Damien inspects his nails, seemingly bored.

“You were seen sneaking off the estate at two in the morning. Hardly subtle.”

“Seen? Seen by whom? One of those lecherous security men Father keeps around?”

“Actually, I was fortunate enough to witness it all firsthand,” he responds smoothly. “Out drinking and whoring, weren’t you? That skirt you wore was barely two inches long.”

“Well, it certainly beats that ghastly mask of yours. I think it looks cheap. Tacky. Like something bought in haste at a run-down costume shop. Quite frankly — I think it looks like shit.”

Something dark flits across his expression before he huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Now you’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

“Were you the one who told Father about last night?” you demand abruptly.

“I didn’t need to. It’s all over social media,” he drawls. “Your little antics cost Father a small fortune.”

“Coming from you, that’s rich.”

Damien smiles nastily.

“Oh dear, I do hope Father doesn’t see fit to revoke your driving privileges.”

The words come out as a petulant whine.

“He can’t possibly do that.”

Damien appears unfazed by your spoiled response.

“Well, we wouldn’t want you running down anyone else now, would we?”

He pushes off from the wall, coming close.

“But don’t fret, perhaps I’ll put in a good word or two for you.”

Your gaze narrows.

“In exchange for what?”

He smirks.

“Nothing. Call it an act of … brotherly love.”

He tugs lightly on a strand of your hair.

“A little parting gift before I leave for Prague tomorrow.”

“Prague?”

His expression twists.

“Off to clean up another clusterfuck. Courtesy of that glorified chandelier.”

“Oh, that’s right,” you say sweetly, unable to resist an opportunity to twist the knife in. “I nearly forgot. You’re its glorified lapdog.”

The moment the words leave you, a searing pain flashes through your scalp where he’s yanked your hair.

You wince — hard.

“What do you think is going to happen if MI — bloody — six discovers that everything Father’s been feeding them is a lie?” he snaps harshly, eyes flashing with something that scares even you. “We can kiss our inheritance goodbye. That’s what.”

He lets go after a strained moment before straightening, composure settling over him.

“I do what needs to be done so you can go on living like this,” he says crisply. “Without a care in the world, sipping champagne, driving fast cars …”

Damien eyes you shamelessly.

“Wearing those … little skirts you’re so terribly fond of.”

“Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse to run off and play warlord with that private army of yours,” you snipe pettily, scalp still stinging.

A faint, infuriating smile crosses his features.

Your face tightens. You turn on your heel.

“Now, hold on for just a moment,” he drawls. “No kiss goodbye for your only brother?”

The words come venomously.

“And why. On Earth. Would I do such a thing?”

“Because if you don’t, your little party favours might just find their way to Father.”

He holds up a small bag of white powder, the one you keep tucked away in a self-help book with a hollowed-out compartment inside.

“Now, wouldn’t that be inconvenient? I highly doubt you’d be allowed near a car for the next thirty years.”

The corners of his mouth curl up.

“Devious little girl. Hiding it where you did.”

Something hot and ugly flares within you.

“Give it back.”

“Give me a kiss first,” he taunts. “Just a little one.”

“I said, give it back!”

He’s taller — always has been, ever since you were kids — and you’ve scarcely lifted a hand when he seizes your wrist and drags you towards him.

“And I said,” he begins, voice dropping dangerously, breath ghosting your cheek. “To give your brother a kiss goodbye.”

A brief moment of contemplation.

Then —

You’ve only just managed to tilt your chin up before his mouth greedily seizes yours, practically devouring you — leaving you struggling for air as a hand slips inside your silk blouse to roughly palm a breast, pinching your nipple in that way you’ve always secretly enjoyed.

He pulls away abruptly, breath uneven.

“Christ.”

Proceeds to carelessly drag the back of his hand across his mouth.

You smooth your blouse back into place.

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, voice still rough. “I don’t particularly like that man who’s always lurking around you.”

“Who?”

Damien gestures dismissively.

“Harry … something.”

“This isn’t the nineteenth century. There’s no need to defend my honour.”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to drag you off to some dark corner and ravish you in every position he can possibly think of,” he says without missing a beat.

“Jealous?”

“Hardly,” he dismisses coolly. “I’m merely looking out for you.”

He reaches out, straightens your collar.

“Or perhaps it isn’t the poor man’s fault at all. We both know you’re not nearly as innocent as you pretend to be. The first time you came into my room in the middle of the night …” He gives you a look. “Well — you might as well have seduced me. You practically started all this.”

“That’s not the least bit true.”

“Isn’t it?” He tilts his head slightly to the side. “Odd. I seem to remember it that way.”

“You have no power over me,” you declare fiercely.

“And where did you pick that up?” he asks, visibly unfazed. “Therapy?”

Damien leans down slightly to meet your eye-level.

“Run off and tell Daddy, if you’d like.” Bitterness creeps into his tone. “He did nothing for our mother. Don’t imagine he’d do anything for you.”

He runs his fingers across your cheek.

“In any case, you won’t,” he murmurs. “I think we both know that.”

Then, without warning — he drags your jaw in for another kiss — sloppy, unrestrained — fingers pressing hard into your skin.

“There,” he breathes out. “One more for the road.”

Damien releases you, then turns away as if nothing had happened.

It isn’t so awful, being back in London indefinitely (this is what he tells himself). London means stability (it’s been a good run, nearly five years, which is more than most agents can say), London means routine (he gets to decorate his desk, how exhilarating).

The flat sits somewhere in an upscale part of the city, nestled between a manicured park and a luxurious townhouse. Nice place, not much excitement.

James lets himself in, his days of playing guest now far behind. It’s come to a point where he practically lives here now. Leaves for work and returns here. Stocks up on groceries here — like in this instance — armed with bags from the corner shop (it’s all terribly domestic).

He kicks the door shut behind him.

The sound of bare feet against wooden flooring.

Your face, a constant these days.

“Oh, you bought groceries.”

An easy smile your way. He can’t help it. Never could.

“Told you I’d get them.”

