Oh Captain

His self-conscious thoughts seeped through her wall to keep out his mind and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. As if she ever cared about expensive clothing. She was more concerned that he was making enough money to feed himself properly than whatever rags he decided to wear. “That’s good. You don’t look starved so that’s always a good sign.” She smiled softly at him. It was good knowing that he was doing well for himself, after everything that had happened.

With the area deserted enough, Simone risked letting her barriers down a little, pleased that Emile’s mind also seemed less hectic. She peeked into his thoughts, always intruiged by the way she could hear dead people’s voices through him. It came with its downsides as well, but for the most part, it was something new for her to dissect and figure out.

She pulled out of his mind immediately once he started to recall the day that he left them, not wanting to intrude too deeply into his personal thoughts. Although she made a living off of digging into people’s deepest feelings and memories, she didn’t like doing the same with her loved ones. It was harder to look at people the same way when you knew so much about them without their permission.

“Yeah I know that you were a horrible performer, but why did you leave us. You could have stayed and not performed.” Her tone wasn’t accusitory, but more matter-of-fact. She didn’t blame him for leaving; she just wanted to know why.

His worry clear in his voice made her tilt her head. “Nothing happened. I’m just… curious.” She paused and glanced around. She leaned closer to him, her voice quiet. “I’ve been wondering why I can’t hear Papa’s thoughts and how he can resist Fernand’s commands sometimes. Something doesn’t seem right with him and the more I ask him about it, the more irritated he becomes.” Her head whipped around, making sure that he wasn’t lurking around somewhere. She knew that he wasn’t (she had left him drunk at a tavern) but she still couldn’t be too careful. Turning back to Emile, she continued, “I know he’s hiding something and I was hoping you might know what that was.”

Émile clenched his jaw as Simone tore through his excuses. She was right; he could have stayed with them without being a public performer, only dragged out for VIPs and private functions. But that would have implied staying with François and... He shuddered, casting a look to Simone from the corner of his eye. He was relieved to know that nothing had happened, but the fact that she had noticed was worrisome on its own.

For a few hard seconds Émile thought of the best way to explain why he had left, what he knew about François, though it wasn't much. He swallowed hard, and held out his hand to her. "It'll be easier to show you, than tell you." He closed his eyes, and thought back.

He remembered back to when he was about seven. They were staying in a motel somewhere, Émile pushed back into the corner of the bed against the wall, blankets clutched tight under his hands as he looked to the opposite corner, terrified. A slug-like ghoul writhed there, each spasm sending it closer and closer to the bed. He would have screamed, but unannounced François came bursting through the door. He didn't see where Émile was looking, but instead looked straight at the corner where the slug-creature lay.

Émile remembered feeling so relieved when François let him sleep in his bed that he didn't think about how François knew to come into the room, to save him.

Émile pulled back to the present, flickered open his eyes. "There are other memories, of François... sensing where I saw a ghost. It's not like you. You have to figure out what I'm seeing and where first. François didn't. And it was always... stronger when we were close." He briefly thought back to a half-memory of François walking a distance ahead of Émile, and walking straight through an ominous, demanding war ghost that still haunted Émile to this day.

They stretched languidly, the tilt of their hips provocative by nature even if they didn’t intend it in that very moment. Rarely could they help themselves, most especially around him, but in this instance they had without thought. Al wanted to occupy his time. Chat with him and find out his innermost secrets but not for the sake of publishing, just to know. To be a little bit closer with him. They hoped they might find themselves curled up into those easy, strong, warm arms one day. Time would only tell on that matter. “I’ve never lifted a weight,” they admitted, even if it wasn’t wholly necessary. Gods that possessed strength and power did so naturally, without any effort or aide required. Al was not such an immortal. It had never mattered what form they took or which realm they walked, they remained a fair lithe Goddex with the constellations mapped out across them.

Al shifted on the bench to watch him, easily in awe of the ease of which Émile plucked up the weighted discs and put them aside. Memories of their first true encounter, Émile’s arms around them and their arms around his neck. It had been a show of strength like no other. Caught staring, they blushed the same pink as their lycra shirt. “Hands here?” They gestured to the rougher parts of the bars, where Émile’s hands had been as he demonstrated. The bar was cool but traces of his warmth still lingered.

