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agentnatesewell · 4 months

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tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade.

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed.

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.”

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil.

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest.

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer.

“Barbie?”

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention.

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.”

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone.

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.”

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.”

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?”

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.”

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost.

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage”

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually.

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle.

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath.

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.”

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up.

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.”

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine.

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers.

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance.

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth.

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.”

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?”

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.”

“Wait! One more!”

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree.

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.”

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart.

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.”

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.”

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition.

It gives her an idea.

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax. A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him.

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home.

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake.

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer.

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?”

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him.

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.”

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer.

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.”

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.”

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.”

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition.

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.”

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.”

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.”

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge.

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck.

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything.

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?”

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.”

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #wayhavensecretsanta #nate sewell #twc mason #mar writes twc

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callmebeem · 4 months

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Mason and Samir

hii @mewsly, i was your secret santa for @wayhavensecretsanta!

i enjoyed every moment of drawing samir and i hope i did him justice

#wayhavensecretsanta #twc #twc mason #the wayhaven chronicles #cmb art

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yakov-vasilyev · 5 months

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happy holidays @sustainably-du-mortain 🎄✨

i'm your secret santa for @wayhavensecretsanta ! i had so much fun with this piece and getting to know ms kingston. i hope i did your girl justice ❤️

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #twc detective #twc morgan #agent morgan #when you mentioned that maddie was more into natural christmas decor i immediately thought of dried orange ornaments #i feel like she'd have a blast just sitting in her apartment and diying them (morgan can help or just sit and watch sjkdfhhjk)#anyway happy holidays!!#and tysm to the mod(s) for organising <3 #my art #agent m #wayhavensecretsanta

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mewsly · 4 months

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Hey! @apenapaperandadoofus I was your Secret Santa! ^^

I hope you like it, Theo was a joy to draw! <3

@wayhavensecretsanta

#the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensecretsanta

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nsewell · 4 months

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the unspoken dialogue of borrowed books

ava du mortain/female detective ; 3.1k words ; rated G (on ao3)

The Detective finds a crafty way to send a message and Ava lies rather expertly to herself about what it does to her.

i had the absolute pleasure of writing for @dottiechan's detective persephone schulz as part of the @wayhavensecretsanta exchange! thank you so much for lending her to me ^^ i was super taken with your headcanon that posy pays attention to books that ava mentions so she can sneak them out of the library to read, and what that does to ava when she notices. where there are books involved, nate had to rear his head of course so i got to play with posy's romance option and bestie dynamics all in one. this was really such a joy to write, and i hope you enjoy reading it!!

The first time it happens, it’s the familiar, resonant scent that gives her away. Ava pauses a few steps into the inviting warmth of the Warehouse library with its crackling fire and array of antiques: polished rosewood and old ink and brocade rugs, and suspended above it all—a remnant of Persephone. Long brown hair and clear grey eyes; still Midwinter, imbued in the air after her leaving just like the mythos of her name. The smell of her blood is so pungent and enticing. Ava’s intention of asking Nate to cross reference a text on Gorgons by Agency request is lost to the furtive racing of her own pulse, the unneeded breath she expels from her lungs as it all washes over her; it’s entirely too human a reaction.

She folds her broad arms in front of her chest as though obscuring some unsavory part of herself from the light, and wets her lips, attempting to school her composure cool and impassive as she asks, though really more interrogates, “What did the Detective want? She was not on schedule to be here today.”

She can hear Nate stooped somewhere behind the towering shelves, singing to himself in Farsi. He emerges at her question with a stack of worn leather tomes propped carefully on one arm, and a warm smile all too knowing for Ava’s liking. She feels slightly unmade under a benign scrutiny that’s known her every tell for hundreds of years, and privately laments, not for the first time, the doing away with armor a few centuries back - chiefly helmets with visors. Her complexion is too pale for this, every flush of color smeared across her cheeks like a rowan berry, blooming and ripened. It is testament to the accord of their longstanding friendship that it goes unremarked upon. Or maybe just a testament to Nate’s infinite resource of kindness.

“She came to borrow a selection from the library,” he tells her, sounding very pleasant and good-natured as if to counter Ava’s stiff, broiling tension. Ever the contrast, ever the foil. “You’ve only just missed her, I’m afraid.”

It is a strange thing to feel all at once so mournful and triumphant, and to keep either expression from crossing her features.

“I’m surprised you let her walk out with it, unscathed. You can be rather territorial with your collection,” Ava says, and presses on glibly, before Nate can rise to the teasing glint in her eye, and not because of her urgent desire to know the purpose of Detective Schulz’s visit–-of course. She moves to take a faltering step forward. “Was it research related?”

“No, it was one of your books, actually. A, hm—curious choice really,” Nate says thoughtfully, teeth gliding over the bow of his full bottom lip. “That first edition of Dracula you picked up in Edinburgh years ago.”

Ava absorbs this information in like a vapor, nostrils flaring, chest expanding, her own lips pursed into a thin line. She is no avid reader in the way Nate is, scouring shelves in pursuit of knowledge and fictitious escapism, but she will indulge every now and again with the great adventure tales throughout time; stories of heroes overcoming trials in the face of impossible odds. Swords and action and expedition and the like—for strategic purposes and not the fanciful cling to human interest that Nate ascribes to. Dracula had fallen outside of this boundary, and had only been purchased out of vigilance for a novel that had brought their kind under public scrutiny. If the humans were writing fabrications about them, even on a fictitious pretense, it paid to know what was being spread. It had been full of the expected drivel, Stoker polluting the minds of impressionable Victorian age readers, enough to make Ava pause and recite passages scornfully aloud to Nate, who had long finished it all in one sitting. She’d shelved the copy to be lost amidst his ever expanding collection. Over a century later, when it had come up in conversation with Persephone (a throw away line, really) she had never expected…never could have anticipated-–

“Ava?” Concern twists a notch between Nate’s dark brows, and he shifts the slipping stack in his hands to sit upon his hip before closing the distance and wrapping a hand about her arm. “Forgive me, I really should have asked you first--only I didn’t think you would miss it. I’ve never known you to read a book more than once, and you’ve never looked on that one favorably. It does make sense, her interest, given what we are…” he trails off looking distracted, then clears his throat. “However embellished the telling. She did promise to take good care of it, and return it when she’s finished.”

“It’s alright,” Ava lies quickly before she comes across as too affected, squaring her shoulders and ordering her thoughts into strict line. “She is free to borrow whatever she likes. As a member of our team, this facility is for her use also.”

Nate pierces her with one of his russet looks of open sincerity. “Home, Ava. This is our home now. And one I hope Posy feels comfortable sharing.”

“You were always too prone to sentiment, my friend,” Ava chides, though it is said with an undercurrent of fondness and a returning smile.

“I suppose that’s why the Agency paired us together. One of us has to be.” Nate’s soft, resonant chuckle fills the room, and despite the unease welling in her throat, Ava joins him, uncrossing her arms to aid in his failing feat of book juggling.

—-

And so Ava pretends she doesn’t know. She goes about her usual routine, scheduled down to the minute, and the genius of its design is that it gives her little chance to dwell on the connotations of the borrowed book too keenly. Of course, it could mean nothing. Or anything, or everything. It disturbs her, if she’s being entirely honest.

When duty parses them together again, there isn’t more than the expected consequences of being in the same room, a rehearsed script by now–“Ava.” “Detective.”--followed by averted eyes and skittish movements and silent, glorious reveling when a touch is orchestrated between them just so. Persephone, collected and brazen as ever. Ava guarded, but sparing fleeting looks to the Detective’s bag like a wounded, arrow pierced hare, once, twice, more than a few times for a book shaped indentation or perhaps some vital organ carved from her belly because it feels like she’s taken a piece of her to study under a microscope. There is always the chastisement of herself afterwards for letting her eyes and hands and thoughts stray, this cycle as infinite as humanity’s death and rebirth. And that is all.

The one true lapse in judgment she will admit to, in a clinical sort of way, like a disease of the blood—and even then only to the dark of her Spartan quarters—is when she makes the rounds on guard rotation one evening and lingers below Persephone’s window, wrapped up in her coat to watch the glow of lamp light snuff out after a long interim of waiting, and wonders with an unquenchable ache, what words did your eyes linger upon and did they make you think of me.

Other than that, it has little effect on her. Ava considers the whole endeavor a great success.

Until Dracula manifests on the shelf again in a week’s time, without notice or fanfare, as though placed by some invisible spectral hand. She has not been looking for it, she tells herself, had made frequent returns to the library to maintain security--check locks, monitor layouts; as she keeps vigil over all the rooms in their residence. And then for another week after the book’s reappearance, Ava will avoid the room as though the entire wing had been roped off and placed under strict quarantine. She will glare down anyone who brings up the fallacy in this behavior (and has already pinned Farah with her most taciturn scowl over supper).

Ultimately, she is weak; at her age-it is foolish. She is old, far too old for such nonsense and repeats that notion to herself like a mantra when, during the guise of night while the three other vampires sleep in a rare feat of synchronization, muscle memory takes her through the Warehouse like she’s headed for the gallows, and all too soon, the book is clutched beneath her white-knuckled fingers. The library feels suddenly occupied by old ghosts. The Grandfather clock Nate had acquired in Bavaria cuts the air with accusatory ticks as she smooths a hand over the leather. If it chimes, she’ll smash it, and supplicate herself before Nate later.

The years have been kinder to the novel than she’d anticipated. The gold cover is faded, the binding tattered slightly with age, but the red embossed letters declare the title boldly. She is only checking for damages. Yes, it makes sense to assess the state of so old an object after someone else has had their hands on it. She splays the book open in her palm. The flyleaf still bears Ava’s initials in Nate’s neat, narrow scrawl. He had insisted on the distinction–no one would ever guess him so possessive of his belongings. Had Persephone noticed? Did she think it had been Ava’s hand that penned it? And why did it, unfathomably, matter to her at all? Her thumb skims the pages, biting down something coiling in her gut that feels like the mounting anticipation before blood's warm ichor coats her tongue, while a part of her also knows that she is fated for disappointment.

She considers abandoning this ridiculous inspection alltogether when her finger catches a crease in the corner of an off-white page, dog-eared, nearly imperceptible. Flipping it open, she finds only the expected script. But when she runs her finger over the paper, sensitive skin traces the raised line of graphite beneath a single line.

I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air.

Ava’s stomach drops out from under her, a rug pulled beneath her feet.

It is something that’s easily dismissable. A stray marking, an absent-minded pencil strike that can be explained away. Surely nothing deliberate, nothing meant to convey a message, and even if, she will not entertain such a game.

The book is shut and hastily reshelved.

She makes it as far as her hand gripping the doorknob before the antique clock pierces the masoleum-like silence with a tolling note. The sound cuts the rigid crest of Ava's shoulders and sends her reeling back to the shelf, and then hastening to her room with preternatural speed, where she leaves the offending page open on the bed and paces an indentation into her floorboards. In this brief, fleeting lapse of sanity, she allows excitement to tingle the sensitive nerve endings in her hands. I am longing to be with you. And then embarassment overcomes it when the golden threads of dawn encroach across the white duvet of her bed to shine light on this absurd, irrational thing that she's done.

She should set fire to it. She should put a stop to all of this. Instead, she spirits the book into her ancient lockbox and tucks the words away to nestle inside her ancient ribcage.

She will not ask Persephone what she thought of Stoker’s unflattering characterization of their kind. She will not bring this up ever again, any utterance or acknowledgement can only mean total defeat.

But Ava has always been a woman of stringent results. And so no one can hold it against her when she puts this dialogue of theirs to the test. It is merely a matter of deduction, she tells herself, curiosity at play, a possibility to eliminate and not to evoke any more ridiculous and certainly non-existent stirrings.

There is no easy way to broach the subject of books into a conversation without sounding obvious, or otherwise doing a crude impersonation of Nate, who recites literary quotes like a clergyman with scripture--she had debated roping him into this, but, true to form, had almost immediately decided against that display of weakness.

And so Ava doesn't speak of it. Instead, she texts--and it takes her a long period of concentrated effort bent over her phone to compose a vague enough message that satisfies her, and even longer still, to muster up the courage to press send.

'Detective.The Epic of Gilgamesh has insights into Sumerian mythology that might useful in your research of the supernatural.'

She immediately, of course, panics. Felled is her valor, not by ogres or demons or any manner of formidable creature, but by the simple technology that humans have developed to forgo the awkwardness of face-to-face communication. Thankfully, this dread is quickly put to rest by Persephone's almost instant reply.

'OK'

How anticlimatic.

And thus, the pattern repeats. After a day, the mentioned book undergoes a period of truancy from the library and Ava sets her jaw tight as the passing time peels her raw. In due course, it reappears and when there is the assurance of no one in site, she decends upon it hungrily, soft with age and stooping at the spine. In all honesty, she can recall little of the plot, had only remembered Nate gifting it to her one innumerable anniversary or birthday or celebration, and drawing similarities between herself and the titular warrior-king.

After a brief inspection, Ava finds the dog-earred page. A single line in the whole expanse of the epic poem is emphasized with the same faint pencil trace as before.

Hold my hands in yours, and we will not fear what hands like ours can do.

Something strange, and frightening shifts deep within Ava. She slams the book closed and with it under her arm, retreats.

—

“There are less complicated ways of going about this, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Posy blowing steam off her frothing mug and Nate with his long fingers circled around a cup of tea as they indulge in their routine of early morning caffeine and commiseration at Haley’s. It’s all for her benefit, of course; this outpouring of longing and frustration with Ava at its contradictory core. Nate and his even-tempered assurances and three hundred year insight into the enigma of a vampire, interpreting her without insinuating, or otherwise offering a sympathetic ear to Posy's venting. He is a master of consolation, and always seems to know exactly what she needs to hear after an encounter with those shadowed green eyes hunting the set line of her collar or her spine or her neck.

And he has been an accomplice, these past few weeks, to Posy’s great interpersonal experiment.

She hadn’t entered into this with any more intention than what it’d originally began as—taking a cursory interest in a book that Ava had mentioned off-handedly. And while Wayhaven’s Public Library system was sure to carry the typical selection of classic literature, the thrumming of her heart in her ears had drawn Posy to the Warehouse and to the library carefully maintained by Nate, and to the shelf he’d more than amenably directed her to housing Ava’s century old copy of Dracula. To the pages touched by Ava's fingers and the binding that had spread upon Ava's lap and the same words that Ava's eyes had glazed over dispassionately, words that had resonated, words that Posy had singled out--perhaps a bit precociously--and maybe with an expectation that the thorough inspection Ava passes over everything that crosses in and out of her peripheral would be rewarded.

“I don’t think this is fun for her, but rather mildly tortuous,” Nate sighs like the weight of his three hundred years is finally catching up to him. “I’m worried you’ll underline a sentence that makes her break something in there. Or throw the book all together and do it damage.” The mere thought of that appears to cause him genuine distress, wrought all over his normally tempered features.

“I’m surprised you let me scribble in them at all,” Posy says, hiding the amused press of her lips behind the rim of her drink.

“Yes, well, annotating is an age-old literary practice. And I’ll always encourage reading. And affections of the heart. And–they’re not my books.” His mouth twitches, then curves, as though falling victim to his own train of persuasion. “Really, this is good for her.”

“I thought you said it was torture.”

The vampire pauses to take an indulgent sip of his tea, eyes fluttering shut briefly. “Sometimes the two pair rather nicely. Like gouda cheese and a Pinot noir.”

“Flavor analogies too? You’re in rare form today, Nate. So she has been finding them?”

