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banashee · 3 years

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i"I have way too many stories already planned" I said. “I can’t write in multiple fandoms at once, it will throw me off” I said. “OK so I’ll just get this out of my system real quick” I said. “Well shit, I’ve gotten more ideas now that I’ve started…” I said, determinded to face it - I have a problem. Just a small one… Who am I kidding. Send help.

Also, this is the first time I’ve written for this fandom. I’ve loved and enjoyed TMA for a while now, not just the pod but also fanworks. And now I’m joining in on the fun and you folks will have to deal with it :D ♥

This story got inspired by a conversation on Reddit with Swiftysmoon. Thank you very much for the inspo! This one is for you :)

edit. sorry about the missing ReadMore cut, Tumblr is programmed like a pile of garbage and removed it after I edited a typo...I’ve added it back in now.

please mind the tags and warnings

Into the Void

Truth be told, Jon never planned on this to happen. Of course not - it is ridiculous and more than a little embarrassing, but he can’t help himself.

See, the thing is, Jon is a restless, anxious person in general. He’ll hide away in his office for hours, typing away or recording statements in solitude, only interrupted when someone actually wants something from him. That, or when Martin brings him yet another cup of tea, checking if he’s still alive or starved to death on his desk.

No kidding - Martin had told him this, once, and although he’d been half-joking at the time, the underlying message had been very clear.

‘Please take care of yourself, you worry me.’ - it had been oddly sweet, and Jon still has no idea how to even react to this kindness.

But the thing is - Jon has nervous habits. While his mind is wandering and he is buried neck-deep in his work, he tends to fiddle. Mostly with pens, or anything else he can reach on his desk. That would be fine - no one notices it, unless they stand right next to him. But Jon had almost choked on the pen he’d been chewing on, lost in thoughts while reading his notes, omn more than one occasion. Mostly thanks to Tim bursting into the room like the whirlwind he is.

For one, Tim Stoker just doesn’t knock. Ever. He enters a room as loud and cheerful as he does anything else, and it can be a bit unnerving. Still, he somehow manages to be a professional and be really good at his job. That and the fact that there is ‘Chaos’ written all over him makes for an odd combination sometimes, but they’re all somewhat used to this.

So, when Tim suddenly sticks his head into the room with a cheerfully casual

“Hey, Boss!”

Jon startles and nearly stabs himself in the throat with a pen while he scrambles to make it look like he didn’t chew on it the entire time. He needs to preserve some sort of professionalism around here, even though he feels a little bit lost sometimes.

He glares halfheartedly, trying to keep whatever is left of his composure in place. Tim shoots him a bright smile with finger guns, then he rattles off the information that Jon had asked him for not long ago.

Thankful that he doesn’t have to explain himself, Jon launches onto it.

As time goes on, things around the institute get more and more weird. One thing adds to the other, and suddenly, they’re at war against worms all over the place. They spend their days at the institute armed with fire extinguishers and in Martin’s case, a corkscrew. Martin even lives there now, which adds a whole different level to it all.

Really, it is not surprising that they rarely ever get any outside visitors down in the archives. They have a bit of a reputation for being weird, and truth be told, Jon can’t find any fault in the people who assume that. If he wasn’t involved - if he didn’t know what lurks out there, in the shadows, he’d have thought the same.

Pushing his own dismissive, sceptic act is getting harder and harder these days, but it doesn’t stop Jon from trying.

Even after Jane Prentiss’ attack, Jon tries to keep up that act. It’s clearly faltering now, though, which may or may not be partially due to the fact that he confessed to Martin that yes, he does believe and he is terrified. It’s been an awkward conversation, to say the least, and not just because Jon pretty much asked if Martin was a ghost and despite Martin stabbing him with the corkscrew. To be fair, he’d apologized profusely for that, and while Jon is not happy about it, he is thankful for his attempt to get the damn worms out of him. Just thinking about it still makes him shudder, makes him lay awake at night.

On the plus side, their team in the archives has grown much closer to one another - it eases the anxiety and paranoia, just a bit.

Jon finds himself busy, not to say, utterly distracted. Time flies, and he takes even less care of himself than he did before. He practically lives off tea, and whatever food is offered where Martin, Tim and Sasha drag him along to.

Jon acts prickly and annoyed as always, but in reality, he appreciates their efforts. Lord knows, he isn’t sure he deserves this kindness, but he still makes an effort. These three people are all he’s got, after all. They’re the only group of allies who have any sort of idea what is really going on in the archives, and that alone is enough to have him lower his walls just a bit.

One day, Jon keeps blowing an annoying, grey-streaked strand of his otherwise dark hair out of his face. He didn’t have the time or energy to get a haircut lately - there are much more pressing matters to take care of. But his hair is currently at the awkward in-between length that he hated years ago, when he decided to grow it out. He’d kept it long, up until shortly before his promotion to head archivist. Only then he parted with the shoulder length ponytail in an attempt to be perceived as more professional.

It doesn’t feel right - never did. And as much as he hates the annoying strands falling in his face, it makes him feel like he is back on the way to himself. Or at least as much as he can these days.

Especially in the face of, well, everything else, it is a small comfort. Right now though, Jon is annoyed - he takes a pen from his desk, and sticks it behind his ear to hold back the constantly falling piece of hair - it works.

Jon only notices the pen again when he is about to go to bed that night - he huffs, places it onto the small desk in his bedroom and then crawls under the covers. Once he is in bed, Jon is waiting for the insomnia and the nightmares to keep him awake, despite his best attempts to fall asleep.

He is long used to both, but the last few months have been significantly more stressful.

The next day, Jon is exhausted. He barely makes it into the kitchen for some coffee, then he drives to the institute, the pen forgotten back home. Oh well - he’ll bring it back in another day - no big deal.

Except, it becomes a Thing, with a capital T.

Jon is chewing on and fumbling with his pens as usual, recording statement after statement and doesn’t exactly realize what he is doing. He hides away, until one of the others drags him away from the desk for inconvenient human needs like food and company, but really, he goes willingly now. All he needs is a small reminder.

The bit of human warmth and company means a lot to Jon, and he soaks it up as much as he allows himself to. Trusting people is a struggle for him. His relationship with each and every coworker is definitely a work in progress, but he is willing to try, anyway.

One night, Martin points to the side of Jon’s neck in quiet amusement.

“Oh, you’ve got ink on you - yes, right there.” he touches the spot behind his own ear. Jon blinks, and when he tries to wipe it away, his hand comes away with yet another goddamn pen.

It joins a small pile of accidentally stolen pens on Jon’s desk back home - he’s been meaning to bring them back ages ago, but he keeps forgetting. At this point, he refuses to drop them all off at once, because that would definitely catch someone’s attention - and attention is the last thing he wants right now. Add in the fact that this is, well, ridiculous and embarrassing… No. Just no.

Jon looks around the room, heat creeping up his face even though there is no one around to look at and judge him - then he opens an empty drawer in his desk. The pens disappear with one swift movement of his arm before Jon slams the drawer shut. There - done.

And this is how, what Jon secretly calls his “Desk Drawer of Shame”, comes into existence.

Occasionally, a small handful of pens will make its way back into the archives. But at this point, they’re way, way too many to bring back at once, at least not without pissing off Elias. That is, if he isn’t chuckling at the ridiculous and mysteriously high cost of office supplies in the last few months.

At the very least, Jon would be at the receiving end of some good natured ribbing from his coworkers in the foreseeable future.

Jon is reading the last few lines of a statement, when the door to his office opens up after a quick knock. He looks up with a frown, which is more habit than anything at this point, and quickly drops his feet back on the ground. At least, he isn’t chewing on a pen this time.

Standing in the doorway, shooting him a small smile, is Martin and he is waiting for Jon to finish recording the last few lines. Only when the familiar

“Statement ends.” marks the end of the recording session, he starts talking.

“Hi! Uh, did you have lunch yet?”

Jon didn’t, and Martin knows it, but he is trying to go the polite route before his motherhen-mode is activated and he physically drags the man away from the desk in an attempt to make him take a break.

So, Jon smiles back, which still feels a bit foreign in a work context, but he secretly enjoys the spark of happiness on Martin’s face when he does. Not like he focuses on that or anything…

“No, I- I didn’t. Did you have something in mind?” he asks as he gets up and pulls his jacket from the back of his chair. It’s a welcome distraction from his work.

Jon didn’t sleep, again, and he can tell that he is getting sloppy and way more irritable than usual. Chances are, getting a bite to eat and spending some time out of the institute with a friend will do him some good.

On the way out, Jon falls comfortably into step with Martin. Plenty of thoughts cross his mind, and he chooses to ignore all of them. In fact, he’d been so busy staring up at a cluster of freckles on Martin’s cheek that he doesn’t even notice what he tells him about the little café that he was planning to visit. Only when he stops talking, obviously waiting for an answer, Jon nods, hoping that Martin actually asked him a yes-or-no question.

For now, it seems to be enough, and they enjoy their lunch break. Jon is still lost in thoughts though.

That night, he is unable to sleep once again, as his mind keeps him wide awake and Jon is shaking apart under the blanket. There are two new pens on his desk, and it feels like they’re glaring at him. It’s ridiculous - they really are the least of his worries. Jon is just distracted, that’s all.

