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socalwriterbee · 11 months

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Sweet Escape

Choices Book: Witness: A Bodyguard Romance

Characters: Cassian Keane (m!LI) x Viviana (Ana) Marin (MC /OC)

Rating/Warning: Adult Language, Adult Content ⚠️⚠️18+ ⚠️⚠️

Word Count: 1700+

Base in Play: 2nd

Summary: Ana escapes from Cassian, once more. Going over what he has learned about her, wondering where she could have gone, a place from her past life, a place of comfort. But he needs to find her before the ones that want her gone do.

A/N: I know this book gets a lot of hate and at times deserving so. It had its moments but those were far in between. So I took the concept of the book, some scenarios from what I remember and from a quick search and I'll be making it my own as much as possible. Because HELLO BODYGUARD ROMANCE!! (I'm thinking of you Mr. Rhys 'crawl to me' Larsen)

A/N 2: Viviana (Ana) Marin is a mix of the MC with OC characteristics in her. I am hoping that she speaks to me in more of Original Character sense because lets face it, the witness MC is possibly not the best out there. And Cassian needs better than what was given to us!! Please excuse any errors, I tried to edit as best I could!

A/N 3: This fic is for Day 1 of Spring Fever Pitch, it contains adult language and 2nd base action. Location Location Location! Nothing hotter than things getting hot in a library.

Characters and some scenarios in use belong to our friends at Pixelberry!

📖📖📖📖

How the hell did mange to slip pass me? I was still trying to figure that out. It wasn’t the first time, she did the first night we met and look where it landed her. Didn’t she know the danger that was surrounding her, wondering the city, an easy target for the ones that wanted her gone. I needed to find her before they did and before my boss knew she was missing.

I was in deep shit once I had to report what happened.

With a woman like her, book -fucking- smart, beautiful and god so stubborn, she needed to be shown just how dangerous the streets were for her without my protection. And once I found her, that was exactly what I was going to do.

I was done playing games, done babying her, done trying to make this situation as understanding as possible. It was my job and her life on the line for god’s sake. The file we had on her, ran through my mind. Needing to remember the places that she frequented, the spots that made her feel like she had a normal life, even if that life was no longer hers.

Parks, downtown, clubs, the campus where she worked— I run my hands through the thickness of my dark hair and sighed, she wasn’t dumb enough to go back to her apartment. There was a place somewhere in this city that made it feel like her old self, the real her. Not the woman she was trying to be that night I met her, the night she ran into the people that changed her life forever.

The party-goer was not her, that much I knew. I watched her in silence in my apartment where we were staying before the safe house was secured for us to move to.

“Where did you go Viviana?” I whisper into the night, allowing myself to say her real name, the sun had set some time ago. The craving of a long pull from a cigarette makes my hand tremble, my hand fisted at the urge before releasing it easing the need a touch. I quit that habit a few weeks ago, the need for it was strong right now, knowing it would ease the tension and help clear my mind.

I scan my surroundings, the neighborhood stilling for the night. Nothing seemed out of place, the small neighborhood I called home for years went by as it did every night, not an action out of place.

Viviana, Ana, as she liked to be called was going on hour two of escaping from my home. “Think Cass think!” I mutter out, that day replaying in my head for what felt like the thousandth time.

I was up before she was, Ana had wanted to make our breakfast this morning, I thought nothing of it. Like she always did, she excused herself to the spare room that had become hers. I, on the other hand checked in, gave updates, which weren’t many and received them, along with a new timeline of our move to the safe house.

Ana had come down stairs with a book in her hand, not just any book. I recognized the book, the cover well worn, the spine cracked after many reads as it passed through the Keane family. It was in my possession now, my mothers favorite Irish love story.

I didn’t dare take it from her, the look that settled on her face I only saw once. Our night together that seemed so long ago now. The way she spoke of her love of ancient myths and the classical writings of famous authors. Any other man would have been turned off by such a subject but not me, I was drawn in at the passion she exuded.

That's when it hit me, fuck. I know where she was, hoping she is still there. One of her favorite places and the second most dangerous place she could be.

After getting in my car and driving to the university she had been employed at, I walked through the campus, a quiet night for the most part. A few groups of students passed me by as I made my way to the library. The building lights glowed, the air blowing inside instantly cooling everyone who entered.

It was quiet, too quiet for midweek. My awareness on high alert, there should be more people in here. I had to be careful, unable to draw my gun out, I didn’t need to scare the students that were here. A simple nod from the library staff sitting at the counter was all I got as I made my way deeper inside.

Walking pass the open area that housed tables and chairs for study groups, a handful or so of students here. None bothering to look up as I passed them by, all of them lost in their studies.

Heading further into the library, the ticking of my watch feeling like the only sound heard in the quiet space. My eyes roam looking for any movement, anything or anyone that shouldn't be here and there in the glow of a lamp is her reflection on the window.