“Oh, yes. The other day, I pretended not to notice her stakeout of the Mesopotamian section. Ava has many, many wonderful gifts, and subtlety is not one of them. That text she sent is evidence enough. Though I do worry you’re running out of usable material. Her tastes are…limited and narrowing.” From a leather messenger bag hanging on his seat-back, Nate procures a thick hardcover book and slides the text on castle rampart sieging across the table. “While I’m of the mind that all literature has merit, I doubt there’s any poetry in this one--I think she may be challenging you.”

Posy takes the book under palm, casting a scrutinizing gaze over it. In place of the medieval architechture that the cover depicts, she can see only Ava's wry hint of a pursed mouth smile, the shallow press of a dimple not quite formed. Your move, Detective. “There she goes underestimating me again," Posy says with resolve. "You'd think she would’ve learned better by now.”

“There is a saying about old habits. And Ava’s are as ancient and as difficult to kill as she is.”

“Yes. But my blood is very mysteriously and magically undoing, or haven’t you heard? Even on an ancient, unbreakable spell like Ava Du Mortain.”

Nate laughs richly like the brush of a low bell, and reaches across the table to offer her forearm an obliging pat, hands warmed from the Earl Grey. “Of that, there has never been any doubt. You truly are something special, Posy. To our little family, and that includes Ava. However long and…arduous that confession might come to be."

“Thank you, Nate," she responds with affectionate sincerity flitting about her throat, and then intontes, all business, "Now then. I have impenetrable fortresses to compare to Commanding Agents--which isn’t sounding all that difficult right about now.”

With that, Posy opens the book and delicately, fondly, traces the crisp signature of Ava’s initials with the wayward pad of her finger.

Nate doesn't have the heart to break the illusion and tell her he'd been the one to put them there--and really, he decides, no one is hurt by this omission.

#my writing #wayhavensecretsanta #twc

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sustainably-du-mortain · 4 months

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The art of losing

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters: f!detective (Sadie Langford) & Unit Bravo Word count: ~2.5k A/N: Here's my secret santa for @nsewell. I had so much fun getting to know Sadie for this @wayhavensecretsanta! She's a sweetheart and I hope I did her justice. I hope you'll enjoy this!!

A yell echoes down the corridors as soon as Morgan steps inside the warehouse, making her instinct take over as she runs to the source of the ruckus.

The screams lead her to the living room, and although she’s not quite sure what to expect, she understood, as the screams turned into a weird mix of laughter and complaints, that she didn’t have to worry. So, when she reaches the door, it’s not worry guiding her anymore but curiosity. What she definitely didn’t expect to find though, is the rest of the team, sitting on the carpet, Ava, towering over the other three as she kneels over the coffee table; pointing an accusing finger at Farah.

“I know you’re cheating!” She growls, almost making Morgan shiver. This is a tone the commanding agent rarely uses on them - despite them constantly getting on her nerves - and Ava must have sensed the very faint hint of fear in her teammates as her tone is way softer, almost pleading, when she adds: “You keep taking the pot!”

“How the heck do you want me to cheat!? I didn’t even know the rules of that game half an hour ago! You’re just mad because you’re losing-” The young vampire retorts, before she adds with a little glint of mischief in her eyes “-loser!”

Morgan has to hold back a laugh when Ava’s ears flush red with anger and Nat quickly scouts closer to her to land a soothing hand on her friend’s shoulder. She remembers a similar night, decades ago, when they had to ban game nights after Ava forced them to play the same game for hours because she kept losing or could tell that they were letting her win on purpose. Had she known they were playing a game, Morgan would have actually avoided the living room at all cost.

She catches Sadie’s gaze and cannot hold it anymore. The detective is seated between Ava and Farah and the look of pure panic in her eyes gives away that she’s regretting not going to the local Christmas market like they had planned. That she would have rather braved the heavy-falling snow than whatever is going on right now.

‘Get me out of here’ she mouths, but Morgan doesn’t make any move to help her. In fact, she steps even further into the room, thinking this debacle might at least entertain her for a little while. It’s not like she’s got anything else to do anyways.

The detective, realizing that she won’t be able to get out so easily, mouths again ‘I hate you’, to which Morgan answers by blowing a kiss in her direction.

Admitting her defeat, Sadie holds up her cat in Ava’s direction. “Could you hold while I play my turn, please?” She asks, barely hiding her attempt at defusing the situation.

And for a second, Morgan thinks this might work as Ava eyes the hairless cat, barely annoyed at being handled in such a way. She watches as the commanding agent sits back down, crossing her leg, almost preparing to take the cat. That is until she goes “You’ve been holding him just fine the whole time.”

Sadie makes a face at her. “Yeah, well unlike you, my legs are getting numb.” She states, not waiting for the vampire’s answer before putting the sheriff in her lap. The cat is already falling back asleep.

There's a moment of latency as everyone waits for Ava's reaction and, as she doesn't show any sign of exasperation, Sadie reaches for something on the table and the silence falls heavier when she makes it spin.

Morgan steps a little closer and sits on the sofa behind Sadie. On the table, she makes out the blurred lines of a wooden spinning top. Underneath it, the detective is crossing her fingers as tightly as she can bear.

In front of Sadie, two glass pebbles are sitting on the table. Morgan looks around the table and noticing that the others have similar piles before them - some much bigger, like Farah’s, and others only containing one more than Sadie’s stash, like Ava’s - she understands, despite having no idea what game they’re playing, that her friend is losing.

The four faces of the spinning top become more and more visible as it slows down and starts wobbling. Although she can now make out the symbols on the four faces of the toy, she still doesn’t know what they’re supposed to represent. She hears Sadie take a deep breath before she actually stops breathing. She can’t help but think the human is being a little-over dramatic, but then…

***

The dreidel finally tips over and…

“Nun!” she yells, much louder than she intended.

She hears Morgan hissing sharply behind her and realizes she’s probably broken her eardrums. So she turns around and mouths a silent apology, to which the vampire answers with only a grunt, before she goes back to the game.

Sadie stares at the dreidel laying on its side and lets out a relieved sigh. She’s not losing that round either, she thinks before handing her dreidel to Ava. The vampire sitting by her side, mumbles something as she does, but Sadie doesn’t get it.

The two are competing for the second to last place and, so far, Ava is winning. Sadie crosses her fingers once again and prays. She prays that Ava lands on ‘Shin’, which would force her to add another token into the pot, meaning they’d be even. But as she realizes what she’s praying for, Sadie is torn between shame and an irrepressible need to laugh. She’s usually not that competitive, but seeing how invested she is in that game, she guesses being around Ava is starting to rub on her.

Ava spins the dreidel and it flies across the room, making everyone duck.

“Ava!” They all scream in unison.

“What?” She asks, acting like nothing happened. She acts like it’s completely normal to turn a dreidel into a projectile, despite the fact that they all know how much control she has over her own strength.

Her ears turn pink as they all stare at her and she sheepishly avoids their gaze. A move Sadie has grown accustomed to these past months: she is trying to hide the shame of letting her emotions get the best of her.

A loud gasp echoes around the room and they all turn to Nat who went to fetch the toy. “Ava! It made a dent in the wall!” she cries in horror, staring at the toy encrusted in the wall.

Sadie’s mouth falls wide open and she struggles to hold back a laugh, but as she sees Farah and Morgan trying as hard as she is not to laugh and that the rest of Ava’s face is turning a bright shade of red, she cannot help but crack up in laughter.

Ava and Nat instantly start arguing like an old married couple about repairing that hole.

But as the argument grows in length, Sadie’s attention is caught by a flash of light in the middle of the room. She could have sworn the Christmas tree wasn’t turned on when she got here earlier this afternoon.

Farah, noticing her confusion, leans in her direction. “I set a timer,” she whispers, “although magic would have been cool!” She adds like she had just guessed what the human was thinking.

“You can do that with Christmas lights?” Sadie asks, genuinely surprised by that fact.

“Nat bought really fancy ones” Farah explains and Sadie can’t help but chuckle at this.

Knowing Nat she should have known everything they had gotten to decorate the place was really expensive and she dares not imagine how much she actually paid. But judging by the tree sitting in the middle of the room, she probably spent more than Sadie’s salary this month.

This tree is so gigantic it’s almost comical. Upon seeing it, her first thought had been about Ava having a heart-attack when she first saw it and having another one when Nat asked her to bring it inside. Because although Nat could probably make Ava do anything as long as she used her best pleading eyes, Sadie is still wondering what Nat could have possibly bribed Ava with so that she accepted to do it. Not that she doubts Ava could do it, in fact, Sadie knows Ava can haul a tree without any difficulty. It’s just that her brain still cannot comprehend how she managed to fit that ginormous tree - that almost touches the high ceiling and takes up half of the room - through the tiny doors of the warehouse.

Yet it’s not the size that made Sadie burst into laughter when she first saw it, but rather the wide array of colors ornating it and she instantly guesses Farah had been the one doing the decoration.

She remembers the young vampire, less than a couple weeks ago, begging Ava to get a Christmas tree so that, as she put it, she could get the best of the human experience. But the commanding agent had refused, so Sadie supposes Farah must have changed strategy after that refusal and pulled on Nat’s heartstrings so that she would indulge her, like she always does, especially when Farah pulls the ‘I never got to be human’ card.

And today, Sadie was met with this… She’s not quite sure how to describe it. Calling it an atrocity would be quite harsh, but this is definitely a little bit of an eyesore. It’s like Farah had randomly grabbed garlands and ornaments and let her excitement take over when she put them on the tree. It kind of reminds her of that time her kindergarten teacher would let them decorate the Christmas tree in her room every year.

Sadie still has to hold back a laugh when she thinks of Nat’s reaction when she first saw it. She actually snorted when they decided to settle in the living room and saw Nat scrunching her nose at the sight of it, desperately trying to hide the fact that she disliked the arrangement. Before that, she had even caught her trying to arrange some of the garlands a little more neatly and actively replacing some. Nat had begged her not to tell Farah.

There’s a loud grunt by her side and Sadie realizes Ava and Nat have stopped arguing. And it seems like Ava has already played her turn. The dreidel they both share is laying on the table and she can’t believe her eyes. Ava has to put another token into the pot.

“This isn’t fair,” the vampire grunts.

“You’ve just got bad luck,” Nat tries to soothe her.

“My spinning wasn’t optimal. The cat sleeping in my lap is reducing my range of movement.”

“Are you really blaming the sheriff because you’re losing?” Sadie asks, offended.

“All I’m saying is that I couldn’t spin the dreidel properly.”

“Yet you’re still petting the cat,” Farah points out.

Ava’s mouth opens as she looks for something to say, but nothing comes out and instead she readjusts her position to accommodate the sheriff as he shifts in her lap. Sadie shakes her head, forces herself to look away not to let her feelings transpire. Yet she can’t hide the soft smile tugging at her lips after noticing the fondness with which Ava looks at her cat. Neither can she hide her heart beating a little too erratically.

She clears her throat. “It’s your turn, Nat,” she announces, barely hiding her attempt at changing the subject.

Yet as the small wooden top starts its rotation, her attention is brought back to the vampire sitting beside her.

Ava is readjusting the hairless cat’s sweater. She tugs on it, making sure it covers most of the sheriff’s body, despite the fact that it's not cold inside the warehouse. She rolls the little collar properly so that it doesn’t bother him, and when she’s done she scratches him behind the ears, a spot he particularly likes.

She likes catching these moments where the commanding agent briefly lets her guard down. These moments where her caring nature shows. Not only with her cat, but also with the members of the team. When she helps Nat to cook, despite the fact that she herself doesn’t eat. When she listens to Farah’s new interest that week and actively asks questions so that Farah knows she’s listening even though she doesn’t really understand what she’s saying. How she closes the blinds without a word when the sun shines a little too brightly through the windows, bothering Morgan. How she often comes to check on her when she’s sleeping over at the warehouse, making sure Sadie has everything she needs.

Despite how much she hates admitting it, she cares deeply for every single one of them.

Ava looks at her, a puzzled look on her face, and Sadie quickly reverts her eyes. She tries to find something else to look at other than the vampire sitting beside her, and her eyes land on the menorah sitting on the mantel.

This is the first menorah she has lit in years and, to be honest, she didn’t expect to find one here today - just like she wasn’t expecting the Christmas tree. But what really moved her was its beauty.

Sadie is usually not a material person, but this menorah is amazingly well-crafted.

It looks a little bit like a tree made out of brass. The trunk divides into two branches, on each of them sits four flowers to hold the eight candles. The ninth flower sits in the middle, slightly higher than the others, and holds the shamash.

Vines spread out on each side of the trunk and rise to coil around the two branches holding the candles. On those vines are carved small, intricate flowers.

Upon seeing it, she teared up a little at the thought that Nat must have spent so much time carefully picking such a gorgeous menorah for her.

And so, after the sunset, before they started playing, she kindled the first candle, answering Farah’s questions about its meaning.

Someone taps on her shoulder, bringing her attention back to the game. They’re all looking at her expectantly and she understands that they’re waiting for her to add another token to the pot so that they can start another round of spinning, meaning she’s left with only one glass pebble.

Ava hands her the dreidel. She spins it and once again she’s crossing her fingers.

Sadie looks around herself as the spinning top starts wobbling. Ava is discreetly trying to pet her cat who purrs in the vampire laps, making the others chuckle. Farah whispers something to Morgan and they share a mischievous look and the detective wonders what they’re up to, although she’ll come to know sooner or later. Nat is sipping on her tea, keeping a fond eye on each of them and she smiles when their gaze meets.

The dreidel lands on ‘Shin’, but Sadie doesn’t care. She does feel a tinge of disappointment, especially since she has just taught them to play. But after all, this game is all about luck and she realizes she’s been lucky enough to find a new family this year, so maybe that’s all the luck she needed.

#wayhavensecretsanta #the wayhaven chronicles #twc detective #other people's ocs #twc unit bravo #twc fanfic #if: twc #ali's writing

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delucadarlingwriting · 4 months

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Beneath the Surface - Wayhaven Secret Santa 2023

Written for the lovely @lovelyfoolish as part of the Wayhaven Secret Santa! I was really excited to get to join in this year, and I was even MORE excited to see LF has a taste for M/N love triangles too ;3c Thanks to @wayhavensecretsanta for organizing this!

Lovelyfoolish, I really hope you like it!

Summary: Nate's happy for Mason and Mina. No, really.

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Mason/Mina + Nate

Warnings: Drowning

***

Nate hears Mina coming well before he sees her. His senses are not so finely honed as Mason’s, hearing individual heartbeats from a distance requires some concentration on his part usually. Mina is, as ever, a special case though. He can practically pinpoint her location from anywhere in the warehouse. She’s not close yet, but the gentle thump thump, thump thump, thump thump of her heart and tap, tap, tap of her shoes is growing louder by the second. Nate listens, rubbing a soft cloth over the surface of his violin with care, and tries to pretend he isn’t expecting her when she finally comes in.

Mina’s eyes are bright, her pulse pounding faster once they lock gazes. He holds her eye for only as long as needed for politeness, before looking back to his task. There’s only a small speck of dust left, and he wipes it away as slowly as he can, allowing himself a few extra moments to find serenity before they speak. Once he has it, he sets the cloth aside and faces her with a smile.

“Hello, Mina,” Nate says.

“Nate,” she replies, her gaze on him like a chokehold. She relieves him some by looking at his distraction laid across the table. “You play?”

“Some, though not in quite a long time,” Nate says. Though the violin is easily transportable, it has always stressed him out to take it with him on missions. It’s spent quite a long time collecting dust in his quarters at the Facility, only brought out for routine care and maybe a play session or two every few years.

“I do too,” she says.

“I’d love to hear that,” Nate says.

“Maybe we can duet,” Mina suggests, stepping close to peer at his instrument. Very suddenly, Nate feels self-conscious.

