🤍

You pull at the scrunchie you used to restrain your hair, looking at a point past Steve’s shoulder as you consider your answer. “I told you I had applied.” 

Steve scoffs. “You told me you were applying to jobs; plural. I didn’t even know you had been called for an interview!” 

“Oh,” you hum, pulling your lips between your teeth. “Well, the interview went well.”

You manage to evoke a laugh from him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two of you stand there grinning at each other for a few moments before Steve breaks the silence.

“You got the job!” He cheers. 

You let out a self-conscious chuckle as you scuff the toe of your sneakers on the asphalt. “Yeah, I got the job.”

“And you started today!” he’s still cheering, the dork. 

“How’d you even find out?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Well, I’d been thinking to myself, wow, haven’t seen my favourite girl in a while, I should call and see what she’s up to. Maybe she’ll wanna catch a movie or something.”

You snort at the irony of him then finding you at a movie theatre. 

“But your aunt answered, and when I said hello, she went oh hi, Steve! Dustin’s not here right now, I think he might be at Mike’s if you wanted to try there. To which I replied actually, Ms. Henderson, I’m wondering if your niece is around. And you’ll never guess what she told me.”

You have an idea, but you bite anyway. “Yeah? What’d she tell you?”

“She told me that her beautiful, darling, sweet angel of a niece was actually at work. And she had the grace to – at my obvious confusion – explain that today was your first day of training at the theatre.”

“You’re right. I never would’ve guessed that,” you laugh.

“What part?”

“Claudia referring to me as her beautiful, darling, sweet angel of a niece.” 

Steve lets out a noncommittal hum, looking at the neon lights of the cinema behind you. “I may have embellished my storytelling a bit.”

“Oh, only a bit, huh?”

He hums in acknowledgement, smiling down at you as his eyes soften to near molten levels. You shift uncomfortably, unsure what to do under the weight of his affection. 

“So, you came all the way here to tell me you were mad I didn’t tell you I got a call back?”

“Or about the interview,” Steve agrees, sniffing with faux vexation. “Or that you got it. Or that you were beginning training. And that you didn’t let me drive you to your first day. Anyways, not that you deserve it but,”

He holds out the daisies for you, cellophane and decorative tissue paper crinkling under his grip as you smile at the bow carefully holding it altogether.

You’ve never been given flowers before. 

“Why would you get me flowers?” you ask with a laugh instead of saying thank you or they’re beautiful, taking them into your eager grasp and gently brushing your fingers along the soft petals. You kind of want to cry.

“Well yeah, I don’t know. S’not like you deserve them or anything,” he teases, nudging your foot with his own so that you know he’s teasing. 

You clear your throat, embarrassed to be emotional, embarrassed to be receiving something so pretty, embarrassed at being treated with so much care. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he teases, shooting you a wink. “This is awesome, you know? I’m proud of you.”

You groan. “Oh, stop.”

“What?”

“It’s not that big a deal!” you laugh, though even that comes out slightly panicked. Damn Steve Harrington, he’s definitely trying to kill you; the lump in your throat threatens to strangle you. 

“Don’t be dumb,” he scoffs. “Of course it’s a big deal! You got a new job, it’s great! I mean, it sucks; I already spend so much of my time chasing you around town just trying to hang out with you, now I gotta share you with The Hawk, too.” 

You shake your head at him, mortifyingly fond. 

He watches the last of your new coworkers pull away from the theatre, offering them a nod of his head in acknowledgement as you turn to wave at them. The second their brake lights disappear from view, he’s taking the flowers back and placing them on the hood of his car in favour of pulling you towards him by the waist. 

“You look cute in uniform, y’know?” he murmurs against your lips, the subsequent kiss turning sloppy when you laugh at him and he smiles at the sound. 

“It’s a vest,” you argue, pausing to kiss him back. “Not a uniform.”

He hums into your mouth. “S’cute.”

“It’s horrendous.”

“You make it look sexy,” he huffs, pulling away from your lips to trail kisses down your jaw to your ear before settling at your pulse point. It steals your breath. 

He lets out a groan as though you’re the one attacking his neck. “You smell good.”

You can’t help it, you burst out into laughter at him. 

“I smell like popcorn!” 

“So good,” he reiterates reverently. “You’re so lucky.”

“Lucky to leave work smelling like the inside of a popcorn machine?” you giggle, letting him pull you further into him so that you’re standing between his spread legs. His hands link at the base of your spine and you let yours glide up his chest and towards his shoulders. 