Ana’s long chocolate colored hair gone, in its place was short. dirty blonde hair, she was still incredibly breathtaking. Unable to see the green in her eyes with her nose stuck in book.

Silently closing the space that separates us. My anger building at the carelessness she has of her surroundings. “Do you know how dangerously stupid this was?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ana jumps in her seat at the sound of my voice. Looking up at the reflection of us in the window. Our eyes lock on each other, my jaw tensing as the silent minutes pass by.

“You scared me Cassian.” Ana whispers.

“I scared you?” I chuckle at her statement. “I could have been anyone, you lost in a book at a library you came to often before entering Witsec. People you worked with roaming the campus, one word of you being seen here could get to those that want you gone. What if the people who want you dead were roaming around and you wouldn’t have a clue of what is going on until it was too late.”

Her bottom lip trembles at my words, praying that she understands what could have happened with this little escape. “I…I’m sorry. I needed to get out.” Ana pushes her seat back to stand, turning around to face me.

The need to show her what real danger she was in evaporates when her emerald green steal my breath from my lungs the moment they truly land on me.

I needed to protect her, not only because it was my job but I've come to like her far too much for our own good.

There’s a hesitation in my step, the urge to close the space between us and take her in my arms. Every fiber in me wanting to relive the memories, the ones that still haunt my dreams, of our night together. The way her lips moved with mine, her hands running up and down my back with her legs wrapped around my waist.

Running my hand through my hair, damn it. I’m going to regret this but I needed her in my arms. One quick stride and my arms are wrapped around hers, one around her waist pulling her in and the other at the back her neck, exposing that sensitive skin and making her mouth ready for me to take.

My darken gaze searching her eyes for permission, the slightest opening of her mouth and the breath that hitches in her throat let’s me know she wants this too.

My mouth presses into hers, Ana moves her lips against mine trying to grab control as she takes a groan out of me. Pushing her back into the table, pulling away, Ana breaks our kiss when she jumps on and spreads her thighs open for me to fit between.

My chest heaving as the air fills into my lungs, her hands find their way under the hem on my gray t-shirt, her touch against my bare skin making me flinch at the contact. “Cass.” My name filled with promise of what’s to come as it slips from her lips.

Placing a kiss on the corner of her mouth then moving along her jaw and down her neck. My own hands roaming over the swells of her breast, making quick work of the buttons of her shirt. Pushing it open revealing her white bra against her tanned skin. Her back arches pushing her breast out wanting more.

Taking one, the weight of it perfect in my hand before pulling the cup of her bra down, revealing her pebbled nipple, my hooded gaze looking up at the woman before me, my Ana, watching her reaction when I pinch her nipples tighter. Smiling as her head falls back and that sweet moan causing my pants to get tighter.

My mouth and tongue ready to devour the sight in front of me, when the screech of a chair stops me. My years of training kicking in at the sound, my hand wrapping around the handle of my gun, ready to face whoever snuck behind us.

“Sorry.” A timid girl, hands filled with books says, runs away from the scene she stumbled on, the instant I turn around.

My head drops, I let myself get carried away in the moment, damn it! My job was to protect her not claim her whenever she looked at me. This was just a lapse in judgement, never to happen again.

Her life was in danger, for all I know I could have put it more in danger and all I wanted was to take her right here, to finish what we started, but that would never happen.

Rolling my shoulders back and straightening myself out, with the heat of the moment gone, Marshall Keane settling back in. My next words were cold, short and indifferent. “Fix yourself. It’s not safe, we’ve been out for too long.”

“Cassian.” My name being called out as a plea.

“Please.” I want to say her name but she wasn’t Viviana or Ana anymore, and calling her by her name would be the third stupidest thing I would’ve done tonight. “Listen for once.”

Ana’s little escape could have been the end of her. I needed to keep her at arms length, for my sanity and her safety. I had a job to do and Ana clouding my mind would be a disaster for the both of us.

I just didn’t know if I could stay away.

event tag: @springfeverpitch

#spring fever pitch #choices spring fever pitch #choices witness: bodyguard romance #choices m!Cassian #Cassian x Viviana #choices stories you play

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luveline · 11 months

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𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

one | two | three | four

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

You hadn’t realised moving right along your hemisphere would be enough to change the weather. The UK is cold and often rain-soaked, while Genovia has been nothing but sunny. It's a nice change, and the sun on your skin almost removes the insecurity of wearing a dress that isn’t yours. You feel pretty. You feel as yourself as you have in the days since this whole thing began.

“Sorry,” James says, standing in the sunshine with his hands crossed primly behind his back, “you’re what?”

You sit up properly in the window seat. He deserves every ounce of respect that you can give him, he’s been nothing but caring and kind since you met. You almost regret your decision to leave, if only because you wont get to witness him and his nice friends.