There is ink on his neck. Again. Jon swipes at it in mild annoyance, inwardly cursing himself for being so careless. His movement catches Tim’s attention, and then his eyes wander to the pen that is stuck halfway to Jon’s ponytail - it’s for convenience, really - but it’s clearly the cause for the ink scribbles on his skin.

Tim puts the pieces together and grins. He is way too easily amused about this, but to be fair, they get their laughs whenever they can these days. And this is still much better than the silent, angry version of Tim that tends to come out more and more and the last few months. At least, when he’s laughing, he isn’t that.

Small favors.

The more distracted Jon grows, and the longer his hair gets, the more pens he keeps losing - or more like, forgetting - in it.

He doesn’t realize that he is doing it, really, until someone - mostly Martin or Tim these days, because Sasha is (gone) (different ) absent - walks up and plucks one of the pens right out of his hair in order to use it. Jon should be annoyed, but he can’t bring himself to be. It’s oddly comforting that the two of them are still willing to seek him out. Because that’s what this is - there are plenty of pens around, of course.

There is no need to come into his office, to come close to him just to get office supplies. They’re here because they want to, and that honestly means the world to Jon.

As much as he’d tried to keep them at arm’s length, he’s failed miserably. Thankfully so - things would be much, much worse if they had to deal with everything on their own.

“Hang on - how many bloody pens are in there?” Martin asks one day, calling over from the other room. He looks up in utter confusion while already cracking up with laughter.

“Wait, are those-?”

Oh goddammit.

Apparently, that’s what happens when Jon answers absentmindedly when asked for the location of a pen in his apartment.

He needs to renovate his kitchen, because the landlord just won’t do it in any reasonable amount of time, so Jon is in old jeans and an even older T-shirt, packing dishes and kitchenware into boxes with Martin and Tim. The two of them had been kind enough to offer help, so that’s why they’re all piled in Jon’s small apartment on a Saturday morning.

Partway through, they realize that they should probably label the boxes, and soon after, Martin stands in the bedroom, opening not the stationary drawer, but The Secret Drawer of Shame With Accidentally Stolen Pens From The Institute.

“Oh, good lord.” With an audible ‘thump’, Jons forehead collides with the kitchen table. His glasses sit crooked now, and he doesn’t lift his head up while he tries to explain, and despite being flustered, he manages to keep that certain tone of voice that’s usually reserved for work hours.

“I, yes. I may have accidentally taken a pen or two with me and only realized it here. Coming back into work with all of them at once seemed… well. Not ideal at the time.”

“No wonder when you keep storing them in your hair.” Martin comes back, with a handful of pens and a bright smile.

While walking past, he pulls another pen out of Jon’s bun, just to prove his point. A long strand of hair slips forward and falls back into Jon’s face. Meanwhile, Tim has snuck off to peek into the other room out of pure curiosity, then he proceeds to laugh his arse off for the next few minutes.

“You know, we should make it a sport at this point. How much stationary supplies can we steal until Elias catches wind of it?” Tim offers, because of course he does.

It is ridiculous and childish, so naturally, it quickly becomes A Thing.

Anything to get a tiny bit of satisfaction is a valid option at this point, and besides, it’s not like Jon is trying to be sneaky or anything. It just happens , like so many things these days.

As it turns out, Elias doesn’t care. None of them is stupid enough to assume he doesn’t know - the bastard knows everything, that’s part of their problem. He just never calls any of them out on it - if it is because it’s too unimportant or if he is getting a chuckle out of it as well, they never find out.

At some point, late at night when all three of them had a few drinks, they’re brave enough to joke about what fear entity would be responsible for a never ending void filled with pens (“A.K.A you desk drawer of shame, Jon. Have another drink, you’re annoyingly sober for this conversation.”)

It’s a half-serious debate, and one which they continue every once in a while. Most notably so at the institute’s christmas party, huddled in a corner where they’re mostly being left alone. And if that is mostly due to Jon glaring holes through anyone daring to come close, just a hair away from actually hissing and snarling, well. He didn’t get his reputation of being rude and prickly for nothing.

All of this turns into fond memories, once everything has gone to hell.

Jon is freshly awake from six months of coma, and the world around him has changed. Martin is barely around and Tim is dead . So is Sasha, even though they never knew, for the longest time.

All of this hurts badly enough to stop him from breathing every once in a while, and after a series of even more tangled and unfortunate events, Jon finds himself huddled close to Martin on a train.

They’re on their way to Scotland and neither of them talks much, but they’re unwilling to let go of the other’s hand. The air is chilly, even inside the wagon, and Martin is still shivering under layers of jumpers and jackets.

The Lonely has settled deep into his bones, and sometimes, it’s like he is fading away again. Every time this happens, the steady warmth of Jon keeps pulling him back.

Jons hand is smaller and bonier in Martin’s own large, soft hand, but it’s grip is steady and warm. His thumb keeps stroking gently over the back of his hand while he is holding it, and it is the most loved Martin has felt in a long time.

Eventually, he manages to relax enough to doze off for a bit. While his head find’s it’s way down and onto Jon’s shoulder, he can feel the slight poke of a plastic pen that is sticking out of his hair.

Martin almost smiles, and squeezes back when Jon tightens the grip around his hand and settles against him.

They keep finding the damn things around the safehouse, because frankly, they’re everywhere. And that’s just whatever Jon had on his person out of sheer habit. Lord knows, his hair has grown way past his shoulders by now, and more often than not, he keeps it up and out of the way with whatever is around him at the time.

Mostly, it’s pens.

At first, they’re just there , and both Jon and Martin have about a million other things to think of and to deal with than a few too many office supplies laying around.

The exhaustion, both physically and emotionally, leaves them absolutely drained and dead to the world.

It is bad enough so that they crawl into bed almost as soon as they have arrived and inspected the small cabin. The question of whether or not they’re going to share the bed isn’t even raised - neither of them is willing to let go of the other. All the way from London to up here, they’d held hands to reassure themselves that they wouldn’t lose each other, and they’re not about to stop now.

It is a lot easier to remind each other that they’re not alone when all they need to do is focus on the breath and heartbeat of one another. Focusing on the heat radiating under the blankets, where they are embracing throughout the night to keep the nightmares and the ever growing anxiety at bay.

They have plenty of bad days when everything just creeps up at them and even talking is too much. Those days, they spend curled up in front of the fire or in bed, holding on tight for as long as they need to in order to feel more alive again.

After a while, they’re able to relax more. Martin is much warmer and solid now, doesn’t fade away into the fog without noticing. It’s happening less and less now - whether or not he will be able to shake off The Lonely entirely, neither of them knows, but he is happy about every step in the other direction.

Jon is just as happy to see him doing better, and he tells him as much over breakfast, smiling as he tangles their legs under the table.

There are two pens already stuck in his hair, holding it up in two buns. It’s probably from when he read a statement from the stack of files and tapes that Basira sent over the other day.

The statement has definitely taken the edge off of things for Jon. Now he can sit at the kitchen table with his boyfriend and enjoy a cup of tea instead of growing weaker and weaker with hunger for statements. As ironic as it is, it makes him feel more human, even though he is no longer fully human. He’s pretty sure of it.

“I love you.” Martin tells him, because it is true and he likes saying it as often as possible, now that he can. It sends a spark of warm happiness through his chest, and it is bright enough to chase away the cold fog that’s still lingering sometimes - just for a bit.

“I love you, too.”

He’ll never get tired of hearing this.

“I love you” they say, as they drink tea in the morning and eat freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven.

“I love you” they say, as they walk hand in hand through the cobblestone streets down in the village, on their way to buy groceries and look at the little local shops.

“I love you” they say, as they step around each other in the tiny kitchen while cooking dinner, distracting one another with kisses until one of them remembers the food or notices the charred smell of something burning. It’s only then that they break apart, cursing and laughing all at once.

“I love you” they say, as they spend nights wide awake, holding on tightly through their grief and fear. They say it out loud or whisper it into the darkness, comforting one another as best as they can.

“I love you”, they whisper through silence and tears, but they say it just as much through smiles and laughter.

“I love you” they say, after every single argument. Their love for each other is strong, so much so that they’re certain they will be able to figure out the rest. Whether that’s the end of the world as they know it or anything else doesn’t matter.

“I love you” Martin says, after he walks up behind Jon and plucks one of the pens out of his hair. There are at least two more, and besides, Martin woke up this morning with a few lines of poetry in the back of his mind. He wants to write them down before he forgets - maybe, just maybe, he can turn them into something beautiful.

“I love you.” Jon says, and he pulls Martin closer by the front of his pyjama shirt, turning around just enough to be able to press a quick kiss to his lips. The movement leaves them both in an awkward position, hanging over the back of the sofa with their glasses askew.

Martin has one of his arms wrapped around Jon, who is holding on tight, happily leaning into him with a quiet, happy satisfaction on his face. Clearly, he is enjoying this an awful lot.

No doubt, if it wasn’t for the hold onto the sofa Martin has with his other, he’d have toppled over and fallen right into the smaller man’s lap. And maybe that’s exactly what Jon is trying to do - who knows. He is way more affectionate than either of them would have thought possible, really.

They remain wrapped up in the tight hug, and neither of them wants to let go yet.