“Yeah, I leave work smelling like the inside of a VHS rewinder.”

Your brows fall as you move your gaze from the swath of skin visible from the open button of his golf shirt up to his eyes. “What does the inside of a VHS rewinder even smell like?”

He shrugs his shoulders, eyes flitting up to a space on your forehead. He leans in to kiss it. 

“Like me after a long day at work.” 

You laugh into his chest before pulling him back in by the collar of his shirt for another kiss. He obliges willingly. 

The two of you spend a few more minutes trading giggly kisses in front of the theater before he returns the flowers to your greedy hands (you don’t think he knows that he’s just created a monster) and drives you home.

Steve insists on picking up celebratory ice cream on the way. You stop arguing with him about it when he puts his hand on your knee.

By the time he gets to the fourth 7/11, you’re late for the reservation. 

Did you forget? You don’t seem like the forgetful type. Steve also doesn't think he left any room for confusion; there was nothing ambiguous about tomorrow, seven o'clock. 

That leaves only one option; you stood him up. 

And so he wants to be mad. Wants to be hurt. Wants to throw his hands up and say to hell with you and go home. Except now he doesn’t know where you are and, in turn, if you’re okay. Visions of Russians and demogorgons and lab employees flood his mind and have his stomach migrating to his throat. So, he keeps driving; checking what feels like every 7/11 within a ten mile radius of the Henderson home before he finally finds you. 

You’ve propped yourself up on a half-wall behind the 7/11. Your feet dangle above the concrete and sway in time with whatever music you have playing on your walkman. There’s a duffle bag on one side of you and a can of 7-Up on the other with a plastic straw through its tab. 

Steve has half a mind to grab the disposable camera from his glove compartment to snap a picture of you if he wasn’t so pissed. 

He parks the car and makes his way over to you, raising his eyebrows when you notice him and cautiously pull the headphones from your ears.

“An entire shop available and you still pick 7-Up over Sprite? Or literally any other soda?” 

You don’t take the bait. 

He huffs a bitter laugh, gesturing at the duffle bag. “Going somewhere?” 

You’ve packed, as though the idea of going out with him was deplorable enough that you’d rather skip town. Steve perches on the half wall right beside said bag so you can’t feign ignorance. 

“You could have just said no, you know?” he finally says after failing to receive a response. “Instead of letting me show up at your house to the kids and your aunt shooting me weird looks when I asked where you are, waiting on you, before leaving like a loser.”

You still don’t reply. 

“I was worried, you know,” he laughs at himself, feeling dumber than ever. “Thought you got yourself into trouble, or trouble found you. Maybe you’d gotten lost or- or snatched up. By an actual pervert. But nope,” he pops the P, “ just couldn’t stand the thought of spending time with me.” 

Your continued silence serves to bring Steve’s anger from a simmer to a rolling boil.

“Seriously?” he deadpans. “You’ve got nothing to say to me? After I waited for you? After I drove around the entire town of Hawkins looking for you? Worrying about you? You stand me up, and you have nothing to say?” 

You look down at your feet that have since stopped swinging. Steve lets out a derisive scoff.

“Wow.” He nods to himself. “Well, I guess since I know you’re not dead in a ditch or anything, I’ll just let Dustin know his cousin’s fine and to expect her home soon.” 

You still don’t reply and Steve’s anger swiftly morphs into a deep, aching hurt. He stands before you can see the sheen in his eyes and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows painfully. 

Steve makes it only three steps before you finally break whatever vow of silence you’ve taken.

“You didn’t tell me about Nancy.”

He doesn’t turn right away, not entirely sure he’s heard you right.

“What?”

You aren’t looking at him when Steve finally turns back towards you, swallowing thickly before you repeat yourself.

“You didn’t tell me about Nancy.” 

Steve catalogs the way your shoulders are hunched, as though you’re curling in on yourself to protect your most vital organs. “What about her?”

You lick your lips, shifting in your seat. 

“What about Nancy didn’t I tell you?” It comes out harsher than he intends it to. He’s perhaps being cruel, forcing you to say it aloud. Steve – contrary to popular belief – is not dumb, can probably guess what your hang-up is here though he’s not sure why it’s a hang-up at all. As it stands, he doesn’t think he could stomach hearing about your exes right now either. 

“That the two of you used to date.”

Steve scoffs. “You stood me up because I, at one point, had a girlfriend?” 

You bristle at his tone, finally looking at him if only just to glare at him. “I thought maybe she was the one you really wanted to be with tonight.” 

