that who she thinks it is? Is it really ---? "Incredible, Sol. Your soft side is showing." "Shut it, Ky." Dizzy? Sol? Ky? Who are these people? "I'd say it's normal to forget someone from before, but you know all three of them. Or at least I did. ~" Who the hell was that? Now there's a voice in her head? Great. She just wanted to sleep again and tell those three to come back later. Now was not the time for having to get answers for every question that may pop up. "Heh. Doctor, could you do the honor?" "Oh, of course." There was a gentle knock on the door. "Ma'am?" "Y-yes?" Aria put the mirror away and adjusted her blanket. "You have a couple of visitors. Is it okay to come in?" "Yes. Please enter." The sound of the door slowly creaking open was harsh compared to the steady beeps of her vitals monitors. She wondered who would step in first but kept her hopes at bay. A blond young man dressed in blue and white was the first to enter. Had she seen him somewhere before? He was older now but lacked the fierce and determined gaze she remembered. Neutral bordering on welcoming, this man bowed as he introduced himself. "Good afternoon, madam. My name is Ky Kiske. I'm the King of Illyria." Oh god, what did she do? How was she supposed to greet royalty, let alone the man who's in charge of everything? Unsure of how to do so, she politely nodded and smiled. "Pleased to meet you, your highness. To what do I owe the honor of a visit?" "It's been a few days but what a relief it is to see you're awake. I hope you don’t mind as my wife wanted to come along, and we brought an old ‘friend’ of yours." "I appreciate the concern." "We're sorry to show up unannounced, but we came as soon as we could." Dizzy was the second to enter the room, taking a seat close to her. "I know this may come off as a shock, but it's nice to finally meet you, Mom." Aria took a moment to study Dizzy's appearance. Features remarkably like her own, mainly in the eyes and face shape. Long blue hair tied with yellow ribbons, a tail, red eyes, and wings. The realization hit her like a freight train as this was who she had just read about. This heroine, the queen, was her daughter. How the child of two stressed-out scientists from over one hundred and seventy years ago ended up as one of the most powerful women on Earth is an answer for another time. For now, she was trying to think of a conversation starter. “Nice to meet you too.”

“It wasn’t until our college years that I met your father.”

“You two weren’t high school sweethearts?”

“If we knew each other back then, something might’ve come out of it. He is two years older than I am.”

“Oh. So, with that if you were a sophomore, he was a senior?” Dizzy may have the mind of a woman in her mid- to late-twenties, but she never had the chance to attend an actual school. She did have an idea about how education systems worked.

“Precisely, though I might’ve been bumped up to the same student standing now that I think about it. Though that would’ve been unlikely as I earned my PhD in my late teens. Our studies differed, with my focus on cytology, and his in magic particle physics, but the two of us were recruited to work for the same project group after graduating. He was confused as to how I could be interested in someone like him – an extrovert and an introvert, respectively. Aside from me and our mutual colleague, he didn’t have very many friends – if any at all.” Aria noticed the expression on Ky’s face, indicating that he already knew about her partner’s lack of social skills. “I guess he wanted to be around me so much that he asked to be transferred to the team I was with, rather than work on his original assignment. All jokes aside, it was really because of how much significance the project held. I think he was tasked on researching some powerful spell. Saint Oratorio, I believe it was called.”

Dizzy turned to Ky, asking something that popped into her head. “Isn’t that what they fired that day?” Ky nodded, remembering the argument on if another energy blast should’ve been used or not. Aria noticed the couple sneaking in a quick glance at the door, then exchanging a knowing look at each other.

“Excuse me for a second.” Ky rose from his seat and headed out the door. “Get in here and talk to her, you moron!”

“I told you I’d go in when I was ready!”

“And when would that be, huh?”

“When you and Dizzy left! Let go of me! AGH!”

The door swung open with Ky dragging a familiar face into the room by the lapel of his jacket. Dark brown hair, olive skin, and those bold rectangular eyes she vividly remembers. The world knew him by a nom de guerre – Sol Badguy. His real identity wasn’t common knowledge, only being known by a handful of individuals – Asuka, Paradigm, presumably Ky, Leo, and the Valentines, and her. He displayed no significant signs of aging despite the time that passed since she last saw him, still appearing to be in his mid-twenties. Aria’s grip on the blanket tightened as she murmured his name. “…Frederick?”

____________________________________

Scene 2: After being discharged from the hospital, Dizzy takes Aria out on a shopping trip. Aria meets a friendly time traveler.

[December 2. Downtown Shopping District. 12:15 pm]

“Let’s get going. There’s more shops to browse."

Although the public started to trust her, Dizzy and Aria went out with two members of the Convict Hammer team as their escort. Thankfully, the citizens were nice enough to give the Queen her space and greeted her whenever she passed by. There were some who gave her “thank you” gifts, ranging from goody baskets filled with sweets and teas to flowers and handmade trinkets, all of which were given to their escorts to carry.

Weather today was a cool 60 degrees Fahrenheit, slightly overcast with scattered clouds. Aria recalled something regarding her accessory choice on a past date. “You gotta be some kind of eccentric to wear a hat on a day like today.” The promenade was bustling with the usual crowds, some people were getting ideas for what gifts to buy for those special in their lives as Christmas was approaching. Aria noticed a family of three walking past a toy store, seeing the child point out what was in the window to their parents. Glancing at Dizzy, who was busy meeting and greeting the people she protected during the recent attacks, she thought to herself “if only I – no, we were there for you back then. That could’ve been the three of us.” It made her chuckle that their escort had to explain everyone needed to wait their turn to speak with her daughter – she is technically a celebrity.

Aria couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She stood still, noticing everything froze similarly to that fateful day. Out of nowhere, a man with long blond hair, wearing a blue shirt, black pants, a varsity jacket, and a black bandana appeared next to her. His sudden presence nearly made her jump out of her skin. Just like Ky, Aria vaguely remembers seeing him before too. He simply smiled and waved in a friendly manner. “You have nothin’ to worry about. Name’s Axl. I’m a friend of Fre—I mean, Sol’s.” One more person to add to the list of who knows his real name. “He asked me to check on you today. Glad to see you’re doing well.”

Aria blinked at him owlishly. “I’m sorry but did you just say check on me?”

“Yeah, he’s got other business to attend to – can’t say exactly what it is either.” He shrugged, giving her a look that she couldn’t decipher. “He told me to tell you he’s sorry for being gone, but he did add something about making it up to you. We’ll meet again sometime.” Axl raised his right hand, making a peace sign. “See ya ‘round, Ari.”

“W-wait!” Time resumed, leaving her standing in the middle of the sidewalk confused about what she just heard. She tried to find Axl, her head turning to all possible directions, and no trace of him was to be seen as if he vanished into thin air. Her motions bordered on frantic as some passersby gave her puzzled looks. “He doesn’t have the decency to see me in person, yet he sends a friend to say hi and watch over me. Sometimes, I just don’t understand you, Frederick…”

“Madam Hale, is everything alright?” One Convict Hammer asked regarding her wellbeing. “You seem like something's troubling you.”

“I’m fine, really. I spaced out for a bit.” Aria rubbed the back of her neck in attempt to brush aside what just happened. “Sorry.”

____________________________________

Scene 3: Ky takes Aria to the castle. She meets the other Kings and has something to ask one of them.

[December 3. Illyria Castle War Room, 9:45 am]

“The last time I saw this many people staring at screens and tapping away at keys was during a project crunch.” Coffee cup in hand, Aria commented on the operator crew stationed around what looked like a throne on the lower floor. “It was either from a sooner deadline or everyone just decided to make last minute changes on their data. It wasn’t odd to see at least one or two people running down the complex’s halls with a sizeable stack of papers.”

“Not too different from the crew here, but what can you do? We’re only human. Normally, civilians aren’t allowed in here, but I’ll make an exception.”

“He’s right about the ‘no civilian' policy.” A boisterous voice came from the burly man that approached them. “Ky, who is this?”

“Aria, this is Leo Whitefang, the Second King. Leo, this is Aria Hale. You know, my mother-in-law and you-know-who’s partner.”

She nervously smiled at him. “Hi?” Fitting name considering he has a hairstyle reminiscent of a lion’s mane. He towered over them, standing with a sturdy frame at six feet and five inches. She noticed the difference in the two kings’ fashion choices; Ky wore lighter clothes with his jacket placed over his shoulders, where Leo had a heavy coat with a furry lining.

“Oh, my apologies.” Leo apologizing wasn’t something anyone saw often. He gave Ky a side-eyed glare. “A heads up would’ve been nice.”

“One of the few times I decide to drop by, and the God of War's better half is here.” A man who looked to be exactly the midpoint of Ky and Leo's age gap approached the three, briefly bowing as he stood near them. “Good morning, Ms. Hale.”

"Daryl?" Kiske and Whitefang asked in unison. “What are you doing here?”

“With the G4 summit next week, I thought I’d at least consult with you two in person before I go. It’d be a terrible idea if all three of us went, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aria wondered what the Three Kings had for a planned course of action regarding the conference. At the moment, she remembered what she and Ky had discussed on the trip to the castle. She tapped his shoulder and leaned in to whisper “did you forget my idea?”

“Ah, right. That’s one of the reasons why I brought you here. Leo, Aria has something to ask.”

“And that would be?” She didn’t speak, only bumping her fists together. “You want us to do what now?" Leo asked as he crossed his arms. He had an idea of what she meant but would rather hear it from her. "Teach me how to fight. I can't be reliant on others to defend me." "Okay." Ky chimed in. "Okay!?! You're telling me that the woman who used to be Just--- OW!" Aria punched Leo in the stomach as hard as she could. "Don't call me that."

“AUGH! Was that necessary!?” Ky couldn't help but laugh at Leo's expense. "And we're off to a good start. Look at it this way, it's not like we’re placing her in a big role like Ramlethal."

"Dammit, bambino! You have a point. Fine. Report back here at 0900 tomorrow. Your training will begin then." Leo’s communicator went active. Holding a finger up to his ear, he answered and looked towards the hallway. “Hm? Yeah. Alright, I’ll be right there. I’ll get you access.” Click. “That was Ram. Did you not authorize her entry to the armory?” Ky shook his head – the task referred to was Leo’s job. “Before I go, what’s your preferred style? Sword? Shield? Bare hands?”

“You’ll find out when you start teaching me.” Aria replied with a hint of playful snark.

“You really are Sol’s girlfriend.” As Leo walked away, Aria turned to see what looked to be a girl wearing a white body-length cape with red bandages on her left limbs waiting for him. The mysterious girl seemed to be hovering a few inches off the ground and was accompanied by two small flying creatures.

“He’s a bit of a hardass, but you learn to tolerate it.”

“I heard that! There’s a multitude of reasons you’re not as popular as us and that’s one of them!”

“See what I mean. Also, this is for you.“ Daryl handed Aria a medium sized gift bag with pink and purple tissue paper sticking out. Printed with an art nouveau floral pattern, there was a sun emblem on the lower right corner, not-so subtly hinting at who dropped it off. “I didn’t know which flavor you’d like, so I put both chocolate and strawberry desserts inside, on top of your actual gift. Don’t worry, I didn’t look.”

[Kiske Residence, Aria’s room. 5:15 pm]

“If you ever stop by, I hope you like what I picked out…” Aria placed the folded bag in the drawer and slid it shut. She looked to the closet where the other clothing she bought was stored, including a dress and hat like what she owned in the past. Hopefully, she’ll be able to wear it sometime.

“Ram, are you sure about this? We haven’t introduced ourselves yet! She might think we’re being rude.”

“I’m certain, El. At least let me try and speak with her. I’m only the messenger here.”

“Hey, are ya talking about Sol’s gal? Ya know, I was the first Valentine’s companion.”

“Ugh, stay out of this, you big balloon creep!”

“Lucifero. Self-destruct. Why must you follow me everywhere?”

“You’re getting better at this whole showing emotion thing, but you’re terrible at small talk! …okay. I’ll be waiting in our room until you’re done.”

Following the fading footsteps, a rhythmic knock-knock-knock preceded a monotone voice. “Miss Aria? May I come in?”

“It's unlocked.” Her attention was turned to the same young girl from this morning standing in the doorway. She wore a dark blue and white sailor dress with a mint green bow, had amber eyes, brown skin, and cream white hair. “I don’t think we’ve met before, but you’re Ramlethal, right?”

“Of course you two have met! Just not like this! ~”

“Correct. As you may have learned, I am a Valentine, and as such my sister and I were created from you.”

“’Valentine'? Created… from… me?”

“Mother used you as a template for our existence. I can see why now but telling you this isn’t why I’m here.”

“Then why are you? Do you… want to chat? You look like you could use someone to talk to.”

Ramlethal's blank expression shifted to a soft smile. “Perhaps another time, but there’s something I have to do first.” She walked up to Aria and hugged her. “This is from him. Thank you for returning. Sol is much happier than he was before.” She let go and left, gently closing the door behind her.

Aria stood there dumbfounded at what had just occurred. “He’s… happier?”

She took a seat at the desk where she placed her gift from earlier. Her curiosity got the best of her, and she decided to open it. “I know it’s from you, but what exactly did you get me?” Removing the tissue paper and the extra gift desserts, she pulled out a black box. Placed inside was a brown teddy bear dressed as Sol – removable headband included – holding a heart and rose, along with a card that had “to Aria” written on it. Opening it, she read the message.

“Cute plushie, isn’t he? I got this custom made just for you. Even comes with a change of clothes: a purple shirt, black slacks, and a lab coat. Hope you’re not too worried about me. I promise I’ll see you soon. Okay? 🖤”

Aria finally has friends and family, yet without Frederick, she felt alone. Opening the container with the strawberry pudding, she picked up a spoon, and placed a scoop of the sweet in her mouth. “I’ll hold you to that… Really wanted to share this with you too.”

____________________________________

Scene 4: Aria meets her other genetic copy and her grandson. Song used: “Pirates” by Caravan Palace.

[December 5. 6:30 pm]

Reorganizing her belongings, the soft melody from the song currently playing on the phonograph filled the room.

Do me, beauty. Rock me up, yup go once again. Hug me, beauty. Oop, the way this life is clearing into my brains. Fool me, beauty. Let me think of home once again. Hear me, beauty. You gotta hide away the secret of your low bone this man.

“Miss Aria. It’s me, Ram. Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

“I hope I’m not intruding on anything.” Ramlethal was carrying her puppy in her arms to keep it from barging in.

“You weren’t. I was just cleaning up. What brings you to my room?”

“I, uh, wanted to tell you I think your skills are developing nicely.” She chose her words carefully, trying not to sound off-putting. Holding a conversation is something she’s still working on. “I had some downtime and observed again.”

Aria's training today consisted of testing her agility and competence to read and react to opponents. During a brief cooldown period, she did notice the small group of people watching included more. “Who were those two standing next to you, Dizzy, and the others?”

“My younger sister and your grandson. They’re,” Ram paused for a second, “actually waiting outside because they would like to talk to you as well.”