Notes:

Warnings: - Off-screen canon character death mentioned - insecurity - Loneliness - Trust issues - if you want me to add anything please let me know

#banashee writes #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic #JonMartin #mentioned character death

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lovemesomerafael · 5 years

Text

El Amor Todo Lo Puede Chapter 29: Broken

Chapters 1-25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28

Fin and Laura sat watching nothing from the confines of their unmarked car. There was no activity at the run-down brick house across the street, and hadn’t been since they’d begun this shift five hours ago. Laura squirmed around to change her position. Fin looked over at her.

“You got something on your mind. Might as well tell me, we got nothing else to do.”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s man problems, that’s how.”

Fin rolled his eyes. “You’re right. I don’t wanna know.”

Laura threw up a hand.

Ten silent, event-free minutes later, Fin sighed and said, “All right, all right, your man problems will at least be amusing. Spill before I die of boredom.”

“I’m not here for your amusement. Entertain yourself.”

“Whatever.”

Another ten minutes of absolute silence and lack of activity on the street followed. Fin turned to look at Laura once again, raising an eyebrow.

“OK, so there’s a guy. I’m really into him, and I think he likes me, too – he acts like he does, but… I don’t know. I’ve given him a million signals, but he… he just doesn’t respond. He texts, he calls, he comes over, but he never makes a move. Normally, I’d just jump him and see what happens, but this guy…”

“This guy what?”

“I told you, I’m really into him. I care what he thinks. If he’s not into me, I’ll get over it, but I don’t want to lose him as a friend.”

“Bulllshit. You’re scared,” Fin laughed.

“Terrified,” Laura agreed.

“White people,” Fin groaned. “Look, you said this guy acts like he’s into you, right?”

“Up to a point, yeah…”

“OK, so, he obviously likes you. I’m a man, if some woman I like makes a play for me, I’mma be flattered, even if I’m not into her. I’m gonna be cool about it, let her down easy. Never mention it again.”

“So you think I should make an unmistakeable move.”

“Yeah. Just corner Barba and plant one on him.”

“What makes you think –“

Fin silenced her with a look. “Don’t even with me.”

Laura sputtered for a second, but realized the futility of argument.

“And I’ll tell you something else. You better do it somewhere private. Dude’s gonna respond. Bigtime.”

“You don’t know that.”

Fin made a disgusted sound. “Right.”

********

Rafael walked into the breakroom just as Laura grabbed her soda from the tray of the vending machine.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at him.

“Detective.” He looked a little odd. She held the door to the squad room open and stepped aside for him, thinking that he was on his way to see Lieutenant Benson.

“Actually, I came over to ask you something.”

“Oh,” she said, letting the door fall back closed. “What’s up?”

Rafael changed his briefcase from one hand to the other. “I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“The Bar Association holds this annual torture carnival fiendishly disguised as an awards dinner. The worst possible food, lots of irritating people in garish outfits, monotonous speeches. Basically purgatory with a no-host bar.”

“Uh-huh. And you’d like me to arrest you so you don’t have to go.”

“Kind of you to offer, and I’d take you up on it, but this year I drew the short straw. They make sure there’s at least one senior A.D.A. at our office’s table, and McCoy’s just informed me that I’m this year’s martyr.” He stopped and looked pleadingly at her, dropping his voice. “I’m hoping I can talk you into coming with me. I need someone to make snarky comments with so I don’t end up in a rubber room. Or locked up.” He quickly followed up with, “It doesn’t have to be a date. More like… backup.”

“Sounds awful.”

“I promise, it will be.”

Laura smiled. “What should I wear?”

Rafael beamed back at her.

******

Laura was annoyed with herself. He’d said that it wasn’t a date, and she wasn’t going to try to turn it into one. Their unexpected friendship had become too important to her. She was not going to do anything to jeopardize it, including take Fin’s advice and just kiss Rafael. So they would be dressed up. Otherwise, it would be no different than eating dim sum in front of a Fast & Furious movie on her couch. Right?

Still… she was dangerously attracted to Rafael. No matter how resolutely he maintained his distance, his deep green eyes and sexy smirks still struck her mind momentarily blank. And it wasn’t just physical. She responded so strongly to his dry, sardonic humor that she found herself looking forward to seeing him just to hear what he would say. So the idea of spending an evening with him, dressed in evening clothes, just the two of them against everyone else at the bar association dinner, was intoxicating.

She removed her curling iron from the last tendril of hair artfully pulled from the bun in her hair, scoffing at the irony of spending this kind of time creating the trendy “messy” look. She grumbled as she again questioned her makeup choices and tried to determine how much perfume was enticing without overdoing it. She tried to tell herself she was just irritated by the difficulties of trying to prepare for an evening out, but in truth she was nervous. Date or not, it mattered that Rafael thought she looked – and smelled - good. Finally, she was ready to drop her gorgeous new dress over her head and strap on her new heels.

Rafael could not believe he was even thinking about his hair. He had work hair and not-work hair. No thought, no choices. Yet here he was. He didn’t allow himself to consider the thought in the back of his mind that the real question was which Laura preferred. Finally, he decided that this event was work, so work hair it was.

When Laura opened her door, Rafael literally caught his breath. Until that moment, he had thought that was a cliché. Now he knew better. She looked so gorgeous he had actually almost gasped. She was wearing her hair in a way he’d never seen; not the businesslike bun or ponytail she wore at work, or the haphazard knot she sometimes wore at home. It reminded him of the way a woman’s hair got messed up in bed… better not to think about that. Her dress, too, was different than anything he’d ever seen her wear. It was a floor-length sheath in a clingy mauve material with the slightest sparkle, with a trail of twisted fabric draped enticingly across her neck and right upper arm, and tiny straps that left her shoulders and arms bare. The skirt flared just enough from the knees down to swish beguilingly. It accentuated everything he appreciated about her body.

“You, um… wow.”

“Wow?” Laura smiled.

“Yeah. Going with ‘wow’.”

Laura felt almost shy. Rafael looked elegant and rakish (yes, she suddenly realized, that was a real thing). Something about the way he stood comfortably in his tuxedo, looking at her like a man looks at a woman, made her feel clumsy and tongue-tied. He seemed suddenly so urbane and sophisticated, she felt like a gawky teenager.

“Well, you look like James Bond’s hotter American cousin.”

Rafael’s smile of genuine pleasure touched her heart.

He put his hand on the small of her back as they stepped out the door into the street. She shivered at the touch. Rafael guided her to the car waiting to take them to the hotel where the dinner was being held. He saw her notice that it was a town car, rather than simply an Uber or taxi. He smiled. It had been a strange impulse to spoil her that he was now very glad he’d indulged.

When the car pulled into the semi-circular portico built into the ground floor of the hotel, people in evening dress were arriving in limousines, taxis, and private vehicles. Rafael and Laura could see more glamorous people milling around in the lobby behind a glass wall.

Rafael stepped out of the car and held his hand out to Laura. She took it, feeling like Cinderella on the way to a particularly businesslike ball. She noticed with pleasure that he kept her hand in his as they began to walk toward the doors, shoulder to shoulder.

“You ready for this?” He asked, leaning into her.

“Nope.”

“Me, neither.”

“Stick close. I’ll cover you,” she said, leaning back into him, and squeezing his hand.

Rafael knew everyone. It took half an hour to work their way across the lobby to the ballroom where the event was taking place, greeting and being greeted by lawyers and judges. Laura knew some of the people they spoke to, most she didn’t. She was impressed to find that Rafael was always attentive, asking her each time whether she knew the people they spoke with and introducing her when she didn’t.

Laura found herself hiding a smile on several occasions. Rafael made comments to a number of people which, on their face, seemed innocuous, but which she knew were not. Clearly, the objects of the comments didn’t know that, which made her feel like she and Rafael were sharing a secret. It felt intimate. As they moved from one encounter to the next, one of them would often lean toward the other and whisper a private comment about the people they’d been talking to.

Defense attorney Roger Kressler and his 20-year-old wife were the last to greet them before they made it into the ballroom. “Mr. Barba, I believe that’s the only intelligent thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

“What’s that, Mr. Kressler?” Rafael asked, his lips twisted in anticipation of an insult.

“Bringing a police detective as your date. She can protect you from the many, many people here who may want to do you harm.”

Rafael put an arm around Laura. “I’m kind of hoping she has to. I’d love to get a look at that thigh holster I’ve heard about.”

“Just so you know,” Laura said over her shoulder as he led her around the Kresslers and into the ballroom. “’You’re on your own.” She winked at Kressler.

“Thigh holster?” She whispered to Rafael.

“No rompas mis sueños.”[1]

They settled at their assigned table and spent some time meeting the others from the D.A.’s office and their dates. Introductions soon gave way to shop talk for the few moments before the program began.

Rafael hadn’t lied about the bad food. The Governor gave a short, canned welcome speech and the first several awards were presented while the guests were served a dinner of bland, lukewarm chicken. Throughout dinner, Rafael and Laura spoke quietly in Spanish, trying their best to make each other laugh.

Soon after dessert was over, Rafael and Laura scooted their chairs so that they were facing the dais directly. They sat as close together as they could so that they could continue to share snarky remarks about the speeches. Rafael laid his arm across the back of Laura’s chair, which made it difficult for him not to run his fingertips over her bare shoulder. Laura wished he would.