The bar felt like an impossible weight against them. Their arms trembled as unused muscles were put to work for the first time. It was something of a struggle to lift the bar the first time, their form not exactly the best. However, so pleased with themselves the momentum carried them through into three more repetitions. Eventually they set the bar back down too fast to be described as controlled. “Goodness,” they puffed. A little out of breath from the exertion of it, even if they’d only managed three lifts altogether. “That was harder—- than I thought it would be.”

They slid out from beneath the weight and swung up to face him. “Is there a lighter bar I could lift?” They joked, leaning closer than was strictly necessary even in the rowdy gym. “I jest, I believe I can handle this…although my arms are shaking now.” Non-existent biceps having a field day from being woken from their eternal slumber. “I have to admit the closest I’ve ever gotten to such a workout…is lifting Mygdon out of puddles. He hates getting his paws wet.”

Émile didn't find it suprising that Al had never lifted a weight before in their life, but when he saw how much the bar shook when Al lowered it off the rest he could barely stop himself rushing in and stopping the bar falling flat on their face. As it was, Al managed a whole three reps before he pulled it up to the rest again. Émile couldn't hide the amusement from his face, brought on worse by Al's obvious exhaustion.

"Sorry," he said, trying very hard to stifle his laughter, and failing. "I'm afraid we don't have many Mygdon-sized weights," he said with a shrug, sitting down next to Al, though angled so only their legs brushed together. "Maybe you'll be able to lift Mygdon and the two cats together at once by the end of training." Teasingly, he nudged Al, hoping he wasn't discouraging them from excercise with his jibes.

As she finally managed to get his thoughts from tormenting her brain, she heard him reminise about how much she had grown, unable to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “It’s fine,” she replied to his apology. “Just a little out of practice with your thoughts.” She raised an eyebrow at his later thoughts and shook her head. “You better not be.”

She took a deep breath as she gathered her wits back to her. As much as she may have missed Emile, she definitely didn’t miss this. “I know. I was the one that told them about you.” Finally feeling back to her normal self, she straightened and got a good look at him. He looked very different from the boy that she used to know. “I figured that you would need the money considering you are trying to do honest work now,” she teased.

His thoughts drifted to another dead man and she shuddered, remembering the vivid nightmares his thoughts used to give her. She may not be the same little girl as she used to be, but she was still human. “That’s fine. I only need an hour.” She gestured for him to follow her toward a more secluded place that could hopefully get both of them a little peace. “I want to know why you left. The real reason and not all of the excuses you’ve been coming up with.”

Émile reeled from the simple way Simone admitted to getting him his current job. He was a little offended at her teasing, a little self-conscious about his last season suit jacket sourced from a tailor selling the upper class' out of style clothes. He fiddled with the cuff that was fraying a little. "I'm not doing that badly for myself," he insisted. "Sure I'm not rolling on the profits of a very successful road show that is simply the talk of France-" he nudged her arm as they walked toward the park bench. "-but I'm not doing too badly."

The little green they ended in only had a few ghosts lingering, and they were the sort that minded their own business. The one closest to the bench was that of a little boy selling matches. Émile didn't look close enough to note any other details besides the frosty sheen of ice on his skin, aware of his company.

At her question Émile could help but think back to the night that ended it all, the séance table, François opposite him on the table. He shook his head slowly, frowning at her. "I didn't make excuses... I was never very good on the stage, and now I'm doing my best to actually make a difference..."

"Matches? Matchbox for 2 centimes," cried the ghost behind him. Émile swallowed down his resolve, and focused on Simone.

Marie decided it wouldn’t do to embarrass herself by getting into an argument with Emile, so she ignored him as he called after her. She couldn’t resist the roll of her eyes at his question. Why was she doing this? Surely he understood her well enough to answer that question.

She thought he’d give up when she continued to ignore him, but he grabbed her arm. It was enough to make her stop, and she turned to him as she tried to tug her arm around his grip, shoving him with her free hand. “Let go of me!” In her temper, she forgot her resolve to only use English around him and spoke in French, adding something more colourful when he didn’t let her go. She didn’t like being told what to do, and she never had. 

He angered her more when he spoke. “Dangerous? So only men should die for their country? Do you really think you care more about France than I do? If it weren’t for you idiotic men thinking women are helpless, I’d be fighting. I’d pick up a gun so I could take back my home. My home, Emile. You’re not going there without me. If I’m not allowed to fight, I might as well be there to help the men who do try set the word right.” 