Steve wants to laugh, thinks you’ve got to be joking, except nothing about this is funny. “Yeah? Well, you thought wrong.”

He takes a few steps towards you which sees you slipping off the half wall to stand in front of him defiantly. “If I wanted to go out with Nancy Wheeler tonight, I would’ve asked Nancy Wheeler. And she would’ve had the grace, or maybe the balls, to tell me no instead of leaving me hanging. I didn’t make you out to be a coward, Y/N.” 

Your jaw tightens. “Screw you.” 

“I didn’t ask Nancy to come out tonight,” he continues unperturbed, stepping further into your space, “because I didn’t want to go out with Nancy tonight. I wanted to go out with you.”

“Because you couldn’t have her?” you throw back, meeting Steve exactly where he’s at. There’s a familiarity in this dance the two of you do; comfort in the routine of striking at each other until one of you bleeds. 

“It-” Steve runs frustrated hands through his hair. “What!?" 

“Because today, I had to listen about how King Steve’s been soft for the girl that got away for years, and I couldn’t help but feel like I might just be a chance for you to feel big again.” 

“Oh, well, in that case: mission failed. I feel about two feet tall right now,” he deadpans as he stares down at you. “King Steve, are you serious right now? You think I give a shit about that stuff?” 

“How would I know, Steve?” You bite. “I don’t know you.”

“Exactly!” he shouts, flinging his hand out helplessly. “You don’t know a God damn thing about me, that’s why I asked you for one fucking shot. I- King Steve? Fuck that guy! I hated him! 

“And since you’re so curious; he’s the reason Nancy and I broke up. Alright? I was a fucking asshole. She moved on, it sucked. But you know what? So did I. And maybe you’d have known that if you talked to me instead of making these idiodic assumptions.” 

The two of you are breathing hard by the time he finishes. 

“How’s it feel to be wrong all the time, by the way?” he asks you, because he feels justified. “Must be exhausting.”

“Oh, get bent.”

The only bending Steve does is to grab you with a palm on either side of your face and pull you into a bruising kiss. 

Your hands come up automatically, bracing yourself on his chest to keep you stable as though the force of his kiss threatens to throw you off kilter. 

And then, you’re shoving him away from you. 

Steve feels like he’s been running for hours, rubbing at his chest as he watches you stare at him, bewildered. He’s actually not entirely sure that he can decipher the expression on your face. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to, panic setting in that he might’ve just crossed a serious line; might’ve just become the pervert you’ve always accused him of being. 

He’s just about to ask you if you want him to drive you to the police station to file a restraining order when you’re grabbing him roughly by the collar and pulling him back in. 

Steve stumbles forward a few steps, hands on your hips as he forces you backwards until you’re pinned between him and the half wall.

You kiss him like you’re begging him for something. Steve doesn’t know what it is that you want but he finds himself giving anyway; pouring all of the frustration and care you’ve managed to dredge up inside of him since the moment he met you. 

One hand rises to the back of your neck – his fingers weaving into the hair there of their own accord – while the other slides to the base of your spine; he spreads his palm along your hip and pulls you forward. Your arms wrap around his neck and Steve actually shivers when your fingers thread into the short hair at the base of his skull. 

Steve presses his nose into the side of yours, maneuvering your face so he can run his tongue along the seam of your lips; you let out what might’ve been a sigh or a whine if Steve hadn’t taken that opportunity to deepen the kiss.

Your lips are beautifully kiss-bruised by the time the two of you separate, though Steve knows if he didn’t have basic needs like that of air in his lungs he never would’ve pried himself from you.

He doesn’t go far, though, keeping you in his grip as he rests his forehead against yours. 

“You’ll have to forgive me for not thinking of mentioning my ancient history with Nancy Wheeler to you, okay?” he whispers, emphasizing his words with a bump of his nose to yours. “My thoughts have been a little preoccupied with someone else lately.”

You blink a few times, running your tongue along your lips as you work to catch your breath before looking up at him through your lashes. “Me?”

Steve rolls his eyes, wondering what he’s done to deserve having the hots for the most infuriating girl in the world. 

“Idiot,” he huffs fondly before pulling you in for another kiss.