Hours later, when the awards program had mercifully ended and some couples were taking advantage of the music playing and a small dance floor that had been set up, Laura and Rafael sat together near the table, their chairs half-turned toward one another. They sipped surprisingly good coffee and talked about any number of things, forgetting where they were for long stretches of time. Occasionally, during breaks in the conversation, they watched the crowd.

“You’re a nurse, right? Your CPR card up to date?” He asked Laura, over the music.

“Worried about Buchanan?”

“I am. I don’t think he’s done that much dancing since his disco days.”

“Which is apparently a good thing.”

Rafael shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s got some moves. And you have to admire his pluck. Not everyone would have the boldness to do… that… in public.”

They shared a look and a laugh.

Rafael leaned back in his chair, looking at Laura with a bemused expression on his face. “I just realized something.”

“Which is?”

“It’s after 10 p.m., which means this wretched ordeal has been ongoing for over four hours and I haven’t wanted to kill myself once.” He smiled and held up his cup to her in a toast. “Congratulations, Detective, you have performed a miracle.”

“Mission accomplished,” she smiled, and clinked her coffee cup with his.

“I actually think we can safely escape, if you want to. Half our table has already bailed.”

She looked around the room, pondering his suggestion. She didn’t want her evening out with Rafael to end. Returning her gaze to him with a coy expression, she said, “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t asked me to dance yet.”

His eyes smouldered. For the past hour, he had been trying to find a way to suggest that they dance, without betraying how much he really just wanted to take her in his arms. He grinned and offered her his hand. “Detective Parker, may I have this dance?”

“I’d love to.”

They made their way, hand in hand, to the dance floor where several couples had just taken their places. The song was a fairly good cover of the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody”, which gave Rafael the opportunity to hold Laura close, as he’d been aching to do all evening. They found that they fit together comfortably; their heights allowed them to make quiet comments to one another without being overheard, which lent an increased intimacy to the moment. Laura felt her body reacting to Rafael’s embrace. She could smell his subtle cologne, something clean with a hint of musk that made her want to nuzzle his neck. As she fought the urge to pull him tightly against her, she wondered how closely she could appropriately hold him.

Rafael was wrestling with the same urge. He could think of nothing but how good her body felt where his arms encircled her. Without consciously planning to, he turned his head to whisper into her ear.

“I’m glad you agreed to endure this with me. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she whispered back.

They slowly danced, neither focused in the slightest on their surroundings, enjoying being so close. Rafael felt Laura give the slightest shake of her head.

“What?” He asked, turning his head and pulling away from her a bit so he could look into her face.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s… inappropriate.”

“I love inappropriate. Tell me.”

She looked uncomfortable. “I was just thinking that… you smell amazing.” She looked away from his eyes.

He grinned, ridiculously pleased by her comment. “In that case,” he began, in a voice that sent shivers through Laura. “I will tell you that I’ve been spellbound all night by the way you look in that dress.”

She inhaled and looked up at him. He pulled her closer, looking down into her eyes. “There,” he murmured in a bedroom purr. “Now we’re both inappropriate.”

They danced slowly, looking into one another’s eyes, suddenly past all pretense.

“You know,” he said huskily, “I said this didn’t have to be a date, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be.”

Laura pulled him a bit closer, finally giving in to the desire to melt her body into his. “I vote date,” she murmured.

“It’s unanimous.”

He slowly began to lower his head as she tipped her face up to his. At the last moment, they simultaneously realized what they were about to do in front of half the New York Bar.

“Let’s get out of here,” Rafael whispered.

“Let’s,” Laura agreed.

They said nothing as they collected Laura’s wrap and evening bag and walked, hand in hand, out to the hotel entrance. The attendants motioned to the next cab in line, and they slid into the back seat. Rafael put his arm around Laura, and she nestled into him. Both were breathing a bit harder than normal, their hearts beating faster in anticipation of what might happen. They were uncharacteristically quiet.

“That was fun,” Laura finally tried, looking up at him in hopes that he would take the opportunity to kiss her.

He didn’t. Instead, he laughed. “Said no one, ever, about that particular event.”

“Well, I had fun.”

He squeezed her and she snuggled closer to him. “I did, too,” he said quietly, kissing her on the top of her head. “I knew if there was anyone who could make that bearable, it was you. I should have known you’d do better than that.”

Again she pulled away slightly to look up at him. “Yeah?”

He skipped a beat. “Yeah,” he whispered, and tilted down to brush her lips softly with his. She wondered whether he was feeling the same rush of sensual heat from just that small, brief kiss. He was.

He held her hand on the way into their building, then put his hand on her back after holding the door for her. They walked across the lobby, entered the elevator, and rode, silently, to her floor, holding hands and standing more closely than they ever had when riding together in the past. As Rafael followed her to her door and into her apartment, Laura thought he might be able to hear her heart hammering in her chest.

As soon as she’d closed the door behind them, she turned to him.

“We didn’t finish our dance.”

The invitation in her voice was clear. “We can finish it now,” he said huskily.

There, just inside her apartment door, he put one arm around her waist and took hold of her hand in his. She rested her arm on his shoulder, her hand tantalizingly close to the bare skin on the back of his neck. He began to sway his hips, moving his feet to lead her in a small circle. Through her unease about making a move on him, she noticed two things: first, that he was a good dancer, and second, that moving with him felt very nice.

They hadn’t turned on any lights; they were lit only by the glow of the city coming in through the windows. They enjoyed a few moments together before she met his eyes in the dimness, took a breath, and asked, “Hypothetically, what if I said I wanted to kiss you?”

“I’d let you.” He didn’t look away from her eyes, and didn’t stop leading her in a slow, sexy dance.

“Let me.” Laura’s soft voice held a note of disappointment, although she moved a bit closer to him. “Like, just to be polite? Because if you’d let me kiss you just to be polite, I’m not going to kiss you.”

His voice dropped to a throaty purr. “Well, there would be other reasons, too.”

“So you would kiss me back?”

“Definitely.”

“Definitely? That’s pretty good,” she grinned, turning her face up to his but not moving to kiss him.

Rafael smirked wryly down at Laura. “Why are we having a hypothetical conversation about kissing? Why aren’t we just kissing?”

“Because I’ve been trying to get you to kiss me for a long time. And you keep… not kissing me. I didn’t know if that was because you didn’t want to and I didn’t want to kiss you if you didn’t want me to.”

Rafael furrowed his brow. “I want you to.”

“Are you sure? Because I want to, but I don’t want things to be weird.”

“Laura, this conversation is weird,” he almost whispered, their lips now close enough to feel one another’s breath as they spoke. “Just kiss me.”

“Really?”

“Por Dios…”[2]

She lifted her chin and gently pressed her lips to his, moving them softly and slowly. He immediately tightened his arms, pressing her body to his. At first, he kissed her tentatively, but that didn’t last. Their embrace became more intimate as they concentrated on learning one another’s lips, tasting one another for the first time. Somehow, this first kiss felt like a conversation – a confirmation of what they both knew they felt, and an ecstatic acknowledgement that something wonderful was happening between them.

They forgot to keep dancing as their kisses lengthened and deepened. Laura knew immediately that she was in the hands of an expert. After a few moments of skillful, progressively more intimate exploration of her lips, she felt him use the tip of his tongue to tease her lips apart. With a small gasp that went straight to Rafael’s groin, she opened her mouth to him.

Rafael could feel himself already getting hard. His mind was having trouble accepting that he actually had Laura in his arms and that it was her tongue dancing with his, but his body knew. She was almost breathless. He tasted so good, and his body felt so much better than she’d imagined, that she found herself becoming dizzy with desire and holding on to him to stay standing.

“I can’t believe it,” she panted. “My knees actually feel weak. That’s really a thing.”

He chuckled, smoothing his hand over her hair and pulling her mouth back to his. Their kisses became instantly more intense.

Until he stopped. Laura was pretty sure there wasn’t actually the loud screech of tires resounding through her apartment, but she heard that deafening sound nonetheless.

He let go of her and turned toward the living room, taking a few steps away and trying to regain control of his breathing. “I can’t think when you’re close to me.”

She didn’t know what to make of any of this. Breathless and awash in hormones, she was more than a little confused by his abrupt withdrawal. Slowly, she moved past him to drop her wrap and purse on the nearest chair, then turned to him in the dimness. She just waited, standing a few feet from him.

He ran a hand through his hair, dismayed and trying to find a way to express what he needed her to know.

“You know I was married,” he began.

“You told me.”

“It was… bad.”

“You said that, too.”

He stepped back toward her and took both her hands in his. “The things you told me, about how the attack permanently changed you… I’m not comparing my divorce to what happened to you, but… I recognized that. I’m like that.”

She didn’t know what to say, and didn’t want to do anything that might stop him when he was finally giving her the answers she’d been trying so hard to find.

“Can we just… sit and talk?” He led her to the couch and sat down facing her, their knees touching and her hands still in his. The darkness made it easier for him; he didn’t want her to see his shame and pain. But he owed her the truth.

“What happened?” Laura’s voice, soft and low, held warmth and compassion.

“Her name was Anatalia. I was only twenty-five when we got married, but I don’t think it would have mattered how old I was.”