And of course, London also means you.

London means he gets to be available, dependable (he tries, he really does) for you. It means being there in all the ordinary ways you’ve no doubt grown used to. Bit hard to make it for anything if he’s off gallivanting around the globe.

Besides, he owes you this much.

He drifts into the kitchen, busies himself with unpacking at the counter.

The space is familiar, intimate. Has been for a while.

Even before.

The dinners here, he was fondest of (almost always spent with discreet glances your way, because even then, he has always found you lovely — and back then, a line never to be crossed) — all hazy laughter, conversations that sometimes went nowhere, an endless flow of drinks (table’s only occupied by two now). Even his rare, short stays in the city at the time were sometimes passed in the guest room here instead of the flat he’d been given (an echo, somewhat, of his early days with Cressida and Monroe, the three of them under one roof). And then there was that Christmas he’d spent here, the best parts of which he’d memorised — your cheeks, flushed from all the wine, the sheer delight that lit up your face when he’d handed you your present, the playful, insistent pleas for him to play something on the piano, the card game he’d won in a three-player game.

“How was work today?”

You had followed him into the kitchen.

Yes, how was work today?

Aside from the petty theft he committed in the pantry (a sandwich, belonging to one Basil from accounting — said so on the label) and the coffee machine he broke entirely by accident (the latest casualty of a desk-bound existence — Moneypenny touched it last, mate. I’m just saying), it went … quite alright, actually. Reports filed on time (for once), an entire meeting endured (this time without contemplating various routes of escape — he’s identified three so far), and emails tactfully navigated (License not to reply?).

Nothing too shabby. Far cry from his days out in Antarctica, hanging off the edge of a cliff at minus thirty degrees, or defibrillating himself in a car park outside a Montenegrin casino, but he manages.

“Oh, you know how it goes,” he says, reaching into one of the bags. “Paperwork, staplers, post-its, the usual thrills. It’s all quite fascinating, really.”

“Exciting day then, I take it?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.

“That’s certainly one word for it.”

He continues unpacking. You lean over to peek at the now half-empty bags.

“You bought a lot this time.”

“Enough to survive a siege, really.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

He carries on.

“Just thought I’d do a bit of doomsday prep.”

Tips out the last bag, checks it once, then folds and sets it aside.

“There,” he announces. “Crisis averted.”

The small smile on your face is reward enough.

He moves around the kitchen now, sets everything aside with a habitual ease honed from years of having been in here — though only recently, in such a manner.

Still feels treacherous at times.

Cereal goes into the cabinet.

“And you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’d you do today?”

A subtle glance in your direction (How are you, really?) just in time to see you look away.

“Nothing much,” you say, still avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing much? That sounds … suspiciously vague.”

“Just did some tidying up,” you offer.

He looks over.

“Sounds productive.”

Somewhere outside, a dog barks.

A beat.

“Went through some old boxes,” you say somewhat casually.

His hands still for a fraction of a second, then recover almost immediately.

“The ones in the guest room?” he ventures.

Tea goes next to the coffee beans.

“Sure, James. The ones in there.”

Jesus.

The groceries now lay forgotten as the words slip out.

“You alright?”

A slight shrug. Your voice, smaller now.

“They’re just things that need sorting through.”

Things. Is that what you’ve taken to calling them now?

“Right,” he says.

A strained pause.

“You don’t have to rush it,” he tells you quietly.

“They’re just things,” you repeat.

“You haven’t touched them since —”

“The room needed clearing out,” comes your abrupt response.

And now …

Silence upon silence upon silence.

You stand rigid beside the counter, gaze absent, suddenly seeming so impossibly far away.

He slowly crosses over.

Hesitates, then carefully reaches for you, voice lowering in a way it does only for you.

“Listen,” he says. “If you need the room cleared out, I’ll help.”

No answer.

A thumb gently runs across your skin.

“You don’t have to do this all by yourself, you know.”

His touch lingers.

“Just say the word.”

Nothing seems to register with you. He follows your gaze to a carton of milk that sits abandoned amongst the scattered contents on the counter.

“This isn’t the right one either,” you finally say in a mutter.

It takes a moment to remember what you’re referring to.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, rubbing your wrist reassuringly.

“It’s been months.”

“Then tell me which one’s the right one and I’ll go get it,” he tries.

You pull your hand away.

“I told you, I don’t know which one’s the right one. I didn’t do the grocery shopping.”

He sees it in your eyes sometimes.

Now.

Why him? Why not you?

James thinks of that Afghan compound.

Double-O-One — Alec — by the time he found him — bloodied, battered, broken.

Monroe was bad.

This was something else entirely.

Ugly. Violent. Slow. Anything but a quick death.

Closed casket. Your face gave nothing away.

Took him nearly four months to track down those responsible, but by then, it’d hardly even mattered.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been sent out as dual assets.

Only ever for exceptionally high-risk operations. The kind that required two operatives and rarely returned both. But they’d done it before. More than once.

All the more reason it should have gone right.

He had everything to lose — a wedding only months away, a life already set in place, a future that included you.

Why him? Why not you?

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say.

Doesn’t feel enough. Probably never will.

“I’ve upset you.”

A faint smile flits across your features.

“A lot upsets me these days.”

He reaches for you again after a moment, threads his fingers through yours.

“Tell you what. How about the both of us go down to the corner shop this Sunday and pick one out together?”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“My treat.”

You huff out a small laugh that quickly morphs into something fragile.

“God — I’m the one who should be sorry, James.”

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“What for?”

“For keeping you here, for —”

“Letting me mummify from boredom?”

Another laugh. Better this time.

“For being so utterly ridiculous about the milk.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The brand of milk one prefers is a serious business, or so I’m told.”

Another squeeze.

“No harm done. Happy to be of service.”

A beat.

Your gaze wanders off again, smile slipping.

He reaches for your cheek, draws you back before you can drift away completely.

“How are you holding up?” he murmurs. “Really?”

The question lingers, and something in your expression falters.

“Just one of those days,” you manage at last.