Marie didn’t want to hurt anyone, she didn’t want to kill anyone, but she’d met so many soldiers who felt the same way but believed what they were doing was the only choice they could make. She understood war better now, even if she had always been sharply aware of the cost of war because of how she had been raised. She thought she could fight, if she had been taught to. To get home, to get Marian back, to protect people? Yes, yes, yes. 

Once it was clear that Marie wasn't going to keep walking away from him, Émile let go of her arm. Perhaps he was acting a little rough, his hand squeezing on her wrist until he returned to his senses and let go, clenching his fist at his side. She was being impossible, but she was making sense.

Simone leaned against the park bench, casually listening to the cacophony of thoughts around her as she waited patiently for the man she used to call brother to arrive.

Their relationship had never been easy, mostly because his own gift gave hers a headache whenever they were in close proximity. But beyond that, they got along well enough and she was disappointed when he decided to leave them to become a martyr for the spirits left behind. She missed his presence sometimes–mostly because he gave her good practice for blocking out other people’s thoughts–but she never really cared if he returned or not. Until now.

She had questions, which wasn’t unusual for an inquisitive girl. But she was also used to getting answers with a small peek into someone’s head. That wasn’t the case with her father who’s mind has been blocked from her ever since she could remember. Her desire to get her answers led her to hunt down her wayward brother. He had once voiced his doubts about Francois and while back then she had shrugged it off, now she wanted to know more.

Finding someone rich enough to pay for a medium wasn’t too difficult; many of which went to her after their shows so she could get rid of the spirits in their homes. She told the Vidals about Emile and waited to see if they would take the bait. Judging by Madame Vidals’ excited thoughts about it, Simone had to assume that he did.

It was reaching the time that he would appear at their estate and Simone knew she had to catch him before he got there, lest the appointment wouldn’t go so well and he was possessed or grumpy afterward. She stood from the bench and walked toward the general direction of where he might be coming from. She let her barriers down to search for him through people’s thoughts, walking aimlessly as she looked for–

Her mind erupted as if everyone in Paris began to scream all at once. Simone stumbled, struggling to put her walls back up to push away the noise. A woman calling for her child. Soldiers crying for glory. She clenched her fists and ran, trying to focus on the distant sound of her shoes on the pavement rather than the voices of suffering enveloping her.

She must have bumped into something–or someone–but she couldn’t remember how she ended up on the ground. Her eyes darted around, trying to reorient herself and remember why she was there in the first place. Her gaze locked on his and then she remembered. “Emile.” She focused on him and took a deep breath, doing her best to push away his mind. Getting to her feet, she managed to quiet it enough to at least hear her own thoughts.

“I forgot how much that hurt. It’s like I’ve been hit by a train.” She shook her head and grimaced at the ringing in her ears from the sudden lack of thoughts. Taking a moment to focus once again, she looked at Emile. “We need to talk.”

Émile could only stop and look at Simone for a moment, blown away by how much she had grown and how much she looked the same. She was taller, grown and becoming a woman, a thought he knew for sure would annoy her. Remembering with a start just what it was that was giving Simone a headache, he immediately apologised in his thoughts, and offered the explanation of it as a downright observation and that he had absolutely no interest in her development.

This was one of the reasons why she always used to complain he gave her headaches.

Clearing his throat, resolving to talk instead of think, Émile moved forward to help steady her by her arm before remembering she didn't like touching. Open hand clenching into a fist and then finding its home by his side, he gave her a congenial, if strained smile. "I have an appointment," he said, though he doubted that would matter to her.

Al had thought they were being presumptuous that it was too early to tell if the way he leaned in was a sign or not, one date or even two did not mean much in the fast-paced world of Paris. But the kiss left a lingering mark. They were still stood in the doorway, gaze following him as he hurried down the steps uttering his goodbye with a sly grin on those coveted lips of his. Breathless, Al waited until they were finally back inside to shuffle back into the apartment building. Something akin to giddiness lit up their complexion, even Persephone commented they were looking particularly exultant. The rest of the week sped into a blur.