He struggled with what to say next. As a result of whatever had happened to him, he had become a man who didn’t share any more than he absolutely had to. Laura understood that. She was not going to be able to rush him, and the obvious depth of his wounds made her want to protect him, rather than do anything that would make it worse. What had this woman done to Rafael? She felt a profound, possessive anger that anyone could, or would, hurt this man. She waited, trying to be patient until, all at once, words began to spill from him.

“I thought it was forever. I meant it to be forever. And I felt that way until the day she served me with divorce papers. By then, it was hell; she didn’t even try to hide her affairs, or the utter disregard she had for me. But I thought I was supposed to stay in hell because I’d made vows. So that day, when I got the papers, I went home to confront her. You heard that right – we still lived together. I’d been sleeping on the couch for a year, but there I was… still trying to be married. I came into our bedroom – her bedroom, I guess - crying and begging her to try one more time, and she laughed at me. Laughed. She couldn’t have cared less about vows, or forever. Or me. She never had. The only reason she was bothering with a divorce was that one of her boyfriends had proposed, and he had a lot of money. She told me all of that, in so many words.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I loved her completely. She was my whole world, and I had trusted her with everything I was. I had given her everything, all of me. And in that moment, I finally saw that she had never had anything but contempt for any of it. Nothing about me had any value to her whatsoever. That moment… broke me, Laura.”

“Rafael… I’m so sorry.”

“I swore in that moment that I was done with anything having to do with trust, or love. Permanently. I’m like you. The same way you’ve lived your life to make sure you never go back into that room with the dirt floor, I’ve lived mine so I never go back into that bedroom where I got my guts ripped out. Does that make sense?”

She nodded. “Of course it does.”

“That’s why, as much as I’d love to, I can’t get involved with you.”

His words hung between them, so final and necessary to him, so understandable but flawed to her.

“I was with you until right then.”

“I’m not negotiating here. I’m just telling you how it is.” He let go of her hands.

She took her time framing her response. “I respect that. Of all people, I get having a moment in your life that you will do anything never to repeat. I have several. And I understand doing whatever it takes.”

“Exactly. So do me a favor. Whatever ‘buts’ you’re about to give me, please don’t.”

She smiled at him in the dim light. “I think you know me better than to think I’m going to be able to do that. Don’t you?”

He sighed, just the barest hint of an upward tilt of his lips giving her permission to continue.

“If I told you that my only option to avoid what happened to me is never to go outside again, you wouldn’t agree, would you?”

“That’s a false equivalency.”

“No. It’s exactly the same. And it’s no more necessary for you to become a hermit than it is for me to. It was. I absolutely understand that, for a long time, that was necessary for you. But I don’t think it is anymore.”

The look on his face was halfway between anger and some kind of terrified hope. “I disagree.”

“Are you sure? Because you let me in a little. And so far, you’re OK. Right?”

He sighed deeply. “I didn’t mean to let you in at all. But the usual rules don’t seem to apply to you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m kinda known for that.”

“Laura, I have those rules for a reason.”

“I hear you. I do. I understand and I respect that. I’m not asking you to get rid of your rules, or do anything you don’t want to do. But couldn’t we maybe just stay where we are for now? We’re already friends. And if that’s it, then it’s enough. But what I’m thinking is, if you just let me hang out with you some more, you’ll see that I’ll keep on… not ripping your guts out. And then you’ll get so used to me not ripping your guts out, pretty soon you’ll learn that I’m not going to. You’ll forget you didn’t trust me. And you’ll just start trusting me because… osmosis.”

“I don’t think that’s how osmosis works.”

“Shut up, Harvard. It’s science.”

He shook his head, chuffing just a little. “Damn it, Laura…”

He reached for her and they held one another as best they could while sitting side by side.

“I need time. Probably a lot of time. Can we just leave it at that for tonight?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him. “But can I say one more thing?”

“One.”

“That woman? She was dead wrong. About everything. And if you let me, I’ll prove it to you.”

[1] Don’t crush my dreams.

[2] For God’s sake…

#law & order svu #law & order: special victims unit #rafael barba #raul esparza #chicago pd #chicago fire #chicago med #chicago justice

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illyriantremors · 7 years

Text

Beneath the Stars Chapter 5

Chapter: I II III IV

AO3 Linkage

Summary: Rhysand shows up unexpectedly to help Feyre's family move, bringing Cassian and Azriel with him. Sparks fly between Nesta and the rest of the family as the new house isn't what any of them were expecting, but Rhys has a way of keeping Feyre from completely breaking down throughout the day. [Almost exactly the same as the “Moving Day” fic I posted over summer, though there are some small changes. Sorry for the redundancy!]

Chapter 5

I awoke to a heavy slam! of the front door downstairs. My eyes flew open at the same time my hand groped for the clock on my nightstand, one of the few remaining items I had yet to pack.

6:39am

My eyes sank shut with a silent growl as my chest deflated. Voices several decibels too high for such an ungodly hour reached me from the living room.

Where does it look like I’m going?

Nesta, my brain registered, cataloging the new shade of anger she had somehow managed to find apart from her usual storm. My eldest sister was always angry, like the Hulk in hipster form.

Half your room is still a mess, my dad shouted back. We’re moving today, if you hadn’t noticed! Elain and Feyre’s things are already on the truck.

They’re my things. What do you give a shit what I do with them?

Nesta-

Just don’t, okay? Save it.

I will not save it! You’re free to do whatever the “shit” you want with your things, as you so beautifully put it. No doubt you get the language from that stupid writing degree you have, but whatever you do with your own room, we could have used you last night with the rest of this nightmare. A pause. You aren’t the only one with “shit” to take care of you know!

His voice rose on the last few words as Nesta’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, approaching.

I’ll give a shit about your shit when you decide being a family again is worth caring about!

My heart sped up as her footsteps reached my door and paused. I prayed silently she would leave me alone at least until I’d had a chance to properly wake up. Her own bedroom door slammed and I heard general clutter being shuffled about before the distinct sound of tape was pulled for boxes.

I breathed a sigh of relief and rolled over onto my back, willing my body to wake up.

The ceiling above me was still the crisp, clean white I’d stared at all yesterday afternoon. Empty. Just like the rest of my room.

Every single item I’d ever decided was worth keeping now sat in less than a dozen boxes in a huge Uhaul moving van parked out front. I had so much useless junk to pack, but in the end, I threw most of it away. I felt guilty at the thought of taking it all with us to the new house where we’d have less space. The entire point of moving was to downsize since dad couldn’t afford the monstrosity of a house we’d grown up in anymore without mom. It felt cruel to make him take all of that extra baggage with him to the new home, even if it wasn’t his extra baggage to deal with.

So I had stuffed most of my room into those hideous black bags that never hold their weight like they claim and dumped it into the trash cans out front along with the rest of my doubts over moving.

I had no choice. This was a thing. It was happening. I could accept it with all of the consequences that came with it and move on, or stay behind and try not to drown. I was choosing the former, but somehow I still felt like I was drowning.

Dad’s shout had been loud and angry, the same as when he would fight with mom. I wondered if he had already opened the liquor cabinet.

A light knock tapped on my door. My stomach twisted into knots immediately at the anxiety of it being Nesta, but Elain’s fairy voice put me at ease.

“Feyre?” she said, the door creaking open. I sat up to find her walking toward me, a small tea cup perched in her hand with steam hissing out the top. She smiled as she handed it to me before sitting next to me on the bed. I closed my eyes as the steam kissed my lips before taking a sip.

Chamomile and honey. My favorite.

“Morning, sleepy head,” my second eldest sister said. “I thought you could use a proper wake up after…”

“After Nesta?” I said. Elain shrugged with half an eye roll. I closed my eyes knowingly and took another sip. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Elain smiled, courtesy oozing out of her like an annoyingly delightful old Hollywood film you know should bore the snot out of your 21st century movie filter, but that you can’t help be inspired by. She was staring at me apologetically and I couldn’t help but compare my two sisters.

Unlike Nesta, Elain still came around occasionally, pretended we were still a family even if she was critical of dad’s drinking, something I couldn’t really fault her for even though heaven knew I tried.

I missed when we were kids. They were both a lot older than me and had always been closer to each other than to me, but I could remember us getting along while I was still small.

Now, they felt like strangers more and more to me every day that I didn’t see them. At least Elain had come home when dad asked to help with the house. Sure she’d gotten her skirts dirty, but today she’d had enough foresight to put on some athletic wear. I tried not to notice the Burberry tags sticking off of it.

“Pop downstairs when you’re ready, mmkay?” she said. “We need to get going by 8am sharp if we want to beat moving in the heat!” She bounced up and glided to the door, her hair swishing in a perfect ponytail behind her. She had slipped out the door for half a second before her head darted back in and I saw all of her pearly whites gleam at me. “And I’ve got pancakes!”

And then she was gone again.

It was comforting to know that if Nesta was going to come round today with her usual fire, Elain would be here with her beautiful, happy calm. I needed to stop judging her so harshly when she was so pleasant with me.

I stood up, stretching in my yoga pants and tank. I didn’t bother leaving out a change of clothes or makeup since it would be ruined after a sweaty hour of traipsing up and down stairs. My lone oversized sweater, the one covered in paint stains from evenings spent painting, was all I kept out, figuring it was good for a fight. Maybe it would even bring me luck today. I shrugged it on savoring the smell of the dried paint and the way it knew my soul so well.