Aria's attention went to the open door, seeing a grey-haired girl and a blond boy with an eyepatch sticking their heads in. “Come on in, you two.”

Elphelt and Sin entered, both taking note of how grand the royal residence's guest room was designed. The younger Valentine was nowhere near as reserved as her sister when it came to talking about something – the first thing that came out of her mouth after seeing Hale was “oh, she’s even prettier in person! I see where Miss Dizzy got her looks from! And by extension, me!”

“Like looking into a mirror, isn’t it? Even more so since you got a new hairdo. ~”

“Weirdly familiar, like I’ve seen you before.” Sin poked his chin, trying to recall. “I remember now, there was the first one with the winged hat who tried to kill the Old Man! She had a freaky Gear form and managed to brainwash me for a bit too. But I can tell you aren’t her since she’s gone.” He was jabbed in the arms by the sisters. “Ouch, what was that for!?”

“You had a brain to begin with, you dope?!”

“El, don’t be rude!”

As the three were fighting amongst themselves, Aria found herself thinking “what in the hell happened.”

[7:43 pm]

“I’m glad I had the chance to speak with you. Is this what is referred to as ‘therapy'?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it that, but let’s say yes for the time being. Hey, what’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

“N-no. It wasn’t. You just seem more like a mother to me than my ‘actual' one. I am aware I’m not human, and she created me as an emotionless doll she threw away when I had no further use.” Ramlethal tried to soothe herself by smoothing out her bandages. Part of her wanted to tell Aria about what happened in Scandiva, yet she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Her magehound started snuggling next to her, sensing the mood drop. “She… she called me a failure.”

Aria grabbed a tissue and wiped the tear that ran down Ram's cheek. After disposing of it – and picking up the Sol bear – she kneeled in front of the Valentine, holding the plush in front of her own face. Using one of the bear's limbs to tap her knee, she had her attention. “Listen to me. She’s the failure, not you.”

Peeking up from behind the toy, Aria was treated to the sight of her genetic copy struggling to keep herself from giggling.

____________________________________

Scene 5 (Chapter 2): Day trip date. Aria brings up a very sensitive subject later that night. (Note: this was written with the game’s implication of a pregnancy. Also, I did some level of research and figured the stage I picked is approximately where Italy's Amalfi Coast is.)

[December 9. L'oro di Illyria. 5:45 pm]

A few hours later, they went for a leisurely trip down south, dressed in their best attempts at incognito clothing. Emphasis on attempt as the suppressor was a dead giveaway (it was worth a shot). Aria was wearing that dress and hat she purchased a week prior, paired with leggings, fuzzy boots, and a warm winter coat. A callback to how he dressed himself in the past, Frederick was wearing a black button-up shirt with a tank top underneath, dark blue jeans, and a pair of Chelsea boots. He also had a mid-long jacket that she brought along just in case, placed under the sidecar’s seat.

“Oh, I remember this place! Heaven’s Edge! It’s where we met for the first time after I left the Sanctuary to get some fresh air. Ah, memories. ~ Or am I remembering wrong? Those sword monoliths look very familiar.”

There’s that childlike voice again. It changed to a mature tone mid-sentence.

“Just who are you? And how can your voice change like that!?”

“Oops, I’m sorry. You see, I’m the previous owner of your current body. My name is J—”

Before this disembodied voice could say her name, Aria’s attention went elsewhere. “You alright?”

“Uh, yeah. This isn’t what I thought you meant by going out, but at least the trip here was fun.” The highway they took was through inner Italy and had passed through numerous towns, of which contained convenience shops to obtain refreshments here and there. “Built that bike yourself, didn’t you?”

“Designed for one so that’s why I made a sidecar for you.”

“Can it turn into a minibike if I wanted it to?”

“What? You’re psychic now? I’m still working on that part.”

“Hey, chief! Ari!”

“Axl? What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by and say ‘ello. Almost didn’t recognize the two of ya.” He wasn’t used to seeing Frederick, let alone anybody, in anything so casual. Aria, on the other hand, wore that dress nicely. He couldn’t help but feel a slight hint of sadness, as the last woman he saw in a similar clothing article was M— he mentally shook his head and put on a smile. “That outfit looks lovely. Ain’t you a lucky guy?”

“Thank you. Nice to see you in real time and not during a time freeze.”

“Ah, yeah. I wanted to avoid trying to talk in a crowd. My bad if you were annoyed by my choice.” Axl had the power to jump to any point in time and any dimension, yet he’s been frequently visiting for some reason only he knows. “I got something to tell you.”

“I could use a quick snack.” Aria wasn’t paying attention to Low and spotted the outdoor marketplace, noticing the large ship cruising by. “I’ll be over by that fruit vendor. Don’t be too long, alright?”

As Aria left, the two men watched her reach into her purse, taking out a few W$ to purchase an apple. It amused them as she tried to fight the kind vendor about giving her a free apple, insisting that she pay for it as it’s only fair for business. Not only did she end up with a free fruit, but she was also given a bag containing two additional and a bottle of cream soda with a straw. She didn’t look back at them; her attention went to admiring the colorful cliffside residential buildings.

“Do you think I could get a free piece of fruit and a drink too or is she a special case?”

“You might scare the living daylight out of him.”

[9:15 pm]

"So, um, about Dizzy." Aria clasped her hands together and twiddled her thumbs, avoiding eye contact while staring at the paved stone walkway. "I was trying not to bring her up, but what about her?" "I..." She took a deep breath and collected her thoughts. "I didn't know how to tell you." She didn't hear a response, worrying her about what Frederick was thinking. A moment later, she felt a hand rubbing her back, taking this as a sign that he's listening while trying to soothe her. "I already experienced how you reacted when I told you I was sick with that infection, but I didn't want to make that worse by telling you you're going to be a father. I don’t recall how far along I was, but you shouldn’t have had to live with knowing you’ll never see your unborn after I was gone either." He remained quiet a bit longer before reaching to wrap his arm around and pull her closer. Not too suddenly as he didn't want to give off the wrong idea, but once he saw her ease into him, he placed a kiss on the crown of her head. “Do you remember your birthday where I showed you that programming ‘error'?”

“You mean the ring? Of course I do. I didn’t mind that you didn’t have the real one because your method was so cute. It was so… you. If neither of us killed the mood, I would’ve told you I was looking forward to changing my name to Aria Bulsara.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn't occasionally think of some alternate time where we truly settled down. We were still scientists and met under the same circumstances, but there was no Gear project or magic, and you didn't have an illness. Or at least one you didn't tell me about near your last days." "Wha--... really?" "Yeah. Then all this shit happened." His voice was deceptively calm, yet she could sense the rage beneath it all. "My conversion and the resulting amnesia, your conveniently timed 'disappearance', and the destruction of the complex with countless deaths were the beginning." "Then decades later I lost control of my mind and body and waged war against the world. That stubborn geezer never quit, but then Ky and you showed up to seal 'me' away. I don't think I felt it, but during my imprisonment, that's when I gave birth?" "Sounds about right. We're living in one of those stories I used to read when I was bored. The reader turns out to be the hero, where someone very close to them was used as a twist villain."

____________________________________

Scene 6 (Chapter 3): Aria takes up the offer of becoming a bounty hunter, taking up the alias “Luna". Her new outfit is a blue, black, and white version of Sol's, with a pair of blue goggles in place of a headband. Song used: “Seven Seas of Rhye” by Queen.

[December 10. Somewhere in the Illyrian outskirts. Midday.]

“No targets today, so do you wanna just relax? I think there’s a beach just up ahead.”

“We’ve been on the road for a few hours, so a rest period at a beach sounds perfect right now.” She noticed what song was currently playing, having already passed the bridge. “Oh, I know this one! It’s one of my favorites.” Clearing her throat, she began singing along. “Storm the master-marathon, I’ll fly through.”

He couldn’t help but smile and continue. “By flash and thunder-fire and I'll survive (I'll survive, I'll survive).”

“Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive,” she pointed a finger at him. “Then I'll get you!”

“Be gone with you, you shod and shady senators.”

“Give out the good, leave out the bad evil cries.”

He clenched his fist and held it up. “I challenge the mighty Titan and his troubadours.”

She placed her index fingers at the ends of her mouth. “And with a smile.”

He pointed towards the shore of the Tyrrhenian Sea as they sang the last line together. “I'll take you to the Seven Seas of Rhye!”

[Nighttime.]

A cool 55 degrees, the night sky was clear as the stars strewn throughout were in full display. They sat by a bonfire, sharing drinks and leaning back against the Firewheel Mk.2, enjoying the other's company. There was a brief squabble on whether they should find an actual motel room to stay in for the night, with Aria winning as she convinced Frederick to sleep in a bed as opposed to the ground.

Fire crackling paired with sounds from the nearby wildlife, she thought of a conversation topic. “Hey, do you wanna hear something weird?”

“Shoot.”

“Before I woke up, I saw myself, Justice, and someone else.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It was unnerving. She looked just like me but had a halo and her hair was the inverse of mine. My first day at Ky and Dizzy's, I scrounged around and found a cracked one that looked just like what I saw. Along with an iron mask, a crux ansata, black heels and gloves, and a white jumpsuit. It all fit me perfectly! I was considering wearing that instead of this.”

“Jack-O.”

“Huh?”

He took a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out before continuing. “To bring you back, a special Valentine was made that contained the other half of your soul. Her name was Jack-O.” He butted the cigarette before tossing it into the fire. “Ram, Sin, and I chased her down before any additional damage could've been done. Then a few days later, she reappeared with Asuka, and struck a deal with us. Said something like ‘if you can get me close enough, I can fuse with Justice to revive, well, you.’ I thought they were full of it. Turned out they were telling the truth.”

“He's right! ~ I took off my mask and told him I was literally half of you. Nearly lost his mind right there. Sorry about the forced mind override, but you refused to accept it, and he wasn’t going to back down. ~”

“That explains the voice in my head. I wonder how her stuff got into my room though.”

“She’s still in there?” He gently poked her forehead. “I can imagine when you wear these, she also sees life through blue tinted lenses.”

“You’ve got puns now? I knew I should’ve gone with a pink color scheme.”

“Blue’s more your color.”

#guilty gear #aria hale #only tagging her since she's the main character of this little project #i wasn't much of a fan of ggst's story so here's my idea #this is a sol / aria story but i tried including a good amount of supporting cast #it's not perfect but i've been trying to write while doing like five other things #nat's fanfics #wip #sorry if everyone sounds even slightly ooc #i tried to get everyone's speech patterns right #even asked one of my friends and he said i did a good job #criticism welcome #i dunno when this will be done to my liking #so i'll post this preview #i'll probably receive my ao3 invite before i'm done lmao

1 note · View note

eveningstarcatcher · 4 years

Text

Let Me Play Among the Stars

Inspired by @gemennair‘s beautiful DTIYS Also on Ao3

The bell over the door jingled and Crowley strode into the bookshop, bag in hand. He ran his free hand through his windswept hair and shrugged off his damp coat.

“Crowley, dear is that you?” Aziraphale’s voice called from the back room, distant.

“Yeah, brought pastries!” He announced, sauntering across the shop, making his way toward the voice.

“Oh, how thoughtful! Perhaps we can enjoy them after you help me with something? That is, if you wouldn’t mind. You are so much better at this than I am.” His voice was lined with frustration and defeat. Crowley stood in the doorway, setting the bag onto the arm of the couch.

“What do you need, angel?” He crossed his arms and cocked his hip, watching with amusement as Aziraphale fiddled with something in his lap.

“It’s my watch. It’s not working again,” he admitted, holding it out to Crowley.

“Just get a new one. This one’s got to be, what, a thousand years old?” He reached out a long, slender arm and took the watch carefully, lifting it to eye-level to observe the damage.

“Not quite that long, my dear.” Aziraphale’s lips were pressed into a thin line as he watched Crowley for a diagnosis of his watch, as much a part of him as his tartan bow-tie and love of crepes.

“You didn’t take care of it. I’m surprised. I thought we talked about this,” Crowley sighed and tossed his glasses to the small coffee table. “I can fix this, but it’ll take a while. Go ahead and eat.”

Crowley perched himself on the edge of the angel’s usual chair, using the desk as his workspace to tinker with the antique watch. He hunched over, his long form folding in on itself to be closer to his work. His forked tongue was just visible, peeking out of his thin lips in concentration, his hair fell down around his face and over his shoulders, reflecting the light in a sheet of delicate copper strands.

Aziraphale settled comfortably onto the old couch, nibbling at a chocolate croissant and watching Crowley work. His long fingers were gentle and sure, moving carefully and deliberately, like a spider weaving a web of fine silk. He checked the gears and coils, lifting the watch closer to the light to inspect it, furrowing his brow as he worked. His elbows were tucked against his sides, giving him a bit of added stability, preventing his forearms from shaking as he wound the miniscule screws in place.

“What’cha singing?” Crowley’s voice interrupted Azirphale’s dreamy observation, a note of fond amusement playing in his words.

The angel had been lost in the meticulous movements of his partner, watching his fingertips glide over the antique components as if a choreographed dance. He smiled at the way the sun shone on his face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the sprinkling of freckles he so adored. He longed to reach out, to run his fingers through auburn hair, smoothing back the stray strands that tickled at Crowley’s forehead.

“What?” He was coming back to reality.

“You were humming. Sounded familiar,” Crowley glanced over with a smirk on his lips.

“I didn’t realize,” Azirpahale apologized. “I do hope I wasn’t bothering you.” He had finished the pastries long ago, absentmindedly nibbling as he watched the demon, then miracling more from the crumbs when he realized that he hadn’t properly tasted the treats.

“S’okay, angel. It was nice. Keep going.” Crowley smiled at the watch as he worked.

Aziraphale once again lost himself, watching the demon work with small, precise movements, and became aware that he was, indeed, humming. He started over, then added the words as they came to him.

Fly me to the moon Let me play among the stars

“Is that… Sinatra?” Crowley asked, sitting up and staring at the angel, head cocked to the side, an amused smile . “Didn’t know you liked him.”

“It is and I do. Very nice voice,” Azirpahale smiled at Crowley, thrilled to still be able to surprise the demon after thousands of years. He had always had a soft spot for the crooner’s love songs, enjoying the strings and horns, the tinkling piano and soft percussion behind the smooth vocals. The sound was much more modern than the classics he usually listened to, but at its core, they weren’t so far removed from each other. The orchestrations, the emotions, the joy that filled his heart when he listened to it.

“I like that one, too.” Crowley turned back to his work.

Aziraphale stood and moved up behind the chair, to watch his partner more closely.

“You’re very good at this.” The angel peered over Crowley’s shoulder, one hand pressed lightly against his back. “Speaking of stars, Is this how you made them?”

“Stars?” Crowley repeated, having lost track of the thought.

“Yes, stars. From the song, my dear.” Aziraphale reminded, his head leaned against Crowley’s lightly, his voice soft against his hair. “Is this how you made the stars?”