“It’s quite old, and in desperate need of a luthier’s care,” Nate says, his eyes finding each and every little flaw in the surface of his violin, the strings that haven’t been tuned yet, the varnish that needs replacing.

Mina nods. “It’s gorgeous. Have you had it long?”

“It, uh, comes from my human days,” Nate says, rubbing the back of his neck. “After…Well, I was lucky enough to be reunited with it after several decades apart.”

One of Mina’s dark eyebrows curves upward, curious. His heart gives a dull thump; if she asks about it, he’ll answer. So he doesn’t give her the chance to ask about it.

“Did you need something?” he asks, taking the violin and laying it with care in its case. She came in with far too much purpose to have only intended to chat.

She sweeps a dark lock of chin length hair behind her ear. “Yes, actually. We got a call from the Agency. There’s been several reports from the bay up North. It seems like it might be our sort of problem.”

Nodding, Nate gets to his feet, ready to face whatever trouble they’re heading for. Mina straightens as well, reminding him of his dearest friend.

“Then we best get going. I’m with you,” Nate says with a smile and a gesture for her to go ahead.. Mina flashes him one in return before turning to march ahead. For half a second Nate waits, watching her go, before he unsticks himself to follow.

***

“An Agency boat would have been a better choice,” Ava says with a frown, arms crossed and bulging as she sizes up the boat in front of them all.

Detective Reele’s home is on the outskirts of town, the view of the nearest neighbors obscured by the treeline. The dirt path that led them off the main road to the old, squat house continues on, curving past the trees, Mina having informed them that it would eventually lead to a private ramp, which leads into a cove, which leads to the ocean. As it turns out, the retired detective is quite an avid fisher.

Farah leaps up, landing on the narrow space at the top of the hull, balanced on just the toes of her high top shoes. Crouching there, she peers into the interior of the boat and says, “Yeah Mimi, it looks like it’s already gone a few rounds with a sea monster.”

“Let’s hope it’s not a monster,” Nate cuts in. Mason throws him a look, a small curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth; he would love it to be a monster. For all that Mason loves to be lazy, he seems to relish the chance for a fight just as much. Not unlike a housecat, though Nate doubts he’d appreciate the comparison. He fights back a burst of fondness as Mason gives a languid stretch before wandering back to lean against the side of the car and smoke.

“A pontoon isn’t ideal either,” Ava adds with disappointment. Nate doesn’t argue there. Given the spare empty beer bottles scattered on the deck of the boat, he assumes it was rarely used for anything beyond recreation.

Mina shrugs. “This is the best I could arrange on short notice. Detective Reele is the only person I know who has a spare boat she leaves around for weeks at a time.”

“Wait, did you ask if we could use it?” Farah asks, eyes shining with clear delight at the possibility that Mina did not ask permission. Mina’s cheeks go crimson and she doesn’t respond.

“Mina!” Nate exclaims, shocked. She waves a hand at him.

“I have permission to use it, that’s why I have the spare keys,” she explains, then gives a short wince. “Detective Reele is offshore right now though, no signal, so I didn’t exactly get to ask if I could use it for a mission. It would be best to not damage it.”

“We’ll do our best to return it to her in one piece,” Ava says. She gives a hole in the bimini a scrutinizing stare. “In as many pieces as it’s in currently, in any case.”

Mina laughs, the sound low and light and enchanting. He isn’t the only one to notice though. Hip leaning against the hull, looking out on the bay, Mason’s mouth is curved upward, shoulders looser than they were before. Nate makes himself take in this image of Mason, happy and at ease, and commits it to memory. He needs the reminder of why he holds back.

A cold wind comes blowing off the bay, sending shivers through them all except Mina. She sedately flips the collar on her jacket up and sets about helping Ava with the hitch.

It’s an hour north of driving to get to a secluded area where they can load the boat into the water. Mina fills them in on the area, apparently a popular vacation spot in the summer, and fairly safe. Lots of sandbars to break the rougher tides before they come closer to shore. Good for swimming, less good for boating.

“These reports started in July,” she says, flipping through the manilla folder in her lap. Nate tries not to notice how Mason’s hand is completely obscured by it, the angle of the rest of his arm suggesting he’s got it resting somewhere on Mina’s thigh.

“Right around the auction?” Farah asks. Mina nods, Mason’s jaw tightens. Nate understands entirely. That had been an unbearable time. As ever, Mina faced the troubles with her chin held high and shoulders back, while Nate wanted nothing more than to squirrel her safely away and fret until the problem was over.

“That must be why it wasn’t really pinging any radars for so long,” Mina says with a frown, brows drawn together. “Damn. Everyone was too busy worrying about…”

“No one was seriously injured,” Mason says, leaning into Mina’s space as he points to a part of the report. “See? That’s why it wasn’t a priority. Everyone was busy worrying about that rat bastard and his pet annunaki, who were hurting people.”

Even the word annunaki gives Nate an unpleasant chill down his spine. It isn’t the first time he’s felt helpless to save Mina. Murphy had given them a run for their money, particularly at the end. He’d almost lost her then. It hadn’t felt the same at the time though. Murphy was—is—a vampire. Like him. Like all of them.

An annunaki is so much more as to be untouchable. Not to Mina though. Her bravery in the face of danger puts a lump in his throat, both admiration and acidic fear coursing through him.

That’s over though. On to the next gaping maw.

***

“You holding up alright there, Natey?” Farah asks, bent over the side of the boat so far her nose could almost touch the surface of the water. Nate presses his lips together. The team knows exactly his feelings on being off solid ground, and while he does appreciate Farah’s concern, he wishes she’d do what he’s doing and ignore the problem entirely.

“Do you get seasick?” Mina asks as she drops off the dock and into the boat. Nate gives a strained smile.

“Something like it.”

Mina gives a sympathetic nod. “That must’ve made travel hard for you before planes were a more common mode of transportation.”

Mason barks out a short laugh. “Are you kidding? Planes are worse.”

“For you, that somehow doesn’t surprise me,” Mina replies, a sharp, clever glint of amusement in her eye. Mason just shakes his head with an eye roll that is more fond than annoyed. To Nate, Mina asks, “Is it the leg room?”

“You do know Nate hates cars because they go too fast, right?” Farah laughs. Nate groans and runs a hand down his face, heat flooding his cheeks and neck. He will never understand just why Farah is so doggedly persistent in her drive to embarrass him.

Mina makes a short, disbelieving noise. “Nate, you can run faster than—”

“I am aware.” He sighs deeply. “Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean I’m incapable of bearing it. I don’t like boats. I will be fine on the boat. Can we change the subject?”

“I agree,” Ava says, her boots hitting the deck with a thump that doesn’t even half betray her size. She gives the dock a slow, smooth push, sending the boat and all on it floating away, toward the bay.

Nate’s stomach drops, but it’s better than it used to be, all the more because a boat is not a ship. And it’s fine, because Unit Bravo is with him.

“Nate,” Ava says as she stands at the helm. He steps up beside her, looking down at the electronic map mounted just to the side. It’s barely half a mile out. The water is calm, lapping at the hull as Ava pushes the throttle forward.

Salty sea air fills Nate’s lungs as he inhales, letting it expand his chest before letting it all out in a harsh huff. There are parts of this he misses. It’s not the sea itself that hurts, moreso the line it has slashed across his life now and his life then. How different things would be had he made another choice.

“You like boats, right Mina?” Farah asks over the dull roar of the engine and the wind whipping through the air. She’s sprawled herself out over the curved bench seat against the starboard side of the boat, while Mason and Mina are sharing a single seat across from her. Nate feels a hot stab of envy and puts his eyes right back on the navigation device. It’s been good to see them figure out their relationship. He’s happy for them. It just always takes him a moment to remember that.

“This headwind is holding us back,” he says. Ava makes a short noise of agreement.

“I hesitate to push this thing harder,” Ava says with a grimace. “It hasn’t been well maintained. We’ll get there either way.”

So Nate has no choice but to continue listening to the conversation behind him.

“Boats are fine,” Mina says. “It’s mostly about the water though. I’ve always had a fascination with the ocean.”

“Are you a good swimmer?” Farah asks.

“Pretty good,” Mina replies. Nate has learned “pretty good” means Mina is very good, but isn’t likely to brag about it. He fidgets, hoping she won’t need to demonstrate her prowess in the water regardless.

“Maybe you can go and charm the thing harassing people,” Mason says. Nate frowns, though he knows Mason isn’t serious.

“Maybe so,” Mina replies, a smile hidden in her tone. She’s so reserved, but something about her is so magnetic that if, heaven forbid, she came face to face with the creature causing trouble it wouldn’t surprise Nate one bit if she did charm it.

The sky darkens rapidly as they go, water slapping at the hull of the boat and spraying up, burning Nate’s nose and leaving a fine layer of salt on his skin. His heart thumps faster, though with the whirl of emotion in his stomach, he can’t be sure if it’s anxiety, excitement, or just the anticipation of a mission that hasn’t kicked off yet. If he pays attention, he can hear Ava’s heart running at nearly the same pace, though with decidedly less uncertainty dragging her down. His old friend may not admit as much, but he knows she lives for a hunt. Her shoulders and back are taut, aching for a chance to let loose.

A glance back allows him the chance to check on the rest of the team. Farah’s excited as well, though flightier, a touch more cautious without the advantage of experience on her side to give her the same level of confidence as the rest. Mason is calm, more so than usual. The addition of Mina has certainly helped Mason bristle against the grain of the world a little less. It makes Nate happy in a way. He’s always worried about Mason.

Then there’s Mina. As even and still as the surface of a mirror, a quiet depth hidden behind her dark eyes, she’s clearly in her element here. The jerking of the boat appears to barely move her. A smile tugs at her mouth, and Nate is lost for a moment, tracing the shape of her lips with his eyes and wondering what it would feel like with his tongue.

He bites down—hard—on his lower lip, the pain ripping those thoughts away as he turns and stares out at the glittering horizon. If things were different he wouldn’t mind those thoughts. It wouldn’t stick to his ribs.

“Nate,” Ava mutters, glancing up at him. Her jaw is set, eyebrows dropped in a way others might think stern. He sees the worry though. Of course she knows.

“It’s fine,” Nate replies. Ava frowns and says nothing more. There’s nothing else she would need to say to him. He knows.

“How much longer of this?” Farah asks, her tone going surly. Nate looks back to see her nose wrinkled, a hand brushing over her ringlets, once meticulously defined and now going frizzy. “This is going to be a major pain to deal with later.”

Nate looks down at the electronic map. “Based on the coordinates of the previous attacks, it should be another few m—”

His words are cut off as the boat pitches upward, like a giant fist has punched the bottom. For a stomach dropping moment, the boat hangs in the air, and he only just has enough time to grab for the folded up bimini before they go crashing back down to the water. The impact rattles his teeth, but he manages to keep his feet, though only by half ripping the bimini’s rods out. Wincing, he hopes Mina doesn’t get into too much trouble for it. When he looks around to the others, it seems no one else was able to stay upright.

Ava is levering herself up to her feet, while Farah is sprawled, groaning loudly (dramatically, so she’s fine) from the rough flooring. Mina’s sitting up on the ground, alert, while Mason is more or less on top of her, though holding himself up with his arms. He’s snarling, fangs out already.

“What the fuck was that?” Mason snaps. He looks at Nate. “The files said this thing was capsizing kayaks, not—”

Another burst of force from below, this time pushing the boat so the starboard side dips well into the water, while the port side hangs up with the moon. Yelps ring out as everyone scrambles for some sort of purchase.

“Don’t fall in!” Ava yells, still holding the wheel. She fumbles for the keys and kills the ignition

“Definitely not planning on it,” Farah replies, shoulders pressed to the floor, feet braced on the side of the couch she was lounging on just moments ago. Mason’s got a grip around the solid metal rod that serves as the base for the seat he’d been sharing with Mina, his free arm around her middle and holding her close. She is, alarmingly, staring into the depths with an expression of consideration, dark eyes glittering as she searches for something.

Nate has found a perch on the side of the helm. He leans forward enough to gain some momentum before throwing himself back against the deck. It gives against his shoulder, and he winces at the damage he knows he’s done. Still, it does the trick of sending the boat back down, slapping hard against the surface of the water.

“Everyone okay?” he asks, rubbing his head, dazed from the impact. Mina has already jumped up, hands gripping the railing to look overboard.

“There’s something down there,” she says, eyes bright and alert, her chest expanding like a hunting panther. “It’s glowing. I think—Oh! It’s gone again.”

“Big?” Mason asks, hauling himself upright and going to look as well.

“Can’t tell,” Mina says with a shake of her head. Her short bob is in disarray, her attempts to run her fingers through it only making it wilder. “It looks small, but it could just be in the depths.” Everyone gives a shiver at that.

“Step back a bit,” Nate calls out, his stomach swimming at the two of them being so close to the water. Even Farah has darted back to join him and Ava at the helm. Her amber eyes flit around as she falls into a half crouch, a grimace twisting her expression.

Mason hesitates, but puts a hand on Mina’s lower back and begins to head back for the rest of them. Mina though doesn’t budge, eyes sticking to the depths, looking for all the world like she wants to slip headfirst beneath the surface. Bile rises in the back of Nate’s throat at the very thought, and he’s halfway to grabbing her before realizing he’s even taken a step.

A growl escapes Mason’s throat, Nate thinking at first that it’s meant for him, until Mason barks out, “Something’s moving under us, fast. Sweetheart, move.”

Mina starts to back away, but doesn’t manage in time before another thudding impact tosses the boat again but toward portside. They crash down against the surface, water surging up and splashing over the deck. Before any of them can recover, they’re sent flying back toward starboard and then port and then back and forth, not giving them a moment to breathe.

It’s inevitable that Mina’s grip on the railing would give out. Nate dives across the deck to grab her, blood chilling in his veins. But just as he’s about to reach her, she’s snatched sideways and crushed against Mason’s side.

Leaving Nate sailing stupidly over the side, head first into the water.

***

Milton was always the stronger swimmer of the Sewell brothers. He was the stronger of them both in countless ways, despite which Nate couldn’t help counting anyway. Being the elder, he keenly felt the shift from Milton looking up to him when they were children, counting on Nate to watch out for him, to play with him, to be his champion, to Milton suddenly being the one to lead the way. Nate’s illness was always present, but it worsened sharply as he got older. One day Nate was 10 years old, cutting up Milton’s food for him at the dinner table, and the next he was 22, grasping at his younger brother’s shoulders as Milton helped him out of bed to get dressed on the bad days.

A distant part of Nate’s mind had always held some small shame at needing so much. His dignity had suffered at leaning so heavily on his brother’s help. Milton was a good lad though. He’d never once made Nate feel like any of it was out of the ordinary or shameful.

Nate had needed Milton’s help, but more than that, he’d needed Milton’s company. He’s never laughed so hard or felt so buoyant as the days they spent together as the best of friends. The day Milton had left for the Navy had been, at the time, the hardest thing Nate had ever faced. His burning pride for his brother had seen him through though.

His old heart squeezes tight in his chest; centuries later it still hurts to feel the old, good memories splashing up against the jagged cliffside of loss. Of all the things he’s ashamed of having done at sea, the things he would do again and again if given a chance, none of them are why he abhors stepping off solid ground. It’s knowing this is the burial site of his first true companion that strikes him through, cutting a wound that refuses to heal.

I don’t know how Ava has lasted this long, he thinks. She’s lived his life three times over, her wounds just as fresh, and somehow hasn’t gone mad from it yet.

An icy cold hand lays against his cheek, the images in his mind going to inky black for a long moment. A voice he doesn’t recognize speaks to him.