Glancing at the clock, I scooped up Elain’s tea and allowed myself the last lazy stare out of my bedroom window I’d refused last night. It was the last time I’d ever see this view. The sunlight filtering through the panes of glass looked stale. I probably should have been sad, but there was some relief in leaving. Maybe the prospect of a fresh beginning in a real neighborhood would make being a family more real.

But my naive morning zen was cut short when I looked out my second story window and saw not the oversized manor across the street, but Rhysand strutting up my driveway with two hulking figures behind him. Tea spat out of my mouth in a spray on the window as the cup toppled on the bed.

I bolted downstairs flying for the door, anxiety crippling my stomach as a million questions flew at once.

What the hell is he doing here! Oh my gosh, I didn’t invite him. I told him I didn’t need help! Why did you have to word vomit on him like that last night, Feyre, you idiot. Now he’s going to think you’re a complete basketcase and he’ll never talk to you again. Wait - why do you even care if he talks to you again??

I reached the door and pulled on the handle, but not before the ring of the doorbell shattered through the house.

Shit.

Rhys’s eyebrows rose as he took in my flushed appearance standing at the door. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra beneath my sweater - thank goodness it was oversized - or that I hadn’t yet brushed my teeth. The corners of his lips threatened to turn up in that infuriating smile he made a habit of flashing me, the one that always seemed permanently plastered over his beautiful face.

I quickly stepped outside, forcing Rhys and his friends to jump back in surprise before I shut the door behind me. Crossing my arms, I stared him down.

“What are you doing here?” I spat in a low voice. “And how did you get my address?”

I was going to murder Amren.

Rhys chuckled. “Is there a reason we’re whispering?” he asked. “Are you scared of your family finding us? Or do you have a house ghost? Please tell me it’s not haunted. I’m not sure I’m prepared for protective snuggling this early in the morning.”

I gaped open mouthed at him before darting forward. “Very funny,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who knew the High Lord of the Student Body Council would be afraid of ghosts.”

“Oh it’s not me,” Rhys replied, hands up cooly in defense. “It’s Cassian.” His head flitted over his right shoulder in the direction of the most chiseled, hulking boy, man - man-boy? - I’d ever seen grace the body of a teenager. Assuming he was a teenager. He had to be if he was hanging out with Rhys, but hot damn, the idea of that monstrosity lurking around campus was almost scary. If it weren’t for the shoulder length hair I imagined was just long enough to tie up, he would have looked way too old for high school.

How had I never spotted him before? The man was a beast.

Rhys leaned in and held a hand up to my ear. I had to resist the urge to back away as he spoke. “Poor kid still can’t get through Casper the Friendly Ghost without crying.”

Cassian shoved Rhys roughly, but Rhys laughed it off uproariously right as the door opened behind me. I froze as I heard my dad’s voice. The boys straightened up at once.

“Feyre?” my dad asked tentatively, eyeing Rhysand warily and very clearly looking around for what should have been Tamlin’s blonde facade. “What’s going on? Who are these-”

“Rhysand, sir,” Rhys said, reaching around me to hold out his hand, no trace of fear whatsoever. My father took it with a look on his face as if he were being asked to hold a viper. “And these are my brothers, Cassian and Azriel.”

My eyes darted briefly to the boy on Rhys’ left, the one he’d named Azriel. He was muscled, but not nearly as much as Cassian, though not as lean as Rhysand either. Somewhere in the middle. But though he had build to him, he looked like a shadow that might float away at the slightest touch. His eyes felt hollow as he took me in and I wondered where the color had gone in them. He hadn’t said anything or so much as moved since I’d stepped out on the porch and he didn’t look as though he intended to change that anytime soon.

And his hands. They were scarred terribly. Even standing behind Rhys in the shadow of our porch, I noticed them. I shivered imagining what could have done something so gruesome. His eyes met mine, catching me staring and immediately our gaze bounced away, the wrong ends of two magnets meeting.

“Brothers?” I asked looking for a distraction. Rhys merely darted his eyebrows up once in reply.

“We heard you could use a hand - or six - moving that truck around today, sir,” Rhys said. At the offer of help, my dad’s entire demeanor changed.

“Oh that’d be great!” my dad said, joining me a step closer, his arm going around my shoulder. He looked so genuinely pleased for me. “You didn’t tell me you had friends coming to help. Good for you, kiddo! Your old man appreciates it.”

The momentary smile so rarely seen on my dad’s face felt like a gift from the gods who must have known I’d been struggling. I sensed a warmth coming from Rhys half a step away and was about to turn and give my thanks, all of my earlier hesitancy about his arrival gone, when a sharp voice snapped from behind my dad.

“That’s because Feyre doesn’t have friends, dad,” Nesta said with that razor of a tongue. Elain stood next to her, a look of worry flickering in her soft grey eyes. My own anxiety returned in full force.

Nesta was wearing a baggy pair of grey cargo pants with a tight fitting crop top that was an equally depressing shade of grey, but I suppose Nesta would have said it was trendy. It showed off her generous curves, particularly the full bust her bra failed to strap down properly, though it wasn’t without taste. Long ash blonde locks similar to my own flowed in waves on either side even as she tucked one length behind her ear to reveal a small patch of hair she’d buzzed short. Dark ruby red lipstick the color of dried blood stained her lips.

I had expected nothing less.

“And who the hell are you, dollface?” Cassian said, eyes widening while a huge grin of interest set off on his face. Nesta’s expression soured even more as she looked at Rhysand’s hellhound before her nose sort of pinched together and she ignored Cassian outright. Cassian chuckled a bit incredulous at the gesture, crossing his arms with sway - a lion preparing for a fight.

“You wanted me to help,” Nesta spat at my dad. “So why are we all standing around out here like a bunch of apes while Feyre pretends to have a life? My shit’s all packed up,” and she pointed behind her to the first of what I was sure would be many boxes to come that she’d brought down. ��I’d like to move it into the truck now, unless you’ve decided this family’s actually worth saving and we’re staying?”

I closed my eyes and held my breathe, tension roiling in my gut. With my back turned on him, I was glad Rhys couldn’t see my face where I was sure embarrassment would read in the redness settling in on my cheeks. I had told him we were moving and my parents had split - but he didn’t know the circumstances of how or why and Nesta was riding dangerously close to that line.

“Oh-ho,” Cassian said and he sounded… delighted? “Allow me, dollface.”

He moved forward and Nesta couldn’t help but to stand back and let him by with that huge frame of his looming at her, but she still managed a snarl at him. She was at least a good foot shorter than him. “Don’t call me dollface, shithead,” she said and she sounded furious.

“Nesta Archeron!” my father said and already, my family was shouting at each other again.

“What would you prefer I call you?” Cassian retorted. “If I went with something more honest, I fear we’d enter into a battle of wits and I get the sense you don’t like losing very much.”

My jaw dropped at the same time Nesta’s did, right before her eyes narrowed. Cassian had grabbed two of Nesta’s boxes and was back out the door before she could say another word. I’d never seen her speechless before or called out on her bitchery right to her face. My dad had practically stopped breathing.

“Coffee,” I said to him firmly, grabbing him by the shoulders and willing him to go away. “For the boys? The boys who are so graciously helping us move for free today?”

He took a deep breathe while closing his eyes for a moment before nodding. “Coffee,” he agreed and trudged off to the kitchen I knew was mercifully on the other side of the house.

Nesta was watching Cassian in the distance with a venomous stare that could have murdered him if he wasn’t careful. When he had set the second box down, that stare turned on me.

“He doesn’t touch any more of my stuff. Not a single damn-”

“I know!” I hollered, trying not to join the frenzy of raised voices in this house. “I won’t let him touch any of your precious bloody books. Just go get your junk and move already, okay?”

Nesta scowled, but spun on her heel with a click and disappeared to the bowels of her room upstairs. Elain followed.

When I went back to the boys on my porch, Rhys had tucked his hands into his pockets while a small, sweet smile played out on his face. “Your family’s positively delightful, Feyre,” he said as if he meant it. As if we were anything but a delight. I still didn’t understand what he was really doing here. “But you’ll have to excuse me if I do say you’re the clear standout among them by a very long mile.”

For the first time, Azriel moved, a short sigh of exasperation escaping him. It was almost imperceptible. Rhys’ eyes danced as he stared into me daring me to laugh. If Tamlin hadn’t canceled on me today, I knew he would have run in the opposite direction the second Nesta appeared at the door ready for a fight. They never got along.

And here was Rhys flirting with me over her.

But the laugh faltered on my lips and with it went Rhysand’s smile. I shook the comparison away, surprised I’d even made it. There was no Rhysand in my life so there was nothing to really compare.

“Let’s just get started, hmm?” I said. “Before I figure out what you three are really up to and I kick you all out on your sorry asses.”

“Oh I like her already, Rhys,” Cassian said walking back to us.

Rhys’ smile returned and he laid a hand out before me to gesture us inside, far too much bravado dripping from his voice. “After you, milady.”

A knight in shining armor after all.

“So what’s the deal with your sister?”

I groaned internally, wishing Cassian hadn’t just asked me that question.

I spent the good part of an hour trying to keep everyone apart while we loaded the last remnants of my old life onto that truck. It wasn’t easy, but somehow I’d managed. Thankfully, it hadn’t taken long.