He nods, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Been through a few.”

A long pause settles.

Your eyes flicker up to his.

He recognises that look. No words needed.

Perhaps the only comfort he has left to offer you.

James leans in, mouth finding yours.

One kiss, then another.

And another.

Used to be you ate a pack of biscuits to get through the morning or skip breakfast entirely, but now — now you get to enjoy freshly-made pancakes as your first meal of the day, courtesy of your new boyfriend, who apparently is not just an oncologist (he told you it means he helps cancer patients) but also a great cook, a great lover, a great everything, really.

And this includes being great at his job — you’ve seen the evidence — been in the spare room turned his makeshift study, browsed through all the medical books (you took one out when you were bored one afternoon, flipped it open to a page, didn’t know what most of the words meant, so he must be really smart to know what all of them mean. After all, he’s an oncologist — you really can’t stop saying it), examined the fancy certificates, toyed with the little trinkets his former patients gifted him, and skimmed the many letters of appreciation from them.

In the mornings, he flits around the apartment before leaving for work, making sure everything is taken care of. The bathroom — all dry and clean, the bedroom — sheets that smell faintly of both you and him — they’re all nicely folded, and the kitchen — lunch and dinner both neatly packed and labelled in containers in the fridge (he always makes some dinner just in case he has to work late, in case he can’t be home on time).

The maid who comes by once a week probably doesn’t do much. Her name’s Lady. She reveres him, calls him Dr. Wilson. He told you that his ex-wife (soon-to-be actually, divorce papers aren’t signed yet, so technically, he’s still married — this is something to think about) fired her. You figure he’s just keeping her employed in the meantime because she needs the money.

James is always nice. Nice to his patients. Nice to the maid. Nice to everyone. Nicest to you.

Maybe this is his modus — getting you hooked, making the thought of living without him unfathomable, because truly, at this point you can’t imagine living without him and neither can your apartment. For once, it’s not the equivalent of the remnants of a hurricane.

He comes by to fuss over you before he leaves — briefcase in hand, already dressed in his suit and tie — and you catch a whiff of his cologne when he hovers over you, kissing you on the temple, on the top of your head, then on your temple again, fingers expertly smoothing down the wayward strands of your hair that got mussed from sleep.

He’s always hovering, always touching and kissing you like you’re going to wither without just one second of his love. You don’t mind, really. You like all the fretting, all the tending to. It makes you feel like some rare and delicate thing, always in need of maximum care.

He seems to revel in it too — coddling you. You think it turns him on sometimes — taking care of you, doting on you. Or maybe he’s just selfless, that much of a giver. Maybe it just comes naturally because you’re that much younger than he is. Even in bed, he’s always so incredibly tuned in to your needs, practically devoting himself to you.

Needless to say, the sex is fantastic.

And so is your life with him. It feels safe, easy.

He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that you don’t have a real, serious job. That you mostly spend your days lazing about at home, looped up on your meds — he reminds you to take them after you’re done with the pancakes, strokes your hair when you swallow, sympathizes with you afterwards when you complain about how bitter they taste.

Maybe there is no modus — maybe he just thinks you need him.

And you can’t deny that you have a tendency to be needy. That’s what your exes called you. When you phoned them multiple times throughout the day asking for reassurance (your anxiety at an all-time high, your fault, you skipped your meds), when you got upset at them for making plans without you and insisted they cancel them, when you couldn’t make decisions, however big or small, without their input — you were always deemed too needy.

James, on the other hand, carefully labels such behaviour as a result of you going through a difficult time — a rough patch. He answers all your calls even when he’s busy (the number of calls you make isn’t quite as high as when you ditch your meds, but it is still quite substantial), cancels plans like giving a talk at an oncology conference when you cried about how you didn’t want to be alone for too long that night (you said you didn’t feel well), and steps in to make all the tough and not so tough decisions for you (should I go out today or stay in? Should I get this or that? Should I quit my job or just stick it out?)

Naturally, House thinks that Wilson enables you — thinks that Wilson optimistically expects that just by loving you enough, things will somehow magically get better.

And, House, like all your exes, is quick to diagnose you as needy.

“She’s not needy,” Wilson will scoff, hands on his hips, tone defensive. “She’s just — going through a bad patch — emotionally.”

“Right, so she needs the oncologist to baby her back to feeling emotionally stable again.”

Deep down, Wilson knows that House is right — somewhat. He does, in some ways, baby you — but only because you wouldn’t know what to do without him. Who else is going to remind you to take your meds? Upkeep your apartment? You’re not the best at keeping track of your pills, and you can’t even change a light bulb. You can’t cook. You’re not good at cleaning. You cry when you can’t find something. You can’t sleep alone.

So yes, perhaps he does baby you, but who can really blame him when you seem to need him that much?

author's note: also, i would just like to include this gif here for no particular reason at all other than i think about it 24/7 🤭🤭🤭

There is silence, and he wonders if his words have registered.

Your response comes as a sigh.

“Goodbye,” you muse, barely able to tear your gaze away from your own reflection to even spare him a glance. “You just got here.”

A moment of quiet, filled only by the faint singing of birds and the slight rustling of leaves.

“My visit here may be my last.”

These are the words able to wrench your gaze away from your still likeness as your eyes finally dart up to meet his. Even after all this time, they manage to captivate him in a way a rare few have done, but within him too stirs a certain sadness.

He tears his own gaze away. 

“What do you mean your last?” he hears you ask. 

He pauses, remaining outwardly indifferent. “I take it you have not heard?”

His eyes flicker to the pond, and he recalls all those mirrors in your home, all different shapes and sizes.

“Then again, you have been rather … preoccupied.”

“Heard what?”

His gaze remains on the body of water, on the lily pads, on the fishes beneath, on anywhere but you.

“I have spilled family blood,” Morpheus tells you, expression unchanging. “And as punishment for my crime, the Kindly Ones will demand the end of my existence.”

He pauses, words resolute. 

“It is as I said. My visit here may be my last.”