Who will be separated once again, your brain adds helpfully. Thanks to you.

“I'm going home.” Your sketchbook is supple under your hands, a thick and expensive leather bending from the force of your squeeze.

He has the most professional look on his face you've ever seen from him. “If you’ve forgotten something-”

“James,” you say. You'd said quite plainly only moments ago your intentions. “I can't be a princess.” You soften your tone. “I’m sorry.”

“You are a princess. By blood.”

Sleeping on it hasn't made it a truth that’s any easier to accept. You are biologically the daughter of the late Prince of Genovia. He was your father, and now he’s dead. It is agonising to think of, and so you can’t. You look down at the sketchbook pressed flush to your linen skirts, the fabric plain and yet gorgeously rendered. It’s the nicest thing you’ve ever worn. You wonder if they might let you keep it after you renounce your title.

“I can't do this,” you say quietly.

You’re ashamed of yourself, but you really can't do this. You cannot live through your life changing in such a huge way, you aren’t built for it; you've only just learned to function in your tiny flat on your equivalent uni course. You’re finally in a position, as lonely as it might be, where you feel okay with who you are. If you were to accept the task theyre trying to hoist upon you, become a princess, live forever in the limelight surrounded by a better breed of royal, it’ll destroy you.

“You can. Of course you can.”

You look up cautiously. James’ mouth is set in a line. He looked so pleased when he walked in, and he'd given you a compliment subtly and easy as breathing. You worry he wants to take it back now that you’ve thrown in the towel, but he’d never do anything so spiteful. And it’s silly —you’re thinking about a compliment while his life and job are teetering.

It’s just one of the reasons you aren't cut out for this.

“It’s your job to be a good judge of character, right? You read people,” you say tentatively.

He nods. “Yeah. That’s how I know you can do this.”

You set aside your sketchbook and pencil, wringing your hands together as you stand. “You must see it, James. I’m not meant for this, I’m…” Weak, you won't say. There's no use in dramatics. You plaster a smile over your worrying and wear it like you're sure of yourself. “It will be better for everyone if I give up now.”

James looks over his shoulder. Upon his entry, the guard at your side had moved to the doorway to stand with Daniels, and so the room is empty besides the two of you. He takes a step toward you, and he drops his head noticeably. As if he could intimidate you when he's so so sweet.

“It won't be better for everyone,” he says slowly. “Not for the people of Genovia, they need an heir to take the throne.”

“Julianna–”

“Julianna isn't eligible.” He shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain. But Genovia needs a queen, a good queen, someone with a good heart.”

Your heart leaps into your throat at the idea of ruling. “James, you don't even know me. I could ruin everything.”

“You said it yourself, Princess. I’m a good judge of character.”

You fall silent. You don't want to argue with him, you don't have even an ounce of malice for him.

"You're a princess, you– you haven't even tried," he says pleadingly.

You trick yourself into thinking James wants you to stay because he wants to be your friend. You know you're desperate for one. Back home, the closest you have to friends are the people who wait at the same bus stop each morning and each night, or your classmates at the college. James could be your friend, you know he would be if you stayed. He's remarkably kind.

But James wants you to stay for a myriad of reasons. For Genovia. For his friends.

"I just want to go home," you confess weakly.

Heat rises to your cheeks and throat, a lump you can't swallow.

"Okay," James says. "Alright."

He nods at you, a picture of a perfect professional, and turns to leave. You open your mouth to say something, but you don't have a clue as to what, and by the time he's left the room you've drummed up nothing more than a pitiful, "James."

You're part way to unexplainable tears when Remus appears. He looks startled at your expression, and you can't make any sense of it yourself, so you mumble, "Please don't ask."

"Do you want a tissue?" he asks sympathetically.

You shake your head.

Remus looks unhappy again, as he had on the plane. His pale skin is nearly grey. You debate asking if he's doing okay, but you've just told him to leave you alone. You assume from his expression he'd prefer the same.

"Do you want to come have some dinner with me?" he asks.

"That's okay, I don't think I'll be in need of any etiquette training after all," you say.

"As friends," he says. "Please. I don't like going down to the kitchen by myself, Marlene harasses me."

Marlene, a dark haired, dark-eyed girl with a sweetheart shaped face and hands covered in tiny burns, does harass Remus, but not in the way you'd thought.

"Eat up, Moony," she says, placing yet another plate in front of him, bringing the total up to ten.

You sit thigh to thigh with him on a small bench set aside in a room just off the kitchens that says 'Staff Only' on the door. Despite this, no one has objected to your sitting down. At least, not yet.

"Marlene, I physically cannot eat all this."

"Ah, but the Princess will help." Marlene smiles at you. She seems genuine. "She needs to get used to our cuisine."