THE BIG FAT CRUSH: Steve doesn't know why he bothered telling Robin, doesn't know what he thought he would get out of doing such a thing. Compassion, perhaps? Maybe some sympathy. Even indifference would have been better than this. Because she won't. stop. laughing. [steve's read to filth] 🌈

FIRST CRAWL JITTERS: You haven’t called him a pervert yet today, and Steve’s just delusional enough to consider that progress. You haven’t said much of anything else either, though, but that’s not the point. In fact, now that he’s had a good look at you, he can’t help thinking that something’s off. You're scared. Steve tries [heavy on the tries] to comfort you. [failed attempts]🌥

WAY TO GO, DINGUS: Movie night had been going well, but in typical Steve fashion though, the winning streak doesn’t just come to an end; it implodes. Spectacularly. Scene of the crime? The Harrington kitchen. Time of death? After the credits have rolled. Cause of death? One dingus and one stubborn girl. [argument]🌪🌈

A MATTER OF MISCOMM: Dustin, in typical Dustin fashion, totally overreacts when the comms fail during a crawl. The Party agrees to meet back up at the station and regroup. Steve, Dustin, and Eddie are the first ones back. You're second, and Steve knows something is wrong. [injured reader]🌥

THE 7-UP CONSPIRACY: You’re being petty, you can admit as much. But Steve showed up and you found yourself feeling like a territorial alley cat with its tail puffed up. You’re not even entirely sure why he’s here, anyway. He said he came to drop something off for Dustin. Well, consider the thing dropped. You try saying as much, but Dustin's had enough of it; this ends today. [forced proximity]🌪

A HOLE IN THE WALL: “What’s going on?” “We’re about to die, that’s what’s going on,” Steve huffs, rising to his feet and forcing you up with him though he keeps you tucked into his side. That’s when you notice the demogorgon forcing its way through the wall. Things get explosive. [action] ⛈🌈

EXTRAS: ☞ original request ☞ are they black cat & golden retriever? or something else?

“Jesus Christ, son of a fucking- HELLO?! Does anybody copy?” Dustin shrieks, slapping his hand against the radio like he might be able to bully it into behaving. “God damn, good for nothing piece of shit. Does anybody copy?” 

“Henderson, buddy, you’re gonna make it mad if you keep that up,” Eddie comments in defense of the abused piece of equipment. 

“This entire crawl means nothing if we can’t even reach each other,” Dustin huffs. 

“Okay, then, I vote we get out of this place and regroup,” Steve sighs; a migraine brewing at the combination of the metallic tang in the air and Dustin’s hostility. 

Eddie agrees, though he tries to keep things light for Dustin’s sake. “Try to let everyone know to meet back at HQ, D-Man.” 

Dustin rolls his eyes at the nickname but tries the radio again. 

“If anybody copies, abort mission. I repeat, abort mission. Comms are down, meet back at the rendezvous. Abort mission; meet back at the rendezvous.” 

Unsurprisingly, the three of them are the first back at the radio station. 

“What if they didn’t hear?” Dustin frets as he works on pacing a hole in the floor. 

“They’re gonna realize that the comms are down eventually, man,” Eddie assuages. 

“Yeah, but-”

“They’re not new here, yeah?” Steve interrupts. “They know what they’re doing, they’ve got each other, and they know to meet back here eventually.” 

Dustin lets out a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh but relents, lowering himself into a chair with a frustrated huff. Steve counts that as a win, no longer dizzy watching the teenager pace. 

As suspected, though, the peace doesn’t last for long. 

The door flies open and hits the opposite door with a resounding bang as you come tearing into the station; a blur of colour and movement as you materialize before your cousin and force him to stand. 

“Are you okay?!”

Dustin stumbles a bit at the force of your maneuvering. “Huh?”

Both Eddie and Steve are standing at attention when Nancy and Jonathan trail in behind you, seemingly far less stressed than you. 

Dustin huffs as you start patting him down. 

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Dustin groans as he tries to swat your hands away from him. “That’s the problem.”

You seem utterly perplexed, chest heaving as you look at your cousin in bemusement. “But, you- on the radio. You sounded-”

“Freaked,” Jonathan finishes for you. 

“Stop fussing,” Dustin huffs, shoving your hands away which causes you to sway a little, “I’m fine.” 

Eddie hums in understanding. “You got it all wrong, princess. Dustin here was just being a whiny baby over his favourite toy not working.” 

Dustin groans again and steps away from your reach to throw a glare at Eddie, but Steve can’t help but notice the way you seem wholly unmoored.

“Hey,” he calls out. Your gaze turns — slow, as though your entire psyche is wading through molasses — towards him. “What’s wrong with you?”

You don’t even react to his rather aggressive show of concern which has said concern skyrocketing to new heights. 

“What happened?” Steve directs his question to Nancy and Jonathan as he inches his way towards you, wary of any sudden movements when you look like a gentle breeze could have you on your ass. 