A rustle, and you soon step into his view, peering up at him.

“Family blood?” you inquire. 

His jaw tightens, eyes darting to your flawless features. 

The words come stiffly, the pain still fresh. 

“My son, Orpheus.”

“Orpheus,” you murmur.

You already appear distracted, and he quietly watches as your face turns slightly, gaze travelling back to the pond, one of the many channels through which your greatest love appears — the separation of you from yourself increasingly hard to bear, as he’s long observed.

“Yes, I remember Orpheus,” your distant words continue, attention elsewhere.

The response comes across as careless, insincere. Perhaps it is. And yet, what right has he to be angry, when truly, all this, how you are now, is entirely his fault? 

He gently tilts your chin back to him, and with all the affection and regret he’s always harboured for you, rasps, “Like I said, I have come to say goodbye.”

Your eyes bore into his. He cannot determine if you are gazing upon him or yourself. His thoughts unwittingly drift to the memories of you in his bed, if only for a fleeting moment — all tangled limbs and soft sighs. 

“So I shan’t ever see you again?” 

“That is a very likely possibility, yes,” he murmurs.

You are silent for a moment. As a mortal, you wore your heart on your sleeve. Now, it is difficult to tell if you are upset. 

“Who shall care for me then?”

“Arrangements have been made,” he tells you. “Your creature comforts shall be as they always have, even long after I am gone. That is my parting gift to you. You shall remain cared for.”

You linger close, your presence devouring the senses.

“And who shall love me then?” 

The words had come huskily, and Morpheus is compelled to remember you as you once were — mortal, fading, fragile — and even then, perhaps still, the most beautiful creature in all creation. A pity, how immortality has reared within you vanity so consuming that the parts of you he once loved have long been bled dry.

The immortality was a mistake, he realised that centuries ago.

And yet, he cannot help but love you still.

“You would have yourself,” is all he says.

The corners of your mouth lift slightly. You lean up, and for a brief, weak moment, Morpheus allows himself to long for you. 

Your lips barely ghost his before you withdraw without a word, retreating to your place by the pond, amongst the wild daffodils, face in your hands, elbows on the grass, drinking in the sight of your own features — the last glimpse he would have of you.

A moment spent watching you. An indulgence. 

You sneak a glance back, only to see him scoot a little closer to you on the large bed, staring almost woefully at the multi-coloured pills gathered in the palm of his hand. 

His gaze flickers back up to you.

“Be good, hmm? For me?” Jack implores hopefully, reaching over for the tall glass of water sitting on the nightstand.

Your silence is deafening.

You’ve always hated taking your medicine. 

His brows crease. “Sweetie, the doctors said —”

“I don’t care what the doctors said,” comes your sullen response, which fades into a mutter as you eye the cold glint of one of Jack’s many, many swords mounted on the wall. If you recall correctly, that particular one he got at an auction just a little over two months ago. Legitimately, he assured you. 

“It’ll pass,” you sniff out, burrowing yourself further into the sheets, voice muffled. “It did the last time.”

You almost feel sorry for him, but lately, all his non-stop fretting has only managed to serve as a grim reminder that the idle existence the both of you so enjoy (neither one of you ever having worked a day in your lives) has been somewhat been tainted by your illness having returned. So much so that Jack, who is hardly ever worried about anything, has turned into quite the mother hen, fussing over you nearly every chance he gets.

Still, it’s hard to blame him. He’s already had one fiancée frame him for murder (and whose daughter he still sends Christmas presents to, all of them addressed to darling Kate, not Katie, mind you — “She absolutely hates it when I call her Katie.”). It would seem a curse if his second, far younger fiancée were to die due to some sudden onslaught of a childhood affliction. 

You can hear it now, the feverish gossip making its rounds amongst the Duquesne family and New York’s elite. That perhaps Jack Duquesne is doomed to forever remain a bachelor (albeit a very eligible one). Or maybe something more outrageous, that it had been a matter of him slipping some poison into your soup at the bidding of his former fiancée. After all, the people whom you both run in the same circles with are rather prone to exaggeration. Yourself included. On occasion, that is. 

Yet, the grudging fact remains, that perhaps his worries are well warranted. 

You had always been a sickly child as far back as you can remember, often subjected to long stretches of misery. An existence capable of being surmised by a handful of terms — prodding doctors, temper tantrums, absent parents. Busy, even then. Still, any attempts at making them feel bad about this period in your life have a tendency of being very quickly brushed aside with a tight smile and a stilted, “Haven’t we made up for it by giving you everything, honey?” 

And now it’s back — this rot festering inside of you, and all the despair that comes with it. 

You’ve always hated taking your medicine. 

“Perhaps you might want to try eating something now? I can whip up something you like.” The covers are pulled away. Jack takes a peek at you, frowning slightly as he moves to put the pills and glass away. “You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, and frankly, my dear, I’m rather worried.” 

“I’m still not hungry,” you state resolutely, sparing a suspicious glance at the nightstand, where the pills are now scattered, vividly taunting you with their many shades and hues. And that tall, solemn glass standing guard beside them, just waiting for you to wash everything down with its contents.

“Some tea then?”

“No.”

Jack sighs. 

You wonder if he thinks you might die. He does have a penchant for the dramatics, useful for when he’s off LARPing. Not so much for when he’s taken the reins in making sure you get well.  

“If you don’t eat anything, you’re not going to get any better,” Jack attempts to reason in what is perhaps the sternest tone he is able to muster. It’s almost paternal, and it brings you back to when your father used to summon you to his office, desperately trying to get you to do just something right. A futile endeavour from the start, just like how any attempt at authority by Jack always manages to crumble within seconds. Especially when you give him that look.  

You’re doing it now, features skilfully slipping into place — pleading eyes, creased brows, quivering lips — forgive me, love me, need me. You watch his resolve begin to chip away.

“Oh, darling.”

Your voice cracks — the final nail in the coffin, “I’m just so miserable, Jack.”

