a cualquier lugar te llevaré

• truth is, between stumbling through wars and acting as the head of narnian nobility he hasn’t had the chance to really court someone.

• lucy brings up the topic most often and he humors her by rolling his eyes and saying he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there.

• (except he is now falling off that bridge.)

• he always held you in high regard and in the back of his mind he dreaded the inevitable moment those feelings softed into romantic attraction.

• now they have and it sucks. he’s conflicted and may avoid you for a bit because he's very aware of the implications of courting a king. the high king. of narnia.

• this kinda backfires on him though because the more he withdraws the more worried you get, and the more he can imagine you next to him in cair paravel.

• so finally — for once — he goes to susan.

• after hearing him out she tells him you might not even feel the same anyway dummy to stop being so serious about it. he may be high king but that doesn’t mean he has to pressure himself into finding narnia’s next addition to the throne room. he has to decide if he’s even happy with the person first. (and to put a little more faith in you too. if there’s anyone who would be understanding about the situation it would be you.)

• she’s right so with that in mind he lets himself stare at you from across the courtyard more often.

• his attention has wandered to you on more than one occasion during council gatherings and he’ll blink when someone finally asks his opinion.

• “is . . . his highness feeling al-” “yes — do continue.”

• now susan probably off-handedly told lucy, and lucy immediately told edmund. (god no.)

• edmund finds the entire situation beyond amusing and will proceed to raise actual hell for his brother.

• peter’s blood pressure is that much higher because of this.

• edmund will ask you to help look for something in a room he knows peter just entered.

• or one time in the middle of a social event after lucy complimented your newly sewn clothes, “i agree, the color is quite befitting. what do you think, peter? do you think the color is quite befitting?”

• peter’s glare would have been sharper if he wasn’t coughing into his drink.

• gremlin behavior.

• if you’re on the quieter side he always gets the room to shut up settle down so you can share your thoughts;

• which doesn’t take much because most of the courtesans consider you his betrothed anyway jfjdjd

• “your grace was most eloquent during the meeting this morning.” “oh, thank you . . . but i’m not-” “royalty? i beg your pardon; i merely presumed!” which leaves you oddly flattered and very confused.

• if you adjust the tunic of his armor, tap his visor, and wish him luck for a tournament he’ll give you a tight-lipped smile before tugging it down and striding away to hide his warm cheeks.

• god help whoever has the audacity to smartmouth you around him. though not that anyone would, considering both your reputations among the narnians but also because if anyone did they’d be in for a cold shot of english sarcasm.

• lucy thinks you guys are the cutest and he’s much more accepting of her comments compared to ed’s teasing.

• but joke's on you because if edmund is in charge of teasing peter, lucy is the one poking you.

• “so what do you think of peter?” “well, he’s brave, decisive, and-” “yes, yes, of course, but what do you really think of him?”

• she’s all smiley when you avert your eyes and say you guess you’re fond of him.

• susan is just happy to have another level head around and thinks you’re good for her brother plus you don’t put up with his shit

• you’re the only one he listens to.

• when he inevitably loses his patience with someone one disappointed look from you has him begrudgingly apologizing, and the siblings aren’t sure whether to be jealous or impressed.

• cue them occasionally taking advantage of this because when else are they gonna get this opportunity?

• “peter said i shouldn’t ride side saddle!” “what? peter, why?” “because she’s more likely to fall off that way.” “your sister has endured a lot worse than falling off a horse, pete.” “see?” “oh, alright.”

• even susan, “i think we should make camp by the stream.” “yes, but the trees provide more shelter from the wind.” “flowers grow close to the stream.” she says it like it's obvious. his finger taps his sheath. he’s looking at the water. “you could give a flower to-” “fine.”

• he did give you that flower. it was purple and you liked it a lot. what you didn’t notice was lucy giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up from behind a bush and susan elbowing ed for rolling his eyes.

it makes you wonder how he can stay in one for so long. your thighs would tap out after 10 minutes.

“if you're tired you can go to sleep, you know.”

his quiet voice in the dark draws your gaze to where he sits, like a perched bird as usual, or a discerning owl.

his eyes are fixed on the live feeds. light and his father sleep in their respective cells and you can only assume misa is doing the same, chained to a plank and all. you bite your cheek, a habit you picked up once the case was well-established, to keep from debating the morality of it all. in a situation as unique as this, morality is starting to feel like a luxury.

the thought is comforting enough to let you sleep.

speaking of sleep. “’m fine. i'm not tired.”

his deep eyes spare you a brief glance before returning to the monitors illuminating the room. “that yawn five minutes ago says otherwise.”

you thought you did a good job hiding that one.