“Oh, yeah. She was awesome out there,” Jonathan comments; this doesn’t make Steve feel any better. You weren’t supposed to be awesome, you were supposed to be fine. 

“What happened?” He asks again, this time directed at you. Steve places a hand on your elbow when you merely stare at him unseeingly. 

“She killed a demodog all on her own,” Nancy explains, though her brows have started to furrow under the weight of Steve’s concern. 

His head whips towards the two of them, hand never leaving your arm. “Why was she on her own?” 

Nancy has the grace to look somewhat chagrined, but Jonathan takes a defensive step forward. 

“We heard a sound; Nance and I went to investigate it and told her to wait by the gate.” 

Nancy chimes in, uncertain. “We didn’t want her following us into an ambush or something.”

Steve curses under his breath and turns back towards you, hands flitting over your form in much the same way yours had been flitting over Dustin’s. 

“Did it get you? Are you hurt?” He asks demands. His eyes flit up to yours when you fail to answer. The colour of your face — specifically around your lips and eyes — isn’t right. Steve doesn’t wish to explore why he knows — has memorized — the colour of your lips, but he has, and right now the colour is all wrong.  

“Hey.” Your name comes out harsher than Steve means it to. “Are you hurt?” 

You grimace and look down at your torso. Steve might feel bad about it later but panic has taken over his faculties and he begins peeling your jacket off of you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when he exposes the torn, bloodied fabric of your shirt. 

With a strength Steve isn’t aware he possessed, he lifts you up under the armpits and deposits you onto the table beside you. 

“The first aid kit,” he barks behind him, not bothering to turn as Nancy takes off to fetch it from the supply closet. “What happened, huh? Are you okay?” 

“I’m okay,” you murmur. Steve doesn’t believe you. 

“You’re a bad liar,” he tells you, lifting the hem of your shirt to expose a deep gash to your ribs. Likely claw marks; if it had been a bite, a good chunk of you would be missing. 

Steve finds himself disappointed when you don’t tell him to fuck off. He’d even accept you calling him a pervert – telling him to get his creeper hands off of you – over this. 

“Here,” Nancy murmurs, depositing the first aid kit on the table beside your hip and stepping back.

Steve doesn’t reply; doesn’t thank her or acknowledge her in any way. Can’t even look at the two of them over his shoulder lest Hawkins’ hottest couple fall victim to a double homicide. 

“Tell me what happened,” Steve instructs as he puts on some gloves and Dustin dampens a paper towel with a water bottle for him to begin cleaning the area around your wound. 

“Jo- Jonathan and Nancy went to investigate a noise,” you manage, slow going as Steve bends in front of you. Your hands end up on his shoulders to stabilize yourself and Dustin places a steadying hand on your back. “I waited at the gate.”

“Yeah? Then what?” Steve can’t really bear to hear what it is that found you showing back up harmed and harried, but he needs you to keep talking. 

You suck in a deep breath that has to hurt, forcing more blood to drip from the gash. “Then I… heard a noise from the other direction.” 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, reaching for the antiseptic. “This is gonna hurt, alright?” 

“You heard a sound?” Dustin encourages at your silence, taking over in distracting you as Steve works on disinfecting the wound. 

You hum in acknowledgement, failing to react to the sizzling, bubbling pink spilling down your stomach and towards the waistline of your jeans. Steve quickly tucks a towel there to stop the flow from soaking your bottom half. Your skin merely twitches as the rubbing alcohol burns away the bacteria and dirt.

This indicates to Steve that you’re either too in shock to react to the pain, or pain isn’t a new sensation for you. Neither option makes him feel very good. 

“Was the sound a demodog?” Dustin tries again, his own voice as tight as Steve’s throat feels. 

“Yeah, it-” you take a deep breath “-yeah.” 

“And you guys didn’t see any of this?” Steve tosses over his shoulder at your crawl partners. 

“We heard the gunshot and came running. It was dead by the time we got there and then Dustin started freaking out over the radio,” Nancy explains. 

Jonathan nods in agreement. “We only caught, like, every other word. Swearing, shouting. Abort mission. Something was down. Rendezvous.” 

“She was running through the gate the very next moment.” 

“Okay, alright, shit,” Steve hisses, looking up at you now that the bleeding has slowed. He doesn’t think you’ll need stitches, thankfully, and he can’t understate how grateful he is that you were able to kill it before its petal-shaped maw made a meal out of you. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

Your face doesn’t change but you let out a huff; a sad excuse of something that might’ve been akin to a laugh. 