You can't endure the awkwardness of explaining your situation. You smile 'til your eyes crinkle in the corners and take a big mouthful of some mysterious soup rather than speak.

"Ah, Remus, we've been making bone broth for Her Majesty, it's supposed to do wonders for your heart," Marsha adds. She's the opposite of Marlene but no less beautiful, pale and blonde as cornsilk with fine eyebrows and translucent lashes. In the sun leaking in from the window, she's quite golden. "We can set you some aside whenever we make it for her, love."

Remus smiles. "Thank you."

Marsha and Marlene both sequester themselves again behind the huge silver ovens. You've never seen anything like it, a marvel of modern machinery in the industrial instrumentation that heats the room. The windows have been thrown open to combat the thick and fragrant air, but you're still sweating.

"D'you need a drink?" he asks.

"I can't get them."

"Please, Princess. I don't need another person trying to take care of me." He doesn't say it spitefully, but you're sorry all the same.

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to patronise you–"

"I know," he says, standing up. "Trust me, I know. You're just being polite, because you're nice." He smiles. "I'll get us a carafe, okay?"

A carafe. Of what? Do royals drink only from carafes? Is it weird to ask for a coke? You turn your gaze back to the rich foods that have been laid out in front of you and pick up a fork. Then, upon reflection, you swap the fork for the appropriate one, and finish the small portion of chicken ragù you'd set aside.

"Ah-ha!" a familiar voice calls. "Y/N! Here you are. Is my Remus with you, or are you very hungry?"

You twist on the bench to face him. "Your Remus?"

Your question slipped out, really. Sirius grins and sits down to your right. "We have to talk funeral."

"Oh. Alright."

He clasps your forearm for a gentle second.

"Sorry. Truly. I'm so sorry for your loss. I promise I'll make this as easy for you as I can, okay? You'll be in the public eye, and I want to make sure you do nothing that anyone can fault you for."

He has a strange mouth. Not ugly, a million miles from it, but unexpected. It pulls down into a grimace as he talks, his hand patting yours.

"I won't have to speak, will I?"

He shakes his head firmly. "No. All you have to do is look pretty and dress well. You're already doing the first part beautifully by yourself, and I will make sure you have plenty of options for the second part, yeah?"

"Oh, hi, Sirius," Remus says, back with a carafe and two glasses.

"Hello," Sirius says, "did you get asked about the bone broth yet?"

Remus sits on your other side and huffs. "Yes. Did you put them up to that?"

"The opposite! I told them not to bug you about it because bone broth sounds a little…"

"Old-fashioned?"

"Inhumane."

You laugh and fail to smother it with the back of your hand. It feels weird because it hadn't explicitly been a conversation involving you, but neither tell you off or give you a funny look. Remus laughs at your laughing and pours your drink for you, a pale orange liquid topped by slices of orange, blood orange and white flowers.

You take a cautious sip.

"Have you seen my darling James this morning?" Sirius asks Remus from behind you.

"Not since he left my room."

You choke on your drink. Hands smashed to your mouth, juice drips down your arms and ruins the bodice of your dress, sticky orange and spit everywhere. The boys either side of you splutter in shock, though Sirius begins to laugh as Remus presses a tissue into your hands.

"Are you okay?" Remus asks, patting your back.

"I'm fine," you say hoarsely, wiping yourself down with impressive speed as the heat of embarrassment rises.

"Something go down the wrong pipe?"

You're honest by accident, extremely startled by your choking and the subsequent question, "I didn't know James and Remus– that you were– sorry, I was just surprised–"

"Oh, no," Remus says, sounding almost as embarrassed as you now, "no, we aren't. I mean, he's my best friend. He's like my brother."

"Oh," you say, squeaking, desperately hoping the ground will open up and eat you whole.

"We aren't romantically involved," Remus says, and you get the sense that's where he plans to end this conversation.

"Yet," Sirius whispers in your ear.

Remus shakes his head at you solemnly.

Desperate to get away from an awkward conversation despite Sirius' good humour, you stand up from the bench and duck your head at both of them. "Um, I'll just go get some paper towels. Sorry. For spitting."

"Forgiven," Sirius says easily.

You rush away from them both out of the alcove and into the main body of the kitchen. Heads turn as you walk, and some staff even take the time to incline their heads to you like a small bow, but you ignore them all and head straight for Marlene. She smiles when she senses your approach, full lips cherry red and shiny as she asks, "Is there something I can do for you, Your Highness?"

"I'm so sorry," you begin, "I've made a mess, could I get some kitchen towel? Sorry."

"Of course! Can I have someone come and clean it up for you?"

"No, please, it's my mess, and you've been gracious enough to allow me in your space. I couldn't have anyone else do it."

"It's really no problem," Marlene says, but she walks to the utility cupboard south of the huge pantry and produces a roll of kitchen towels for you.