“well, a second pair of eyes never hurts.” you shift in your seat again, harder this time, and grit out, “and who’s gonna keep you from drowning in frosting?”

his mouth quirks once, though his eyes remain focused. “appreciated, but staying awake yourself won’t make me any less tired.” he nips his nail as if to conclude his point. you’re a day away from buying a spritz bottle. “at that rate we’d both just end up groggy in the morning.” his voice trails off, like he’d rather not entertain the thought.

“it is the morning,” you murmur half to yourself, then pause. you eye him. “are you tired?”

he doesn't answer. instead, his gaze flits across the screen and you hush. light just stirred in his sleep.

“get some rest. i’ll be fine.”

he's either superhuman or not human at all. you sigh. there’s no point arguing with him . . . and you feel another yawn coming on.

“are you sure . . . ?” you manage to ask, before it sweeps up your words and stifles them.

when your mouth shuts gracelessly behind your hand his sidelong look is coy.

“shut up.”

“i didn't say anything.”

you drowsily haul yourself upright to stretch – okay, you are tired – and entertain the part of you that likes to argue with him. uselessly, of course, but he makes it fun to lose. “if it’s not productive for me to stay up then why have me stay to begin with?” on good days you convince yourself you can outwit him.

“because someone has to run to the coffee machine.” he puts a light emphasis on someone, barely perceivable as jest, and you’re ready to roll your eyes and drop it when he continues, “and because i enjoy your company.”

you blink.

that wasn’t the response you were expecting. surprise and tentative flattery begin to settle in place of your prior mischief. you’re not sure why. he’s been forthcoming with his thoughts before — much to matsuda’s chagrin.

“thanks.” your intonation wavers. you're not sure what else to say. he’s blunt, yes, but it rarely involves his own sentiments.

“you’re welcome.” if he's aware of your predicament he doesn't show it. he crosses his ankles. “the rest of them will be up in a few hours, so i would make the most of it.”

“right.”

your creaky chair pierces the quiet when you finally make the effort to stand. your sedentary muscles are slow to engage, and he fixates on the spot where your socks meet the floor.

you try not to stare. maybe it's the time of night, the dimness of the room, or your sleep deprived brain, but he looks . . . softer. less of the level-headed, renowned detective and more of a twenty-something nursing a cold coffee at an ungodly hour.

you shuffle, moving to say something to occupy the silence. “well then . . . ‘night.”

he pulls his gaze from the camera feed for the first time in what feels like hours to regard you considerately.

“good night. and thank you.”

you nod. the dark shades of his eyes are almost obscured by the harsh monitors and you turn to walk away before your sleepy brain can finish a very bold thought.

“sleep well.”

you gather your shoulders and sniff hard, swiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. you muster enough energy to level him a glare, and while it doesn’t smolder much behind tears it’s worth a shot.

“not all of us can punch our problems away, whirl.” you almost regret saying it once you do.

it’s a low blow you know, but you could do worse. you’ve taken worse from him. it was what initiated this odd . . . relationship in the first place.

months ago, any underhanded response would’ve been enough to prompt an explosive reaction out of him. you had relished it if you were being honest; the resident psycho riled to violence by the untouchable liaison. it was a morbid outlet, a singular semblance of control you possessed on a ship of titans in outer space. magnus as always ensured your safety, and if it wasn’t for his colossal size, your tiny self would’ve been reduced to a puddle of blood on the cold floor, indistinguishable from a spilled drink.

today, he lets out a static scoff.

“you piped up, didn’t you?” he lays off and pulls himself upright. his gold optic glimmers. “if there’s anything better than throwing the last punch it’s getting the last word.” you hear the cheeky tint in his voice and you know he’s real proud of himself for that one.

you roll your eyes. “not like it did much,” you mutter, half caring whether he heard.

you don’t get it. if you could befriend whirl of all bots, what was the problem with the rest of the crew? not skids or velocity or anyone, no. the rest of the ship’s crew that runs and inhabits the damn honker of a ship. sure – having a mouse of an organic on board to be wary of stepping on is a nuisance, but jeez they could keep it to themselves at swerve’s. you had to hide your dejection behind a glass of preserved orange juice. it’s not your fault you’re human.

“besides,” whirl continues, waving a claw and interrupting your thoughts. “no one asked for their half-baked input anyway. assuming we wanna hear it or whatever . . .”

he goes on muttering about bots’ audacity and you feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. he must’ve remembered what you told him about 'cookies.'

“uh huh.” you watch him pace. “and you were one of them sharing a half-baked opinion of me a few months ago, were you not?” any prior annoyance has now tempered into amusement.

he hears it and goes silent. you struggle to keep your face neutral as his optic spirals to examine you. oh, you’ve started a game.