Focus, it says. His thoughts are prodded like a sheep being led along a path, though to pasture or slaughter he isn’t sure. Regardless, he trots along, back to that day he has tried hardest to forget, but cannot.

His mother had read the letter first. Her scream of agony had shaken the house to its foundation. The pain in his joints had barely become a blip in his thoughts as he’d hurried to find her downstairs, so blind with worry and dread he’d nearly slipped down the stairs to get to her side. Though she couldn’t find the words to tell them what was wrong, Nate had known that very moment that his life had just been turned on its head irrevocably.Never in his life had Nate seen his mother so wracked with pain—

Pain.

An explosion of pain bursts bright behind his eyes, filling his vision with sharp blue, shocking him into dragging in a gasp. A mistake that pours frigid salt water down his lungs. Choking on it, he blinks his stinging eyes and sees the present day. He finds himself in a dire situation, under water, drowning (though it won’t kill him)(this does not make it feel any better), and worse than the curved, glowing figure of a water sprite floating in front of him is the darker form of Mina.

She can’t be here. Nate pushes past the agony of his body to kick his feet, scooping the water back to propel himself forward toward her. She’s squinting through the water, focused on the sprite. He thinks at first Mina is swimming toward him, only to realize she’s putting herself between him and the sprite. Panicked, he kicks harder, choppier, unable to help it though he knows it only slows him down. It’s hard to remain calm while drowning and fearing the love of his life is doing something fatally foolish on his behalf.

The sprite just floats there, cautious. Staring. Nate reaches Mina, grabbing her by the upper arm, but his grip is hideously weak. There’s nothing he’ll be able to do to save her if the sprite comes over. It might not peer into her mind the way it did his, but they are capable of so much more than that.

Mina grabs him back, fingers digging in with bruising force. Before he can react she’s leveraged herself behind him, not as a shield, but to allow herself to slip her arms under his, wrapping around his chest. She kicks her legs to send them up, and he tries to do the same. Spots have started to blot out his vision but he looks between them to keep an eye on the sprite. It doesn’t move, but it wouldn’t take much for it to catch up to them.

It must have dragged him deep. Mina’s movements go more and more frantic, aching for the surface as they go. No doubt her lungs are bursting at this point. From the left something moves, and Nate jerks, lashing out with a hard kick instinctively. He connects with something solid, which tells him more than anything that it wasn’t the sprite coming for them again.

He can’t see, but he feels hands on him, pulling Mina away, then taking her place to pull Nate up. This body feels familiar. Strong, broad. Mason. Mina slips away from them both, heading for the surface with greater speed now that she’s unburdened. Nate’s body is so leaden it would take nothing at all to sink him now. Mason grabs him tightly though, and drags him up.

The calm frightfulness of being underwater is burst as they crash through the surface. As soon as they do, Mason adjusts his grip on Nate, his arm bracing against Nate’s stomach, before he squeezes with a force that gives Nate no choice but to give up everything in his lungs and stomach to the water.

“Not—” he wheezes once he can draw the breath to do so. “Not necessary.”

“Shut up and breathe ,” Mason grits out, then starts swimming them both to the boat. Once he gets a few delicious gulps of air, Nate gently pries Mason’s grip away and puts some space between them. Silver eyes flash along with fangs, but Mason doesn’t try grabbing for Nate.

“I’m alright,” Nate assures him, though he’d probably sound more convincing if his throat hadn’t been sandpapered with salt water. Even so, Mason gives a sharp nod, looking over to the boat where Farah is hauling Mina out of the water. Mason’s expression relaxes by a fraction of a fraction.

“Go ahead,” Mason says with a jerk of his chin. “I’ve got your back.”

From there, he only has to focus on swimming. He moves his limbs in a smooth, calm rhythm that takes him to the hull, where he grabs the railing and starts to pull himself up, only to find Ava and Mina on either side, helping to get him on board. Mason follows a moment later.

For a long stretch of time, Unit Bravo simply stands and stares at one another, the only sound being from the three dripping with water. Farah breaks first and jabs a finger at the helm.

“We should go, right? We should totally go.” She turns her pleading gaze on Ava, who resists with tight jawed resolve for all of ten seconds before giving in.

Groaning, Ava pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “It would be best to let Unit Victor take this one.”

“I could try talking to it,” Mina says, soaking wet and shivering, but determination ringing in her voice. It’s then that he notices she’s barefoot and without her jacket. “It couldn’t do anything to me when it tried…doing whatever it was doing to Nate.” She looks to him, but he turns away, hot with shame and hungover from the telepathy.

“Sweetheart, it could crush you if it really wanted to,” Mason says through chattering teeth before tossing Mina’s dry jacket to her.

There’s a short back and forth that ends in Ava restarting the engine and taking them back to shore while Mina gets in touch with Rebecca. Farah stands at Ava’s side, haltingly providing navigation with some gentle encouragement from the commanding agent.

Nate falls onto the couch heavily, head in his hands as he tries to bail out his waterlogged brain. It’s only a minute or so before the firm cushion dips beside him, a slender hand resting on the damp fabric of his jeans.

“Nate?” Mina asks, her voice quiet, almost shy. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m healed,” he says, as it’s more honest than saying ‘no’. Swallowing against his suddenly dry throat, he doesn’t resist the temptation to rest his hand on hers, stilling leaning his head against the other hand as he peers over at her. “I’m more concerned for you. You shouldn’t have jumped in after me.”

Mina shakes her head, water flinging from her soaked hair. A few stray strands stick to her skin, curling around her cheeks like a painted arrow pointing to her lips.

“I’m a good swimmer, and it never even touched me,” she replies, completely missing his point. The was her fingers tighten on his leg stops the argument on his tongue dead in its tracks. “What was that creature?”

“A water sprite,” Nate says, drawing on his knowledge as a crutch. “A subclass of fae, sentient and mischievous, if not outright murderous. They’re solitary, long lived, and widespread. It’s rare they leave a body of water once they’ve bonded with it on a molecular level, as this one has.”

“It must be a new one then,” Mina says thoughtfully. Across the boat Mason stops squeezing water out of his long, shaggy hair to roll his eyes at them.

“Can we get to shore before you two start getting…” He gestures vaguely at them. “You know.”

Nate’s cheeks burst with heat, only for him to realize Mason means he wants them to stop with the deductive chatter. At least, that’s what he thinks until Mason gives them a look Nate recognizes very well, and has not had aimed his way in almost a century. And it is them, both he and Mina. He blinks, straightening up.

Before he can consider that too closely, Mina looks back and makes a noise. Every vampiric head snaps to follow her gaze, finding a pale blue dot maybe twenty yards behind the boat, keeping pace. Mason’s frame goes rigid, eyes tracking the sprite as it follows. Nate thinks he ought to stand up and do something too, but his limbs are so heavy that all he can do is squeeze Mina’s hand. She squeezes back, warm and steady.

“Keep an eye on it,” Ava says, voice low. Mason gives a sharp nod without letting his gaze falter for a moment.

Several minutes pass as they go, wind whipping past them, chilling Nate through. The sprite doesn’t bother them though. It just follows, like it’s curious. Nate hopes it’s curious.

“It’s fading,” Mason says, just as they get close enough to shore to make out the vague shape of the dock jutting out into the water to meet them.

“I wonder if it wanted to talk,” Mina says, voice so quiet she might not have meant to be heard. Nate shudders; he has no desire to speak to the sprite, though he hopes nothing too dire has to happen to contain it. Then again, had the sprite done what it did to Nate to Mina or another human instead…He presses his lips together into a tight line. Dire may be necessary.

Agents are waiting for them as they approach the dock, but Nate doesn’t mind them much as he hauls himself out of the boat. With his feet on the wooden planks, he feels a bit steadier.

“May I?” he asks, holding a hand out to Mina. She looks up at him, a mysterious smile on her face as she accepts without a word. Her hand slips into his, and he’s dizzy once more. He helps her out of the boat, then stands back as she goes to speak to Rebecca. Mason slides past through the shadows, hovering close. It takes every ounce of willpower for Nate to resist the urge to flex his hand, restless from the touch.

Ava calls to him, and he starts to go to her, but she holds a hand up to stop him. Her eyes search his briefly, then she frowns.

“Nevermind, Farah and I can handle this,” Ava says, glancing back at the agents waiting to speak to the team. Their newest member is already regaling a few with tales of what happened. It may be a trick of the light, but Nate swears his friend has a hint of dimple around her mouth. Noticing him notice her, Ava scowls and says, “Go get yourself together.”

Nate huffs a laugh and slips his hands into his pockets. “I see.”

“Go,” Ava says more firmly. Nate goes.

He doesn’t go far though. Just up the path, away from the buzz of activity and engines, just far enough that he can’t hear the lap of water against the shore.

The road is mostly compact dirt, lined on either side with soaring trees that leave a slash of night sky visible over his head. With the coming of night a chill has entered the air, Nate’s breath clouding out in front of him. His clothes aren’t dripping anymore, but he’s a far cry from dry. It makes him ache for the familiar comfort of his copper tub, big and deep, filled to the brim with hot water.

It’s going to be a hard night. Nate doesn’t bury his memories, but he doesn’t linger on them if he can help it either, and never has he had to relive them in such a way before. It was so vivid. His heart gives a painful squeeze as he remembers just a few months ago when that carnival was in town. Had Mason’s vision of his past in the Hall of Mirrors been like that? Nate staggers as he goes, catching himself on the trunk of a tree, overwhelmed by the dear hope that that isn’t how it had worked. Even if Mason doesn’t remember what’s happened to him, how Nate had found him in that awful place—

A branch snaps behind him, jerking him out of his thoughts. He looks back to find Mina, her eyes widening when she spots him in the darkness.

“There you are,” she says, relief so thick in her voice it makes Nate’s pulse quicken. “I swear I looked away for a moment and when I looked back you were just gone.”

“Sorry,” Nate says, forcing a casual chuckle. “I needed a moment. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Of course I worried,” Mina says, though she doesn’t meet his eye when she says it, her cheeks darkening minutely. Seeing her react like this when she’s normally so collected has Nate closing the distance between them until there’s only an arm’s length of space. She tilts her head back, an expression of determination fitting itself on her face. “What did that sprite do to you?”

“Pardon?” Nate asks, leaning back. Mina steps closer.

“It was touching you, and your eyes were glowing,” Mina says. She sets her jaw. “It tried grabbing me to do…something, but it got scared when it didn’t work.”

Nate’s throat goes very dry. “Thank goodness for your abilities.”

“Nate, please,” Mina says, waving his words away like smoke. “I don’t think it just said hello, did it?”

“No,” Nate admits. “It wanted to see…pain.” Hissing out a breath, Mina reaches for him, but he puts a hand up to stop her. “Not physical. Memories.”

“Still,” Mina says. She looks back over her shoulder. “Have you heard of anything like that?”

Melting out of the shadows, Mason puts himself at her side, a grimace on his face. “Yeah, actually.”

“It’s a common means of feeding for them,” Nate explains in a near whisper. His breaths come faster now. It’s bad enough to be alone with Mina, but it’s all the worse to have Mason here. He’s too raw, his edges jagged. If he doesn’t get them away, he’ll slip. They’ll see him.

“You didn’t mention that before. Are you okay?” Mina asks, her voice curling around him with all the enticing warmth of a lover’s embrace. Nate’s mouth wobbles, and Mason’s eyes widen.

“Yes,” he says, voice cracking.

“You don’t sound okay,” Mina presses, more persistent than Nate would have anticipated. He glances over his shoulder, knowing it exposes his discomfort but not being able to help himself.

“I promise I’m alright,” Nate says, face burning hot. That’s one way to beat the chill of the air, he supposes.

Mina’s dark brows draw together in frustration.

“Are you allergic to having others take care of you?” she snaps. Nate rears back.

Mina is a consummate professional. He’s always known her to be even keeled, not prone to outbursts. In the time they’ve known each other, she’s never once raised her voice at him. It steals his voice for a long moment as he grapples with what he could have done to make her so upset with him.

“No, not at all,” he sputters. Mason laughs, the sound low and growling, soothing rather than mocking. Nate looks at him, mystified. Mason is one of the most perceptive people he knows, and even if it took him far too long to learn his own feelings toward Mina, Nate can’t imagine he’s as blind to others being drawn to her.

“Then let her help, handsome,” Mason says. Nate’s thoughts come to a screeching halt at that.

Handsome? Since when does Mason…? He looks at Mina, but she either doesn't notice or doesn’t care. She is, instead, focused entirely on Nate. That regard pins him in place. He doesn’t so much as breath as she reaches out, slender fingers carding through his still drying hair, pushing it out of his face. His heart pounds so hard it hurts, and now his head is throbbing as well.

Nate covers her hand with his. “What are you doing?”

“Checking on you.” Mina frowns, pulling her hand away slowly. She tries to at least. Nate presses down on it before she can, meaning her palm slots against his cheek. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows around the lump in his throat.

“But…” Nate looks again to Mason. His grey eyes are as unfathomable as what lays behind a misty morning fog. Mason just shrugs, a lazy smile on his face.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says.

That seems an impossible task. The events of the night dissolve entirely in the face of this development.

Mina’s hand slides down, fingers curling under his chin, pressing down with her thumb until he looks her in the eye. He’s expecting another scolding, but her eyes have softened. Not since he realized his own feelings for her has he held her gaze for this long. He couldn’t dare to, not without risking her seeing everything.

Perhaps she saw enough anyway. He leans forward, dizzy and brimming with hope, needing to feel her mouth on his more than anything.

But she doesn’t let him. Her smile is kind when she slides her hand over his mouth and says, “Not yet.”

Mason snorts. “Why not?”

“He’s just been through something,” Mina says, frowning at Mason. Mason shrugs.

“It’d make me feel better.” Mason gives a toothy grin. “Among other things.”

“I’m sure it would,” Mina says dryly. Nate can’t help laughing against her palm.

With a gentle touch, he wraps his fingers around her wrist, drawing it up to his mouth. He glances at her, waiting to see if she objects, but when she doesn’t he presses a soft kiss to the delicate joint. Her pulse jumps against his lips. A heady emotion fills him from his toes to his scalp, stoking warmth in his guts. There’s little he wouldn’t do to be able to draw more reactions from her.

“She’s right,” he says, much as he dearly wants to agree with Mason instead. There are too many questions in his mind though, and he’s still not steady on his feet. When Mason frowns, uncertain, Nate adds, “I’d like to talk first.”

“Of course you do,” Mason says with a gusty sigh. No doubt if he had his way there’d be very little talking happening, but quite a lot of noise.

Two points of light appear behind Mason and Mina, filling Nate’s vision with white before he can adjust to the brightness. The team’s car rumbles, the boat trailer clattering as it approaches slowly. Hanging out the passenger side window, Farah calls out, “Hey you three! Let’s go already. It’s seriously gotten boring now that no one’s drowning.”

Nate tries and fails not to roll his eyes.

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” Mina says, hand dropping down to her side. His skin tingles from her touch. “We can talk then.”

“That sounds perfect,” Nate says, heart skipping a beat. He looks at Mason. “If you’ll be there as well.”

“Of course I will,” Mason says with a frown. “I’m part of this.”

Though it’s not something Nate has ever considered before now, he finds no reason to object to it now.

HONK. HONK HONK. HONKHONKHONK.

“Fuck! Farah!” Mason shouts, hands clapped over his ears as he stomps toward the car. In the cab, Farah is leaned over into Ava’s space, grinning madly. He meets her eye and she winks.

Mina laughs, the sound sending a pleasant shiver along the back of his skull. “Alright, come on then. Tomorrow we’ll figure this all out.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, following as she leads the way. Mason, still surly, is waiting for them with the back door open.