And just like clockwork, he reaches for your hand, thumb smoothing across the massive diamond you’ve been wearing for months now (something your friends spent the entirety of a lunch fawning over, envious glances exchanged between one another. All very subtly, of course). 

“I know, I know,” he croons sympathetically. “You poor thing.”

“I just wish things could go back to the way they were,” you can’t help but whine, suddenly hit by the realisation that you are once more bound by the same shackles that rendered you frail and sickly, like some unfortunate child out of a Victorian novel. 

“I hate being like this,” comes your bleak conclusion. “Bedridden. Hopeless.”

“You aren’t hopeless, darling.”

“Bedridden then.”

A beat. Your hand clings tighter onto his, your voice wavering. 

“I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. 

“What ever for?”

“This probably isn’t what you imagined it would be like when you asked me to marry you. You probably envisioned going on lots of holidays, having lots of dancing. Yet, here we are.” You smile wryly. “Trapped in our home, like a couple of pariahs.”

“When I asked you to marry me, I promised myself I would stick by your side through thin and thick.”

“You mean thick and thin?”

“Exactly that, darling.”

You sigh.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for this. Only a fool would blame you. Though,” he grins, “you are an absolute nightmare when you’re ill.”

Your lips curl. “In sickness and in health, right?”

He rubs placating circles against your skin. “That’s the plan.” 

And in the midst of all the wretchedness, something warm spreads.

There’s something about Jack you’re hopelessly drawn to. It used to be your days and nights were spent engaging in various schemes and debauchery. That is, until he appeared in your life, a fellow guest of some party you were attending, quite chivalrously offering you his handkerchief to wipe away your tears when the loneliness of everything became too much to bear that one night, the ever gallant knight you ceased to believe in from the moment you turned six suddenly come alive.  

Then — a whirlwind courtship, as the tabloids so reported.  

You need him, perhaps just as much as he needs you. It’s why you let him put a ring on your finger. It hits you just then, how all you want to do is curl up in his arms, listen to him hum softly to some song lazily drifting in and out the room before he ultimately lifts you to your feet, spinning you round and round in the midst of all the shrieks and giggles. 

He’s rather adept at turning you into some lovesick fool. 

You blink. 

A new scheme begins to stitch itself together. 

Your lips lift into a vulpine smile, bare foot slipping out from underneath the silk sheets to run along the lavish material of his trousers, your words honeyed and coy.

“You know, there is a way for us to get what we want.”

He raises a brow.

“Oh, really?”

Jack has often been subjected to having to accommodate your various whims and fancies and you see how he raises a brow now. 

“I’ll be a good girl, take my medicine. In return you take me out to dinner.”

“Despite strict orders to stay in bed?”

“I told you, I don’t care what the doctors say.”

“What ever happened to listening to old people, little miss?”

“You mean, listening to your elders.”

“I suppose so.”

You smile. A pause, a brow raised. “So?”

He chuckles. “It’s certainly a compelling proposition.”

“And?”

Jack gives in. Like he always does.

“Just this once,” he admonishes lightly.

Your pills are held out to you once more, as is the glass of water. You take them both from him, victorious, then slowly place the pills on your tongue one by one. Proceed to wash them all down. Flash him a dazzling smile. Perhaps not so difficult after all. 

Mirth fills his gaze. He stands, murmurs into your hair as he nuzzles you on the top of your head. “You know, you are terrific at getting your own way.”

“Only because it’s you,” you tell him in a low voice, as he pulls back. “You’re so understanding.”

You run your fingers across the cut of his jacket.

“So thoughtful.”

“Well, I aim to please you.”

You smile. 

“If you’d be so kind now as to indulge me with a kiss before I get dressed? 

“And risk catching whatever ails you?” he inquires amusedly, leaning down already, a hand pressed against the bed where he’s made love to you countless of times, another reaching for you.

“In sickness and in health, right?”

He remains unfazed, fingers leisurely flipping to the next page of the book he had been in the midst of reading before you barged in, feet still kicked up on his desk, all while you continue to seethe for reasons yet to be made known to him.

"And what seems to be the problem now?" he drawls out.

"Well, you wouldn't know unless you stop reading and look at me," comes your sour response as the door shuts behind you with a loud thud. 

Heimdall sets the book away with a sigh, lowers his feet back down to the ground, violet gaze now trailing after you as you march across the room to plant yourself on his bed with a loud huff. 

He eyes you with a tinge of amusement. "Or you could always just tell me. You can still ... speak, can't you?"

Your gaze flickers to his, tone cutting. "And you can still read minds, can't you? 

His mouth lifts into a smirk. 

"Now that you've kicked up such a fuss, that would be too easy — me poking around in that pretty, little head of yours while you sit there doing absolutely nothing. You know, I think I'd rather hear it from you, dearest. Go on then, form the words."

Heimdall watches as your eyes narrow into slits. 

"I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

He hums and reaches for his book. 

"Well, neither am I. Come back some other time, then. Goodbye."

A moment creeps by.

Heimdall slides his gaze over to you. 

You remain seated, as he knew you would, arms crossed, lips pursed, still glowering at him. 

The sight of you like this, in so petulant a mood, brings him back lifetimes — to a different room, a narrower bed, and a smaller, sullener version of you sitting on top of it, pouting away, arms crossed, your little feet dangling above the ground. 

In some ways, you are still that same girl, and this is still that same dance.

"Shut the door on your way out, will you?" he mentions tauntingly. "Or, dare I ask, have you actually decided to stay?"

You relent with a roll of your eyes. "You're so difficult sometimes."

"Likewise, sulky."

As soon as the words leave him, he sees your lips curl into a strange, little smile, ire seemingly forgotten. His brows crease, your eyes gleam. By the time he's decided to delve into the depths of your somewhat depraved mind, it's too late.

"You know, I much prefer what you called me earlier," you sigh, tone coy and teasing. "Were you intending on trying something new or did it just ... slip out?" 

You suddenly seem far more exasperating than usual. 

"I have no idea what you're going on about."

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Please stop feeding your delusions."

"Make me." You smirk. "Dearest."