“No,” Crowley muttered, still focused, leaning into his angel’s touch. “Nothing like this.”

He carefully tightened the last screw and inspected his work. The watch was now ticking happily, the steady beat of time passing. He held the watch out to for Aziraphale to inspect, and was surprised when the angel instead set the watch back onto the desk and took his hand, gently pulling it to rest against his heart.

“Can you show me?”

Crowley sat up, staring into blue eyes, open and sincere and full of adoration.

“Sure, angel.” He nodded. “Needs to be dark, though.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale wiggled as he dashed around the room pulling blinds down and flipping lights off.

“Here, let me.” Crowley slowly drew his arms from his chest out to the sides, slightly curved at the elbow, his eyes closed, then swiftly brought them up, his fingers splayed, face contorted in concentration.

In a whoosh of air everything was still and pitch dark. The screeches and beeps of London traffic were gone, the resonant tick of the grandfather clock was absent, and the familiar scent of old pages and ink was missing, replaced by a cool emptiness.

Aziraphale could hear a rustle of wings in front of him and followed suit, spreading his long wings out to the side, shivering at the sensation of the release. His halo began to glow, casting a soft golden light over himself and Crowley.

Crowley made a mental note to do this again as his heart fluttered at the sight before him. Aziraphale looked absolutely stunning illuminated by the golden light of his halo. His blue eyes glittered with specks of gold, the curves of his face highlighted, his lips soft and plump.

“How long have you been waiting to ask?” Crowley asked quietly, staring at his hands, hoping that they still remembered the intricacies of creation.

“Since you told me,” Aziraphale whispered.

“That was ages ago. You waited this long?” Crowley looked up in surprise. The angel was ancient and wise, but excitable and hedonic. It wasn’t like him to wait so long, to deny himself, especially when it was something so small, so trivial to Crowley’s eyes.

“I didn’t want to upset you. I wasn’t sure how you’d react, I know it’s difficult for you to remember before,” Aziraphale took Crowley’s thin hands in his sturdy grasp, running his thumbs along the backs in gentle circles.

“You didn’t have to wait so long. I would have shown you. Not sure I can even do it now.” Crowley shrugged, brushing off the weight of Aziraphale’s loving gaze.

“I know you can. I also know you would have shown me anytime I asked, but it didn’t feel fair of me to ask that of you,” Aziraphale stared down as he entwined their fingers.

“And that’s changed?” Crowley whispered.

“I think so,” Aziraphale’s lips curved up in a small, sad, smile. “It felt too personal to ask before, but I think things are quite different now, don’t you?” He looked into Crowley’s eyes, shimmering gold in the angelic light, and leaned forward to place a kiss to his lips, gentle and overwhelming. When Aziraphale pulled back, Crowley’s eyes had fluttered closed. The demon’s head was spinning and he needed three deep breaths before he could rejoin reality. He opened his eyes to Aziraphale’s lovely smile and warm glow, aware that the angel’s heart was racing, pounding out waves of love with every beat.

“Stand back, angel,” Crowley grinned at him. Aziraphale beamed and quickly took two steps backward, then a third for good measure. He stood still, his torso included forward, eager to see the former star-maker at work, and dimmed his halo.

Crowley began by rubbing his hands together furiously, his shoulders hunched over himself. He brought his palms together in a quick clap, chuckling when he saw the angel jump in his peripheral vision. He drew his hands apart slowly, curving his fingers into a cage around a tiny glowing speck, golden and warm.

Aziraphale gasped softly and shuffled forward to get a better look, his eyes wide with wonder. Crowley noticed and strode over to him, holding up his hands in offering, so the angel could admire the tiny golden sphere floating between his hands.

“It’s warm,” the angel observed, an awestruck smile across his face, his fingertips fluttering to hover just outside of the cage of Crowley’s fingers. “Beautiful!”

“Just wait,” Crowley stepped away from the angel and removed his top hand and gently blowing on the orb, pushing it out of his hand. It hung there in the space before Crowley, pulsing and shivering, tossing out sparks as it vibrated and hummed with life.

Crowley stared at it, eyes slitted and narrowed, his head shifting from side to side. His hands were stretched before him, fluttering this way and that, planning, preparing, outlining the project before him.

He let his arms fall to his sides and stared at the slate before him for another long minute, then he began to move. His long limbs shifted and curled around it, gracefully, as if it were a ballet.

He moved on his toes around the orb, his hands pulling colors from the darkness and weaving them around in shades of crimson, bronze, violet, and turquoise. His hands curled and curved around the orb as he moved, teasing the colors into one another, his fingers pulsing with the rhythm of the starling. He pushed and pulled and twisted and shaped as if working with clay.

Aziraphale pulled his gaze away from the captivating sight of work for a moment to appreciate the creator. The shifting colors shone on his face, illuminating his brow, raised in joy, his eyes, bright with purpose, the long line of his nose taking in steady breaths, the broad smile on his lips. It reflected off his auburn hair and seemed to twist into every curl. He was stunning and Aziraphale’s heart soared in his chest at the sight.

Crowley circled his creation one last time, nodded with approval, then swiftly wrapped his hands around it, clapping once more with it between his palms. When he pulled his hands away, the orb was no longer shivering, but glowed with a steady certainty, shifting colors like a kaleidoscope, shimmering.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, afraid to ruin the moment. “It’s incredible.”

Crowley stood before Aziraphale, star in hand. He shook it slightly and sparks of gold flew from it, as if it were a firework, beaming as it did.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded and set the star to hover in midair, allowing the angel to get a better look. He circled it, taking in every angle with wide-eyed wonder. The light in his hair transformed it into stardust, the reflection in his eyes gave the impression of electricity crackling behind them in tendrils of lightning, the soft roundness of his cheeks turned into marble, and his pink lips were curved into an “o”, though no sound escaped them, lost in the beauty of the star before him.

“It’s not my best work, but it’s pretty nice.” Crowley smiled, sliding his hand around his angel’s waist when he came to a stop beside him.

“It’s exquisite!” Azirphale praised. “What will you do with it now?”

“Dunno, let it burn out I guess,” Crowley shrugged.

“Oh no, darling, you mustn’t!” Aziraphale shifted forward, out of Crowley’s grip, clutched at his hand, and pulled him closer to his creation. “Do you even know what you did? Look!” Azirpahale pointed and gestured for Crowley to look closer.

“The colors, the shapes, the patterns. It’s all us!” Aziraphale exclaimed, bouncing on his toes in time with the gentle pulses light radiating from the star. “The soft whites and creams that curl like my hair, blues that could be my eyes, sharp streaks of red and copper that match your hair perfectly, and gorgeous yellow that remind me of your eyes. The sharpness and the softness of us both rolled into one being. It’s stunning. It’s love.”

Crowley’s wide eyes moved from Aziraphale’s eager face to his creation, looking closer. He saw them in every detail, moving together, becoming one.

“Do you see it?” Azirpahale clung to his arm, willing him to see it.

“I do,” Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, whose eyes were wet, full of pride and unbridled affection. “And now I know just what to do with it.” He smiled down at Aziraphale and took the star in hand. He twisted it between his fingers, blew a gentle stream of air over it, then brought his hands together, crushing it between his palms.

“Crowey!” Aziraphale cried, hands flying to his mouth in despair.

“Just wait,” Crowley instructed. He rubbed his hands together, slow at first, then faster and faster until he brought them up over his head and pulled them apart, spreading great arcs of stardust into the air. It hovered and glimmered, almost alive, as if the star hadn’t been broken into bits, but had given parts of itself away, spreading its life among each particle it touched. “Why not spread that love around? No use in keeping it all to itself. Rather useless that way, love.”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale’s halo pulsed with faint light, his hands pressed against his chest, a soft grin spreading across his face. “You’re wrong you know.”

“About what?” Crowley stared up at the galaxy of light he’d created.

“It’s exactly how you make stars.” Aziraphale slipped his arm into Crowley’s and stood, pressed against his side.

“No it’s not! Fixing a watch and creating stars are not the same!” Crowley muttered without any heat behind it.

“Oh, but it is, dear.” They stood together, staring at the glittering sky above them. “It’s all in how your work - so carefully, thoughtfully, with precision and devotion. It’s truly a wonder to watch. You’re beautiful, you know, when you work. So deeply invested in what you’re creating. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“I’m not done yet, angel.” Crowley stepped forward and blew a stream of air, rotating his torso from right to left, and the stars began to move, circling the room.

“Oh Crowley! It’s like a snow globe!”

Aziraphale stood in the center of it all, arms extended, spinning slowly, his head raised in laughter joyful and childlike.

“How’s it feel?” Crowley inquired, standing behind the angel and taking him in his arms.

“Feel?” Aziraphale asked, placing his hands over Crowley’s on his stomach.

“To play among the stars. Bet old Frankie is jealous.” He smirked, resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Oh, my dear, it’s simply indescribable!” Aziraphale turned in Crolwey’s embrace. They stood chest to chest, watching the stars and each other.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“So very much.”

“I could take you to the moon, if you want,” Crowley suggested, his eyes tracing the shape of Aziraphale’s lips.

“I think I’m content right here.” Aziraphale leaned in, lips hovering just a breath from Crowley’s.

“Good,” Crowley managed to say before he closed the distance between them, lips colliding and sending sparks into each other.

An angel and a demon stood in a bubble of time reserved just for them and kissed under a galaxy of stars.

#my writing #gofic #go fic #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #starmaker crowley #ineffable husbands #gemennair

8 notes · View notes

kindofwriter · 5 years

Text

Feat. a supernatural circus, 19th century Paris, and a face you never thought you’d see again

A request from someone feat. their really cool characters [more details after the story]. Thanks for the request and sorry it took so long!

A soft hand shook Amelie’s shoulder.

As she stirred, unfurling from beneath the blankets, Amelie tried to recall whether she’d actually been asleep or had simply been roused from a stupor. She couldn’t recall falling asleep; instead it felt like she had spent the past few hours floating in oblivion. It was dark outside the window, but in winter months the sun set long before Amelie retired to bed.

Perched on the edge of Amelie’s bed was her father, candle holder in hand. In the flickering light she could see that he was dressed in a heavy coat and top hat which obscured his eyes. He smiled, drawing his lips into a line without baring his teeth.

“Amelie,” he whispered. “Réveille-toi.”

“I’m awake, papa,” she responded quietly. “What is it?”

“We are going somewhere special.” Placing the candle holder down on the bedside table, Amelie’s father gathered up an armful of material and laid it on the bed: her mourning dress.

Pushing the covers back, Amelie was immediately swarmed by icy air. She hesitated to don the dress, it hadn’t been worn since the funeral, but her father was also swathed in dark fabric. She slipped it over her nightdress.

Her father’s eyes flicked between the full moon that hung outside the window and Amelie’s shuffling movements. His stance was relaxed, slouching almost lethargically, but the bite of his voice and apprehension in his eyes gave away his need for haste.

Amelie combed her fingers through her hair and tied it into a black ribbon, then turned expectantly to her father.

“Allons-y,” he murmured, retrieving the candle and extinguishing the flame without, as it seemed to Amelie, a single breath.

Clinging to her father’s hand, Amelie was swept through the house, unfamiliar without the glow of gas lamps. Moonlight spilled through the windows, casting weak shadows that Amelie hesitated to step into, but her father seemed immune to the darkness. He guided her effortlessly to the front door, stepping out into the street with a confidence Amelie hadn't seen in a while.

Amelie’s father was a school teacher. He was kind, softly-spoken, and, after the death of his wife, had adopted the macabre fashions of the British aristocracy. Despite his winter coat giving his shoulders a substantial bulk he wasn't an intimidating man; his presence was almost ghostly.

The streets were quiet, caught between closing hour at the bars and sunrise, when merchants began to deliver their merchandise. As they approached the centre of Paris the roads gradually became illuminated with street lamps, and more frequently apartment windows glowed with light. Amelie drew closer to her father as a drunken man stumbled off the pavement, but he continued, unperturbed.

They crossed the Seine, peering down into the writhing water below. There was a flicker beneath the surface, something silvery and quick, but it was gone before Amelie could get a proper look. Her father had told her all about the marine life that inhabited the river: it was probably a European smelt, or Atlantic salmon. Amelie wasn't a whimsical child, she didn't even entertain the idea of mermaids.

As they continued along the side of the river the Eiffel Tower loomed, a midnight vortex against the murky sky. The base of the tower, however, seemed to glow. Not brightly, or warmly, but with a dull light reminiscent of dusk.

This seemed to be where Amelie’s father was heading, and as they drew nearer Amelie saw that the light was emanating from a tent, tucked beneath the tower. Its fabric - black and white stripes - dulled the piercing beams of the spotlights inside.

The tent itself was like none Amelie had ever seen. It was void of posters, and guy ropes, and, it seemed to Amelie, a top. The tent stretched up through the centre of the tower, far higher than Amelie could see in the darkness. It was twisted and lopsided in places, though showed no danger of collapse.

The surrounding grass was littered with carriages, though lacked sufficient horses to pull them, and each one was pained black and crimson red. They were all deserted, curtains drawn shut; without a soul to guard them.

Amelie’s father guided her into the tent.

It was cold inside, colder even than it had been outside, but still Amelie prickled all over with an uneasy heat. The atrium of the tent was dim, the only light source a crack in the curtain that lead into the main tent. Shadowy figures bustled around, carrying scenery, hoops, and chunks of paraffin. There wasn't light enough to make out their features, but their silhouettes seemed ever so slightly misshapen; ever so slightly not human.

Amelie brushed it off as tiredness and stuck close to her father, letting go of his hand to cling to the tails of his coat. He wove through the pressing crowd with ease, his attention uncaptured by their strange surroundings. It seemed as though he was searching for one particular person, and nothing could deter him from this.

A sudden flare of light caught Amelie's attention. Turning her head, she saw that someone had cracked open the curtain, allowing light from the main tent to flood in. Haloed by the glow was a young girl.

She allowed the curtain to drop a little, lessening the blinding light, and Amelie got a good look at her features. A tangle of hair folded into something resembling a plait fell down her back, and matted to her forehead was a pair of welder’s goggles. Beneath the goggles her eyes were white. Her skin was a ghastly green, littered with sores and held together with rough stitches. Between her chapped lips was clamped a fat cigar.

Amelie blinked. The girl, this thing, had to be a trick of the light. She had never seen anything like it in her entire life. It had to be stage makeup. Or some horrific nightmare.

“Que?” A shout from the girl startled Amelie. “What are you looking at, little girl?” Her cigar flopped against her lower lip as she spoke.

Amelie found herself at a loss for words. She looked to her father for guidance, but found he wasn't there. He stood near the curtain, deep in conversation with a tall, slender woman.

Amelie began to work her away towards him.

“Yes, you better run away, little girl,” the girl snarled after her. She gathered up her frilled dress and pushed back through the curtain.

Amelie heard her father’s words before she reached his side. He spoke softly and firmly, head ducked so he could see his companion below the rim of her wide-brimmed hat.