"Thank you." Then, because you might be leaving soon, and she should know, "I– I've never had so many nice foods at once. I can't cook, at home. Everything I eat is from a jar or a tin," —you cough, worried that was an overshare— "and it's nothing compared to all of this. You guys are amazing."

Marlene's smile softens. You hadn't realised she was being diplomatic until genuineness welled to the surface of her expression, her eyes suddenly brighter, and her smile unrestrained. "We work hard, and we love what we do. Thank you, Your Highness."

You rub your lips together and nod. Spinning on your heel, you navigate out of the kitchen as quickly as you can without running clean into someone and return to the staff alcove, where Remus and Sirius sit with their heads together, in the middle of a conversation you can't hear.

You hesitate a few steps away. Remus smiles widely, so widely his face changes completely, and Sirius' hand drifts to his elbow. His thumb presses into the crook, and they both giggle together like kids. You're paranoid that they're laughing at you, and wondering how you could think for even a second that Remus was sleeping with James, when Sirius tucks his hair behind his ear and says, "I can't believe we're finally in the same place again."

You back away. Not sure what to do with yourself, not sure if what you've already done is the wrong thing. You're guilty, and you're afraid of making the wrong choice, having already made it.

A hand pats your shoulder.

"Sorry, Mikkelson," you say.

It's not Mikkelson. James' hand lingers on your shoulder for a half second before he takes a step back.

"Walk with me?" he asks.

—

James takes you out to the Palace Gardens. You insist on walking side by side, and he agrees for the most part because here is where you're best protected.

"I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly. I had something to do. How are you feeling?"

"How am I feeling?" you ask softly. "I don't…"

"You had some very big news yesterday. So, how are you feeling?"

You squint in the sun. James supposes you aren't used to it, considering you'd been living in one of the rainiest cities in the UK, which is one of the greyest countries in the world.

"I feel fine," you say.

Truth or lie. Probably a lie, but James can't call you out on it, considering your relatively new relationship. A professional relationship at that, the lines of which he has already crossed multiple times.

He can't help it. You're not weak, you aren't in need of his protection for lack of character —you're quite obviously very brave considering the insane pressure of your situation. Brave, but it's James' job anyhow to be your shield.

You get this look on your face like you're deep in thought, he's seen it every day since he met you five days ago, and it reminds him of his melancholy friends. He wonders how he's going to get rid of it.

"I've spoken to our Palace doctor." Even though it is not his job, James seems to have taken on the majority of your care. Your lady in waiting has yet to arrive, and Sirius is rather busy arranging your presence at your father's funeral (and hounding Remus, having missed him dearly). "She would love to have an appointment with you, to assess you, and to adjust for your medical needs. But it's not the physical that I'm concerned about, it's your head."

"My head."

"Yes. I would love for you to talk to a counsellor, or a therapist while you're here."

"What's the point?" you ask sincerely.

"Your father has passed away," he says. "That takes a toll."

"I didn't even really know him." You speak so softly to him, like you're worried your voice will disrupt the summer air.

"I know. That doesn't always make it easier. I want you to experience the compassion and care that you deserve, that's all. If you don't want to talk to anyone, I understand. But if you'll humour me, I'd appreciate it."

"When… do you want me to see her?"

"The doctor?" James winces at his own surprise. "You can see her whenever you want to. She's completely at your discretion."

"Oh, okay. Well, when is best for her?"

James doesn't smile, but he wants to. "I believe she goes home to pick up her son at six. So before then would probably suit her best. But she's on call twenty four hours a day and paid well, I promise."

"Okay. Um. Well, how do I do that? Make an appointment, or?"

"I can make it for you. Or Sirius can."

"I can't make it myself?"

"No, you can. Do you want me to call for someone to get her? Or you can ask the phone to connect you?"

You stop walking at your slow pace and turn your body to the beds of flowers lining the path. Small and dainty flowers much like a Californian wildflower bloom contained to rows.

"Would you mind doing it for me?" you ask. You sound shame-faced.

"No, I wouldn't mind. When do you want to see her?" James asks.

"Not today, please. Maybe tomorrow."

James makes a mental note to ask you about it tomorrow. She really is on call —there's no need to make an appointment. But there's also no need to correct you and no need to worry about it now.

"The Prince, may he rest in peace, will be buried in five days. You're sure you don't mind staying until then?" He doesn't want you to leave, but the memory of your plea twists his guts. I just want to go home.

"I–yes. Of course. I owe it."

James doesn't know about that. But the Prince never did any harm to you, though he never made any efforts to take care of you, and so it won't hurt for you to attend. Still…

"You don't have to go if you don't want to. I know that Lily and Emmeline stressed that your presence was desired, but that's political. It's the image of the country, of our country. And the UK, who's royal family, as you know yourself, are deeply embroiled in scandal and, ah, what's thought to be empty rhetoric."