Nesta dragged behind the longest of all, but by that point I was already sitting in the front seat of Rhys’ car while Cassian and Azriel popped in the back and we shot off.

My stomach growled loudly as Rhys put the car in gear. Whether he heard it or not, he didn’t say, but he did reach into the back seat and pull out the distinctly pink cardboard box that could only house one thing: donuts.

“Thank you,” I said, reaching in for a sugar twist, my absolute favorite. He watched me lick the excess sugar from my fingers with a bit of a haze on his face that I had to remind him he was meant to be driving. He smirked before his head faced forward and concentration became his mask.

I couldn’t help but to study him. That smirk had saved me more than once already this morning. Between Nesta and Cassian nearly crossing paths at every second, my dad rubbing a frustrated hand over his neck when one of mom’s vases dropped, Elain twirling around pretending to be useful when really she was just pretty, Rhys anchored me back to earth with the promise of better on his lips every time.

And now I was sitting in a car with less than a foot separating us while Cassian shoved a devil’s food in his mouth and inquired about my sister. “Like, is she single?” he asked between bites. I snorted.

“Nesta is nearly ten years older than you,” I said leaning around the front seat to look at him. “Ten.”

Cassian shrugged. “I like an older woman.” I scowled and leaned away as he finished chewing, the chocolate glaze smacking against his lips. “Seriously, what’s her deal?”

Rhys kept his eyes on the road like I’d asked, but I could feel his attention on me. I sighed.

“Nesta is, like I said, ten years older than me, which makes her way too old for you, Cassian, so don’t get any ideas. I don’t care what you think you want in a woman. She goes to school in LA where she’s studying Comparative Literature with concentrations in Russian lit and Slavic Languages.”

A tisk from the back seat interrupted me. Azriel. When I looked at Rhys, amusement was flickering on his face before he risked a quick glance at me and cut it short.

Okay…

“She and Elain were only a year apart. I didn’t come along until much later and by that point, I was just a nuisance and a distraction for my parents from giving them the attention they were used to. My parents split over summer and that seems to have been the final nail in the coffin. She’s had a stick up her ass ever since.

“So you see,” I said, leaning back around the seat to look at Cassian again, “you don’t want to bother yourself with her. Nesta is Nesta and nothing and no one has ever - or will ever - change that, including you. I don’t care if your bulky jock brain says otherwise.”

Cassian chuckled. “I’ll try to take that as a compliment.” If he wasn’t a jock, he didn’t care to deny it. He tipped his head back against the leather headrest of the seat seemingly amused and asked, “So where’s the Tool? Isn’t he supposed to be here today?”

I mouthed the word Tool before I realized who Cassian was referring to. My eyes went wide with shock. “Cassian,” Rhys hissed, glaring at him in the rear view mirror.

“You said you guys were brothers?” I shot at Rhys, wondering where in the hell Cassian had come from with his one-thousand interrogation questions and if Azriel would ever say anything to me at all.

“Not by blood, but as good as,” Rhys explained, his voice tight at the sudden mood swings of conversation. “Where are we going exactly?” I gave him clarifying directions and when we’d situated ourselves on a long stretch of the route that would take us nearly to the house, he continued. “I’ve known these pricks since I was a kid. Cass and I met in little league-”

“You were in little league?” I choked. Rhys waved me off proudly with his hand.

“Yes I was,” he said. “And I had baseball’s finest ass while I played, worthy of the big leagues.”

“That has got to be the vainest comment I have ever heard for a - what? Nine-year-old to be so self-aware of their own rear.”

Rhys leaned his head toward me and was completely serious as he said, “You would have drooled over my nine-year-old rear, Feyre.”

I narrowed my glare, aware of the twitch at my lips threatening to break free and tried not to imagine how his now 18-year-old rear might compare. His gaze danced all over my face and I sensed the cocky prick knew what I was thinking. “Eyes,” I warned and he promptly returned to driving, but not without a very smug look on his face.

“Azriel didn’t come along until middle school. He moved in across the street from me and well…” Silence dragged for a moment before I heard Azriel shift in his seat and that was the end of that conversation. I didn’t ask questions. “We’ve been thick as thieves ever since.”

Things were quiet again in the car and I was grateful just to sink into the drive even if I could feel Rhys’ thoughts on me the entire trip, sticking to my skin like glue. But every time I looked at him, the way his hands would tighten on the steering wheel like he wanted to hide them somewhere or how he’d lick his lips with the briefest of exhales as if he’d had trouble breathing, I realized he was nervous.

Rhysand, the confident boy who led student council meetings at school with the principal and administration heads, who walked up to my father and extended his hand the way he would meet the President of the United States and had prepared for it his entire life, was nervous sitting next to me.

“So about the Tool,” Cassian said out of nowhere. I whipped around, feeling suddenly very defensive despite my boyfriend’s failure to appear this morning outside my front door, much like… well much like Rhys had.

“Tamlin is not a tool!” I shouted.

“And yet, you knew exactly to whom I was referring.” Cassian’s arrogance mocked me with every word and I felt as if I could reach back and slap him, muscles and all.

“Cassian!” Rhys barked, nearly slamming on the breaks. I thought he might pull the car over, but he didn’t. “That’s enough.” And somehow, it really was. Cassian didn’t press the issue after that, understanding his captain’s orders, but he still couldn’t get his mind off my sister.

“Do you really think she wouldn’t go out with me?” he asked. I concentrated very hard on not rolling my eyes at him.

“No!” I protested.

“I bet she would. I bet by the end of the day, I can get her phone number.”

“Twenty bucks,” said a deep, velvet voice I wasn’t expecting, so much so that I jumped in my seat and embarrassingly looked at Azriel as if he were the ghost haunting my old house.

Cassian reached his arm out immediately and shook Az’s hand. “Deal.”

I was about to butt in to say they would do no such thing, that he was asking for it and it would be his funeral, but the car slowed to a halt as Rhys put it in park and I realized we’d arrived. At my new home.

A weight sank into my gut, my attention pulled back to the view of my dad jumping out of the truck already in the driveway, my sisters staring forlornly at the much smaller dwelling than they were used to. It wasn’t even a modern track home - a real horror for the pair of ‘em. I could see the ivy curling around the brickwork of the front facade. It had character, could even be considered charming if you didn’t mind that it was an older home, which I certainly didn’t.

Cassian and Azriel got out straight away to start unloading, but I was glued to my seat, my hands braced on the leather of the armrest.

“It’s okay, you know,” Rhys said, his voice quiet. I felt his fingers brush against my hand, not trying to pry, only to reassure. I wondered foolishly what it might feel like if he took it. I couldn’t remember the last time Tamlin and I had simply held hands and I missed it.

Why wasn’t he here?

“They hate it,” I said.

“Your sisters?”

I nodded, staring hard out the window at my broken family. And then it was all flooding out of me and I couldn’t stop it if I had wanted to. “They hate the move so much, the idea that we might be poor by horrifically shallow standards that they’re going to make my dad’s life a living hell because of it. Never mind that he already co-signed on their student loans and sends them money for the deposit on their apartment leases. Never mind that mom’s the one who left and took the bulk of the family’s income with her.”

“Elain’s in school too?”

“She’s in a PhD program like Nesta. Botany. You wouldn’t think it looking at all that polished lip gloss and mascara, but my sister’s quite the brainiac. They both are.” I sighed, blowing hot air through my lips as my gaze fell into a mess at my lap. “And college degrees are expensive.”

“Hey,” Rhys said, his fingers finding my chin and tilting my face until I was forced to look at him. “You want to get out of here? Just say the word, and we’re gone.”

And I could tell he meant it. All I would have to do was nod and he’d turn the keys and take off. His eyes pierced me with the intensity of his words. I was starting to wonder if I’d ever escape the violet depths of them.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at him, contemplating when the last time was anyone had asked what I wanted.

Voices shouted outside the car and my eyelids slammed shut. Rhys’ fingers dropped from my chin. “I have to go,” I said and bolted from the car before he could stop me.

“What do you mean there are only three bedrooms?” Nesta was hollering at my dad. I prayed the new neighbors weren’t around to hear it.

“Nesta, please,” my dad begged, begged at my sister, his voice suddenly low and raw, as if he were bleeding in front of her. “It’s all I could afford,” he whispered. Cassian and Azriel were already unloading the truck, pretending like they couldn’t hear but I knew they could. I wanted to rip my skin apart until the muscle underneath was exposed and then I would rip that apart too until I was bone and blood and dust. I’d never felt so mortified - and by my own family.

Our miseries were private, hidden away for no one to see. What would they say if they knew the reality?

My dad spotted me and his face crumpled, trying to look optimistic and failing miserably.

“Feyre!” he said before coming closer. “There’s only two rooms, but-”

“It’s okay,” I said, feeling my throat clench up. “Elain and I can share, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” Over my dad’s shoulder, I heard Elain yelp in surprise.

“That’s very considerate of you, Feyre, but there is another option if you want it. The attic…”

I took a deep breathe. Of course. Because Heaven forbid Nesta or Elain draw the short stick for once. Silently, I nodded my acceptance. My dad kissed my forehead with a whispered, “Thank you,” and went to help the boys on the truck. I turned around and smacked straight into Rhys’ chest. I hadn’t realized he was standing so close.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, just like he’d asked on the phone last night.