#darling writing #twc #wayhaven #twc mason #twc nate sewell #the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensecretsanta

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thee-morrigan · 5 months

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in any universe

The Wayhaven Chronicles Ava du Mortain/Dinah Batra/Nate Sewell 6.5k words rated G (for 'good god I didn't expect this to get so long???') content warnings: snowstorms, mysterious cabins, a rogue time-traveler, and gratuitous descriptions of Ava's eyes read it on AO3

I had the absolute pleasure of writing for @evilbunnyking as part of the @wayhavensecretsanta this month. (Did I spend the past several weeks fully giggling, twirling my hair, kicking my feet, glitter-gel-pen writing in my diary about Dinah, Nate, and Ava? Maybe! 💖) Thank you for letting me have a playdate with Dinah! I had a blast with this, and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it 💖🥰

— It’s barely past noon, but already the watery winter sun is fading, rays of diluted daylight trickling slowly past the stark, spiky tree limbs that jutted at irregular angles into the blue-grey sky. What little of it filters onto the ground — hard and hoary with frost and the dusting of snow from the spindrift of flurries early this morning — is weaker still, the scant brush of the sun’s warmth against Dinah’s face barely registering, its light trailing off like unfinished sentences, thin tendrils curling into nothing but air, like the smoke of a snuffed candle.

“We should have taken the SUV,” Ava says, and Dinah looks up at the woman walking alongside her, the spectral tendrils of sunlight gilding the edges of her face — the slope of her nose, the wisps of pale hair that the wind has tugged free of her usual low bun — turning the other woman’s profile as silvery as the frosted path beneath their booted feet. For her part, Ava does not look at Dinah as they walk, hawk-sharp eyes sweeping along the path ahead, across the surrounding wood, as if the trees standing sentry are liable to go from resembling a watchful assemblage to becoming one entire, long bare limbs poised to come alive as soon as she looks away.

“It’s not far,” Dinah replies, turning her gaze back to the path ahead as well, the winding, snow-flecked bridleway looping its way through the forest just as the fissures in the bark of the surrounding trees spiraled up and around their vast trunks.

Sweet chestnut trees, she thinks, though she can’t remember when or why she came by this knowledge, at what point she learned to associate the thick, purple-grey trees with that identity.

“It is an unexpectedly lovely day for a walk,” Nate adds from her other side, throwing Dinah a gentle smile. “I’d thought we were due a heavier snowfall than this morning’s flurries turned out to be.”

“We are,” Ava says, turning her head to look at both Dinah and Nate as they traipse further through the woods. “The radar this morning indicated we can expect winter storm conditions this afternoon, and perhaps into tomorrow as well.”

“We’ll be safely back at the warehouse before the worst of it hits, Ava,” Dinah soothes, though she can’t keep the corners of her mouth from curving upwards in mild amusement at the idea of Ava monitoring the weather radar map. “And Nate’s right: at least for now, it’s a nice day.”

Ava sighs and turns her gaze back to the path ahead, though not, Dinah notices, before her expression softens a bit, her mouth relaxing, green eyes glimmering with something approaching a look of fondness towards them both.

Dinah is right about the cabin not being much further, situated only a few miles away from the warehouse, and so it isn’t much longer before they reach the place. Despite its relative closeness, however, and perhaps because of its being nestled just that much deeper into the forest surrounding Wayhaven, there is a certain air of isolation about the little house, as though they’ve somehow managed to travel much further than could ever be possible in the time they’d been walking.

She thinks this air about the old cabin, this shimmer of eerie uncertainty surrounding the property, is partly why Tina had begged the favor of her, to check in on the house after a few reports from the owner about things seeming just the slightest bit out of sorts recently — windows that should have been locked being cracked open, bedside lamps left switched on when they oughtn’t have been, and that sort of thing. Tina had been inclined to chalk it up to the particular quiet of the surrounding wood and simple human forgetfulness on the owner’s part, given that he mostly kept the cabin as a source of supplemental income these days, letting it as a vacation rental property. The only reason he’d known to report anything amiss in the first place had been thanks to the cleaning crew he paid to check in on the property once a month, give or take when the cabin was occupied by guests, whose presence could explain any or all of the unexpected occurrences the owner had reported to the station.

Still, Tina had said when she relayed all of this information to Dinah a few days ago, I know it’s probably nothing, but, if I’m being honest, that place has always kind of given me the creeps.

And so Dinah had agreed to the favor. One last thankless detective’s task for old time’s sake, she supposes.

“Just a quick look around and we can go,” she promises Nate and Ava as they approach the cabin now, raising her voice slightly over the wind, which has begun to pick up in the past few minutes, accompanied by a fresh flurry of fat, wet snowflakes.

Despite Tina’s apparent discomfort with it, the cabin appears, if anything, like something you’d find in a winter painting or emblazoned on a postcard, nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering ancient cedar trees and the elegant sweeping cradle of silver birches, long-limbed and half-frozen. The snow-dusted roof glitters in the white-gold wash of afternoon sun, contrasting against the darkened timber walls of the cabin. It emanates a certain charm, as if it holds secrets within its sturdy frame.

Nate, his gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets, gazes at the cabin with a sense of wonderment. "It's like something out of a fairy tale," he murmurs.

“I wonder why Tina said it gave her the creeps,” Dinah muses as they step onto the wide, weathered planks of the porch, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket and scrolling through her last texts with her erstwhile colleague until she sees the code to the lockbox fastened next to the front door.

She punches the code into the keypad with gloved fingers, a bright, staccato chirrup sounding as the electronic latch clicked open, allowing Dinah to retrieve a small leather keychain bearing two keys, one silver and one a dull bronze. It’s the silver one that must be the cabin key, she thinks. The bronze one is smaller, with fewer teeth than its companion. It almost resembled a mailbox key, but she’s not sure it’s quite large enough for a standard post-office box.

She puts it out of her mind, though, as her assumption about the silver key being the one needed to enter the cabin proves correct. As she inserts the key into the lock, a gust of wind howls through the treetops, causing the branches to sway and creak. The sound is mournful, as though the forest itself is warning them of something unseen.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Dinah steps inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the frost-laced windows. The cabin is unexpectedly warm, despite its emptiness and the cold of the world just beyond its wooden walls. The wind and promised winter storm conditions have begun to pick up in earnest now and, while the interior warmth is a welcome surprise, she hopes they can report everything in order quickly and begin the trek back towards town and the warehouse before it gets any colder.

Dinah steps further into the cabin, letting the warmth envelop her. She glances around, taking in the worn wooden furnishings and old-fashioned charm of the place. The thick wooden planks that make up the walls are dark and weathered with age, each knot and grain clear as day, like a tapestry of nature itself. The scent of pine and wood smoke fills her nose, mixing with the musty odor of dampness and age, lingering beneath the sharper tang of citrus — oranges, she thinks, rather than lemons — particular to furniture polish and oil soap. Lingering from the cleaners, she presumes.

Before or after they’d phoned the owner? She wonders. Before or after they noticed whatever it was they’d noticed to create the impression that all was not as it ought to have been?

Nate follows behind her, pausing only to scrape the frost and forest debris off his boots and onto the coarse fibers of the doormat. "Seems normal so far," he remarks, though his voice holds the barest tinge of unease.

She thinks she understands it, this shade of uncertainty coloring his voice; perhaps it is only the way in which her brain has primed itself for something, anything, to be unusual. Perhaps it is how preternaturally lovely the cabin had been as they approached it outside, the glittering winter panorama that had made Nate think of fairytales.

Perhaps it is the slight, burnt-sugar taste on her tongue, the roof of her mouth, whose flavor she associates with campfire-scorched marshmallows and, more recently (more pertinently), with magic.

Ava is close behind, the door creaking slightly as she pulls it shut, leaving them in near darkness until she finds a light switch. Dinah’s eyes have swept from Nate’s face to Ava’s, as if seeking a second confirmation of something, but Ava’s gaze is narrowed on the large stone fireplace in the center of the living room.

“How long did you say it has been since this cabin has been occupied?” She asks.

"Quite a few months, if I remember correctly," Dinah replies, her gaze following Ava's to the fireplace. The hearth is immaculately clean, not a trace of ash or soot to be seen. Stranger still, the scent of freshly burned wood hangs in the air; evident beneath the pine and citrus scent. “Well, aside from the cleaners, I suppose. They would have been here last week, I think? Or the start of this week.”

“It seems unlikely that they would have built a fire,” Nate muses, his expression thoughtful as he watches Ava, her gaze still fixed on the rough fieldstone fireplace. “Though the room certainly smells of one.”

"Indeed," Ava replies, her voice low and thoughtful. She steps further into the room, striding past Dinah and Nate to kneel before the fireplace, stretching one hand out toward the cold hearth. Her fingers hover for a long moment over the scrubbed, smooth grate before she pulls her hand back, straightening and turning back to face the others.

“It does not seem to be any warmer than it ought,” she concedes, the beginnings of a frown creasing her brows. “But it smells as though someone lit a fire. Recently.”

“Maybe they burned a candle?” Dinah suggests with a shrug, though her hazel eyes are pensive flick between Nate and Ava, watching whatever unspoken conversation they’re having.

“Perhaps.” Ava does not sound convinced.

“You’re probably right,” Nate says gamely, giving Dinah a smile that almost successfully wipes the earlier glimmer of uncertainty from his face. “What else did you need to check before we head back?”

Their sweep of the other rooms, thankfully, doesn’t seem to spark any additional sense of lingering disorder, although it does take a bit longer than Dinah had anticipated because of the cabin's surprising size. Closets, bedrooms, and a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen are methodically examined by the trio. Finally satisfied that she's done her due diligence and can report back to Tina that everything seems more or less normal, Dinah checks her watch, squinting at the dimly lit dial.

"I think that's it," she says as they finish their search of the cabin. A soft sigh of relief escapes from between her lips as if expressing a quiet gratitude to the labyrinthine cabin for not exposing them to any other irregularities.

Nate, who had stopped to scrutinize an antique grandfather clock situated against a wall just past the entryway, looks up at Dinah's voice, his own lips parting as if to respond. It is Ava, however, who speaks next, calling to them from the far side of the living room, where she's taken up what Dinah can only consider her typical position before a window, this one overlooking the front porch and, beyond, the path they had taken to reach the cabin earlier this afternoon.

"It would appear we have run into a problem," Ava says grimly, her beryl eyes narrowed at whatever she's spotted outside the cabin.

"What is it?" Nate asks, stepping away from the old clock and towards the living room.

Dinah answers as he ducks through the open doorway, having twitched aside the curtain of another window nearer to her. "Winter storm conditions,” she sighs.

They decide to make the best of it — because what else can they do, really? They will spend the dwindling daylight hours and the coming night in the cabin and reassess in the morning. By then, they reason — they hope — the worst of the snowstorm will have passed.

Once more, the trio split up, this time in search of necessary supplies for the coming evening rather than the presumed vandals or squatters they’d been sent to suss out earlier. Ava elects to venture outside and to the small shed behind the cabin in search of firewood, before the snow completely blankets the forest and renders visibility difficult for even supernaturally keen eyesight. Nate and Dinah will stay inside, sorting through the numerous closets and cupboards for candles, blankets, and foodstuffs.

The cabin resonates with a strange sense of harmony, each of them engaged in their own tasks; Nate humming slightly as he sifts through kitchen cabinets, the rhythm of Dinah's steps echoing through the rooms as she ascends and descends the staircase, rifling through bedroom closets.

Ava returns, though after how long, neither Dinah nor Nate are entirely sure. Time has seemed…looser, since entering the cabin, perhaps since entering the surrounding wood altogether. Slowing and speeding at intervals irregular to their own cadence, each moment stretching on indefinitely but also second by second – ticking away as marked by the steady rhythm of the grandfather clock.

Nonetheless, she returns, indeterminate time notwithstanding, arms laden with chopped wood, cheeks flushed against the biting cold, her form in the doorway a specter-like silhouette against the backdrop of mounting snowfall. She shakes loose a flurry of snowflakes caught in the folds of her scarf, the collar of her coat, shuffling wet clumps of snow off of her boots and onto the wide, wooden planks of the front porch before stepping past the threshold and into the cabin proper.

Nate emerges from the kitchen as she deposits her findings in a precise stack next to the fireplace, the logs clattering and thudding methodically alongside one another.

“It seems we were wise not to have attempted the walk back,” he says by way of greeting, crossing the living room to pull the front door shut where Ava, arms otherwise occupied, had left it half ajar. The heavy door slides shut with a muted thud, the worn, smooth metal of the brass handle icy beneath his palm as he gives it one more firm, brief tug before releasing it, satisfied that the torrent of snow falling in wet, heavy swirls outside wouldn’t make it into the dry warmth of the old cabin.

Ava gives a murmur of agreement, on her knees before the hearth, hands busied with the work of starting a fire with the wood she’s procured and the ceramic urn perched on the mantle, which is full of matchbooks, taken over a period of years, no doubt, from restaurants and bars and hotels. The logs are slick with the meltwater of snow and ice, although some thoughtful previous cabin guest has left a small stack of newspaper pages on the hearth, tucked behind the spindly wrought iron stand holding a small assortment of fireplace tools, presumably to be used as tinder.

With deft fingers, Ava strips off her gloves, laying them neatly on the stone of the fireplace, and reaches for a sheaf of newsprint, crumpling the pages into loose wads. She arranges them with a few of the driest twigs, striking a match against the strip on its book cover and holding the tiny flame to the newspaper until it catches and begins to consume itself in a bright orange glow. The first crackling embers in the grate send out a thin spiral of fragrant smoke, wrapping itself around Ava as she fans the flames into life. She pauses, straightening a bit to unwind her still-snow-speckled scarf, the wool of it damp in spots where the warmth of the cabin and her fledgling fire have begun to melt the lingering frost, and watches as her handiwork takes hold and steadily grows. The warmth now emanating from the fireplace is welcome, cutting through the chill that had started to settle in her bones.

“Thank you, by the way,” Nate says, coming to stand next to where she’s still knelt before the fire, a pleased hum of a sigh accompanying the words of gratitude. “For the fire, and for venturing into—” he sweeps a hand toward the front windows “—that to gather firewood.”

“And for not reminding either of you that I advised against walking here in the first place?” She leans back on her shins and tilts her face up to look at him, the tops of her booted feet pressed flush against the floor, her palms resting flat against the tops of her thighs. Ava’s voice is dry as bone, but there’s an unmistakeable shimmer of amusement in her eyes, the bright green of them turned aventurescent in the flickering glow of the firelight.

Nate laughs, and the warmth of it, resonant and radiant, sears through any lingering coldness in her that had gone unreached by the heat of the fire now burning steadily in the grate. Warms her to her marrow, as his laughter (his voice, his existence) has done for over three hundred years, now.

“That too, I suppose,” he amends, still smiling as he offers his hand to her, although they both know it is an unnecessary politeness — she does not need assistance to unfold herself from her position before the fire, to rise to her feet. She accepts it anyway, pale, calloused fingers grasping his dark, fine-boned hand as she rises to stand beside him.

Deeper into the cabin, footsteps sound, light and quick, as Dinah emerges from the dark of the corridor behind Ava, a bundle of fabric and a cardboard box cradled in her arms. She smiles, glancing at the fire as she steps further into the room and towards the two vampires standing in front of it.

Something about it — everything about it, she amends, for it is everything, really, about their current situation — strikes her with an odd feeling, a warm swell of something like familiarity or nostalgia or sentiment that takes her a moment to place. The crackling blaze of the fire, warm as bathwater against her face as she draws nearer, warmer still where its glow reflects off of her companions, its light painting their faces and hands in shades of rose and gold and ochre. How the light and heat contrast with the mercurial silver of the afternoon outside, the cloud-smothered sky already grown too dark for the hour, even for winter, its icy fingers pressing and dragging against the windows. The way Ava and Nate always seem to look at her, and even more so how they always — have always, at least as long as she’s known them, in each, century-spanning context — look at each other.