Annoyance seeps into his tone. "Do you actually have a problem you'd like to discuss or are you just here to waste my time?"

"You tell me," you say almost cheerfully, tone light, seemingly back in high spirits. "So, still want me to tell you what's bothering me, or would you rather just read my mind?"

"Or I could just throw you out."

You make a face at this suggestion. 

"I suppose you ... could. For now, at least. But given how we are soon to live together, I suggest you think of more creative ways to be mean to me. Can't exactly throw me out when we share a room, can you?"

You level your gaze at him challengingly. 

"Or is that the best you can do?"

Heimdall feigns a laugh. "You really still believe that?" 

This gives you pause. 

"Believe what?"

"That we are, soon to live together, as you so eloquently put it." He mock frowns. "You do seem rather ... unsure."

You huff. "So, you do know what's bothering me."

He scoffs, voice deadpan as he laments, "Your thoughts have been stuck on the same thing for weeks, haunting me at every waking moment. Only an idiot wouldn't know what's bothering you."

"And it's only just gotten worse," you tell him now, tone insistent. "Look into my eyes, tell me I'm not overreacting."

Heimdall stands, pretends to mull over your request before relenting with a sigh, making his way over to you. 

"Alright then. Now don't look away, hold it right there — let me concentrate — oh, I see — now that's interesting. You're very clearly ... overreacting."

You glare up at him. 

"This isn't funny. They're here, with her, in the All-Father's court. Why else except to try and wed their only daughter to the scion of the Aesir."

The corners of his mouth twitch. "My, my, I wasn't aware you held me in such high regard."

You lift your chin. "It is a mere fact. Nothing more."

"And so, so, eager to make me yours."

A rosy hue descends on your cheeks as you scoff. "That's not the point. Aren't you the least bit worried you might actually have to call her your wife instead?"

"Not in the slightest," he answers breezily with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The All-Father would never let me be bound to someone of such ... standing. I am, after all, his son, and as you so conveniently mentioned, the scion of the Aesir. So, as you can see, sulky, all that worrying of yours is really for naught."

And so are his words, it seems, because the look on your face hasn't changed. Except now — now you turn away, arms crossed, childishly refusing to look at him. 

Heimdall releases an exaggerated sigh, feels the bed dip as he takes a seat next to you.

"But, I suppose if it makes you feel any better, I did only agree to marry you, didn't I?"

The corners of your mouth begin to lift. 

"And?"

His brows crease. "And?"

You smirk. 

"Tell me how much you love me. Tell me you'd rather die than continue to live lifetimes without me. Tell me I'm who you love most."

He snorts. "What?"

You turn, gaze locking with his, eyes glittering deviously. 

"You want to make me feel better, don't you, dearest?" you purr, tone sickly-sweet. "So, read my mind and tell me what I want to hear."

What you want to hear. 

What do you want to hear? 

It isn't always an easy thing, sifting through the recesses of your mind. 

Your thoughts, they often greet him how a lover would — how you would — coyly leading him astray, teasing him, toying with him. Tugging, pulling, bending him towards your will, sometimes even tainting whatever it is in him that claims to be all-seeing, all-knowing. 

He sees you reach for him, feels you reach for him. 

"Won't you do it? For me?" you murmur as you gaze up at him through half-lidded eyes, body pressed close, grip tightening around the fabric of his tunic, effectively creasing it. 

"Won't you tell me you've loved me since forever?"

He feels your breath on his heated skin with every persistent plea, and foolishly allows his senses to give in to you, be overcome by you, thoughts and all, lulling him to do as you please. 

Heimdall hums, fingers tracing your spine. "And if I let you have your way, if I do what you tell me?"

He sees your lips curl into that strange, little smile once more as you lean in to place them at his ear, your voice a hushed whisper, and your words, all that he's yearned to hear. 

In some ways, he is still that same boy who sat across that smaller, sullener version of you, his own little feet dangling above the ground, longing to make you smile.

It’s been some time since his last visit, since he last had either Huginn or Muninn keep an eye on you. Easier to pretend you never existed, though at times, a fool’s errand. You did, after all, spend several lifetimes with him. Then there’s your kid together, a walking reminder of your former union.

Sometimes, Odin wishes things could have been different, but here you are. And here he is.

You catch sight of him first.

Or maybe you saw him coming.

"What are you doing here?"

Fimbulwinter has taken its toll on Midgard, and it looks just as bleak and miserable as he remembers it to be from his last visit with Thor. With that, you — you make a most lovely sight in this dump.

Maybe it was cruel of him to bind you to a place such as this, among lesser people and where monsters lurked in every corner. Then again, he’s reminded that, just like his Frigg, you are here by your own fault.

It’s not that you mean nothing to him, you just … well, you just needed to be taught a lesson, that’s all.

Clearly, you still don’t see it that way.

"Come to gloat?" you inquire bitterly, standing in the doorway of the modest cottage you now regard as home.

If only you hadn’t been so goddamn stubborn, you could have been so very far away from … all this. Still living comfortably in the lodge he built, with servants to cater to your every whim, and the unforgiving winter nothing but a frigid tale to be told to you in passing gossip by members of his court. But you’ve always insisted upon your own way, upon your own … principles.

And so, you’ve brought this on yourself.

"You tell me," is all he says.

And yet, a challenge. You recognise it too. He looks at you, watches your gaze narrow. When you finally speak, your tone is as frosty as the snow that surrounds you both.

"I don’t do that anymore."

Odin merely shrugs. "Pity. Real gift you had."

This seems to irritate you further.

"What are you here for this time? Why now?" comes your impatient demand. And yet, he detects an undercurrent of hurt. It’s been … too long perhaps, since his last visit. You might have thought he’d forgotten about you.

A beat passes. He sees realisation dawn, anger fade. You start to smile, an almost gleeful edge to your voice as you guess, "Oh, this is about that prophecy, isn’t it? You don’t know what else to do. Or perhaps it is about that mask of yours. You always did spend so much time pouring over it."