How can I help?

His arms found my shoulders, steadying me with his grip. And suddenly, I realized the gravity of the moment. The wrongness of it without Tamlin. He should have been the one standing there keeping me grounded while my family fell apart. Not this guy I barely knew, but who seemed willing to let the rest of the world burn if it meant he could make sure I was okay.

“Just help us unload, please,” I said, hating the way the words sounded on my tongue. I strode away as quickly as I could before the tears could start falling, grabbed a box at random, and rushed inside. I was lucky enough to grab one with my name on it, so I made straight for the attic.

Rhys appeared in the doorway a heartbeat behind me, setting a box of his own down. Thank goodness there was a stairway and not some rickety old drop down ladder I’d have to climb. He put his hands in his pockets and stared thoughtfully at me, giving me space to decide where this went from here.

“At least there’s a window,” I said, pointing above where a sizeable skylight was carved into the ceiling.

“Perfect for stargazing while you fall asleep,” Rhys said and brought himself to lay down directly underneath the opening. He put one arm behind his head for it to rest against and stared into crisp, blue sky above. He didn’t mention what had just happened and I was grateful. I found myself slipping down to lay next to him.

“Cassian realizes what he’s doing, right?” I asked. “About Nesta, I mean.”

Rhys chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he replied. “Cassian’s a shameless flirt with everyone.”

“Yeah, well, Nesta doesn’t do shameless flirting. She’ll eat him alive.”

“And you?”

“Pft!” I scoffed. “Trust me, I have no desire to eat anything out of Cassian.”

The snort that rippled out of Rhys was infectious, his entire body radiated with it. “I meant about the flirting,” he clarified and I could feel his head roll towards me. I found those near-violet eyes staring endlessly at me again and before I knew what I was doing, my eyes were looking him up and down, drinking the sight of him in. I pinched a spot on his stomach through his shirt and was met with hard muscle.

“Mmm, skinny,” I evaluated. “But I think I could find something to munch on.”

There was a certain daring to my tone that I wasn’t familiar with. The corners of Rhysand’s lips pulled up in surprise and my face flushed. Had he not expected me to answer?

And then it hit me all over again, the wrongness of the moment. Not even a full minute and I’d already forgotten how I’d felt smacking into him outside wishing it was someone else. What the hell was I doing?

And why did it feel like the only right thing going on in my life?

I sat bolt upright removing my hand quickly from his stomach and blurted, “I have a boyfriend,” cringing on the awkwardness of revealing a truth he was already well aware of.

“So?” he asked simply.

“So? So? So… this can’t be a thing.”

Rhys sat up beside me. “This? Feyre, what exactly do you think I’m doing here?”

“I don’t know, I just…” My shoulders fell and I collapsed inward on myself, finding it hard to think. “You show up here to help me move as if you’d known my family all your life making it very plain you’re aware of the fact that Tamlin’s not here when he should be-”

“In my defense, that was Cassian who pointed that out.”

“Still. And Cassian’s not the only one who can be a shameless flirt. You’re pretty good at it too.” I nudged him with my shoulder and he raised his brows in conceit. “So why come?”

He hesitated for half a second before plunging in. “Because when I saw you at Lucien’s party, you looked sad. More than sad, even. And when I told you about the dance, there was a spark in your eyes that I wanted to see again. But then I called you on the wrong day at the wrong time and you said Tamlin was ditching you when you needed him most even though you tried to make it sound like that’s not what he’s doing, but we both knew it was a lie. And I just didn’t want you to be alone today.”

He shrugged, as if he hadn’t just dropped a grenade onto my lap and pulled the pin.

“Is that so terrible?”

And when I thought about it, I realized it wasn’t. It was actually… kind of nice.

“So then… you’re not trying to put the moves on me?”

“I never said I wouldn’t like to, Feyre, darling,” he teased, but it was nothing more than that. Teasing. “But no, I’m not here to put ‘the moves’ on you. I just thought you could use an ally. It didn’t seem you had one.”

“Is it that obvious?” I said, my voice terribly low.

He nudged me back taking care to ensure the contact was broken completely when the motion had finished. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling alone sometimes, Feyre. The trick is learning how to understand when you’re not and making those moments last. And I do apologize - sincerely - if I’ve, ahem, overstepped.”

When I looked up, his eyes were watching me again full of that same soft expression that had gotten me through the morning thus far. An ally. I could get used to that, I thought. Slowly, with deliberate intention, I nodded and Rhys seemed to understand. And then he jumped up with the grace of a cat and pulled me to my feet.

“So where do we start with this place?” he asked.

“Just bring the boxes up for now. I want to paint it first before I do anything else.”

“You paint?”

“As if you didn’t know.” He snickered.

“What are you going to paint it?”

I shrugged, looking around and taking in the bare wooden walls that slanted at the sides to form my new home. The word still felt foreign in my mind in conjunction with this place, never mind saying it out loud. Maybe the paint would help. I’d never touched my old room with my liquid weapons. Not once.

But it was different here. I could feel it. This was my own little hovel - it deserved to be noticed.

“I don’t know. You got any ideas, Mr. Fine Ass?”

Rhys smirked, leaning against the door frame. “The night sky,” he said instantly. “That way you don’t have to wait to fall asleep to watch the stars shine for you and wish upon them.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Not at all.

When we stumbled back outside to collect more of my boxes, I found my eldest sister shouting - again. But after talking to Rhys, I didn’t feel quite so upset this time. And I was almost intrigued to watch Cassian stand there on the receiving end of Nesta’s wrath, wondering if he could actually pass the test.

A pile of books - Nesta’s books, her pride and joy above all else - sat in a heap on the grass. Cassian held a box that was far too flimsy to hold the weight of the books and had promptly split in two, dumping them on the ground. Nesta looked furious as she bent down to gather her children.

“You bastard!” she shouted, looking up at Cassian as her hands found a Russian language copy of War and Peace with a fresh tear down the front cover. Cassian looked smug, as if he’d been the one to tear the book and was proud of it.

“It’s not my fault you don’t take care of your things,” he said apathetically.

“Like you’d understand,” Nesta spat. “You wouldn’t understand finer things - art, literature,” and she shook the book at him, getting up from the ground, “if it jumped up and bit you on that hideous crooked nose of yours. This is culture!” Her tone shifted, grown suddenly solemn, the bite gone. “And you just dumped it in the grass like manure. Do you even realize…”

She stared down at her stack of books that she had poured the last ten years of her life into at school, genuinely hurt by what had happened, her own stupid fault for packing in a rush last minute. But it was so much emotion for such scraps at her feet - all she had left to tear her away from a life at home that disappointed her.

Who were Nesta’s friends? Did she have them or did she burn too passionately that the only ones who could take her in and understand were the ones at her feet without a voice to argue back against the fire devouring her?

And then, Cassian spoke, his voice taking on a soothing caress that was soft and caring, as if he did in fact realize what Nesta was saying. As if - he understood.

But that wasn’t what shocked me most. No, what shocked me was the fact that he was speaking to her in perfect, fluent Russian.

Nesta’s head snapped up as Cassian spoke, drawing herself level with him. Hesitantly, enough that I could tell she was tripping over her words despite the fact that I knew she spoke Russian just as well as Cassian apparently could, she replied. A brief exchange ensued and it was the calmest I had seen Nesta, maybe ever.

I looked at Rhys and saw a silent, knowing exchange pass between him and Azriel. So that was what the scoff in the car had been about. Heavens, I wanted to laugh.

Nesta snickered. Cassian repeated whatever he’d said.

Her eyes narrowed. His invited.

She muttered the lone Russian word I knew amid a handful - Yes - and stormed off into the house, a stack of books piled high in her arms.

Cassian went straight to Azriel, his hand outstretched. “You owe me twenty bucks, son.”

“No!” I gasped.

“Oh yeah,” Cassian whooped.

“You got her number?” Azriel asked.

“Better than that. I got a date.”

“No…” I breathed, my mind refusing to accept what he was saying. Rhys was laughing his ass off. “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t have to say anything.” Cassian stretched his arms wide like a peacock ready to show off. “She’s warm for my form, what can I say? The accent probably helped too.”

“You’re disgusting,” I said, but my tone was more amused.

“Cassian’s dad was Russian ops,” Rhys explained next to me. “He’s been to Russia more times that he can count.”

Explained the muscles, I thought.

“So cough up,” Cassian said, again reaching his hand out to Azriel, who simply shook his head.

“You got a date,” Azriel said. “But the bet was that you’d get her number.”

“Oh come on!”

It was Azriel’s turn to hold out his hand. “Twenty big ones, if you please.”

Cassian dug his wallet out and handed over the cash. “Fucking Azriel,” he said under his breathe as he passed me and returned to the moving truck.

“Technically the bet was good until the end of the day,” I said, addressing Azriel directly for the first time. “Are you going to remind him?”

Azriel looked at me and then slowly, one delicate muscle at a time arched his lips into a faint smile. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, Feyre, darling,” Rhys said clapping Az on the shoulder. “Let’s go unpack ourselves a house.”

#myfic #beneath the stars #bts: a feysand fic #bts #feysand #feyre #rhysand #acomaf #acomaf fanfiction #feysand fanfiction #nessian fanfiction

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