When she places the odd, slip-sliding sensation, she can’t quell the soft laugh that bubbles out of her. Nate gives her a quizzical smile as he steps towards her, reaching to pull the box from her arms. He sets it on one of the two chintzy, overstuffed armchairs in the middle of the room, the one nearest to the fireplace, lifting one of the flaps to peer at its contents.

“Is something amusing you, agent?” Ava asks, one dark blonde brow arched as she unbuttons her woollen peacoat before moving to hang it next to Dinah’s on the wooden coat rack by the front door.

“Just experiencing deja vu, I think,” she answers, unfolding the bundle of cloth still draped across her arm — a cable-knit sweater, it turns out, large and cream-colored and heavy looking, which Dinah slips on over her own thinner sweater, warm enough under her coat for the weather earlier in their day, but somewhat lacking in the current snowstorm. The garment hangs loose on her, the hem landing halfway down her thighs, and she has to roll the sleeves twice to free her hands, but it’s gloriously warm, and she almost laughs again at the memory of another borrowed sweater, in another lifetime.

“Deja vu?” Nate asks, still sorting through the box Dinah had unearthed. Her search of the bedrooms had been a fruitful one, it seems: the box is full of useful paraphernalia for anyone unexpectedly snowbound, including, among other things, at least a dozen long, white candles, a couple of camping lanterns, one heavy flashlight, and packages of batteries for each. Ava has crossed back over to them now, too, and slips a hand into the box alongside Nate’s to help him sort through its contents.

“Thinking of the last time we were…unexpectedly ensconced in a remote location like this. Lauterbrunnen.”

“Ah,” Nate says, and she knows before even looking at him that he’s smiling at the memory she’s called up, can hear it in that one syllable alone.

“The selection of reading materials pales in comparison to the chalet, of course,” she allows, failing entirely to contain her grin at Ava’s quiet, whip-quick rejoinder: “The volume of materials, as well.”

“But,” Dinah continues, that irrepressible grin seeping into her voice, “we do have electricity and running water here, so.” She shrugs. “Maybe that almost evens out, all things considered.”

And, of course, of fucking course, it is at that moment that the power flickers — dims — and peters out entirely.

The kitchen, bathed in a blend of candlelight and lantern glow, becomes their sanctuary as the world beyond the frost-coated windows plunges into the inky cold. The kitchen turned out to have an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, so Ava has built them another fire, its comforting warmth and scent filling the air, coupled with the aroma of the soup Nate had found in the pantry (although he’d seemed truly distressed at having only canned food to offer Dinah, with no fresh produce to supplement it, and it had been an effort not to laugh at the consternation on his face).

Canned though it may be, the soup is hot and filling, and Dinah sips at it happily enough, warming her fingers against the large, earthenware mug as she does. In addition to the lighting supplies they’d quickly put to good use, she’d found a jigsaw puzzle in a hall closet, and so, for lack of much else to do, they’re now sat together at the long kitchen table across from the wood stove, puzzle pieces strewn across the width of the table, tiny cardboard islands in a sea of dark mahogany.

Even as they collectively bend towards their task, their breaths intermingling in a rhythm of shared concentration, Dinah’s mind remains centered elsewhere. She finds herself watching her companions more than working on the puzzle, studying their focused faces under the flickering candlelight. There is a certain harmony to their movements, the result, she knows, of years and years and years of working all manner of tasks alongside one another, and Dinah can't help but feel a pang of affection for them both.

“You know you can’t win a jigsaw puzzle, Ava,” Dinah remarks, a teasing grin tugging insistently at one corner of her mouth.

Her comment is rewarded by a soft huff of laughter from Nate and a pointed silence from Ava — although perhaps the latter is less due to Ava choosing to ignore her and more the result of the commanding agent’s intense focus on the scattering of puzzle pieces arranged before her.

She’s not surprised, of course, that Ava takes jigsaw puzzles as a kind of tactical challenge, that she faces them as something to be outwitted through strategic brilliance and logical prowess. It’s part of why she likes her, really: a shared thread of fiery determination that runs through them both, this impulse — this compulsion — to rise to any occasion, meet it head-on and straight-backed, no matter how un-momentous the occasion may be. After all, hadn’t Dinah once taken the task of choosing a wine that Ava might enjoy as a challenge to be faced? Heracles and his Labours; Dinah and her (unboxed) wine.

Ava and her jigsaw puzzle.

Still, scouring hundreds of puzzle pieces in the dim light of the lanterns and candles, coupled with the growing lateness of the hour, is beginning to wear on Dinah and her human eyes, so she leans back in her chair, stretching languidly as she does. Propping one elbow on the back of the chair, she twists in her seat, casting her eyes about the room if only for a brief change in focal distance. Through the open doorway of the kitchen, she can see into the living room, the light of the still-crackling fire a rippling glow, illuminating the overstuffed armchair set closest to the fireplace.

Illuminating the object resting thereupon, which Dinah is quite sure had not been there earlier in the evening. There, lying open and facedown along one of the chair’s puffy arms, is a book.

It’s a squatty paperback, small and thick, its pages, as best she can tell through the dimness and the distance, gone slightly yellowed with age, corners slightly rounded and curling, dulled with the thumbing of untold hands over unknown years of use.

“Nate,” she asks, cutting off whatever conversation had been happening, whatever idle, puzzle-side chatter she’s fully relinquished the thread of now, her focus grasping instead for the unexpected snag of this book in the living room. “Did you leave that there? That book, in the living room?”

She tilts her head, chin jerking slightly in the direction of the doorway, not taking her eyes off the book as she speaks, because she already knows what his answer will be, already knows that, even if he had found a book to peruse while she’d been rummaging through bedrooms and closets upstairs, he would not have left it thus, splayed carelessly as if forgotten in the wake of something more captivating. Knows that, whomever it was who had last touched this book and then left it, discarded and haphazard, on the arm of the chair, it would not have been Nate, whose elegant hands are gentle and careful with almost everything they touch, and always so with books.

Well. Give or take a scant few exceptions, she remembers, although when she thinks of the circumstances in which he might be — in which he has been — so driven to distraction as to be truly careless in setting aside a book, she is reasonably confident that they do not apply to this particular scenario.

Nate looks up from the scattering of puzzle pieces through which he’d been sorting, eyes moving first to Dinah, half-twisted in her chair across from him, to the open doorway through which her gaze is still focused, finally alighting on the book in question. His brow furrows slightly as he glances from the discarded paperback to Ava, who has wrested her own focus from the jigsaw puzzle to the two of them, something in the tone of Dinah’s voice tugging her away from her consideration of optimal puzzle completion strategies.

“No,” he says finally, and can see his own confusion mirrored in Ava’s expression as those cool, emerald eyes slide to meet his, a mélange of question and calculation flickering there as he answers.

Green eyes and brown shift once again towards Dinah as she twists back around to face them, her own dark eyes lingering over her shoulder and into the living room for a too-long moment, as though not trusting the room behind her to remain static once she turns her back on it.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and looks between the two vampires, her mouth stretching in a grim almost-smile. “I didn’t think so,” she murmurs ruefully as she meets Nate’s puzzled gaze. “Although I was really, really hoping to be wrong.”

She stands abruptly, the chair skidding back on the wooden floor with a harsh rasp that echoes in the silence that has settled over the three of them. Dinah meets Ava’s eyes first, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary before shifting her attention to Nate. There's a sense of urgency crackling around her as she strides towards the living room, her fingers tightly curled in anticipation.

She moves deliberately towards the forgotten book, each footfall echoing in the stillness of the room. She hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and picks up the novel, the rough edges of the worn pages making her fingers prickle with an odd sense of unease.

She flips it over to see the cover — the title, Time's Shadow, is embossed in gold letters above a dramatic illustration of a branching tree, its roots plunging into a shadowy abyss while its leafy arms reach towards a clock face trapped in a twilight sky, although its hands point to a minute shy of twelve o'clock.

Puzzle abandoned, Nate and Ava have followed her into the living room, though neither of them seems to have any more idea than she as to how this book came to be here, or from whence it came.

Dinah flicks through the pages, her gaze quickly scanning the taut lines of text. The scent of old paper and ink wafts up, mingling with the room's musty air. There is nothing else remarkable about the book. No annotations, no dog-eared pages, no forgotten bookmarks or slips of paper. Just an ordinary book left in an extraordinary circumstance.

Nate steps forward, a mix of caution and curiosity on his face. "May I?" he asks, extending a hand towards Dinah.

Wordlessly, she hands it to him, watching him as he studies the book. He traces the edge of one golden letter before opening the paperback carefully, his long fingers leafing through the worn pages with a careful reverence, dark eyes skimming across the pages, though nothing seems to catch his attention.

The silence of the room is broken, suddenly, by a soft voice. "I hope you were kind enough to mark my place before you turned the page."

The trio whirls around, startled by the unexpected voice that had so disrupted the stillness of the room, a stone thrown into a tranquil pond. Seated comfortably on the weathered armchair against the far wall is a man who wasn't there moments ago, hands folded neatly in his lap, a thin smile etched across his face.

The man is nondescript in most ways — medium height, mid-forties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back from a high forehead. His eyes, as calm and deep as a placid lake, meet theirs with an amused glint.

Dinah straightens her spine and takes a step forward, her gaze hardening to steel on this stranger. "And you are?" She manages to ask, forcing her voice to remain steady, courteous, even, tempering the whirlwind of questions threatening to break loose.

Ava has moved to lean against the threshold that divides the two rooms, her fingers curling around the edge of the wall as she studies the interloper. Her green eyes hide nothing of her suspicion as they flicker over him, assessing and analyzing with a calculated precision.

The stranger chuckles, the sound warm and non-threatening. "My name is Cyrus," he says, his voice as soft and smooth as worn leather. "And I mean no harm."

Nate, still holding the book, steps closer to Dinah, his face unreadable. There is a moment when their gazes meet; an unspoken understanding passing between them. When his gaze flicks to the stranger, though, there is nothing but polite interest on his face, as open and friendly as it had been the day Dinah had met him. "And why are you here, Cyrus?"

The stranger — Cyrus — merely chuckles, a low, pleasant sound that echoes through the silent room. He leans forward slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers together. "There are many answers to that question," he says finally. "Some requiring less explanation than others."

He glances at the worn paperback still clasped in Nate's hand. "I suppose you could say I'm here for my book." He gives another light laugh, then shifts, leaning back a bit in his chair before unfolding his hands and gesturing towards the other armchair, the couch. "Please, take a seat," he says, an air of welcoming familiarity settling around him. "There's much to talk about."

Nate and Dinah share a glance, a silent question passing between them. Ava's gaze is fixed on Cyrus, her posture rigid but curious. Finally, Dinah steps forward, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room as she takes the offer. She sits, her back straight and her mind whirling with a thousand questions.

Nate follows suit, handing the book back to Cyrus as he does so. The man accepts it with a warm smile, tucking it next to him on the chair.

"Now then," he says. "I, along with my book, am here, in part, because this is my house."

An indignant, disbelieving noise escapes Dinah before she can stop it. "No, it isn't. Micah Langley owns this cabin."

The stranger's smile, while not fading exactly, has morphed into something cut through with sorrow. "Micah Langley is my husband. Or, well." He pauses, as if considering. "I suppose it may be more correct to say he was my husband. What year is it, please? It is possible that I may have already died. It's so difficult to keep track of which year it is, let alone which timeline one has stumbled into."

The statement hangs in the room, a tangible thing that seems to ripple and flex with tension.

“I am,” Cyrus continues calmly, voice as placid as if he is discussing the weather on any given Thursday, “come unstuck from time.”

They gape at him, for a long stretch of moments.

Nate breaks the silence first. "I beg your pardon?”

"Unstuck," he repeats with a nonchalant shrug. "One minute I am somewhere, the next... here. I do not control it. It just... happens. Just as you might walk through a door. Exit one room — one time — and enter another."

He asks again: What year is this?

When Ava answers, he sighs and gives a small nod. "As I suspected. In this timeline -- in this universe -- I am unfortunately no longer among the living."

The group's silence stretches on for a few moments longer, the only sound being an occasional crackle from the fire in the grate behind them.

And then they begin to ask questions.

Where had he come from? What year had he left? How did he cope with the constant displacement? Did he have any control over it?

While in this timeline — in this universe — he is dead, he confirms, in answer to Dinah’s slightly incredulous protestations that he hasn’t been alive as she’d known him — known of him — for almost a decade. However, in other universes, other timelines, he is very much alive. Oh, he’s dead in some of them still, he acknowledges. But in others he lives on, lives well, lives differently.

In every universe, though, the one constant: his beloved.

The man who owns the cabin still, though has barely stepped inside it since the death of his husband — this breathing, dime-store-noir-novel-reading, dead-not-dead man sat on an armchair before them.

Somehow, in every timeline, Cyrus finds Micah, or Micah finds Cyrus, or they find each other.

Across any world, each forking decision path splitting into a crystalline myriad of mirrors, a tapestry of threads, tangling and intersecting and weaving together in infinite ways. In every universe, they are bound to meet, or to have met. A microcosm of their own making, each of them the reference frame for the other -- the special relativity of two human bodies, the nature of their time and space impacted by the other's gravitational pull.

The night passes and they are insatiable, the three accidental guests of this man’s former home, asking him question after question. What does he mean, unstuck from time? How does it work? How can he know how else he lives in other realms of time? Of space? Are they each of them truly him? How did he first learn this? What does this mean, practically speaking? How, how, how?

To his apparently eternal credit, he answers all of them, or at least all of them as best he can, with the same unflappable serenity of demeanor with which he’d introduced himself and his…situation.

At some point, the power clicks back on, lamps humming back to life, the radiator clanking as it begins the process of re-warming itself and the cabin. The sudden noise and light — low though it is — cracks through the spell of the evening — no, somehow now nearly morning — and the four of them blink at one another as reality creeps back in.

Cyrus stands and stretches, stifling a yawn. "I do believe, my friends," he declares, his voice resonating with the soft weariness of the late hour, "It is time I took my leave."

"But," Dinah protests, her sleep-deprived mind still struggling to grasp the enormity of their conversation, "where will you go?"

He tilts his head towards Dinah and smiles, a sad but understanding gleam in his eyes. "Once more into the fray, I suppose. Another timeline, another universe."

He walks to the entrance and looks back at them, his features softened by the diffused light from the lamps. "Do not worry for me. In each world, I am home."

(Later, as they are straightening up and finally, finally preparing to leave the cabin and return to their own homes, their own reality, they will discover that he has once again left his book, forgotten once more on the armchair nearest the fire. None of them are certain whether the dog-eared page — the sight of which once again sends a streak of dismay across Nate’s face — marks the same spot as the book had been opened to before. But whether it is or it isn’t, the page that’s been saved now includes a note, of sorts, in the form of a single highlighted sentence: Space by itself, and time by itself, are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of the two will preserve an independent reality*.)

*this is, in fact, an actual quote from the physicist Hermann Minkowski, in an address to the 80th Assembly of German Natural Scientists and Physicians, 1908. Physics: secretly the most hopeless romantic coded science since 1908!

#yall i went into a full fugue state and emerged 6.5k words later #wayhavensecretsanta #twc #katie writes things

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sunshineandviolets · 4 months

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Into the Unknown.