You're starting to look rather frazzled. James decides to pull back his professionalism a touch.

"Genovia protects the image of the Royal family because they've seen how ire builds in other countries. Deserved ire. They want it to seem as though you are cohesive, cooperative, and not–"

"A secret."

"Yes. If you'd gone to Oxford, they would've lied," —he shouldn't be saying this, for the record— "and said you'd been extradited for your safety. Or spun some tale about a normal childhood."

"But I'm a drop out who lives in a one bedroom flat."

"Yes." He watches the side of your face. Your eyes are glued to the flowers and unwavering. "I don't think there's any shame in that."

"Thanks," you mumble.

You don't believe him. He doesn't mind. He has plenty of time to convince you of your worth.

"Would you like to pick some of the flowers?" he asks.

"I don't want to ruin anyone's hard work."

"They won't mind."

You crouch down, reaching for the flowers. Your fingers weave through the dark stems of gorgeous purple and pink flowers, their colours so marvellously vibrant yet their shapes elegant enough to suit. You choose a purple flower with white edges and pick it gently. After a moment, you pick a second.

You stand, holding the flowers between your thumb and forefinger.

You clutch your flowers like small lifelines as he walks you back into the palace. You worry audibly about the location of your new sketchbook, and don't seem to like it when one of the guards who'd been watching you this morning seamlessly removes himself from a wall with the book in hand.

James asks you what you want to do and you don't know. You aren't hungry, you aren't in the mood for movies or music and it might seem disrespectful for you to be seen at the theatre —not that James thinks you would spend much time there anyhow. You don't want to do anything at all, so James suggests that you retire to your private quarters and have some time to yourself.

He takes up station by the door, listening to the dull scratching of your pencil for a good hour. He wonders if, occasionally, you're talking to yourself: there isn't much to go off of, the suggestion of your voice rather than the reality. You could be humming. You might be clearing your throat.

An hour later and there's silence.

James pulls his radio from his shoulder. Guarding you when you aren't up for talking is, unfortunately, rather dull. And he worries what it is you're upto; quiet is indicative of absence.

"Sirius?" he asks the radio.

Sirius does not often wear a radio, and he has his pager even less. It's a wonder he gets anything done.

"James?" Remus asks, his voice crackling over the channel.

"Hey, is Sirius with you?"

"He's not. He's assembling a potential funeral wardrobe for Her Highness. Do you want me to go look for him?"

James almost laughs. "I have people for that. Mikkelson?"

He can practically hear Mickey's groan at being picked on before the man picks up his radio and says, "Yeah, sir?"

"Find Mr. Black, won't you? Thank you."

Hoping Sirius is on his way, James knocks your door.

He, professionally (and he is trying so hard to be a professional), should call you Princess or Your Highness. But both titles make your skin crawl now that they're fact, so he opts for neither.

"Are you alright in there?" he asks.

You don't answer. James sighs and eases open your door. He wouldn't usually, not every silence is ominous, and your privacy is a right, but your safety is the priority and at the moment you're a high level target whether James agrees with that assessment or not. If he were to ignore protocol, and you were annihilated, he would go to prison for a long, long time.

You're asleep at the desk.

James is honestly surprised. It can't be comfortable, and your bed is probably one of the comfiest in the world with a state of the art orthopaedic mattress and duck-down pillows and quilts. What's worse, your desk chair is solid wood and likely fifty years old. The crick in your neck and the damage to your back will be extraordinary.

And yet, it isn't James' job to wake you up.

Professionally, James should leave. He should go back to his posting at the door. He has no need to wake you.

You're frowning in your sleep. When you wake, he imagines you'll have graphite rubbed into your cheek.

James sighs and leaves the room.

"You wanted to see me?" Sirius asks, sounding spritely as he walks down the hallway toward him.

"Hello," James says, and if they were in school he would stand up from a slouching pose against the wall and collect Sirius into a bear hug, slapping his back, maybe pulling a lock of his hair while saying something flirtatious.

He stands at rigid attention.

"Drop the stance, my love," Sirius says. James snorts. "There's no one here to see you."

"It's not the point."

"I know. What did you want? I'm quite busy."

"Could you start carrying your pager, please? Or better, a radio? Then you wouldn't have to cross the entire building to find me."

"You could've called me?" Sirius suggests.

"I don't have a phone while I'm working."

"Well, that's silly."

"I was…" He lowers his voice. "I'm worried the Princess is lonely."

"Then go talk to her."

"I can't. You know as well as I do that the point of my being here is to protect her to the best of my ability, and that requires an unaffected point of view. I can't give her my full attention while giving her safety my full attention, that doesn't add up."

"Then grab a couple of other men and then go speak to her."

"This is my job, Sirius. I'm paid to do this."