Work bled through into any social life Al hoped to maintain, they’d spoken to him on the phone the night before—incessant texting had gotten on the nerves of Persephone who had insisted that they simply do it and call. Thursday came and went with a pile of work and no hope of leaving the office until late, if at all. Wishful thinking, they’d half hoped to find him in their apartment that night when they’d finally trudged back. Eventually, the kiss started to fade from their memory, intermittent texts with promises to meet up attempted to ground the feel of Émile’s hand in their’s, but when all is said and done—it’s best to take matters into your own hands.

Saturday morning, the sun was just about kissing the sky and begrudgingly Al had hauled themselves out of bed. Even as they arrived at the gym, for opening, they still retained the tousled just-got-out-of-bed look. Émile was stood with his back to them, either studying a rack of weights or putting them away properly. They had an idea, not a particularly good one, but the goddex was well out of their depth in the jungle of spandex and dumbbells. That didn’t stop them from lying flat on the bench, barbell above with the lightest weights attached. “Fancy spotting for me?” Al grinned, hopeful that there’d still be some appeal in seeing them—dark, red eyes and all.

Life always had a way of getting in the way of things. Émile had been excited all week for thursday to come around, smiling whenever his phone vibrated with another text from Al. Marie, or rather Artemis, had caught him texting Al during the break before her lesson, had stolen it off him and used the contents to thoroughly tease them during their spar.

He could barely hide his disappointment when Al canceled their date, though he supposed he too was supposed to be busy preparing the gym for open day in a few weeks time. Instead, he went for a run around the city, scaring some youths up to no good, shoulder checking a man following a woman so hard he sprawled into the ground and didn't get up before she vanished from sight. Somehow his feet had lead him to Al's workplace, and in the dark of the late evening Émile looked up to see someone working on the fifth floor. Smiling to himself, but deciding it would be too intrusive to go in and say hello, he continued on his run.

Saturday morning felt lie any other saturday; Émile turned on the equipment, opened the doors and started cleaning what hadn't been cleaned on friday. The barbells were always a mess, and at times it seemed like only he cared for their order. He nearly dropped the weight he was holding at the sudden voice behind him. Turning around, he was plesantly surprised to see Al there, though they looked at least a little ridiculous in their bright neon exercise gear in the gritty boxing gym.

Being reassigned meant more paperwork than she’d realised. In her small little village, bureaucracy had not existed. Everyone knew everyone, that was all that was needed to make things happen. Since the war broke out, everything had become much more complicated. Only knowing how to read and write French, or at least when she’d started, Marie hadn’t been expected to do the reports, although she had picked up medical terms after so much practice. This was bureaucracy in a level that she had never seen before, but out of sheer stubbornness, she managed it. 

Telling a little lie had helped, saying that Captain Moreau had been the one to suggest the relocation. Marie didn’t feel guilty about that - he had been the reason she decided to do it, after all. 

It did meant travelling later than most of the men, but that suited her just fine. It meant Emile wouldn’t see Marie until it was too late, and it also meant she’d be catching a ride with a supplies truck. The walk wasn’t something she would have minded doing, but there was a petty part of her that felt smug that Emile had to walk and she didn’t. 

She arrived late in the afternoon, and worked well into the night to help with the supplies. It was avoidance, she knew that, but she did not want Emile to get the chance to insist she return back to safety before she had the chance to get her orders completely ironclad. Then he wouldn’t be able to get rid of her. 

In the morning, Marie grabbed some food quickly before making her way to see Major Benson. She only knew some of the words on the papers she’d been told to give him, but she trusted they were correct when she passed them to him, greeting him in accented English. 

“Morning, Major. I’m Marie Duval, I was told to give these to you.” Seconds later, the door open, and she couldn’t help wince. She’d seen Emile following her, she’d hoped she’d managed to slip away from him like she had the night before. 

Fortunately for her, Benson read faster than Emile could speak, introducing her to Emile. The smile that spread across her face was one of satisfaction. Now Emile had no choice. She turned to him as he spoke in French, but rather than dignify that with a response, his words making her heart ache, she spoke in English to Major Benson. 

“I already had the displeasure of meeting him.” One of the nurses had taught Marie how to be insulting in English in case any patients gave her a hard time. In return, she’d taught them how to be insulting in French. She’d also picked up some insults in other languages, the nurses all finding it hilarious to share those pockets of their languages. 