Happy (late) holidays to @yakov-vasilyev, I was your secret santa <3. Much enjoyed learning all about Devon, esp her relationship with Farah and Bobby! Hope I did your girl justice and this new year has been treating you well!! 🥰🤗💕 Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters: Devon Kang x Farah Hauville (& Bobby Marks) @wayhavensecretsanta

The chill of the winter evening would be enough to make time slow down. From the small prickly hedgehogs curled up asleep within a pile of leaves till the warmth of spring was ready to greet them again, to the silent awes and faint twinkle in a young child’s eye as they witnessed their first snowflake. Jack frost nipped at their nose and in return heard the softest giggle as the confusion shifted to intrigue then finally pure wonder.

It was just past 5pm and the sun had already started to set, however the crowds of townspeople on the street still remained as lively as before.- regardless of the loud honks from a vehicle that was on the verge of collapse. The night sky was lit up from the endless colourful string lights that decorated the streets. No order, just chaos spurred all over the surrounded homes.

Devon squinted as she glanced up towards the car’s rear view mirror and grumbled once noticed the increased number of civilians that kept ‘mistaken’ the main road for a damn walkway. Her dark eyes ached with the continuous flash of lights directed towards her. The shine highlighted noticeable dark eye bags that had been one of the few consistent variables in her life thus far. A child or even an naive adult would describe the first snowfall to commence the winter season as ‘magical’ but for someone whose car’s heating would not turn on - despite the amount of times she had punched the button to no reward - Devon was not feeling to share those same reactions as she pulled her coat furthered into herself.

“Only a few more blocks to go”, she thought as she gripped the steering wheel tight and clenched her teeth to forcibly stop the chatter. A few more blocks till she would arrive back to a place that was once familiar and now is but a stranger.

Devon never wanted to become an officer in the first place, that was a position forced upon her as punishment for acts of delinquency. Devon Kang - the woman who had a promising future laid out in front of her when she was growing up. She was meant to gain a successful career as a lawyer, being on top - exceeding far from other’s expectations of her. That was until he came into her life. Took her trust, her heart and had let her lay her armour down, only from him stabbed her from behind. The single revelation of the betrayal from someone she once could call hers, led to her eventual down spiral. A fallen angel , knocked off her pedestal and into a string of bad choices and decisions. Her downfall was his fault. She let him in, to drop her guard and only for him to - urgh. It was his fault.

“ So why can’t I - ? ”

Devon let out a low grunt at the nuisance of the thought of those strikingly blue eyes flashed before her, but it was another that they changed out for. Eyes as bright as the sun that rose up from the darkness, like an unexpected gift from under the tree - the reason why Devon cannot fully regret becoming the detective… if it had meant she got to meet the terrifying surprise that tipped her world upside down.

Thoughts of the sunshine vampire whirled into her mind. A bitter laugh left her as she reminiscenced their first kiss all those months ago. Strange yet needed, as through it’s what she had been missing despite never thinking to look. The vulnerable expression of Farah as she asked her for the kiss - did Farah expect her to say no? Should she have? Any doubt that remained was erased once Devon’s mind shifted to the taste of Farah’s candy scented lip gloss. It happened in almost an instant, yet remained gentle and soft like a touch of a sunny clear day. Felt the sweetness of newly bloomed roses. After they both moved apart, that blissful kiss still lingered on her lips. The deeper she delved in thought about her new girlfriend, the increase of a chill crept along her back. This is new territory for her and one that Devon has yet to believe or understand that she even deserved.

A few moments passed and Devon eventually arrived at the station. It was once a home away from home, but ever since her forced promotion at the agency she had found herself hesitant by the foot of the stone steps. She watched as the light shined brightly through the windows from the cold shadows. She never understood how her old co-workers could just easily stroll in a place and make conversation without a stumble. All it had taken was a single look from Devon and the others would avoid and cower like she had the plague. She certainly never smelt bad - always remained rather pristine and put together with style, she thought whilst she smoothed down her pressed shirt.

A ping from her phone broke her chain of thought. Devon does not save people's numbers usually. A small contact list, less names to remember - only those that she actually cares about.

Tina Poname, 5:12pm. Seen.

“Dev! You coming to pick your things up or what?”

Tina Poname, 5:13pm. Seen.

“Don’t make me throw your shit in the trash - I will do it 😤”

Devon rolled her eyes, typed out a quick response then shoved the phone back into her coat pocket. Tina’s threats are not some to dismiss.

Devon Kang, 5:13pm. Sent.

“Try it and I will break your plant.”

She sighed whilst taking the steps back into a place that felt more as a distant memory. Devon brushed past individuals that made their way out of the building, ignorant of the pleasantries that were thrown her way.

***

In and out.

That was all it was supposed to be.

Get in, grab her stuff then leave. In and out. As easy as that. So, why was she stood in front of a bare naked pine tree with a box of cheap plastic ornaments in her hands. Devon wrinkled her nose when she remembered Tina’s big and bold pleading eyes. Devon was about to shrug her request off before Tina pulled out her trap card.

“Well this could be a rather difficult task, if you think you won’t be able to handle it then I suppose I could have another - ”

Devon sneered at her past self’s foolishness to fall for such a low blow trick that had landed her to decorate a tree over twice her size. Devon dealt with worse, she knew she didn't need help to assist with such a mindless task. Anyone around her knew better to ask or dealt with the agent’s stone cold glare that could rival Adams.

Like a blur, time sped up whilst Devon concentrated with the decorations. Volunteers, co workers, guests flew around and past her in all directions - but her focus remained on the tree. No time for pointless greetings or goodbyes, she had a system and it would be followed.

The moment she was unable to find the star topper, Devon decided it was a decent time for a break. That and her stomach betrayed her. She headed for the vending machine, typed out the number, tapped her card and waited for her chips.

And waited.

… Still waited.

Devon inched closer with anticipation whilst the bag started to tilt forward and … nothing. It just remained still, mocked her from behind the glass. She kicked at the machine, once or perhaps multiple times, but the chips still refused to budge. How was it that she could shove over an old powerful supernatural, but it was a single bag of chips that held its own against her? At least most people had already left for the day to not see a grown woman’s beef with a mechanical box.

“Oh angel, take it easy on the machine. You are going to leave a dent.”

Devon groaned and the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened up at that dreadful name. Not even needed to glance away from her new inanimate enemy, she already knew exactly who arrived. She let out another low grunt as she gave the machine one last hard kick, yet the chips remained attached on the rack.

“Need some assistance there, before you break company property - oh! I meant your ex - company’s property.” Devon made the fatal mistake and shifted her gaze to glance up at the taller man with his smug grin that pierced a burnt feeling in her chest. Bobby Marks leaned against the vending machine with a journalist pass displayed around his neck.

“Ah great. Just when my headache was thought to have gone” She rolled her eyes and spoke in a neutral tone, “the detective is not present, you have no business here.” “Who said I was here for business and not pleasure?” He winked and Devon just barely managed to hold in another groan. He already used that line once before in the past.

She was tired, she had a very brief moment of weakness and it was late - way too late. Devon was usually quite pragmatic, but in that moment, her mind betrayed her when she held the door open for him. Without a second to process, she felt a rough wet collision between their lips. An overwhelming scent of his cologne scraped against her nose. The kiss itself is as she expected. A fight for control. Urgency or desperation? Doesn’t matter. It was over as quick as it had started. After the sounds of betrayal, almost used once again for nothing more than a scoop - she will not allow herself to fall for that same mistake again.

“But really what a surprise to find you here after your sudden promotion, must be a christmas miracle - “ “It’s the fourth of December.”

Bobby continued as though she never interrupted, “and here I worried that agency of yours had kept you locked up and you’d tragically never see my handsome face again.” Devon noted the venom laced on his tongue at the slight mention of the agency. She managed to array Bobby’s suspicions of her new workplace and unordinary colleagues for the past couple of months, but how long will that secret last? Knowing Bobby for as long as she does, he won’t stop till he figured out the truth.

Devon rolled her eyes again at his comment, but stopped at the sound of a bag drop. Her eyes darted towards the row ‘035’ and that very same chip bag had indeed fallen onto the tray. When her gaze moved towards the control panel, her surprise quickly shifted to a glare towards her conversation partner who was in the process of putting away his card.

“I did not need your help.” Bobby scoffed lightly, “Bold of you to assume these were for you.” He reached down faster enough to beat her for the winning prize. He opened her bag. He took out her chips. With the usual smirk drawn on his face, crunched down on each chip. One by one. However, it did not last as that nauseating smirk faded into a knowing grimace.

Bobby let out a loud cough and tossed the bag onto an empty desk, “Kale? Who on earth would choose to eat kale flavoured chips?” Devon scoffs with a small quirk of a smile “it’s called being healthy, why don’t you try it some time?” Bobby rubbed a hand on the corners of his mouth, “it’s called being pretentious, Kang.”

“Takes one to know one, Marks.”

Bobby took a few steps closer towards Devon, leaned down to match her height “we always had much in common, hadn’t we? Shame truly we don’t spend nearly enough time together anymore to explore - “

Devon was about to snap back at him, if it wasn’t for her surprise wrapped up in all colours of the rainbow.

“Dev!! Honey! I saw your car outside, are you in here?”

Farah’s booming voice echoed through the office, a pleasant chime to the ears. She had a peppy spring to her steps, with her poofy skirt bouncing along with her and colourful rainbow stockings proudly on display. She swung around a small woven tote bag, whilst she skipped with a beaming smile towards Devon.

“You would not believe what I managed to score, and for free as well!” Farah’s excitement could radiate an entire room with how much twinkle would shine from her amber eyes.

Bobby let out a loud cough and Farah’s bounce halted and finally realised his existence in the scene. He was not amused, “We were having a conversation here.” Farah threw him a disinterested gaze up and down with a shrug “emphasis on ‘were’. You are no longer needed - not when the real gift has arrived!” She gives a small twirl of the skirt and sent a wink at Devon. Devon snorted at the man’s insulted face. She hesitated at first but reached over for Farah’s hand and gave it a small squeeze.

Bobby glanced between both women then at their joined hands, gave a slight roll of the eyes before he plastered a tight smile. “Oh! It seems I am getting a call,” He whipped out his phone and very obviously typed out a number. He kept his gaze locked onto Devon as he spoke, “Hello there Harriet, did you miss me?” Devon just scoffed at his antics.

Farah stuck her tongue out at the man when he headed out of the station, then shook her head and sighed, “What a total weirdo. Good thing you totally upgraded from that, right honey?” She glanced towards her with an anxious smile. Farah has always been rather open, going through life, her heart on her sleeve, even a hint of insecurity can easily slip past that smiley façade. However, without the necessity of words, Devon lifted their joined hands to press a faint kiss on her knuckles and those once anxious thoughts simply faded away.

Farah’s cheeks darkened and sputtered out a soft laugh “oh gosh - wow. Gotta say babes, I'm never truly tired of finding these surprises of yours hidden within.” Devon showed a small inch of a smile and Farah’s grin widened, then blinked for a second “Wait, what was I going to say again?” Devon glanced at the tote bag and raised a single brow, Farah clapped her hands “Oh right! Check it.” She opened the bag and revealed a small box of freshly baked mince pies. “Some old human was selling a bunch on the street and she ended up giving me a box with no charge! Must have been hypnotised by my adorable face, haha!” Devon purses her lips in slight confusion, “firstly I am not going to argue about ‘adorableness’ of your face as that’s obviously true to a fact,” Farah blew her a kiss. “But you are a vampire, aren’t you not? You don’t need to eat actual foods.” Farah flapped her hand, “Need? No. But I heard these small pie things are a big deal this time of the year, so I was curious what all the hype was about.” Farah shuffled near, their hands still joined, the sudden closeness caused a warmth to bloom on Devon’s cheeks. “And I thought you might appreciate the snack.”

Devon hadn’t told anyone she was heading to the station. Hadn’t told anyone if she was eating out or staying in. But despite not knowing if they were going to meet, Farah still thought of her. She used her free hand to gently cup her girlfriend’s cheek. Examined her for any possible ulterior motives, tricks or tomfoolery - but what she deduced was nothing but the earnest truth, as she has always been.

“You are forever on my mind, honey. I hope you know that. If not, I do not mind getting to remind you every second of every day.” Left speechless, Devon responded with a slow nod. She leaned up slightly for a gentle kiss with a short breath of relief that escaped her lips. Farah’s leg propped up with her arms around Devon’s waist, kept her close and near. A picturesque portrait with the newly decorated tree behind the blossoming couple and seemingly Devon finally found the star.

All she wishes for this Christmas season is not to lose her shooting star anytime soon.

The End.

#the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensecretsanta #farah hauville #farah x detective #twc fic #twc edit #my writings #my edits #my fav thing is when people have a designated tag for their oc #so much fun just looking through to find little details #aka the kale chips haha #anyways i had such a blast writing Devon!!#love me a grumpy intimidating woman with a soft spot

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wayhavensecretsanta · 3 months

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Overview

It has been a while since the event, but it seemed like a nice idea to still make an overview of all the gifts. I hope that going through them will bring you as much joy as it did me ^^

Thank you to all the wonderful participants, your work has been amazing to see and read! Thank you for putting in the time and effort to make a lovely gift, and for your kindness towards each other <3

A special thank you to @wifebeast-s for jumping in as a back-up writer, even though not taking part otherwise. It was much appreciated!

I'm wishing you all a wonderful year ahead and maybe see you again at the end of it. Much love <3

Arcadia by @ejunkiet & @evilbunnyking for @crownleys

what power art thou by @evilbunnyking for @fujinstorm

All is Bright by @wifebeast-s for @hypnostanatos

Beneath the Surface by @delucadarling for @lovelyfoolish

For lonely people, rain is a chance to be touched by @hypnostanatos for @callmebeem

Into the Unknown by @sunshineandviolets for @yakov-vasilyev

tremendous tasks, dear friends by @agentnatesewell for @delucadarling

Wintery scenes with Petra and Ava, and Nate and Holland by @crownleys for @thee-morrigan

Mason and Samir relaxing together by @callmebeem for @mewsly

The art of losing by @sustainably-du-mortain for @nsewell

the unspoken dialogue of borrowed books by @nsewell for @dottiechan

Theo and Mason close together by @mewsly for @apenapaperandadoofus

A New Year’s Eve Surprise by @apenapaperandadoofus for @agentnatesewell

Trust between Lucibello and Morgan, and Suzume and Nate by @fujinstorm for @bitchyybabyy400

in any universe by @thee-morrigan for @evilbunnyking

An intimate moment between Lizzie and Ava by @dottiechan for @ejunkiet

dans mes yeux ça se voit by @lovelyfoolish for @sunshineandviolets

Madeleine and Morgan decorating together by @yakov-vasilyev for @sustainably-du-mortain

#gifts #wayhavensecretsanta #the wayhaven chronicles

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lovelyfoolish · 5 months

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dans mes yeux ça se voit

nat x f!detective (shivani gupta) / 1.4K / M

⇢ summary: natalie sewell fears nothing.

⇢ notes: happy holidays, @sunshineandviolets! i'm your match for @wayhavensecretsanta ♡ all of your detectives are beautifully constructed and would be a pleasure to write about, but i knew i wanted to write about shivani after i read about her love of bugs (adding to my insects and wayhaven canon? you love to see it) and desire for a fairytale romance. (and as a part-time woman in stem, i couldn't resist sneaking in some of my own interests with all the bug facts.)

i hope it's very cozy where you are and that you have a lovely holiday season and get to go on a nature walk with a pretty girl someday soon ♡

🐞 ‎

set the mood

🦋 ‎

In her memories, the sea glitters like a diamond, waves that wear white foam shrouds catching the light as they dance, rolling towards an unseen shore. She could never see the bottom. She never wanted to.