"Not paid to make sure she's in company," Sirius says. He smiles at James like he's won the argument and James, brimming with brotherly affection, wants to chop him in the stomach.

"Her mental health–"

"Yes, I know. Just as important as physical. And while you wear the badge with pride, James, it still isn't your job." Sirius leans against the wall opposite. The hallways here are huge. It is quite the gap. "I was thinking I'd make her an appointment with Cindy."

"She said she'll make one tomorrow."

"Oh, brilliant. You know, Cindy's getting a divorce?"

"I didn't know that," James says. "How do you know that?"

Sirius taps the side of his nose before crossing his arms tightly across his chest, looking smug. "She's very single now, Jamie. And very pretty, she's a redhead."

"Sirius…"

Sirius stands, stretches and meets James at your doorway. "Okay, fine, I can see you're not in the mood."

"It's not because of you."

"I know that, thanks," Sirius says, stepping on James' steel-capped boot as he pushes past him.

"Sirius–"

Sirius pulls his hand back from your door handle. "What?" he asks.

"She's sleeping. Try to wake her nicely."

"If she's sleeping, why does she need company?"

James nods toward your door insistently.

Sirius does as he's being asked because he's a sweetheart with entirely too much time for James, despite also being on the clock. James can't see anything from his position, but he can hear your conversation.

Sirius lets himself into the room. He likely shakes your shoulder with care as he says, "Princess Y/N, poor darling, are you alright?"

"Sorry," you say scratchily. Here James thinks you might've lifted your head and discovered the crick in your neck. "Oh, I'm sorry, am I supposed to be somewhere?"

"No." There's an unmistakable fondness in Sirius tone, hiding just beneath the practised facade that comes with working for Royalty. "Do you want me to help you into bed? Or call for an attendant?"

"No, no, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… Sorry. What did you need?"

"I have some clothes picked out for you to wear to the funeral proceedings. I want your opinion, but I don't need it right now. You can go back to bed if you like."

"No," you say. James feels for you. No, no, no. "I can do whatever you need me to."

"Why don't you freshen up, first? James stole you at dinner, I'll go have him order something sweet to the fitting rooms, alright?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Sirius emerges from your room and gives James an elbowing. "You could've woken her up. You're not heartless."

"I'm technically not allowed in there if she doesn't permit me."

"She doesn't know that, and I'm sure she'd prefer a wake up call than to be left like that." Sirius rubs one of his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Sorry, I'm not shouting at you. But I really don't think you need to worry about permission and not speaking to her. She's not Julianna," his voice drops to a murmur, "she doesn't think she's above us."

"I don't care if she does," James says honestly. Not because he thinks you should feel superior, but because he learned a long time ago that people do, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. "Mary's back tomorrow. If she catches even a whiff of how I've been behaving–"

Sirius holds James' gaze. "Poor girl had pencil on her face."

"Yes."

"They're going to eat her alive."

"Probably."

"But we won't let them," Sirius says.

"Not willingly."

Sirius nods. "Are you coming with us?"

"Yeah." He checks his watch. "Couple hours left yet 'til six. Are you off at the same time?"

"No, are you kidding? I finish at three like a normal person."

"That's not normal. Ever heard the phrase nine to five?"

"Normal compared to the royals, who work never to never."

James shushes him. Sirius shushes James back.

"Are we ready to go?" you ask.

James grins at the shock on Sirius' face, as if to say, What, you didn't hear her? Even though he'd barely heard your approach himself. A picture of politeness, Sirius ushers you down the hallway with him.

You trek down onto the first floor, through the huge foyer and into the main section of the palace hiding behind the grand banquet hall. Here resides the fitting rooms, not too far from the servants quarters in case the tailors or maids are required.

Sirius calls for an attendant despite the horror on your face at the suggestion as he leads you into the biggest fitting room. It's almost like a shop, in that it houses racks upon racks of clothing no doubt loaned in for Sirius' perusal.

He drags a smaller rack to the centre of the room.

"How do you feel about trying things on? Do you need a partition?" Sirius looks at you for a few seconds. "I'll call for one."

You look like you've been slapped.

James clears his throat. "He knows you're shy," he says.

You take that much better. "Yeah. I do want the partition. Please."

James weighs up the possibility of your possible murder and decides the chances are still too high to offer to leave. He truly won't be able to see you behind the partition, and it's not worth the administrative hell in any case. He hates how his job makes him constantly aware of how you might be murdered, but he likes knowing he could protect you with force. It evens out.

"A fancy education may have helped me be where I am today, but it doesn't account for style or taste." Sirius smiles, propping himself on the arm of a suede armchair. "Which is my saying that you don't have to like what I like, and if you hate stuff just say. I won't be offended, Your Highness."

"Please, no Your Highness," you murmur.