"Maybe I’m here for you," he muses.

"You’re here for my gift," you correct sharply, displeasure returning. "I don’t need it to tell me that."

With that, you turn on your heel without another word.

Soon he’s trailing after you, shutting the door behind him, feeling the last gust of cold air disappear. A watchful eye takes to surveying the room, scanning for signs of anyone else other than you. The fact that he even has to look sours his mood just a little. Admittedly, he has been a little lax with your punishment lately.

"I see you’ve been decorating," he observes, taking a seat at a table you’ve set up in the centre of the room. Odin looks to you, tone light. "You got anything to drink?"

"Just tell me what you want this time."

You remain standing, ever watchful, ever cautious, seeming so very far away from him. Not impossible to reach though. He always has a way of getting to you, somehow. You’ve missed him, despite how vehemently you might deny it.

Still, you’ve changed, haven’t you? Even more so than when he last saw you. Midgard’s influence, no doubt. It never does you any good. You don’t seem to need him as much anymore. Perhaps you never did.

He’s not sure he likes the thought of that.

"No how have you been?”

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air.

You stare at him wordlessly.

He relents with a sigh.

"I’m sorry, that’s not fair. Expecting you to welcome me back. You’re angry at me for not visiting, I get that."

Odin gazes at you intently.

"Unless … this isn’t about that at all, and you’re still angry about what happened." He shrugs. "Yeah sure, I may have … overreacted, but that doesn’t change the fact that I did what I thought was best. For you."

Something flickers in your expression.

The words come quietly.

"You always say that."

"And I mean it every time."

"I wish I could believe you."

"You can," he coaxes tenderly.

"Can I?"

He inches closer towards you, voice low and reassuring. "Don’t you know I’ll always be here for you? That I’ll always care for you? Didn’t I promise you that?”

"You promised me many things."

"And I intend on keeping those promises," he murmurs. "All you gotta do, is trust me."

He reaches out to you, but you immediately draw back, voice tense.

"Just — get on with whatever it is you’re here for this time."

He leans back, unfazed by this … contempt you make a show of. After all, you did this the last time too, and the other visits that came before. Even so, he’s still here, isn’t he?

"Alright, if that’s what you want."

A moment passes and you take a seat, unable to look at him.

It’s almost … satisfying. Knowing that even after all this time, his words still have the capacity to affect you. And why should they not?

You must still love him.

Didn’t he give you everything?

Who would you be without him? Where would you be? Who else would have brought you back to Asgard if not him? He raised you to be a queen. And just like the wife who came after you, you stupidly threw it all away. And for what?

You chose to be nothing.

At the end of it all, perhaps you do deserve to live in this wasteland. It’s the only way you’ll learn to behave. To learn your place. And once you do, it’ll be just like old times. You by his side, and your gift at his disposal. The All-Father and his little prophetess.

"You want to know why I’m here," he begins.

"I assume it’s about the prophecy."

"Yeah, something along the lines of that." He pauses, gives you a look. "You remember that … god, the one you told me was headed to Jötunheim."

"What about him?"

"You remember his son as well? There’s something the boy might be able to help me with."

You stiffen, expression hardening.

"I want nothing to do with this if it means harming a child."

"No one’s talking about killing the kid," he retorts with a snort, rolling his eyes. "You’re being dramatic."

"Am I?" you wonder coolly.

"Look, all I want is for him to help me with my mask. With enough time, he just might be able to piece it together."

"And so you want me to tell you if this will happen, if it will play out how you want it to."

"And here I thought you had abandoned your gift."

"I did. You’ve only had me do this many times, but this time I won’t. I mean it."

"Do you now?" he wonders, gaze flickering to yours.

"I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want you to hurt anyone."

"Why would I hurt anybody?" He chuckles. "I’m not always the bad guy, you know. I did save you now, didn’t I? All those years ago."

"Save?"

"Ran away, didn’t you? Then made to survive with your gift when things went to shit." His words are mocking, condescending. "The Aesir who was so very far away from home. At least that’s how I remember it. In the end, you practically begged me to take you back to Asgard. Prayed to me, pleaded with me."

"If only I was shown what entailed," you mutter. "What it showed me instead, it … misled me."

He sighs. "Still, I envy you for it."

Coldness sets in. "You’ve always envied what I think is cursed."

Odin leans back in his seat. "Nonsense. It’s a gift."

"Only when it’s useful to you."

"I suppose, but whatever benefits Asgard benefits our son, no?" he muses. "That boy of ours, he really is something. Everything we hoped he’d be. You’d want the best for him, wouldn’t you?"

The words hit you hard. Almost immediately, you shoot up from your seat, seething, "How dare you mention him? I haven’t seen him since he was a child. You took him from me."

"You abandoned him."

"I was forced to. By you," you grit out.

"And whose fault is that?" he wonders coldly.

All the colour has drained from your face, and just like that, it feels as though it was only yesterday you left home in such a state — ashen-faced, chin quivering, trying your hardest not to cry when you were asked if you’d be back. The confusion written all over his little face was probably enough to shatter your heart.

You’ve always loved that boy too much for your own good. It’s made you weak if anything. And it would have made him weak. It’s better this way, you and him apart. Besides, the man that your son is now, the man that Odin raised him to be — useful, reliable, loyal — you’d be pleased with how he’s turn out.

Odin moves to take your hands in his. When you don’t pull away, he starts in a honeyed voice, "We all make mistakes. What’s important is that you’re making up for yours. And for that, I’ll always be very proud."

He rises from his seat, a hand moving to cup your cheek. He watches you start to crack, because in your isolation, despite all the hate and anger you may feel for him, he is still all you have.

"It’s been hard on you, hasn’t it?" he murmurs sympathetically, thumb brushing across your cheek. "Being here all alone. Away from our son, from me. From family. I know I haven’t been dropping by as often as you’d like. And for that, I’m truly sorry. Truth is, I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse, is it?"

His fingers move to grasp your chin, tilting it upwards so that you can meet his gaze. Something in your expression falters.