For a moment, Nat tastes salt instead of the heady, smokey flavour of the Lapsang Souchong she drinks while Shivani eats her breakfast in the back of her throat.

Then, iron.

If she still thinks of the sea as a precious gem, even after all this time, even though she knows what it can do, then the lake that stretches out before them, placid and unmoving, so still it’s unnerving, must be glass, crawling towards the horizon. The treeline frames its edges, the mountains cast shadows over it, it reflects the grey of the winter morning sky like a mirror —

In this light, the lake is a gleaming pearl at the centre of an oyster dulled by the dark of the ocean.

They’ve come here before. A few times. She can map it in her mind. In a few minutes, they’ll pass a makeshift dock that Shivani once told her was crowded with reckless swimmers in the summer. There’s a fallen pine to the north, half-submerged and rising from the water like the rib of something ancient, right at the shore’s edge. Ribbons of smoke curl from the chimneys of the houses in the distance, mist rising off the surface of the water. It’s quiet, the only sound their footsteps on the path, and she is restless in a way that feels both unfamiliar and innate, swallowing down a feeling she has no name for.

Not — déjà vu, exactly. Not melancholy. Something else. Something implacable, that feels like something trembling inside her chest, straining against her skin, what a chrysalis on the verge of metamorphosis must feel like.

As she walks, her long strides shortened to match her girlfriend’s, Nat’s fingers brush against Shivani’s. They touch only momentarily, but it makes her stand straighter, exhaling softly. How many times did Shivani do this alone before she met her? How many times had she walked alone by the edge of the water before she met Shivani?

“Nat.”

She turns towards the sound of her name, finding Shivani staring up at her, the sky reflected in her expression, the gold ring in her nose glinting. It makes Nat smile reflexively, her lips unfurling like a bow being untied as she reaches for her hand. Her fingers wrap around her wrist, a bracelet of adoration, before she hooks their smallest fingers together as though making a promise, stroking her palm with her thumb. She wants to touch her more, in a way that is rapidly becoming more impractical the further they get down the path, deeper into the trees.

Shivani’s skin, with its down of dark hair, is soft as velvet — it is treacherous to liken her human (so human, entirely human, much too human — and yet, she has chosen her) girlfriend to something inhuman, but with her dark eyes opened wide and that constant, unchanging air of caution, she thinks first of a doe.

“Yes,” Nat says in answer, head tilted, fixated on her girlfriend, that smile she only smiles for Shivani on her lips again.

“It’s a widow skimmer,” she says, the pitch of her voice betraying her excitement, and Nat follows the point of her gaze — a dragonfly is flitting down by the water, so fast she would have missed it if Shivani hadn’t spoken. “Libellula luctuosa. Male. You can tell by the white band on its midwings and its blue body. Can you see it? If it was a female it would have yellow stripes on its body instead of blue, and there wouldn’t be any white patches between its nodus and stigma, only black or brown.”

“It’s beautiful,” Nat says, “Should we get closer?”

Shivani shakes her head, laughing softly. “Nat, it’s hunting.”

She arches her brow, and Shivani’s eyes light up.

“Dragonflies are one of the most dangerous predators on Earth,” she continues, leaning closer to Nat as she watches the insect, side of her head against Nat’s bicep, making her heart flutter, not unlike the beat of the widow skimmer’s wings. Nat is flushing. She can feel her cheeks getting warmer. “If you’re their prey. They can catch other insects in midair and not have to land before consuming them. They feed while they fly. There’s been research that suggests they’re almost like humans — they can focus their attention like humans can, and that allows them to stalk their prey more accurately. Their efficiency is almost unparalleled. They’re remarkable.”

Prey. Such a simple, uninteresting word, over in a syllable, but she finds it repulsive nonetheless, spitting it out in her summations and reports.

“It was funny, really, there were reports of places where frogs were experiencing extreme rates of missing or extra limbs, and there was no environmental factor that they could pinpoint, like improper chemical disposal. It turned out that dragonflies were preying on the frogs as tadpoles. Their bodies would sometimes grow an extra limb in response to losing one before they were grown. And then as frogs, they would get their vengeance by preying on the dragonflies. It’s cyclical.”

Vampires prey on humans.

Someone is holding her hand tightly, squeezing it gently. They’ve stopped walking.

“You know — I read something about dragonflies recently that made me think of you, Nat.”

When they met, it was Shivani’s voice she noticed first. (— Her eyes second. Her lips third.) It’s clear and with an elegant lilt to it, her tone higher when she speaks Gujarati, a voice that made Nat want to listen to her talking about anything, in any language. She finds herself listening to her as though her voice was music, able to hear her even from a distance, as though it was a rope thrown to her. When she hears her name, she knows. Shivani is reaching out for her. They’re close enough that Nat could stoop to kiss her, or sweep her off her feet and carry her home, or —

“A few years ago, researchers discovered that bacteria are not able to survive on a dragonfly’s wings. They’re what’s called “bactericidal”,” Shivani says, “Those wings — they look so delicate, but they might be the key to preventing infection and saving millions and millions of lives. It’s so simple, really. On their wings, there are these structures called nanopillars. They’re like — little spikes. They have different sizes and lengths, and they trap and tear apart bacteria on a microscopic level. It’s as though the bacteria land on a knife point. They can’t survive that. So you’ll never find a dragonfly with a wing infection.”

Nat reminds herself to focus, gaze finding the dragonfly again, lulled by Shivani’s voice. Another has joined it, skimming the water. A blue body, white bands on its wings — another male.

“And they’re trying to use that research to create nanopillar bandages. To prevent infections from open wounds. And — I thought you might find that interesting. That they’re dangerous hunters. But someday, in the future, they might be the reason why we have technology that can save someone like me. Or Verda. Or one of my students.”

When their eyes meet, Nat wants to collapse, overwhelmed by affection for her girlfriend.

She doesn’t have to say it explicitly. She knows exactly what Shivani is telling her, and her heart is aching as she lets go of her hand and reaches out to stroke her face, holding her round cheeks between her palms, desperate to kiss her.

“You’re right,” she murmurs, “I do find that interesting.”

“Nat,” Shivani says, “You know you can tell me when something is wrong, right? Whenever you want. I’ll listen. I want to help you. You’re my girlfriend. I want you to be happy.”

“Don’t worry,” Nat says, lowering her head, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as Shivani rises on her toes, their lips finally meeting. The kiss is sweet — the taste of honey lingers in the corners of Shivani’s mouth — and smokey, the Lapsang Souchong she drinks on her girlfriend’s lips now. “I’m happy. I want to know everything you know. Will you teach me more about the insects here?”

“Well,” Shivani says, suddenly not meeting her eyes, “There is one other thing I know about widow skimmers.”

“Go on, darling,” Nat says, already amused, immediately certain of where the change in her attitude is leading.

“Widow skimmers — when they — when they mate — they form —” her voice is getting quieter. If Nat touched her face again, she knows her girlfriend’s cheeks would be blazing hot, “When they mate they form a heart.”

Nat gasps softly, first, and then she laughs.

🪲 ‎

the opening line is courtesy of my aunt, who refers to the time of afternoon where the sun is low enough that the ocean starts to sparkle as "the diamond hour"! (the lake being a pearl is via my brain, though. i am delighted there is oyster art on my dash as i type this, i am taking it as a sign.)

a male widow skimmer by photographer greg lasley! i don't know where your wayhaven is, and they're native to north america, but it was so beautiful and distinct i couldn't resist choosing it for shivani to spot. (in my mind the two males nat spots at the end are lovers. parallels!)

information on the relationship between dragonflies and frogs is from this journal article and this blog post, and information about dragonflies' hunting is from this nyt article.

what shivani says about dragonfly wings being antimicrobial is true! here's an article about their nanopillar structure.

subscribe for more dragonfly facts with cami and shivani :-)

#i accidentally published the draft on december 15th lol #i hope you did not get notified about it #especially bc it was my formatting copy and the actual fic was still in google drive lmao #this came out a little angstier than i intended so i hope you still like it :) the intention was shivani comforting nat!#as a person with anxiety sometimes i wish i could be the one comforting the ones comforting me #you know?#also i wanted to share bug facts :)#one day i'll let go of n sewell and diamonds as a motif #but today is not that day #can u believe i forgot the tags #wayhavensecretsanta #twc #nat sewell

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fujinstorm · 5 months

Text

⚠️: Very light mention of death.

Us. [Q. Lucibello x Morgan]

The restaurant is full of life, patrons laughing and the sound of clicking dinnerware travell around the atmosphere, a shy twilight dancing with the first stars of the evening.

The detective wanted to ease the tension after almost not making it again. But that's not the only thing troubling their mind. A vampire who now took a piece of their heart is now claiming their thoughts.

On the quaint terrace, under the dim light of the lamps, Morgan, leaning in the doorway, lits a cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating her enigmatic expression.

"Hey, Lucibello", she says, the smoke curling around her almost whispering voice as she feels the obvious tension emanating from the detective crushing her nerves.

Lucibello turn, a melancholic smile tracing their lips. "Hey", they reply deflating a little.

Morgan finally steps outside, the faint flicker of the night dancing across her eyes as she approach the person who ignites a flame that she can't escape. Standing beside the detective, she looks at them, a coy concerned expression across the vampire's face.

"You okay?" she asks, a surprising soft tone that feels like a melody of inaudible thoughts.

Lucibello manage to chuckle nervously and nod, averting their eyes to the sky, as if the stars could ease their aching emotions. But Morgan can't be fooled, no one could be as the supernatural powers aren't needed to see that something is wrong.

"That's not convincing," Morgan presses, discarding the cigarette and stepping closer to the detective, the charged silence being a challenging task.

"I suppose not," Lucibello admit, their unsaid feelings making their shoulders drop. "I'm scared," they utter, the voice almost lost in the cool evening air.

A solemn silent takes place, a moment where Morgan finds the courage to let herself free of insecurities.

"I was too," Morgan confesses, her words carrying the weight of unspoken feelings.

An incredulous look cross Lucibello's features.

"What made you change your mind?" Lucibello ask, a whispered plea to understand what could be the reason of such feat.

Morgan pauses, sighs and then, she laughs—a sound like a honeyed harmony in the cool breeze of the bashful moonlight. "It was you, Lucibello," she declares, her eyes full of confidence, a sentiment she conveys with a deep breath. "I've realized that sometimes, being scared is just a sign that what we have is worth fighting for."

Those words seem to strike a bolt of amazed disbelief to Lucibello, their eyes widening in incredulity.

"What?" they gasp, astonishment wrapping around their voice, feeling their heart in a frenzied beat.

The question hangs in the air, as if the time just stopped, echoing through the now silent night, and leaving a path of sentiments entwined in silence. Lucibello's breath catch in their throat, unable to comprehend the depth of Morgan's confession.

The vampire takes a deep breath and meets their eyes, a resolve etched in her face. "I'm going to be fast, so listen carefully."

Lucibello's eyes widen, their expression a vast wave of emotion as large as the universe

"Wait, Morgan—"

"Just—Let me finish." Morgan interjects. "Don't make me say it twice," she teases, but with an edge of seriousness. “I protect people. It’s what I do. But you made everything different. Protecting you wasn't enough. You were on my dreams, my thoughts and when I almost lost you... I realized that is not about just saving you, it's about saving us.

"And what are you saying?" Lucibello ask with a trembling voice.

"I'm just saying—All that fear, all that pain you're holding onto? You don't have to carry it alone. Not anymore. Healing is a terrifying hell of a journey, but that's why we are not leaving you. We are here—I'm here. Not just as a memory, but as your present and all the tomorrows we have left."

As the words hangs in the air, Lucibello steps to Morgan's arms, each holding the other as if to say, here, is where I belong. Laughter bubbles from Morgan, a pleasant symphony that fills the night, and as director, a sonet of two hearts finding their rhythm in a world that sometimes forgets how to dance.

They stay there, tasting the cloying embrace for what if feels like an eternity. After stepping back with a smile plastered in both of their faces, and now, with hearts intertwined, and whispers of a promising future filling the air, they walk back inside, where their friends meet them with cheerful laughter and warm smiles.

••••

Trust. [Suzume Jiang x Nate Sewell]

Finally, a day to renovate the soul after all the tumultuous week. She is thankful that the guys could help her feel better, but the exhausting missions drained her energy.

The feeling of not having to face any other heartbreaking new, at least for this day, almost feels like it's not real. The weight of lost smiles and emotional wounds carried by her shoulders, make her tear a bit, but the gasp from the vampire brings her back from her aching thoughts.

"Oh my goodness!" Nate blurts amazed, the fragrance of oils and turpentines dancing with the intimate energy of shared secrets and silent understandings.

"Take a seat." Suzume says, the reaction sending a wave of confidence to her.

The pair sit in their respective seats, the melody of the morning avians greeting the sunrise. The room is full of paint buckets and brushes with stains of recent life, echoes of the scent of chaotic creativity curling around every nerve of the vampire.

At the center of the room, a little platform faced by an easel, a stunning landscape enriching the surface of the canvas.

"This is beautiful, Suzume," Nate says almost whispering, admiring the beautiful artwork, his breath beholding the reverence at the art before him, his hands carefully withdrawn, not daring to touch the fabric as if the pristine work could disappear. "But where are we?"

"This is where I come when I'm stressed," Suzume utters, her hand caressing the easel, a gently touch with unspoken emotions, and affection clearly wrapping around her fingers. "But it's been a long time..."

The confession hangs in the air, dancing with the scented trails of oil paints that lingered like the most tender perfume.

The vampire scans the walls with curiosity, frames of the mind of the detective, landscapes of her emotions and stunning portraits, covering each corner of the area. "I'm grateful for the trust you've placed in my hands, and for revealing to me your safe space." Nate confesses, his eyes meeting the detective's with a warm smile, a honeyed scent of fresh paint roaming the air.

Suzume chuckles and sighs, a strand of her hair falling to her face. "I want you to know me as I am," she says, a bolt of emotions sending a pleasant warmth through her chest. "This is my sanctuary."

"Your trust is my sanctuary," the vampire speaks, a swirl of emotions dancing in the depths of his gaze. "I would love to paint something with you—not just an artwork, but a masterpiece that expresses our moments shared together."

A pleasant silence settles, the faint strains of the radio from the shop next to the workshop waving at the quietness with some pop-rock tunes.

"Let me paint you." Suzume finally says, a blush spreading through her cheeks, the voice almost lost in the beat of the distant music.

Nate smirks, and approachs the platform, his eyes darkening with desire, a sentiment conveyed by a teasing smile. "That's the path you want to take?" he asks with mischief in his tone.

The detective laughs, her face almost resembling the redness of a tomato. "It's not that type of painting!"

"I don't have to take my clothes off?" he inquires a bit disappointed.

Suzume advances, her hands holding a brush like a sword hidden in her back. When she's finally close enough that she has to stretch her neck, and he's almost on top of her, she paints his face, marking it with color, a declaration of playful war. "Just stay still."

Nate bursts in laughter and nods, ready for this paint war that she just declared. "My new mission is to drench you in yellow and blue."

"What? Wait—" the detective tries to interjects, but laughter bubbles from her, echoing around the room, filling the space with whispers of happiness.

With the speed of the light, Nate takes two brushes, his lips tracing a lively smile, and takes a mocking fighting stance. "You're on!"

And so in the refuge of the soul, they painted, not just on canvas, but in the vast universe, covering the image with colors of trust, laughter and future promises.

••••

At first I just wrote about Lucibello, but I saw Suzume doesn't have any content, so even if it's not much, I wrote a tiny one shot where your detective Suzume likes to paint to destress. Hope you like it and happy new year!!!

@bitchyybabyy400

@wayhavensecretsanta

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #agent m #wayhavensecretsanta #twc detective

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