"James says I dress like a socialite with too much money and not enough taste."

"I do say that," James says.

You laugh under your breath. "Well, I'm sure you've better taste than me. I've never been to an event like this, I don't want to embarrass myself, so, um, don't let me."

"I won't," Sirius says.

Sirius understands the fashion tastes of the elite even if he doesn't personally enact them. He passes you an outfit, and you disappear behind the propped up partition to change. With the windows closed and the curtains drawn, only the overhead light is in play, and your shadow is reflected onto the floor to the left. James averts his eyes.

You try on a couple of outfits. James tries very hard to look as though he's not paying attention to your squirming unhappiness at the fit and look of your clothes. You get more and more embarrassed as time moves forward. The attendant Sirius summoned, a tailor named Melinda, offers suggestions of alterations and what she thinks would suit your silhouette most.

"Do I have one?" you ask.

"A silhouette?" Melinda asks, a push pin in between her teeth. "Sure you do."

"My stomach–"

"Is that a problem area?" Melinda asks.

"I thought so–"

"If you're worried, we can find something that fits the to the chest and loosens at your abdomen," Sirius says, "but I don't think you need to worry."

James agrees. You aren't skinny and James isn't stupid, he knows the immense stigma surrounding your body type must have battered your self-esteem growing up, but he thinks you're pretty and that you've a lovely shape to you. The idea that you have to hide certain body parts when there's nothing wrong with them in the first place has him biting his tongue, wanting to comment and knowing he definitely should not. You've looked nice in everything you've put on, smart and proper for an unfortunate event.

"I don't know," you mumble.

Sirius has amazing crisis averting senses, having micromanaged a spoiled narcissist for years. You don't require nearly as much petting or fawning, and you aren't throwing a tantrum either way.

"Let's finish for today," he says. "We can look at everything with fresh eyes, and I'm off at three."

James cringes and Melinda looks at him like he's grown a second head; you don't mention the end of a shift in front of the royals. He knows this, and he knows that you don't know this, so Sirius is absolutely pushing his luck. You're a thoughtful girl —you immediately agree.

Though that might be on account of how you look like you've been thrown a life raft. "Okay, thank you," you say, beginning to put clothes back on their hangers.

Sirius waves you away. "Leave some work for the rest of us, Your Sweetness."

Again, second head.

James opens the door and takes you back through the maze of the Palace before Sirius can commit a sackable offence. You're as quiet as you've been all day, your footsteps the only proof that you're present as you climb the steps to the second floor.

Professionalism, James thinks.

"I think you looked nice in everything," he says.

The opposite of professionalism. Oh, he could vault over the bannister.

He just wanted to see you smile today, a real smile, or at least hear something sure in your voice that proves he's made the right decision. That you won't be totally miserable if he convinces you to take on the mantle.

"Yeah?" you say, though you don't give him any time to answer. "I don't– I don't want to look good for a funeral, it's a funeral, but I know it'll be on TV, and maybe in the newspapers, so I don't want to be badly dressed and I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to even like…" You nibble your lip for a while before heaving a big sigh. "Sorry, I'm doing this again, I'm giving you jobs that aren't your job."

"It's relatively easy to tell you that you looked good. It's not a job."

"You don't have to comfort me, is what I mean."

"That's also easy… and it will definitely be in the newspapers. For a long time."

"Oh, sugar."

James holds his hand out as you trip up a short step, but you don't fall, and you don't need his offered help. He tucks his hand behind his back again and follows your lead.

"Newspapers, the news in general, people, they can all be very, very horrible, but I think the focus will be on your DNA, rather than your outfit. I mean, the gossip rags and tabloids will absolutely pick you apart, but they do it everybody, and I won't let you read those."

People are cruel. They don't even realise it.

"Whatever outfit you choose, you'll look good, and people will hate it anyway," he says.

"That sounds awful."

"It is. But… they can't stop you from being you. It's better to do what you want to do without worrying about how it'll look to everyone on the outside. You should do what you think is right."

Okay, he's not exclusively talking about clothes anymore, but his point stands.

"What if I look like an idiot?" you ask him quietly.

"You'll look like an exceedingly well-dressed one."

A sharp veer. Even the word 'professionalism' is starting to annoy him.

"Don't stress, yeah? We'll work it all out tomorrow."

You rub your elbow as the two of you approach your room again. "Thanks, James."

He's on a knife's edge here. Break the rules and face Mary's wrath. Stick to them blindly and drive you further and further from the crown.

James, selfishly, needs you to want this. And if you need a friend, a real friend, to do that, then he can toe the line. He decides it right there on your door jam.

"Princess," he says, "I have to talk to you about something."

"Okay… what is it?"

"When you go home, I'll be coming with you."

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! if you did, I’d love it if you let me know <3 also sry the next part should hopefully be delivered faster lol

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