"I should’ve made time for you," he tells you softly. "Forgive me?"

He pulls away, gazes down at you intently.

A moment goes by.

Then finally, a crack.

"The boy," comes your reluctant response. "The boy will come to Asgard. I’ve seen it."

Eagerness grips him. There you are. There it is.

"And?"

"He’s come because of his father. He’s been … driven away."

He detects a hint of disgust in your voice, though he gets the sense that it isn’t for him, or Loki.

After all, it is your whispers that often end in suffering, don’t they?

He is bound to betray you. 

That Dwarf will rebel against you. 

When she leaves, you will have her wings.

Most of the time, all he has to do is tell you that it is for the good of Asgard, for the good of your son, and you carry on without hesitation.

His response now is as ravenous as it was then.

"The mask. Tell me about the mask."

Your brows crease. "The pieces … they come together. And the boy, he seems to be the key."

A thrill runs through him.

He takes and takes. Whatever you have to offer.

"And Ragnarök?"

You hesitate.

"You know I can’t see that far."

Irritation flares.

"Fimbulwinter is already here," he insists impatiently. "Ragnarök is close."

"I’ve told you everything I know," is all you say.

Odin seizes you by the arms then, fingers digging harshly into your skin. "This is really, really important. And I need you to think carefully. Ragnarök. Anything … you can tell me about that?"

He sighs at the lack of a response.

"Might be hard for me to come visit if I’m dead. You’d miss me, wouldn’t you?"

You glare up at him, voice taut.

"I can’t tell you what I don’t know."

Odin watches you closely.

"What about your son? Our son? You want to keep him safe, don’t you?"

Your gaze softens ever so slightly, but you don’t budge.

"I really don’t know."

A moment passes.

He loosens his hold on you, fingers moving to brush your hair back.

"Well …" he finally murmurs. "I had to ask."

Odin gazes at you fondly, tone now affectionate.

"Even so, I always knew you wouldn’t let me down." He chuckles. "My little prophetess. I nearly forgot how good of a team we were. How … talented you were."

His hand slides down to rest on your throat, and the lightness vanishes. He regards you with a dark gaze, eye tracing your skin.

Then, after a while, his words come quietly.

"I’ve always loved you. You know that, right?"

He steps closer, fingers curling around your neck.

"Even after all that treachery. Even after you turned your back on me."

"You didn’t give me a choice."

"No, you just chose to betray me."

"I didn’t want to."

"But you did. You should be dead, you know. Or worse."

"And yet, you still need me, don’t you?" you challenge, neck still in his grasp.

He could kill you. Should kill you. Is it true, that he still needs you? A son blessed with your gift of foresight was all he wanted at the beginning, really. But after bearing him that child, you’ve still somehow managed to prove yourself useful. How many times have your insight proved valuable? That you’ve dealt with a problem that hasn’t even begun?

But more importantly, you’ve grown on him, haven’t you?

"You had your son kill most, if not all the Giants," you continue accusingly. "And you strangled that Giantess because you didn’t like what she saw. Now they’re all gone. Because of you. And so, now — now you keep me alive despite the treason I’ve committed because I’m the only one left with the gift of prophecy you so desperately covet. That’s unless you prefer to seek out the Norns, but we both know how much you despise them."

Your hand slides up his arm, gripping his wrist.

"If you truly wish me dead, then do it. Murder me. Murder me like you murdered your dear friend Gróa."

He chuckles lightly.

"You’re overreacting. What makes you think I want you dead? You should be, but you’re still here, aren’t you?"

"So you want my gratitude?"

"I want to know if you still care," he murmurs, gaze intent. "Do you truly hate me? As much as you claim you do?"

He sees you hesitate.

Then.

"I should. After you sent me here, after you made me leave my son." A trembling pause. "But I don’t." You can barely even look at him. "I can’t." Your voice wavers. "No matter what you do."

"I’m a difficult man," he says, fingers releasing their grasp on your throat, grazing upwards to cup the side of your face. "I admit that."

"You’re a god."

"And is that so bad?" Odin wonders, thumb caressing your lips.

Worse, you whisper as he leans in to have you. You let him.

You always do.

•••

"You’ve been to see my mother," Heimdall will later say. Carefully, for it is a sensitive subject he is about to broach. Callously, so that the All-Father does not know that a part of him still cares. 

It’s pathetic. Truly. 

"I have," comes his father’s response.

Heimdall waits. And waits. But the All-Father never elaborates, never looks up from his book. 

"I’m surprised she made it all the way to Fimbulwinter. She always did have a rather … weak disposition," he drawls, voice dripping with contempt. 

But he doesn’t hate her. Not really. He remembers her delicate laugh, her smiling eyes. That gaze of pure adoration whenever she looked at him, as though he was who she loved most. No one ever looks at him that way anymore. 

She would still. He knows this. 

"You’d think she’d have perished by now," Heimdall muses with a dramatic sigh, fingers distractedly grazing across a scroll as he lingers near the table where his father’s seated at, nose still burrowed in his book.

"So you want her dead?" the All-Father suddenly asks, gaze flickering to him.

Heimdall hesitates, scoffs.

"She betrayed us. She betrayed you."

"Sure, sure," the All-Father murmurs. The book slams shut. His father’s full attention is now on him. Heimdall wished for it just seconds earlier, will long for it always, but now that he has it, it isn’t a very pleasant feeling. It never is. 

"So, do you?"

His brow creases. "All-Father?"

"Want her dead."

Heimdall freezes. 

His father is still staring at him, waiting. Waiting for an answer. He wants to know. He always does. Somewhere behind him, Huginn screeches. 

Then, reluctantly, almost disgustedly, he forces himself to respond. 

"No."

A moment passes.

The All-Father hums, reaches for his book, attention shifting away from him, and it’s almost as if the moment never happened.

Heimdall tries not to look too relieved. 

"That’ll be all."

His arm flies up to his chest, back already instinctively bent in a bow. 

"All-Father."

He’s met with only silence. Always only silence.