“… Je sais, I know it's dangerous. But I know she'll want to see her. And Amelie-“

Amelie tugged on he father’s sleeve.

He cut his sentence off quickly and stooped to pick Amelie up. “Amelie! Viens ici! You have not seen your aunt since you were a baby.”

From her new vantage point Amelie got a better view of the woman, her aunt. Her hair was obsidian black and fell in one straight wave to her waist. Her lips were painted red, a stark contrast with her pale skin, and held millimetres away from them was a smoking cigarette holder. In the darkness her skin took on a strange hue, almost pale blue.

“Oh, Amelie.” She smiled, but with her lips drawn tightly shut. “Quel âge à tu, maintenant?”

“Six ans.”

“Six? You are such a big girl now!” She laughed a toothless laugh. “Do you know that your father is going to be helping with the show tonight?”

Amelie looked up at her father. “Oui, papa?”

“Ah,” he chuckled, “oui.”

A low, rumbling drum sounded from the main tent. Her father’s head jerked up.

Amelie’s aunt reached out to grip his arm. Her fingernails were long and coated in a layer of the night sky. They sunk into her father’s coat.

“Sit Amelie down,” she murmured. “I will meet you later.”

Her father brushed aside the curtain and Amelie was blinded with a stunning glow. Four huge limelights were positions on top of frames, all directed at the sandy floor of the ring. Rising up on either side of the pair was the metal frame supporting the stalls, beneath which was a deep, impenetrable darkness. Amelie turned her attention to those occupying the stalls instead.

She immediately turned away again.

A man, or more accurately a creature, with a misshapen face sewn together with rough stitches, had stared right back at her. One of his eyes was bloodshot and swollen; the other socket was empty.

She turned rapidly to her father, but another strange creature in the second row caught her attention. It’s face was ashen, cracked, and as eagle-like features. It looked as thought it belonged on the roof of Notre-Dame.

With a quick glance around the audience, Amelie decided that she was dreaming. Beings like this - sharp teeth, pitch black eyes, snouts like a wolves’, legs like a spider’s - belonged in fairy tales, not in reality. For as long as she could remember, Amelie's father had told her stories about the uncanny and supernatural. He didn't read them from books; it seemed as though he'd committed them to memory. But he also stressed the fact that Amelie should never go looking for these creatures; that they were things of fiction. She didn't even believe in Papa Noel.

It wasn't an altogether unpleasant dream, though, so Amelie allowed herself to be seated in the stalls. With a caress of her cheek, Amelie's father left her alone, causing an all too realistic pang of longing. Seeking comfort, Amelie turned to her neighbour, hoping to be offered a friendly smile, but when the woman turned her head her face was smooth and featureless. Amelie stared down at the ring.

Gradually the limelights bearing down at the sand were covered, quieting the audience and darkening the ring. A singular spotlight remained, centre stage.

Behind the ring the curtains parted, shedding some light on the obscure silhouette that lurked behind them. The figure stepped forward until it lingered at the edge of the limelight and - no, it couldn't be, but who else? - Amelie recognised the familiar features of her father. His clothes were sharper, complete with frills and red trimmings. His top hat was taller and wrapped with a length of the same crimson silk that lined his suit. It was now pulled so low that his eyes were obscured from sight.

When he spoke, his lips didn't move.

“Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs,” he rumbled, in a commanding tone Amelie had never heard him use, not even in the classroom. “It brings me great pleasure that you have all journeyed to be with us tonight.”

He started forward, then looked down into the centre of the ring. “No pedestal?” A smirk flashed across his face. “That is not a problem.” Then Amelie’s father took a single step up onto the air. There he stood, perfectly still, as if supported by a pedestal. The audience granted him the standard applause, but no one seemed as awe-struck as Amelie.

Her father chuckled. “An old trick, non? You want to see something more mysterious. Something grander.” Amelie found herself with the sudden awareness that the big top was growing darker and darker, until everything but the solitary beam of light seemed opaque. “Something more… magical.” Gradually soft, glittering lights emerged from the darkness, banding together into formations that weren't unlike constellations. Amelie reached a hand out and allowed the stars to run through her fingers. They tickled like feathers.

“But-” With a click of his fingers the darkness lifted and the stars winked out, “Enough from me. Without further ado, I would like to introduce les jumeaux acrobates!”

The limelight flickered out and when it returned it was focused on a spot near the bigtop roof, where a leotard-clad woman stood on a platform. Amelie waited for another limelight to illuminate the parallel podium, but none such came. Instead, the light simply split into two identical globes… at the same time as the acrobat split into two identical people.

Amelie gawked as the second acrobat began to twist, contort, and shrink inwards until she was no longer a person but a small, colourful bird. The bird fluttered to the next platform of the ladder, followed by a limelight all the way, where it gripped the trapeze in its talons. Then it tossed it back down to the second acrobat who, by the time the trapeze drew level with her hands, seemed to be made of the night sky.

A star-speckled hand snagged the trapeze from the air and it whisked the acrobat out over the ring. She tucked her knees and hung them over the bar, dropping backwards with her hands extended towards the floor. The trapeze continued to swing wildly.

Now high above the centre of the ring, the bird began to transform again, feathers smoothing and fading to become a dusky blue skin until she was almost identical to her twin. Then she began to plummet.

Instead of swinging in to save her, as was customary, her sister simply allowed her to drop past.

Amelie held her breath.

She drew nearer and nearer to the floor, but now something was happening to the other acrobat. Her arms became elongated, stretching towards the floor - and her sister. She caught her effortlessly, centimetres from the ground. The audience roared with applause.

The second acrobat was catapulted up to another trapeze up by the platform, then they proceeds to perform a fairly standard routine. However each time one of the acrobats flipped from one trapeze to the other they transformed into different shapes; a summersaulting seal, a leaping leopard, a minute moth flickering across the limelight, only its shadow visible to the audience.

The scenes unfolding before her seemed surreal, but the emotions Amelie was experiencing were far from dream-like. Excitement bubbled in her chest like a brook, and each time a performer almost fell, no matter how confident Amelie grew that their partner would catch them, her heart plummeted.

When the pair stood in the centre of the ring and took a final bow Amelie stood with the rest of the audience, cheering and applauding violently. She felt dwarfed by the towering adults around her, but she wasn't afraid as she had been when they'd entered. This was just a dream. A wonderful, surreal, realistic dream.

The ring went dark.

Through the darkness Amelie heard a high, metallic screeching, moving from the back of the ring to the centre. It slowed, halted, and a blue-filmed limelight suddenly filled the bigtop.

In the ring was Amelie's father, head bowed and hands clasped behind his back. To the side of him was a cuboid-shaped object shrouded in navy cloth and placed on a trolley. Steadily, Amelie’s father raised his right hand, and as he did the cloth rose to reveal a water tank and-

Oh! That was the same iridescent silver Amelie had caught a glimpse of in the Seine!

The silver scales lined a long, sleek tail which was connected to the torso of a beautiful, silver-skinned woman. Her hair was knotted with seaweed and her nails - more like talons - ingrained with mud. She looked to Amelie as though she was a mermaid; that is until she opened her mouth.

The siren’s teeth lined her mouth like a picket fence; viciously sharp and pearly white.

A quick glance around told Amelie that her father had vacated the stage and the act was about to begin.

The siren opened her mouth wider, separating her ghastly teeth, and blew gently into the water. Three bubbles floated to the top of the tank, but as they reached the surface of the water they began to transform. The first because a small crab, which scuttled its way through the air towards the top of the big top. The second because a puffer fish, and the third an angel fish.

A few meters above the tank the bubbles popped, and as they did each emitted a beautiful, clear musical notes.

And with that, the siren began to sing.

She blew bubbles in quick succession, each one transforming into a different sea creature and each one forming part of a melody. Some of the music Amelie recognised from the ballet, or from her father’s piano playing, but other tunes seemed utterly foreign to her ears. That was strange, Amelie had thought dreams were only capable of mimicking real-life experiences, but she thought no more on it. She was mesmerised by the show.

When the final song was over Amelie raised her hands to applause, but the audience were still holding their breath. A drumroll trilled throughout the tent and a spotlight was directed at the platform, where a man in a trench-coat stood. He removed the trench-coat and Amelie gasped.

The man had no eyes. No lips. No features at all. No skin, in fact. He was merely a skeleton. And one that defied physics at that, because instead of collapsing into a pile of bone he took a leap from the platform and dove towards the siren’s tank.

To Amelie’s horror the siren unhinged her jaw and prepared to swallow him whole. As he flew past her knife-like teeth Amelie suddenly wondered how he had lost all his skin to begin with. She shuddered.

For a moment the stage was still, and Amelie feared they had just watched the live demise of a poor skeleton, when he burst through the curtain and into the ring to take a bow with his partner.

Amelie looked over at her father, who winked. He’d obviously had some part to play in this.

As the ring was cleared a disembodied voice announced that the next act would be the finale. It seemed like the show had barely started, but Amelie noted that the tent was beginning to glow softly; outside the sun was rising.

A huge, patterned canon was rolled onto the stage by Amelie’s aunt, who in the light did in fact have blue skin. When she awoke, Amelie thought, she would ask her father if he actually had a sister. She thought she would quite like to meet her, having just lost her mother.

Amelie’s aunt smiled, grinning widely for the first time, and revealed two sharp, elongated canine’s. “Please welcome to the ring, mon bebe, le boulet de canon humain!”

The curtain was thrust to the side and through it barrelled the young zombie girl Amelie had encountered earlier. Now her goggles were pulled down over her clouded eyes and a helmet was wedged over her tangled hair. In lieu of her cigar she chewed on her lower lip with rotten teeth.

“Ladies and gents,” she announced with a strong Parisian accent. “Are you ready for an explosive show-stopper? The act you’ve all been waiting for?”

The girl hopped up onto a box in front of the canon. “I recommend you cover your faces if you don’t want to get covered in decomposing flesh.” The audience chuckled. “I’m just kidding! I know you guys love it!”

Grabbing the top of the canon, the zombie swung her feet inside and wriggled her way down. Her mother took hold of the barrel and, with surprising strength, pointed it towards a hole Amelie hadn’t noticed in the big top roof. Removing her cigarette holder from between her lips, she lit the canon.

On a whim Amelie hid her face. The explosion echoed around her head.

When she opened her eyes again little had changed, but a charred arm was half-buried in the sand at the side of the ring. Outside the big top there was a loud thud, then a shout, “Someone get my arm!”

The audience whistled and cheered loudly enough to wake the dead.

A moment passed and the lights dimmed, gentle music beginning to swell. Amelie squinted to see what was happening, but could only make out misty wisps in the ring. No one else in the audience seemed to be reacting to the music. The curls of smoky substance grew, rising and writhing until they took on the familiar shape of a woman. Amelie watched with equal parts awe and scepticism as the shifting figure became more defined; features hardening in the mist.

Two fistfuls of Amelie’s dress were clutched in her hands. Her throat tightened. She was aware of uneasy mumblings among the audience. Out the corner of her eye Amelie caught sight of her father; slack-jawed, frozen with fear.

It was a year since her mother had died. Consumption. A month before her death Amelie’s father had locked the bedroom door and forbid Amelie from entering. “She wouldn't want you to see her like this,” he'd said.

Amelie had understood, but Amelie hadn't listened. At night she had taken the key from her father’s beside and snuck into the room. The air had been thick with death.

Amelie had crept over to the bed and peered down at her mother’s sleeping form. Her lips had been blue, stained with red. Her skin had been ghostly pale.

Unsure of what to do, Amelie had stood frozen by the bed.

Every moment she expected her mother to stir, launch forward and startle her, but she didn’t. She just lay there, as if she was already dead.

Eventually Amelie had gone back to bed.

The next day the coroner arrived; her mother had died in the night.

Thinking back now, Amelie couldn’t recall whether she had seen her mother clinging to life or freshly arrived at death. She couldn’t recall whether her chest had heaved up and down or pain still. Whether her eyes were closed in sleep or death. She didn’t know if she wanted to recall.

Now, suspended before her in the air, see-through and ghostly and shrouded in mist, was Amelie’s mother.

Amelie rose; stepped tentatively towards her then stopped. She was too scared and too hopeful. Too unaware of the fact that this was a dream, obviously a dream, clearly a dream, because if it was reality Amelie knew she couldn’t deal with that kind of pain.

Her mother beckoned, translucent hand reaching out for Amelie. She found herself moving forward again, but not consciously. Her legs seemed to be forcing her forward without her consent of her brain.

In her peripheral Amelie was aware of shouting, screaming, actually. Her aunt, across the ring at her father. But her ears seemed dull to the words and all she could do was keep moving forward.

Almost there now. Amelie reached her hand out, fingertips almost touching her mother’s and-

“Arrêtez! Faire quelque chose! Do something!” Suddenly Amelie could hear again: her aunt. And her father was by her side, tears in his eyes, arm shakily outstretched above his head.

Amelie gasped and tried to take a step back, but she was frozen.

Above her head, capture mid-fall and held aloft by her father, was a limelight: huge and heavy and perfectly poised to crush her.

“Que tu fais?” Amelie’s father demanded, dropping his gaze from the limelight to stare right at Amelie’s mother. “What are you doing?” His voice shattered. His whole body shook with the strain of keeping the limelight from crashing to the ground.

More figures joined them in the ring. Amelie’s aunt and the young zombie girl, now sans one arm. She was smiling still, and once again chewing on a smouldering cigar. She held her solitary hand out to her mother.

“Stick me.”

“Are you sure, ma petite? It is risky-“

“I know what I am doing, mon dieu. Stick me.”

The vampire removed her hat, and from the bowl removed a thick stick of purple dynamite. Amelie panicked, more desperate than ever to back away, but she was still frozen stiff.

The zombie lit the dynamite on the tip of her cigar.

Amelie tensed. She glanced her father, in case this was the last time she would ever get to see him. “I love you,” she thought to herself, because she was unable to say it aloud.

Then she looked to her mother. They locked her, her mother’s now a soulless grey, and single thought forced its way into Amelie’s mind. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Je suis désolé. I’m sorry.”

“Goodbye,” Amelie thought.

Then the dynamite exploded.

Amelie awoke in her bed, blankets spread across the floor and water glass spilt on her bedside table. She felt hot and tingly, overrun with emotion from some kind of nightmare. She recalled a circus, and her father dressed as a fancy ringmaster, and her mother’s dead body rolling towards her like a ghost.

With tears pricking her eyes she rose, tiptoeing across the landing and into her father’s room. He was sat by the window, clad in a dressing gown and reading.

“Papa, I had a nightmare,” Amelie whispered.

“Ah, Amelie,” he responded softly. “I am sorry. Venez ici. It’s nearly morning.”

He opened his arms and allowed Amelie to curl up on his lap. As she lay her head on his chest she noticed something. Hung on the back of her father’s door was an intricate suit complete with frilled lace and lined with red. Atop the hook also sat a top hat, not trimmed with her father’s usual black silk, but with red. It looked almost like… a ringmaster’s costume.