Major Benson looked between the two of them and decided he did not want to get in the middle of what looked almost like a lover’s spat to him, a fact that would have disgusted Marie if she knew. “Well, everything here is in order.” He spoke in French, being fair to Emile despite the fact she’d used English. “You’re dismissed.” He wanted them out of his office before they argued. 

Marie smiled at Major Benson before leaving, her chin tilting up an inch as she ignored Emile and sailed past him as proudly as she could manage. 

Émile might not speak English well, but he could understand most of it, enough to understand exactly what it was Marie said about him. Scowling something furious, he was half-way through biting back a retort in French (which always sounded better when you were insulting someone anyway) only to be interrupted by Major Benson. Simmering in a mixture of anger, frustration, and worry, Émile gave a curt bow to the Major before rushing out after Marie.

"Marie," he called after her, not running to catch up with her but nearly. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, but still she didn't slow down. Grinding his teeth together, Émile pushed forward and grabbed her by the wrist.

They didn’t wish to revel in the comfort it gave them that Émile had been exhausted that night, perhaps too tired to consider the details of their brisk tree union. They had not yet lost all hope and besides, Émile’s clamouring to soothe their pouting brought forth a petite smile. The smile, Émile’s warmth beside them, the heat in their ears that they could not control no more than keeping Mygdon from chasing fallen leaves. It all alluded to a power greater than Al could ever hope to master. Though I think I need another meeting—- they had never been so sure that they wanted something until then, that they needed someone. “I imagine the walk will leave him with just enough energy to wreak havoc before sleeping in the middle of it,” they teased. As if Mygdon understood he chose that precise moment to turn and yank on his leash with a mouthful of leaves. “Mygdon!”

For the duration it took to reach the steps of Al’s apartment, Mygdon behaved, they spoke with Émile about everything and anything. So, cosy in his warmth that they hadn’t realised it had gotten dark and cold until they were left at an arm’s length. “Thursday evening, I’m available if you are.” Without truly waiting for him to reply Al said, “it’s a date.” They slowly unwrapped the leash from around Émile’s wrist transferred it to their own, although Mygdon was perched between them both, already half asleep. “Thank you for tonight it was wonderful.”

They could’ve parted ways like that, but it didn’t feel right or complete. Before Émile could turn to leave, they caught his hand with their own, closed the gap whilst careful of the sleeping dog and kissed him. Once on each cheek. Although they lingered at his lips, so sure that a little one would not come to harm, but uncertain if the time was right. Their chest ached when they pulled away, unfulfilled. “Good night.” They whispered and before another word could be said between them, they disappeared up the apartment steps and through the door. There, Al could let the tension roll out of their shoulders as they slumped against the other side. Mygdon, upset to have been so rudely woken, yapped at their feet.

They were a muse and muses did not get flustered.

There was something calming and thrilling about walking with Al. Calming, in the pace of the exercise, in taking in the sights. If Al wasn't careful Émile might be tempted to steal Mygdon away. Despite his appetite for adventure, and leaves, he was a fairly lovable pup.

Unfortunately the night had to end, and Mygdon had to head to bed. Émile gave the pup one last pat before Al unwrapped the leash from his wrist. His heart beat heavily as Al confirmed the... nature of their next meeting. It was a little too late to hold onto his earlier insistence denying it, and now he found himself warmed to the idea. "Thursday," he confirmed, smiling sheepishly as Al thanked him.

Before he had a chance to deflect the thanks, he went dead still as Al leaned in, and gave him a kiss on each cheek. His skin burned from where their lips brushed, face most certainly hot if not noticeably darker. If that wasn't enough, he could have sworn that Al... hesitated as they pulled back, a downward flick of their eyes... Émile breathed in, lips parting... but nothing came of it. Al pulled away, and Émile hid his disappointment with a smile, and a returning, "Good night."

As soon as the door closed Émile turned, rubbing his hand over his face. He was... overwhelmed, mind tumbling through the events of that day, lingering on little moments of the night. That almost kiss, the hesitation before Al pulled back threatened to haunt him all the way on the walk home.

Without thinking, Émile whipped back to face the door and gave a curt knock. He stared up at Al as the door swung open. "You forgot something," he rushed out, stepping forward to pull Al's head down and give him a sweet goodnight kiss. He pulled away before it could become anything more than chaste, nervous like hell of overstepping their boundaries.