“yeah sure . . .” his shoulders slouch and he lets his gaze meander, “before i realized how fun you are.” and then he’s up in your space again, extending his absurdly long neck in your face like a space flamingo until you’re forced to either step back, stare right into his lens, or push him away with a snort. not to make you smile, oh no, but to flex his aggravating ability to pry a reaction out of you. payback.

sticky dried tears stain your cheeks, but you pull an indignant face at him. your smile finally breaks the façade.

his optic flashes behind glass and his stance shifts. ha. you lose.

“how fun i am to scare, you ass.”

it helps him think, obviously. but it's just that ever since you picked up on the habit of his you couldn't help but feel it’s so . . . him?

his lanky form passes in front of you again, and you flick your eyes back to the page. you've been on the same one for 10 minutes.

he's always been expressive. creative and excited with a need to put it somewhere. it makes sense his movement is as abrupt and grandiose as the ideas that appear to him on a whim. you've had to duck on more than one occasion to dodge a sweeping arm illustrating his latest innovation.

at this point you're pretty sure pacing is more a conductor of his flow of thought than a method of focusing it. for how loudly his creativity manifests — in wicked riffs and hopping hammer-ons — it also unfurls quietly, making him uncharacteristically silent.

and right now in the cramped living space of the tent, he has to think it out.

you sneak a look at him from your huddled spot on the bed, a vantage point, slouched against the wall with your knees bent up to your chest. your book is your camouflage.

his arm is tucked tight under the opposite elbow, a hand lingering near his mouth as a stray index finger taps the corner. he halts. stormy blue eyes light up . . . then his brow furrows again and he pivots on a heel to cross the room with a shake of his head.

you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. though knowing him, if this goes on much longer he'll end up losing sleep to it tonight.

(“Innovation never sleeps!”)

occasionally you wonder how often he’s up staring at the ceiling when you're not awake to tell him to get some rest for

“Once’.”

“yeah?” he jolts and freezes wide-eyed like you’ve caught him in an act.

amused affection tugs a smile out of you, and the reminder that his quiet tangents are welcomed prompts his shoulders to relax. pulled back to reality and left standing in the middle of the bedroom-kitchen, his eyes now search yours curiously.

you ask despite knowing it will open the floodgates, tone mildly incredulous. “what’re you thinking about?”

oh boy. you can only watch as he registers the question and his eyes begin to sparkle with that damn near contagious excitement and his grin is still widening and yep here it comes-

“alright listen- you're gonna love it, i promise- just, hear me out. what ifff . . . ”

ah yes, his dramatic pauses.

you blink. “what if . . . what?”

he steps closer like he can convey the sheer genius of it with proximity. “we dyed them?”

“dyed them?”

“dyed them.” he nods proudly.

you consider the idea of dying a nonsensically colored product with another nonsensical color. what shirt compliments a neon orange thneed? hm.

meanwhile the excitement is spilling out of his body, and he lightly bounces on the pads of his feet awaiting your answer. he looks too giddy to say no.

still, considering his origins as a half-human half-satanic being, you figure it isn’t so hard to accept that facets of his personality wouldn’t adhere to such straightforward qualities. his most well-meaning advice and declarations of support are bitten out with abrasive passion, and demonic canines pierce through an angelic smile.

another sigh.

out of your peripheral, a student seated down the table drags a tired look rin’s way, and you wonder if it slipped past him or if he simply refused to acknowledge it.

like his mood, his actions — his reactions — his choice of character is as varied as the stimuli prone to change it.

he manages to be both a hormonal rascal and defender of the girls’ honor outside the locker rooms, throwing down with some creep who tried to sneak a look through the door ajar. he’ll fight bon for the last bottle of ramune at the shop, screeching nonsense profanities, then turn and offer it to his brother instead.

yukio sticks with water because of course he does.

he’ll incinerate another rogue demon let loose in the building, a trickle of blood dripping down his forehead, laugh during cleanup, and ask if you—

“wanna get food?”

his voice yanks you back into the world of conversation. you blink and look over at him.

he's drawn his head up enough to regard you with bleary eyes. his pencil had been left abandoned long enough to roll off the paper, and his arms and shoulders drape idly off the back of the stiff chair. his eyes are diffused red and heavy with resignation.

he’s tired.

you feel your mouth quirk up. times like this you forget he's the product of hellfire.

struck down and defeated by coursework, handsome face illuminated a dull yellow by the old ornate desk lamps, and tapered ears concealed behind mussed navy hair, he looks more human than people give him credit for.

his gaze focuses and he lifts his head upright. the library is quiet, and the footfalls of departing late-nighters echo on hardwood through the bookshelves. his brow begins to raise and before he can open his mouth to ask what’s up you flick your notebook closed.

“sure.”

it's too late to be reading your own scribbles.