Amelie closed her eyes and pretended it wasn’t there, because to acknowledge that it was meant acknowledging that her father was a magician, that supernatural creatures stalked the night, that siren’s swam in the Seine.

Because acknowledging that it was there meant acknowledging that her mother had tried to kill her.

Thanks for reading! The circus setting, the siren and her partner, and the zombie girl and her mum (as well as their acts) are all courtesy of the requestee :) I’m sorry that it’s missing a few aspects of what you asked for, but it’s over 4k words, I really couldn’t add any more! Sorry!

#writeblr #short story #my writing #gothic #supernatural #circus #zombie #vampire #nightmare #idk #ghost story #author's note

13 notes · View notes

hiraeth-doux · 7 years

Note

would you consider writing a one shot about "Who goes on a multitude of dates, none of them successful, who tries to be sincerely disappointed for them but can’t stand the thought that they might not be together forever. ( “not that we are together in that way but you know”)" ? :)

This was meant to be posted almost a week ago, and it wasn’t supposed to be this long, but you know me :) You can thank Nicky for this lovely request, and I hope I did it justice!

AO3

Time Of Our Lives

His name was Steve and when he leaned into kiss Claire good night after walking her to her car, she pretended tomisread his gesture and offered him her cheek instead. Admittedly, she wasn’tthat good an actress. A flicker of recognition flashed across his face whentheir eyes met again, and she knew he wouldn’t be asking her out again, whichleft her relieved and somewhat guilty at the same time. This was supposed to bea date after all. This was a date. She was supposed to want tokiss the man who was nothing but nice and charming, or at least tried to benice and charming, and she did appreciate the effort.

Yet, it felt more like taking a test, andafter 2 hours of conversation about their jobs and the movies they saw and thebooks they liked, she couldn’t name one thing about him, and she also couldn’twait to leave, the weight lifting off her shoulders at the sight of her carparked across the street from the restaurant.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Claire waved her goodbye and slipped intothe driver’s seat, habitually reaching into her purse to pull out her phone,the buzzing she’d heard just as the server asked whether or not they wanted adessert – no, thank you – had been making her palms itch for the past twentyminutes.

There was a missed phone call from Owen,followed by two texts – one asking whether she wanted Chinese or sushi fordinner, and the other one (that came when she didn’t respond) saying that he forgotabout her date and that he was picking up Thai food from a small place twoblocks away from her apartment that she’d never noticed in all the years she’dlived in the area and that Owen found within a week of moving in. He was good likethat, more observant to his surroundings than Claire would ever be. She couldfind an error in a financial statement at first glance and whip up apresentation out of nothing, and then she’d just as easily get lost in athree-block neighborhood.

She wondered sometimes if this was theproblem. If this was why she hadn’t noticed the real him for so long. Likemaybe he wasn’t in her face enough.

Until he was.

Until the incident happened, and suddenlyOwen Grady was everywhere in her life, following her to the press conferencesand court hearings even though he didn’t have to, talking her through the worstof it, his words not as important as the soothing tone of his voice thatwrapped around Claire like a blanket, keeping her safe, being the wall shecould lean on. Until he became the only person who made her feel sane when therest of the world was downright deranged.

However, when Owen said that they shouldstick together, she didn’t exactly envision the two of them becoming nothingbut roomies, didn’t think he would claim her guest bedroom – the one that she’doffered to him when he has nowhere else to go – as his own and spend endlesshours on her couch in the company of beer and Halo. For a while, Claire’s heart kept dropping down into herstomach whenever he stepped into the room, expecting him to… well, do something, give her a sign. Anything,really. He kissed her after all – Claire wasthere, she didn’t make it up. And she remembered the moment all too well, herlips burning for days afterward.

Except it didn’t seem to have meantanything whatsoever. Not to him, at least. Truth be told, she didn’t exactlyexpect him to pounce on her the moment they were alone, but the days turnedinto weeks and the weeks turned into months, and she might have as well beenanother piece of furniture in her practically and tastefully furnishedapartment. Owen cooked her dinners and picked up her mail. He held her hand whenshe cried and saw her first thing in the morning, bedhead and all, handing her acup of coffee without Claire having to say anything because apparently herhabits were easy to pick up on. Come to think of it, maybe he’d seen too much,she mused. Maybe he didn’t want to know what her pre-coffee self was likebefore they even had a second date. Speak of shooting the mystery in the head.

It was a mess, but it was the kind of messClaire hoped they would manage to figure out somehow eventually. God knew shewanted it to happen, preferably before they turned into her grandparents andbrought weekly Bingo game into the picture. She thought they had a chance.

Until Dan from Marketing and PR asked herout a couple of months ago.

That night over dinner, she mentioned itto Owen with pointed casualty, hoping for… well, something. Anything. A part of her hoped that maybethe possibility of her becoming unavailable would push him into action orsomething. Instead, he told her to go for it, live a little – Owen’s words, nothers. And just to spite him, she said yes to Dan, uncertain of whether she’deven liked the guy or not, but since the one she was actually into was far moreinterested in lounging in her living room and talking about the culinary skillsof the Iron Chef contestants, itdidn’t seem like that big of a sacrifice at the time.

Until Dan turned out being about asexciting as a piece of stale bread, and Claire nearly fell asleep, listening tohim talk about long-term investments and importance of the real estate marketfor the economy, or something of that nature. Suddenly, discussing the meritsof different knives became fore more appealing. She’d honestly wished she’dspent the night with a bowl of ice-cream, debating the pros and cons ofcilantro with Owen. It wasn’t that thought that scared her, though, but therealization that it was probably a matter of time before he started datingsomeone as well. Unless he already was and he simply forgot to mention it toher. Not that Claire had the guts to ask….

To say that it was messed up was anunderstatement of the century.

And then Mitch came along, a CommercialLoan Manager who owned a car that cost twice more than all of Claire’spossessions combined. Well-read and witty, he was a step up from Dan in theright direction. They went out twice. He took her to the restaurant that normalpeople needed to book eight months in advance but that he could walk into on awhim and there would always be a table for him, the staff beaming so bright atthe sight of him Claire feared the rest of the patrons would go blind.

He was her type. Hell, he was a definition of her type, and a few years ago,she’d be thrilled to spend time in his company. So what if their dinners wereinterrupted by the phone calls he had to take? She got it. She got theimportance of the things that couldn’t be put off for later. It had never beenan issue before. But it made her think of how Owen wouldn’t even check histexts when they were eating cheap takeout out of paper boxes, and she longedfor it. She wanted undivided attention, and not just anyone’s, too.

Mitch faded away, swallowed by his job,and Claire was more than a little tempted to give up on the whole ‘living alittle’ idea. The only problem here was that she knew that the only way to get overOwen would be to focus on someone else.

Sadly, Steve definitely wasn’t it.

The ‘it’ was probably finishing a secondhelping of fried rice or green chicken curry right now while Meredith Grey didsomething unfathomably stupid on TV. Again. What was it with Owen and Grey’s Anatomy?

He poked his head out of the living roomwhere the residents and interns were calling code something-or-other, a takeoutbox and chopsticks in his hands.

“That bad, huh?” He asked around amouthful of… something.

Claire quirked an eyebrow, her fingersexpertly undoing the straps of her high-heeled shoes “What makes you think itwas bad?” She inquired, uncertain if she was insulted by the assumption or not.He wasn’t wrong, after all.

He left the food behind and stepped intothe hallway, his arms folded over his chest and his hair tousled from hispost-work run and curling at the ends after the shower. She could smell herbody wash on him even from fifteen feet away, her chest nearly caving in fromlonging.

Owen gave her a pointed once over, thenchecked his phone. “For one thing, it’s not even 9,” he noted. “And I know the look.”

Which could’ve easily been a very boldstatement coming from someone else, perhaps, but of course, he knew the look.He’d seen it first-hand. Clairescowled at him without a comment.

“C’mon, let’s fix it.” He peeled of the doorjamband, hands on her shoulders, steered her toward the couch the coffee table infront of which was full of leftover takeout boxes. Her lips curledinvoluntarily at the sight of an ass-shaped mark on one of the cushions.

Truly a view she missed in a fancy restaurant,Claire thought without a hint of irony as she plopped down and reached for hishalf-finished dinner.

“Beer?” Owen asked, offering her a bottle,but she shook her head, her eyes already glued to the screen. He slumped downnext to her and reached into her carton with his fork with the comfort andfamiliarity she no longer found odd, all things considered. “Come on, gimme thedeets.”

“Read my face,” Claire retortedhalf-heartedly, mad at herself more than him for keeping her goddamned hopes upeven after all this time. One of these days, she was going to show up at homeafter work and find a sock on the door, a universal sign for Do not disturb. It was like living witha ticking bomb in her house, the one that was emptying the pantry like a vacuumcleaner and forgetting to unload the dishwasher.

“For what it’s worth – I’m sorry,” hesaid, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. He was watching her, Claire couldfeel it, even though her own eyes were still on the screen, feeling like shewas 13 again, but in a very pathetic way.

“No, you’re not,” she said with a huff.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with asmirk. “Although, let’s face it, we both know what the problem is.”

She turned at him, surprised to find himcloser than she expected, his face barely an inch away from hers, making itpretty damn hard to resist the urge to push his hair back from his forehead,see if it was as soft as it looked. Claire narrowed her eyes skeptically as shetried to ignore her pulse that escalated by the second, her heart pounding sohard and so fast in her chest it was making her dizzy. “Do tell.”

“These guys… They’re vanilla ice-cream,”Owen announced with confidence, digging through the carton of food she wasstill holding but had long forgotten about.

She blinked. “Is that supposed to make anysense?”

“No, I mean it,” he added quickly, shovinga forkful of chicken curry into his mouth and finally looking up. “There’snothing wrong with vanilla ice-cream. Everyone likes it. It’s a good, solidchoice. But no one ever picks it when there’s Rocky Road or Cookie Dough orwhatever else on the menu, you know?” He rolled his shoulders in a half shrug.

“Is that so?” She hummed, struggling tokeep a straight face. “And where does that deep wisdom come from?”

“Oprah,” he replied proudly. “Screw thoseguys, Claire. You gotta find your Rocky Road.” He nudged her shoulder with his andthen pulled her feet into his lap and leaned back, his fingers digging expertlyinto her soles, massaging the tension away. “Or Cherry Garcia.”

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” she promised,shaking her head.

“Either way,” he flashed a megawatt smileat her, cheeky as hell, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “You keep coming hometo me.”

She stared at him, the words running on anendless loop in her mind as she took them apart and put them back together, theletters and syllables thrown into a mix, somehow still falling into the samepattern each time she rearranged them. And it was so easy to see more into hiscomment than he’d probably meant, her fingers flexing involuntarily and hergaze dropping down to his mouth curled crookedly while the ambulance sirenswailed on Channel 10.

“Hey, there’s a new guy in my office.You’d totally hit it off. I could introduce you…” Owen said all of sudden and trailedoff. He cleared his throat, his unfinished question falling between them like awall and making her sick to her stomach.

“You know what? I think I need to recoverfrom tonight’s date first.” Claire pulled her feet off of his lap and stood up,the spell broken and the cocoon of intimacy around them torn to shreds.

She stepped over a stack of magazines thathe pushed to the floor to make room for his dinner and trying to pretend thattwo minutes of foot massage were worth the subsequent disappointment.

—

Fuck.

Owen flopped down onto his bed – well,technically Claire’s guest bed, whichwas a double fuck, really – and ran a hand over his face. His chest constrictedwith a shuddered sigh, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the ceiling.

Did he just honestly offer to fix Claireup with someone?

On a scale of one to dumb, he wasofficially unapologetically stupid.

Behind the wall in their shared bathroom,he could hear the water running, Claire drawing herself a bath, probably withone of those Lush bath bombs that would make her and the rest of the housesmell like an exotic resort, or a bubble gum factory. Or a freaking bakery –cinnamon and vanilla. Like he didn’t already want to eat up her alive, his bonerbeing a perfect example of the cause-and-effect charts she loved to use in herbusiness presentations. Once she kicked him out – which he was starting tosuspect was going to happen sooner rather than later - he’d have to buy everythingLush ever made, quite possibly incapable of jerking off to anything else.

How exactly they ended up being the kindof friends who braided each other’s hair and painted each other’s nails wasbeyond him. Basically, they were a stone’s throw away from having pillow fightsin their underwear – not that Owen would ever say no to that – and there was nocoming back from that. In all fairness, it wasn’t like he thought they’d get atit the moment the hotel door closed behind them on Costa Rica, and the firstfew weeks were so intense it hardly was the right time to bring up the ‘I kissed you and maybe we should take it toa new level’ issue. But between that and the fact that Claire was nowdating, apparently, it was starting to seem like he’d missed his windowentirely, and the idea was filling him with dread.

And what was he supposed to say when shementioned that what’s-his-name ask her out? If anything, it only proved thatshe was ready and willing to move on… not from him, obviously, because theywere never a thing to begin with, but from everything else – the incident, theinvestigation, the chaos their lives had turned into.

Owen was more than a little surprised thatthe banker didn’t stick around – from what he’d heard from Claire, they were amatch made in heaven, or however the phrase went, but it was still only amatter of time, he figured, before she got sick of his company and politelyasked him to vacate the premises. They both knew that after a few months, hewas quite able to afford his own place, and Claire didn’t seem like the typewho needed a roommate. Admittedly, it wasn’t just that at first - the incidentbrought them together like no relationship could. There was the kind ofunderstanding between them that he had trouble putting into words. And truth betold, Owen was scared of being alone, locked in four walls one on one with hisdemons, knowing that Claire feared it, too.

“Just ask her out, man,” Barry told him onmore than one occasion. They took to running together now and then, and normallyit was a silent occasion interrupted only by the heavy pounding of their sneakersagainst the pavement, but Owen’s doom and gloom was starting to weigh down bothof them at this point.

“Just ask…” Owen echoed, his breathingcoming out in labored puffs and his calves burning. “S’like saying if you wantto fly to the moon, just fly.”

Barry slowed down and then stopped, bendedat the waist, his hands gripping his knees. “What’s the worst thing that canhappen?” He inquired.

Owen squinted in the sunlight, his chestheaving, the air that smelled strongly of the ocean and magnolias clinging tohis skin. Hands on his hips, he grimaced a little, the pleasant post-run buzzsettling inside him. Scoffed, when he caught Barry watching him quizzicallybecause apparently the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“Where do I even start?” He muttered,which wasn’t entirely a joke.

He had never wanted anyone more than hewanted Claire, and several months of shameless fantasizing about her did littleto help tame his urges. But the most important thing was that she was hisfriend, the one he never expected to find in none other than Claire Dearing, ofall people. If he did something stupid and Claire didn’t reciprocate hisfeelings, he would lose not only the idea of her, however impossible, but alsothe person he could talk to, the one that listened to him and seemingly cared.In the best care scenario, they would end up with a perpetual wall ofawkwardness between them. Their conversations would go strained and their eyecontact fleeting. With Owen’s luck, he’d have to move to another planet and learnto grow crops because anything else would be too unbearable.

So yeah, the stakes were kinda high, andas much as he appreciated Barry’s wisdom, Owen figured he might need a slightlymore solid plan than Why don’t you just.

Which was problematic to come up with whenhe could oh so clearly picture her in the goddamned bathtub only a wall awayfrom him, and all he could think of was kissing every inch of her body andevery freckle and those plump red lips that he was more than certain would feelpretty damn good everywhere on his skin.

No wonder even Lowery, a guy whose lovelife was desperately sad, was making fun of him.

—

“You’recoming to Gray’s graduation, right?” Karen inquired, which sounded morelike a statement than a question. “Claire?”

Her phone squeezed between her ear and hershoulder, Claire bit her lip, trying to stay focused on her sister and thebalance sheet spread before her on the desk at the same time, her eyes scanningthe narrow lines filled with figures. Choosing impeccable timing was certainlyone of Karen’s undeniable talents.

“I’m here,” Claire muttered, rubbing herforehead. “Yes, of course. I told you I was.”

The one good thing that came from thegoddamned incident was, perhaps, patching up her relationship with her familythat had been steadily falling apart for years. She had to admit that there wasnothing quite like a near-death experience to prompt some actual bonding, andmuch to her own surprised, she actually missed Zach and Gray more than sheexpected, or was willing to admit, especially to Karen who had been on her caseabout being more involved with the boys for as long as they lived. Trying notto dwell on all the missed birthdays, holidays, and milestones, Claire wasquite looking forward to her visit to Madison in several weeks, her feetitching to walk the familiar streets, among other things.

Not that was it was making Karen’suntimely phone call was any less inconvenient.

“Andyour… boyfriend?” Karen pressed.

Claire sighed and leaned back in herchair, choosing to give up on the report for the time being. “He is not myboyfriend,” she repeated for what felt like a millionth time, pointed patiencein her voice because she knew Karen couldn’t stand it – probably about as muchas Claire hated this whole conversation.

“I’msorry. The man you’re living with,” Karen snorted. “Gray talked my ear off about him, and considering your situation--”

“There is no situation, Karen. Actually,we’re seeing other people,” she added, which was vague enough to mean justabout anything while not being a compete lie.

“People?As in – plural? Both of you?” Claire didn’t dignify that with an answer,and her sister went on. “Anyway, he is more than welcome to join you.” Apause. “They both seem to think veryhighly of Owen, and… well, it’s up to him of course. And you. I mean… I don’teven know if he can take the time off.”

“I’ll ask,” Claire promised before Karen’srambling got out of hand.

In the past few months, the incidentbecame sort of a taboo topic that neither she, nor Karen brought up, and eitherby an unspoken agreement, or by their mother’s instruction, the boys nevermentioned it to her either, their Skype calls usually revolving around theirdaily lives. She knew Karen got rid of Gray’s dinosaur collection, and neither ofthem would probably go anywhere near Costa Rica for the rest of their lives,but if that was what healing was, Claire was willing to take it.

—

Contrary to popular opinion, Owen wasn’tan impulsive person. His whole life was a series of carefully calculateddecisions and thought-through steps, the consequences of the possible mistakes alwayson the periphery of his attention. Sure, he had his fair share of baddecisions, the nights he regretted, and roughly a hundred tequila shots that heprobably could’ve live without. No to mention a tattoo that Owen had to turninto a Navy one because getting into a truth or dare game with a bunch of drunkbuddies was hardly ever a good idea. However, his choice to join the Navy andthen accept the offer from Simon Masrani was not made lightly.

Therefore, buying a motorcycle with hisfirst post-incident check was not exactly something he did on a whim. Inretrospect, he could have and should have done something useful with thatmoney. Something like getting his own apartment, for instance, and if he wasthinking with his head at least on some occasions, he’d do just that. However,when he cautiously mentioned moving out to Claire, she scanned his list ofselected Craigslist ads, her face pinched like he’d handed her a dead rat,crossing one after another while she explained to him how exactly the peoplewho posted them were going to kill him, and ‘have you never done this before?’

For a moment, it almost seemed like sheactually wanted him to stay, although Owen refused to actually think of it. Buthis search for an apartment had been stalling since. And even Claire didn’tseem particularly surprised when he rolled into the driveway on a slightly usedbut still impressive-looking Triumph he’d found on the used-cars lot, clearlyoverlooked. He didn’t technically need it, but sharing Claire’s was growingmore and more inconvenient for both of them, and a bike seemed like a perfectsolution at the time.

She merely raised her eyebrows when hefinally came to a stop and propped his newly acquired beast on a kickstand, hishands shaking slightly from tension, unaccustomed to the feel of power beneathhim again. It wasn’t exactly like riding a bicycle, but his body knew all themoves, curving at the right angles as he swerved at the curves of the road.There were things he didn’t miss about the island – stifling heat and humiditythat felt smothering and thick, mosquitoes and the shower that kept braking onthe days ending with a ‘y’, but this was something he used to enjoy quite a bit,the accelerated heartbeat and the speed that felt like flying.

On that first day, Owen pulled off hishelmet, grinning at Claire who was watching him from the porch, her arms foldedover her chest. He pattedthe passenger seat behind him, to which Claire informed him that she didn’thave a death wish, thank you very much, although her lips were curved into asmile that suggested that she didn’t mean it, her face soft in a way that madehis heart leap up into his throat – a hot lump that made it hard to breathe.There was some colour in her cheeks, the wind tugging at her hair gently, andhe thought he was losing his mind. She’d been referring it his bike as hishobby ever since, noting that everyone needed one and thank god his was mildlysuicidal but not overly so.

Owen turnedonto their street, slowing down at the curve, the roar of the engine stillringing in his ears.

There wassomeone on the porch when the condo came into his view, two shadows in the palelight of the porch lamp over the door, and Owen’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.Claire had a date by the looks of it, and this time the guy made it all the wayto the door. He felt sick at the idea of her thinking that he wasn’t at homeand maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to invite the guy in – not that Owenexpected his presence to stop her from doing it, and they could always go tothe man’s place anyway – but it still was akin a punch in the gut, and by thetime he rolled up the narrow driveway and stopped in front of the garage door,he was practically hyperventilating.

Maybe heshould have turned around and headed wherever, Owen was thinking, except if hedid that right now, it would be too obvious and deliberate, and he didn’t wantto give anyone the satisfaction of seeing his tantrum. Not that Claire wouldsee it that way, he figured, considering how she didn’t really care. Maybe hecould do that, after all. Pretend he’d forgotten something at work. Pretend… hewas getting frustratingly good at it lately, and it was starting to grate onhis own nerves more than he was willing to admit. At this point, he couldprobably wish her all the best with the straight face, without batting aneyelash, and it made him disgusted with himself to the point of feelingnauseated.

Owen pulledoff the helmet, sliding as gracelessly off the bike as he could, given that hiswhole body was shaking with too much adrenaline coursing through his system.

Claire wasstill wearing her office clothes, as was her date, both of them looking likethey’d just tumbled out of a corporate meeting, except it was nearing 11 PM andthe personal space didn’t seem to be much of a thing, from where he wasstanding. Claire was clutching her purse and a folder with some papers in herhand, her back turned to Owen, and the man was leaning if a little toocomfortably into her, his tie loosened a little, his voice louder than Owen liked.Not that it was any of his business. Frankly, the only thing he really caredabout right now was that there was no back door in her condo through which hecould sneak in unnoticed rather than having to walk past them.

Claireturned to the sound of his footsteps, a flicker of something that looked verymuch like relief flashing across her features for a second, making him pausebriefly in his tracks.

And this waswhen Owen noticed that something was off. The guy she was with was clearlydrunk, and not just tipsy, but shit-faced hammered, and his swaying was notflirty. He simply couldn’t stand still without the gravity pulling him down.From this close, he could see the difference in Claire’s body language as well– tense and wary, her smile bit too tight around the edges.

“Owen.”

ClaireDearing knew how to deal with men – be they drunk, overly opinionated, or justassholes in general. She knew how to say no and get them to understand that shemeant it, and she knew how to make her position perfectly clear. She wasperfectly capable of getting them to back off and thinking that it was theiridea in the first place, and she wasn’t above using physical force to ensureher safety. That being said, it didn’t make certain situations any lessuncomfortable and more than a little uneasy. Especially when they were takingplace on her porch after what felt like a waste of 2 hours of her life shecould’ve spent not hating her choices.

Frankly, shehad never been happier to hear the familiar road of Owen’s bike coming fromaround the corner, a stiff line of her shoulders going slack by the second. Sheknew it was a bad idea to say yes to Nathan – not because she saw his orderingone cocktail after another coming, because she certainly did not, but becauseshe didn’t care about him in any way that mattered. He seemed nice enough andthey worked in the same field, which made it quite impossible to lapse intoextended periods of awkward silence. However, she did it out of habit, said yesbecause it was easy to do so, and it was unfair to both of them, consideringthat Claire regretted it not a second later, knowing for a fact that it wouldnot be happening again. In fact, in the few hours that passed between theirconversation and the actual dinner, she was tempted on more than one occasionto call him and use whatever excuse she could come up with to cancel.

She didn’t.

And now shewas having to deal with the fact that not only he insisted on walking her homebecause she’d left her car parked near the office and he had at least somesense left in him to know he shouldn’t be driving, but with the idiotic idea hecame up along the way.

She hopedher adventures would be over for the night after Nathan dropped her off, but hewas dead set on walking her to the door, leaving Claire with a sinking feelingin the pit of her stomach. And then he got it in his head that he wanted tocome on for ‘coffee and chat’, and nothing that Claire had said in the pastfifteen minutes convinced him to leave. She wasn’t worried he’d do anything –after all, the man downed enough scotch to knock out a bull – but it was darkand he was a fairly large person, and she could easily knee him in the area thatwas meant to be treated nicely, but she didn’t particularly want to go there,or make a scene, or call the police, for that matter.

All thingsconsidered, she didn’t need Owen’s help, like she never needed anyone to saveher ever in her life, but he was here, and her heart grew five tons lighterfrom the familiar warmth of his body that appeared right behind her and thescent of his aftershave that permeated her very skin, the one thing sheassociated with safety for what felt like forever.

“Hey,”Owen echoed flatly, his eyes sliding up and down Claire’s company.

Shecleared her throat. “Nathan, this is Owen Grady. Owen – Nathan Gibbons.”

Nathanoffered Owen a sloppy salute. “Sorry, man, we’re kinda in the middle ofsomething here.”

“Idon’t think so,” Owen responded mildly tucking his hands into the pockets ofhis jeans. Standing beside Claire, he seemed like a solid wall, and just asunmovable.

“It’sokay,” Claire assured him, feeling slightly less wobbly in her stomach.

Nathan’sgaze darted between the two of them, his eyes narrowed. “Wait, him?” He jabbed his finger at Owen’schest. “Is this why you wouldn’t putout?”

Owen’shand darted forward at lightning speed, closing around Nathan’s finger andbending it backward until the other man yelped in surprise and pain, strugglingto pull away from him.

”Isuggest you choose your words very carefully, man,” Owen said in a low, dangerous voice.

“Owen,don’t.”

Thesound of her voice drowned in the swoosh of the first punch.

—

“Wasthat really necessary?”

Owensnorted as she pressed a pack of ice wrapped in a towel to his bruisedknuckles.

Shestill didn’t quite understand how exactly the fight broke out, and moreimportantly – how Nathan managed to even swing his fists, let alone to causeany damage when he could barely keep the upright position. She blamedequilibrium, and a great deal of luck, for the matter. Thank god, it was overbefore one of the neighbors called the police and Nathan stumbled unsteadilyinto the night, making Claire wonder if a little absently if their businessinteractions in the future would be as uncomfortable as she suspected theywould be.

Shedidn’t have a chance to catch a glimpse of Nathan’s face, but Owen ended upwith scabbed knuckles, a split eyebrow and an impressive bruise on thecheekbone that would stick around for a while, she assumed.

“Apologiesfor ruining your date night,” Owen deadpanned. “Would you like me to go catchup with him and apologize?”

“It’snot what I meant,” she countered with an exasperate sigh that only made hisscowl deepen, although it remained a mystery as to why.

“Would you like to run after him?” He offeredin a voice that suggested that he half-expected her to take off.

Sheswallowed down a smile and shook her head. “Thank you,” added softly. “Thisneeds to be cleaned.”

Hergaze on the cut over his eyebrow, Claire reached for his chin to tilt his head tothe side to have a better look, maybe figure out if he needed stitches, but Owenleaned away from her touch.

“It’sfine. Just a scratch.”

Hepushed past her, stepping toward the fridge. Dove inside for a moment beforestraightening up again, a bottle of beer in his hand. In a tight shirt that wasstretching over his chest, his face battered and his hair tousled and stickingout at odd angles, he looked like he just fell out of a bar fight. Which wasn’tthat far from the truth, and which, under different circumstances, she wouldgladly comment on. However, it seemed an unnecessary joke when he was lookingat her like the events of the night were purely her fault. Like he could barelystand being in the same room as her.

Clairedropped her hand. “You can’t possibly be this repulsed by me.”

Owenfroze with the bottle halfway to his lips, his eyes popped out in shock. “Comeagain?”

“Forgetit,” she muttered, turning on her heel to leave.

“No,wait a sec…”

OwenGrady was many things, but slow wasn’t one of them. Unless ignoring her not sosubtle hints counted – in which case he was the deafest and blindest man alivewith the reflexes of a snail. Still, he crossed the distance between them intwo quick strides and blocked the doorway as effectively as a wall would,forcing her to stop, his brows knitted together in confusion.

“What thehell was that?”

“Nothing.”She raised her chin, willing her voice to remain steady. “I didn’t sayanything.”

Exceptshe did, and his frown deepened. “You can’t seriously think that.”

Clairethrew her hands in the air, the frustration she’d been stewing in for the pastseveral months finally boiling over the edge. “What was I supposed to think,Owen? I didn’t quite imagine…”

“What?”

She bither lip, feeling the heat rise up her cheeks. “When you said we should sticktogether, I didn’t exactly think you meant it in the watching-Netflix-on-the-couchkind of way!”

Heregarded her grimly. “Is that why you started dating?”

“Youseemed to be fine with it,” Claire remind him, her voice dripping withaccusation.

“Ididn’t know you needed my permission,” he retorted, and winced when it came outsharper than he intended.

“Ididn’t need your permission. I neededto know what you cared, which obviously was a criminal lapse of judgement on my part.”

For along moment, they simply glared at one another, chests heaving like after asprint and lips pursed into thin lines. The air between them felt charged,their gazes fastened on one another’s – jade-green and deep blue, Owen’s facecontorted with more hurt than she’d anticipated, shimmering underneath thelayer of fatigue that was radiating off of him, almost palpable to the touch.

Shecould feel it now, the seismic shift between them. Could feel it under her skinlike jolts of electric current shooting through body, and the change she’d beencraving all those months was staring right in her face, terrifying in its immensity,making Claire wish she could step away from him, or better yet – disappear, putas much distance between them, chagrined under his stare.

“Fuck,”Owen cursed under his breath, his expression closed-off and unreadable.

Shethought he’d storm out – god knew she would if he wasn’t blocking the door.

Instead,he yanked her toward him, one hand on the small of her back and the othertangled in her hair as his mouth crashed against hers, hard and demanding andunapologetic, claiming rather than asking. Caught momentarily off guard, Clairegasped against his lips, surprised by the suddenness and the sheer force drivinghim and reverberating into her with every beat of his heart.

Herhesitation only lasted a moment, mixed with panic that he might change hismind, and then she was kissing him back like they were still on the island andthe chaos raged around them. Gripping the hair on the back of his head, shepressed closer to him, deepening the kiss and ripping a guttural groan from himthat made her feel like her body was on fire. Owen’s tongue pushed past herteeth, his fingers bunching her skirt on her ass, his desperate needy wantingricocheting right through her with sweet, burning ache. He smelled of his aftershaveand leather and sweat, and the memory was so vivid she could almost hear thescreeches of Pteranodons all around them, muffled by the loud hammering of the bloodin her ears.

She hadnever wanted anyone so much in her life.

“Stillthink I don’t care?” Owen chuffed against her mouth between sloppy, breathlesskisses.

Oh, hedid. Claire could feel it hard and clear – pun intended – pressing against herhip.

“Shutup,” she mouthed soundlessly as her fingers closed around a fistful of hisshirt and she pulled him down to her again.

Theystumbled out into the hallway, bumping into the decoration table, nearlyknocking it down to the floor, and then into the bedroom – whose she had noidea and didn’t care one way or the other – Owen’s hands sliding over her bodylike he had at least six of them all of sudden, tending to whatever parts ofher he could reach, none of it ever enough. She tripped over a cord on thefloor and he caught her before she lost her balance, holding her close to him.

“Claire…”

“Don’tstop,” she whispered, her fingers tugging at his shirt, pulling it from underthe belt of his jeans, hands slipping under the hem to find his skin.

Shescraped her nails down his chest, and he growled and pressed a slow, hot kissto her neck, Claire’s eyes fluttering shut, her breath nowhere to be found.Owen chuckled as he tossed his shirt aside and started to work on the buttonsof her blouse with one hand while the other hiked her skirt all the way up toher waist, his fingers tracing the along the waistband of her panties, inchingcloser to where she wanted to feel him the most. She whimpered, the sound turninginto a shuddered sob when his fingers brushed to the sensitive spot.

More.

“Letme,” she murmured and pulled her half-buttoned blouse over her head.

“Handy.”

In nearcomplete darkness, dispersed by the faint light coming from the hallway, hiseyes looked black and bottomless, his ragged breath on her skin making hershake all over. He raised his hand, traced the strap of her white lace bra, hisfingers slipping inside as his other palm cupped her face, and he was kissingher again, with deliberate precision this time, artfully removing the remainingpieces of her clothing as he did so, allowing the gravity to take them. Her brahit the floor and Owen’s thumb ran over her nipple, earning a tug on his bottomlip in response while Claire’s unsteady fingers tried to undo his belt withlittle to no success.

She couldn’tremember the last time someone consumed her mind so completely, the primal needto feel him until he was all there was in the world zinging through her withsparkling, sharp clarity. Giving in to her desires was not something Claire wasoverly familiar with, the territory she found herself in terrifying with theenormity of possibilities, but when Owen pushed her skirt down her thighs andit pooled at her feet in a puddle of silk, his hands sliding up and down herback, probably leaving blisters in their wake, she knew it didn’t matter, hermental itinerary shredded into confetti.

Hefollowed her to the bed, pressing her into the sheets, his hands and lips trailingover her smooth skin, ready to drown in her. His gaze skimmed lazily over herbody, pale in the dark and more perfect than his wildest dreams, the ones thatleft him incapable of looking her in the eye the morning after for fear ofletting her in on something that felt like a secret. Owen fitted his mouth tohers, his face caught between Claire’s hands, tasting her smile, his fingersdigging into her flesh, marveling in the silky feel of her body, wrapped in thescent of vanilla and something that was purely her.

Hishand slipped behind her back, all but yanking her lace panties off in one swiftmotion, before tucking her neatly beneath him, their lips meeting in hungry,hot kisses, one sound of pleasure morphing into another. Her teeth closedaround his earlobe as his fingers skittered over her belly, her hips rising tomeet him in a silent invitation – she knew what she needed and wasn’t shy todemand it, and for once, Owen was more than willing to oblige. His palm slidalong her side and under her thigh, lifting her knee. Claire’s gasp of surpriseat the suddenness of him filling her completely turned into a whimper ofacceptance, a sound low in her throat that jolted from the top his head to hisvery toes.

Owen caughther wrist, pressed it into the mattress above her head; kissed her again, theslick wetness of her nearly undoing him in the best way. His hips snappedforward, the instinctive need to curb his urges, make the moment last dimminginstantly, pushed back by the raw need he’d been keeping at bay for far toolong. His vision tunneled, zeroed in on her and thank god, and finally,her legs wound tightly around him reeling him closer.

Thesqueeze, the rhythm, her breathing coming out in soft moans, her usuallyimpressive vocabulary now reduced to yesand more, the sound of her voicevanishing in the sheer joy of gliding in and out of her, teetering on theperiphery of his attention. His breathing grew ragged, his quickening thrustsalmost frantic. And then she was shuddering all around him, a delicious clench,grasping and groping, her outcry breaking through his blurred awareness andthrowing him over the edge in the explosion of pure delight.

Theworld shifted into place slowly, taking shape around them, its edges sharpeningand then dissolving, and coming into focus again.

A slow,lazy laughter bubbled up in his chest as Owen kissed her temple, her cheek, hisfingers laced through hers flexing to make sure she was real. Claire purred,nuzzled into his stubbled jaw before he collapsed on the sheets beside her,completely spent in the most incredible way.

“Oh,god,” she breathed out, rolling onto her stomach with a giggle, waiting for herheartbeat to find itself.

Owenthrew his arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, andsuddenly she wished she could see more than a mere outline of him, her skinstill tingling with the memory of his touch, every inch of her body alreadymissing the contact.

“Ican’t believe it,” he groaned with a short, incredulous laugh.

“Whichpart?” She asked, mellow and limp for all the right reasons, the thoughtshaving serious trouble forming in her mind.

“Wecould’ve been doing this for months,” he responded, sounding comically miserable,making Claire’s smile stretch out wider. “Years even.”

Shesnorted. “Months – maybe. Years?”

Owen turnedhis head to look at her, his features nothing but a dark smudge, but she knewhe was grinning for all he was worth, could feel it wash over her in tidalwaves.

Herolled onto his side. Propped up on his elbow, dipping his head to press a kissto her bare shoulder, then the base of her neck before finding her lips again,kissing her slowly and sweetly and like they had all the time in the world,which they probably did, and the thought filled him with such consuming elationit almost hurt.

Hebrushed her hair that smelled of strawberries and lemons back from her forehead,twisting a strand between his fingers. “I have never not wanted you, Claire,”he murmured between the pecks.

“Youhave a funny way of showing it,” she grumbled.

Owenwiggled closer to her and gathered her in his arms until she was half-sprawledover him, their legs tangled together and their sweat-slick bodies glued to oneanother, and pulled the covers over them when she shivered. He didn’t seem tobe able to stop touching her, tracing the lines of her body and drain lazycircles on her back, cocooned into the scent and the delicious weight of her.God, she felt so good, so right, so damn amazing - all of her curved into everycurve of him.

“ShouldI have punched someone for you sooner?” He inquired.

“Youshouldn’t have done it, period.”

“Nexttime I’ll hold your purse and you’ll do the swingin’,” he suggested.

Shescoffed and rubbed her nose into his chest, pressed a kiss to a spot below hiscollarbone. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Knowwhat?”

“I didn’tthink you were interested,” she explained.

“Bywhat logic wasn’t I interested, Claire? Why’d you think I haven’t moved out?” Mock-insultedsounded good on him, Claire decided.

“Theocean view?” She suggested. “Free parking?”

Hesnorted like she couldn’t have been more ridiculous even if she tried. “Please!You asked me to move my bike so many times it would’ve been less of a hustle tobuild my own garage.”

“Whatwas I supposed to do? Get naked and throw myself at you?” She demanded with ascoff.

“Workedtonight,” he noted, and she smacked him on the shoulder with the back of herhand.

“Youdidn’t make a move.”

Owenlet out a long sigh, his fingers threading lazily through her mussed hair, the amountof affection making her heart squeeze. “I thought you’d kick me out if I did.Thought I was your charity case or something, I don’t know.” He poked the soleof her foot with his toe.

Shepressed her face into the curve between his neck and his shoulder. “You’re suchan idiot.”

“Itseems to be a popular opinion,” he admitted. “So… now what? Are you still goingto keep seeing those morons?”

Clairechose to ignore the second question, caught all of sudden in the what now part,seeing as how even her wildest fantasies never went past sleeping with him – whichwas so much better than she ever imagined that she had no word for it.Afterwards, she assumed, they would probably ignore it happened and move onwith their lives. Which, as it turned out, was not the case at all.

“We canstart with moving you here to my room.”

“Technically,this my room.”

Sheraised her head, finally noticing the chest of drawers that was sitting in the‘wrong’ corner, and Owen’s gym bag left on the chair, and it was only now thatshe noticed that the bedding smelled of his cologne, too. “Technically, it usedto be my office, and I want it back.”

He laughedand pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “Well, that can be arranged.”

—

“So, youare bringing a ‘plus one’?” Karen pressed, and for a moment Claire wasn’tsure whether to be amused or offended by her undisclosed surprise. Especiallyconsidering the fact that Karen was the one who kept calling Owen her boyfriendfrom the day she met him.

“Stopcalling him that,” Claire huffed as she flipped through the hangers, lookingfor something to match the dark blue shoes she loved but almost never wore.

“Okay, then… what should I call him?”

And that was a very good question indeed,the one that Claire was still struggling with to a certain degree, torn betweenthe need to label and compartmentalize the progression of their relationshipand the tentative idea of actually letting it unfold at its own pace.

Owenmoved into her bedroom almost two weeks ago, his clothes now crowding hercloset and drawers and his books piled on the second bedside table that used tomostly collect dust. And one day last week, he’d actually turned what used tobe his bedroom back into a study while Claire was at work – a gesture that lefther with glowing contentment pooling in the pit of her stomach.

Attimes, it felt like nothing had changed, their routines seemingly the same asthey were before, and yet her mind was still reeling from the clash of newnessand familiarity, the seamless way their lives clicked together like it wasmeant to be this way from the start, and she knew that if she brought it upwith Owen, he’d have a word or two to say about how their date should haveended differently almost two years ago.

Clairebit into her lip, trying to tune out his off-tune humming in the shower andfocus on the conversation with Karen and maybe getting dressed for work beforeshe was late.

“A workin progress,” she said with a small smile.

“You sound… good,” Karen noted.

Clairecaught her reflection in the vanity mirror – in a tank top and pink panties, hercheeks flushed and her hair framing her face in soft waves she no longerbothered to straighten, not with the same religious devotion she was so intofor as long as she remembered, at least. Frankly, she’d never been happier. So muchso that that the woman looking back at her almost looked like a stranger, butthe one she couldn’t wait to know better.

“Itfeels good,” she admitted.

Thedoor behind her opened, and Owen emerged from a cloud of pine-scented steam,his wet hair slicked back from his forehead and a towel wrapped loosely aroundhis hips, making her heartbeat trip over itself. An eyebrow quirked, a cutabove it reduced to a pale scar that Claire knew would fade before he evennoticed, he offered her a lopsided grin, his eyes glinting with amusement, andshe knew instantly that her not particularly subtle once-over didn’t gounnoticed.

“Reallygood,” she added, hanging up without saying goodbye.

Two minuteslater, she forgot what she wasn’t supposed to be late for.

#clawen #clawen fic #claire dearing #owen grady #jurassic world #claire x owen #jealous Owen will always hold a special place in my heart #so much for quitting...#but maybe a few more stories...

35 notes · View notes

decembercamiecherries · 7 years

Link

Title: Words That Water Flowers

Total word count: 16440 -> Chapter 8 word count: 3664

Chapter 8 summary:

Forelsket (Norwegian/Danish)- the magical, wildly-intense feeling that comes over a person when they are falling in love

I am honestly surprised I was able to finish this chapter on time. I am also surprised how long this chapter is. Gon thinks too much, haha XD

Anyway, thank you as always for reading! Chapter 8 can be found in the link above or the cut below~

Gon couldn’t breathe.

His mouth tasted like iron and his muscles burned. An overwhelming sense of dread crawled up his throat and it was sheer desperation that gave him the energy to push harder and faster with each step. He was gasping for air but he didn’t feel any relief. His lungs were on fire as he pelted down the high school hallway.

“KILLUA!” he burst into the nurse’s office, sneakers squeaking loudly against tiled floors.

A woman with short black hair blinked at him, eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise. But he didn’t care about her. She didn’t matter. He had sprinted here from the opposite end of the school because he had heard-

“Did you see what happened to the Zoldyck kid during free period? He just started choking out of nowhere, seriously, everyone thought he was gonna suffocate or something-”

And all the air had vanished from Gon’s lungs.

“Where’s Killua?!” he snapped at the nurse.

Her dark eyes darted to his left and Gon whirled around.

And there, laying on his back on one of the nurses’ beds, was Gon’s best friend. Killua was paler than Gon could ever remember seeing him, skin almost ashen in color. But his chest rose up and down in a steady, even pattern.

Gon swallowed around the lump in his throat, barely holding back a sob. He collapsed onto the plastic chair next to Killua’s bed and reached out to gently take one of Killua’s limp hands in his. Killua’s hands were cold, like always, but he was breathing and he was alive. And that was all that mattered.

“What happened?” Gon asked quietly, not looking away from Killua’s peaceful face.

“…you a friend of his?” the nurses’ voice echoed off the harsh white walls.

Gon’s grip tightened around Killua’s piano fingers. “Yes.”

“Then you probably already know what happened.”

Gon stiffened. His head snapped around to glare venomously at the short woman. Her stoic expression didn’t change and a rush of pointless fury welled up inside him. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Killua was here, but he wasn’t in a good enough mood to be polite with her, either.

“Well, I want to know anyway,” he growled.

The woman let out a long sigh. She picked something up off the counter as she explained, “Your friend had a coughing fit during one of his classes, apparently. One of your fellow students preformed the heimlich maneuver on him once it became obvious that something was wrong. After he coughed up these-”

The woman tossed Gon a plastic bag and he caught it one handedly.

“- he was able to breathe normally again,” she finished, folding her arms over her chest. “But he passed out. So, he was brought here. Do you recognize what those are?”

Gon’s brow puckered as he studied the plastic bag. And then his heart plummeted to the ground.

Through the clear plastic, Gon could see sun-gold and flame-orange petals, smeared with drops of wet scarlet blood. Killua’s blood, Killua’s flower, Killua’s death staring him in the face-

“Yes,” Gon said thickly as he gripped the bag in his fist. “I do.”

“Then you understand what’s going on here.”

Gon lifted his gaze back to the nurse. His whole body was numb, hallow. He understood, but he didn’t. He knew so little about this Disease. And he was almost scared to do research because that made it seem more real, somehow. And Gon didn’t want any of this to be real.

He wanted to wake up in the mornings and text Killua his daily reminder to drag himself out of bed for school. He wanted to hear Killua whine throughout the day about how exhausted he was getting up this early, how boring classes were. He wanted to walk back to his house with Killua at his side, arms brushing and shoulders bumping while they laughed at something one of their teachers had said. He wanted to see Killua’s mischievous smirks and feel his bright blue eyes digging into Gon’s back as Gon pulled out afternoon snacks for them to share.

Gon just wanted everything to go back to normal. He didn’t want to face the reality that one day he would wake up, and have no one to text or walk home from school with. He didn’t want to wake up knowing that Killua was gone forever.

“How-” his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat before starting again. “How much longer does he have, do you think?”

The nurse pressed her lips into a thin line. After a pause, she said slowly, “I am not an expert on the Hanahaki Disease. It would be better to go to a professional for this kind of a thing. But, guessing on those petals, I would say the flower has already bloomed. That means it’s only a matter of time until the flower starts to grow up into your friend’s throat. I assume you know what happens after that.”

Gon’s blood ran cold. He did know. It meant Gon would be standing over a pile of freshly dug up dirt, reading a stone slab with his best friend’s name across the top.

“So…not much longer, then,” he said and he couldn’t hide the way his voice trembled.

“No,” the nurse said. Her tone was a bit gentler as she continued, “His best chance is probably getting him to a surgeon. But, again, I’m not an expert.”

She paused. Gon didn’t bother to ask anything else. There wasn’t a point. Everything she had told him was a direct stab to his heart and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

Because Killua wouldn’t let him.

“I’ll give you two some time,” the nurse said but Gon barely heard her, mind focused entirely on the bloody flower petals in his hands. “I’ll be back shortly, so don’t try anything. Let your friend recover.”

She shut the door behind her with a low click. The room was filled with the sound of a clock ticking away on the wall by the nurse’s desk and Gon’s own heavy breathing.

He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, drinking in the sight of his best friend. He was still holding Killua’s hand and he rubbed his thumb gently against Killua’s, as if Killua could somehow feel the comforting gesture through his slumber.

Killua looked so small and washed out laying there on white sheets in a white room with white walls and white floors. The image didn’t fit him; Killua was always larger than life in Gon’s mind, bursting in shades of every color.

“You don’t belong here, Killua,” Gon said quietly and his voice echoed off the bank walls.

His best friend didn’t react at all to what Gon had said. He stayed completely still. There was a deep pang in Gon’s chest- was this what Killua would look like after the Disease go the best of him?

Gon didn’t want to know.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered. He knew if he spoke any louder, his voice would crack. “You- you see these petals coming out of your mouth, you feel the flower growing in your chest- doesn’t it hurt you, Killua? I- I, I don’t.”

He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself enough to speak clearly.

“I don’t understand why you would put yourself through this,” Gon admitted. “I don’t understand what would be worth giving up your whole life. You have so much…brightness, Killua. So much to offer the world. You’re really smart, you know? You could do anything, I think! Like, you could be a lawyer, if you wanted. Or maybe an astronomer since you like stars so much! And you c-can’t do that if you let this Disease get the better of you.”

He gazed at the pale teen unblinkingly. Killua’s face was totally relaxed, the way Gon had only ever seen it during sleepovers. Gon would wake up in the morning, roll over to find Killua still fast asleep next to him. Sometimes Gon got up and helped Aunt Mito make breakfast. Most of the time, though, he just stayed put and stared at Killua’s peaceful expression.

He had always thought there was something beautiful and rare about Killua’s face whenever he was like this- Killua was always, always worried about something. His family, Alluka, his future. It was only around Gon that Killua really let his guard down and let himself breathe. To Gon, it was almost a kind of personal victory, that he was the one who could bring some sort of peace to Killua. And it was, wasn’t it?

Being able to make someone else, someone he deeply cared about, happy and calm. Gon never wanted anything else for Killua.

Gon dropped the bag of petals onto the floor before reaching out with his free hand, carefully brushing starlight bangs off his friend’s forehead. Killua’s hair was soft and silky, just like it had always been.

Gon kept arranging silver locks to frame Killua’s face, saying, “You shine sometimes when I look at you, y’know? Like when you laugh and the sun lights up your hair from behind like a halo. Or when you have that first bite of chocolate, the total bliss in your face?”

Gon’s chest was tight. It made it hard to get the words out. He didn’t even know why he was still talking anymore. It wasn’t like Killua could hear him. But he always felt better after he talked to Killua, and he didn’t know what else to do.

“I still don’t get how there’s someone out there who doesn’t love you,” Gon confessed lowly, squeezing Killua’s fingers. “They’d have to be blind to not see how amazing you are. I mean, I already said you’re smart, but you’re really loyal, too. I’ve never seen anyone call and text his sister as much as you do. And you’re always there to help me with everything, even calculus.”

Gon laughed at himself for that. He didn’t get math at all. But it made more sense when Killua explained it, somehow. Actually, everything made more sense with Killua around. It was when Killua was gone that Gon struggled.

It wasn’t that Gon couldn’t do stuff on his own. He could, it he tried hard enough. But Killua made it easier, more fun. More worth-while, somehow.

Gon repeated haltingly, “You’re smart and you’re loyal. You’re really funny, too. You always make me l-laugh a lot. Um.”

Ah, his eyes were prickling now. That wasn’t good. He sniffed and scrunched his nose. He didn’t want to cry when Killua was the one in pain.

“You-you’re pretty, too,” Gon said between gulps of air. He had to keep talking or else he would break down completely. He didn’t even know what he was saying now, he just kept blurting out the first thing that came to his mind.

“Y-Your hair has this really beautiful shine to it and you have freckles across your nose. But no one would notice that unless they get really close to your face. Your skin is always so soft and your hands are long and graceful. I don’t get why you like to hide them in your pockets when they’re so beautiful like that. And- and you always move so gracefully. I can’t even explain it.”

Water welled up in his eyes despite Gon’s attempts to push them off. He blinked rapidly to push the tears back as he continued brokenly:

“Your laughter is the best sound I’ve ever heard; it makes my chest feel fuzzy and warm. And the way your eyes light up when you get really excited about something takes my breath away. Sometimes, when you smile at me, my heart starts to pound really fast and I lose my train of thought. And the more and more I look at you and I just keep thinking about how much I don’t want to l-lose you, Killua.”

He took a deep breath to slow his racing heart.

“I. Killua, I want to stay with you, so I can keep seeing you shine and grow and live. I want to be the one to make you laugh, to light up your eyes, to make you to smile like that. Because you deserve to be happy, Killua. You’re so important to me, and I care about you so, so, so much. More than you can ever imagine! My heart feels like it’s going to explode sometimes because of how much I love-”

Gon stopped short, eyes bulging.

Love? Did he just say- love?!

Gon’s heartbeat hammered in his chest as heat rushed to his cheeks. He felt suddenly winded, like someone had punched him in the stomach with a bag of bricks, and his mouth was dry as sandpaper.

He didn’t understand what was happening to him. Did he love Killua? Of course. That wasn’t a surprise; Killua was his best friend since they were twelve. He did everything with Killua, shared everything with Killua. And what he had said earlier was true- he wanted Killua to smile and he wanted to be with Killua as they grew old together.

But…he could tell that there was something else. Something more than that innocent desire for his friend to be happy.

Gon remembered how it felt when Killua had told him about his Hanahaki Disease, like the sun had burned out and the world had stopped spinning. That horror of realizing Killua wouldn’t be there to walk side-by-side with him anymore.

He remembered Killua’s body pressed up against his that time Killua had yelled at him in his bedroom. His skin had tingled where they touched and his face stayed flushed for the rest of the night.

He remembered Razor bluntly telling him that Killua’s Hanahaki meant that Killua loved someone more than Gon, because he was willing to give up his life for that person. He had been so confused and angry; Killua was more important to him than anyone else and it upset him to think Killua didn’t feel the same, that he would choose someone above Gon.

He remembered how…how good Killua had looked the other day when they went hiking. How Killua’s skin glittered in the sunlight on top of the cliff right before they jumped off.

He remembered gazing down at Killua’s surprised face after they pulled themselves out of the water. He remembered an overwhelming desire to know if Killua’s lips were as soft as they looked. He remembered leaning down, angling his head before he even knew what was happening.

He remembered laying wide awake in bed that night, replaying that moment over and over and over again with his pulse lightning-quick in his veins.

So…what did all of that mean?

“There are different kinds of love, Gon,” Killua’s voice echoed in his head. “Being in love is different than just loving someone.”

Gon squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deep until his chest swelled and his lungs were filled with air. He hadn’t understood what Killua was saying then, but he did now.

Because Gon was in love with his best friend. ‘In love’, as in romantically interested in Killua Zoldyck, the boy he knew more about than anyone else in the entire world. He’d been in love with the starlight teen for a while now, he thought with a jolt, but this was the first moment he was actually aware of what the fluttering inside his heart meant.

Gon slowly opened his eyes again. He was still holding Killua’s hand and his heart began to race even faster at the realization.

He swept his gaze over Killua’s elegant features- drinking in his silver hair, alabaster skin, and thick white eyelashes. Killua really was beautiful, he thought, and his cheeks grew warm instantly.

Gon bit the inside of his cheek even as a small smile tugged at his lips. Wow. Now that he was paying attention, it was really obvious how much he liked Killua! Everything about the other teen made Gon’s chest fill with a strange, giddy feeling. How could he have been so blind to his feelings before now?!

But- but what about Killua’s feelings?

Gon’s smile dropped off his lips. An icy dread took hold of his limbs and for a moment, his mind was blank.

He hadn’t thought at all about Killua, too wrapped up in his own realization. It was undeniable that Killua was in love with someone already. But who, exactly?

Gon’s mind flashed back to the list. He remembered writing down Zushi, Ikalgo, and…who else? Gon had left that third space blank for some reason. He had thought at the time that there should be a third person, but he just couldn’t figure out who.

But now he supplied the third name easily: Gon Freecss.

It could happen, right? Killua could love him. Maybe. But wouldn’t Killua have told him something like that if it was true?

No, Gon thought as his breath caught in his throat. No. Killua wouldn’t have told him that because Killua was shy when it came to feelings and emotions. Killua always thought less of himself, a trait imposed on him by his family, and believed he wasn’t worthy of all the good things life handed to him, even though he was. Killua was worth everything and more.

So…maybe it could be that Killua was in love with him, but he thought Gon didn’t feel the same, and that’s how he got Hanahaki.

Or maybe Gon was just trying to convince himself that because he selfishly wanted Killua to love him the same way he loved Killua.

Gon groaned quietly. Great. That didn’t help him at all! If he confessed to Killua and it turned out that he wasn’t Killua’s unrequited lover, he would make Killua guilty. And that was the last thing in the world he wanted.

On the other hand, if Gon was the one Killua loved, Killua’s Hanahaki would go away, right? He would be healed.

Chest aching, he looked back at Killua’s still figure. His best friend slept on peacefully, totally unaware of Gon’s turmoil.

“I wish you were awake,” he said and leaned over Killua’s bed to caress alabaster cheeks. Killua’s skin was soft under his fingers.

Gon continued quietly, “You would know what to do, Killua. You always do somehow. But I guess this is something I have to figure out on my own, huh?”

He would have to figure it out fast, though. Based on what that nurse said, Killua didn’t have much time left. Killua’s flower would keep growing while Gon argued with himself. If he waited too long, Killua would die.

Gon sucked in a sharp breath. Killua would die soon. And Gon would be left alone, in love with a ghost.

Gon clenched his jaw hard enough for it to hurt. He didn’t want to imagine what it would be like without Killua. And if he never told Killua how he felt, he would always wonder if his confession could have been the one to save his best friend. He would regret holding back the truth for the rest of his life. That meant Gon should be honest with Killua.

But- but If Killua didn’t reciprocate Gon’s feelings, Killua would hate himself for the rest of his short life knowing that Gon loved him and would have to watch him slowly die. And Gon didn’t want to add onto Killua’s suffering when he was already in so much pain.

And wasn’t that the most important thing? If Gon could save Killua from extra hurt, wasn’t that what he should do?

Gon’s head spun in dizzying circles. He didn’t know. And there wasn’t enough time to-

Soft skin moved under his fingers and suddenly Gon found himself staring down into startling blue eyes.

He snatched his hand away from Killua’s cheek before his friend had the chance to realize what he had been doing. Killua blinked owlishly at him and his voice was barely above a whisper when he said, “Gon…?”

The edges of Gon’s mouth quirked upwards. His heart skipped a beat at the still dazed expression on that beautiful face. He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been for not realizing his feelings sooner. He said quietly, “Hey, Killua. How are you feeling?”

Killua’s features twisted into a grimace. His voice was hoarse as he croaked out, “Like crap. Ugh.” He tried clearing his throat but stopped almost immediately, letting out a low a groan of pain instead. His throat was probably raw from coughing up the petals earlier.

“Don’t push yourself.” Gon squeezed Killua’s fingers reassuringly. “You’re okay now, you’re in the nurse’s office.”

Killua’s gaze flashed down to land on their intertwined hands. Red blossomed across Killua’s normally cheeks and Gon’s heart soared with hope.

Killua swallowed thickly. “G-Gon. Um.”

“Yeah?” Gon squeezed their hands again, smile growing at the flustered look on Killua’s face.

Killua chewed on his bottom lip as Gon waited patiently. Then Killua looked at him straight on. Gon felt a sharp thrill in his stomach at being the center of those piercing eyes.

Killua opened his mouth-

BANG!

They both jumped at the loud noise. Gon let go of Killua in his shock and instantly regretted it- his hand felt strangely empty, now.

But then he saw who was standing at the doorway, and all thought disappeared from his mind entirely.

“Mr. Zoldyck,” said the sour-faced nurse from earlier. “You’re free to go home, now. Your family member has signed all the required documents clearing you from class for the rest of the day.”

Gon’s head snapped back around to stare wide-eyed at Killua, who in turn was gaping at the short, wrinkled man in the doorframe.

“Gramps?” Killua whispered.

The old man bobbed his head. “Hello, Killua. I think it’s time we had a chat. Go get your things and we’ll be on our way.”

#dc writes #WTWF chp8 #Words That Water Flowers #HANAHAKI AU #modern au #au #killua zoldyck #gon freecss #killugon #yee

42 notes · View notes