“Dustin, after all that screeching and swearing, if you’re not seriously maimed, I’m gonna-” Max grumbles as she walks through the door, pausing when she comes across the scene. “Whoa, what happened?” 

“Shit,” Robin hisses, chanting your name as she hurries across the room. “Are you okay? No, that’s a stupid question . You’re bleeding- wow, like, a lot. That’s, wow. Yeah. Holy crap. What happened?”

“Robin,” Steve lets out warningly, keeping his gaze locked on your ribs where he tapes gauze to your injury. “It’s barely bleeding anymore.”

“Here,” Eddie comments before Robin can carry on, handing you a Coke. Steve hadn’t even realized the guy left. “Get your blood sugar back up, gorgeous.” 

You offer him the best smile you can muster and accept the open can with a shaky hand. “Thanks.” 

“Oh yeah,” Steve grumbles sardonically. “Thanks Eddie for sparing a can of soda. S’not like I just patched you up or anything.” 

“Y’disrobed me,” you mumble around a fizzing sip. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Just started stripping me of my clothes without asking. Didn’t even buy me dinner first.” 

Steve huffs out a laugh disguised as a scoff.

“There she is,” Eddie cheers. Dustin lets out a breath of relief, rubbing your back affectionately. 

“Yeah, well,” Steve offers with a shrug, “I am a pervert, so.” 

He meets your gaze, the sounds of the last of the Party arriving fading into nothing as you offer him a tight smile and a private nod of your head. 

Thanks, it says, albeit reluctantly. 

Steve squeezes your knee before standing and stepping away from you. 

You’re welcome, it means. 

Fuck Nancy and Jonathan, you’re pairing up with me and Dustin next time, he keeps to himself. For now.

Scene of the crime? The Harrington kitchen. Time of death? After the credits have rolled. Cause of death? One dingus and one stubborn girl. 

They hear Steve’s voice first. “Yeah no, not happening.”

“Excuse me?” Your response is louder. 

The group exchange wary glances before taking off in the direction of the arguing. 

“You don’t just show up almost three years in and start changing how we run things,” Steve tells you, standing in his kitchen with his hands on his hips as he stares you down, positioned on the opposite side of the kitchen island with your arms crossed defiantly. 

“I’m not asking you to change how things run,” you argue rather evenly, “I’m merely suggesting-”

“Yeah, you don’t do that either,” Steve interrupts. Robin slaps a hand over her mouth at the sheer audacity. 

Your jaw ticks and you narrow your eyes at him. “You are such a dick.” 

Steve, at least, seems to realize his error. “I- shit, listen-”

“No! You listen,” you counter, pointing a threatening finger at him. “I appreciate that you’ve had his back all this time, I do. No one is questioning that-”

Steve scoffs, muttering under his breath “kinda sounds like you’re questioning that.”

“-all I’m saying,” you continue, louder now at Steve’s interruption, “is that he’s my cousin and I have a responsibility to keep him safe.”

“I’ve been managing that just fine this far.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel any better? That this has been going on for years and I’ve been none the wiser?” 

“Well, no. But I was hoping it would get you off my back.” Steve argues petulantly. 

Your responding eyeroll is visceral. “Jesus, you’re insane, you know that?”

“They’re…” Will starts quietly, sidestepping closer to Dustin as though wary of drawing attention to the audience the two of you have accumulated, “they’re fighting over you.”

“This is just like when my parents got divorced all over again,” Dustin mutterrs back. 

“Me and Dustin have always been a team, okay? We just have. Messing that up now will- it’ll ruin the flow. You’ll ruin the flow.” Steve explains poorly.

“I’ll ruin the flow? Are you serious right now?” 

“Look babe, you’re new, okay? I don’t expect you to-”

“Don’t call me babe,” you spit. 

Steve’s brows raise incredulously. “Oh? What? You don’t like being called babe?”

“Not by you,” you mutter.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like being called a pervert but, here we are.” 

“Well, you know what they say, Steve!” Dustin has to admit that your voice is growing shrill as you flip your hands up into the air helplessly. “If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a fucking duck.” 

You’re storming out of the kitchen towards the back door, still none the wiser to the audience witnessing the implosion. 

“Actually, I haven’t heard that before,” Steve yells back sarcastically. “Must’ve missed that one circulating while I was busy touching children in my spare time!”

The slam of the door leaves the Harrington house in deafening silence. 

“Well,” Eddie starts awkwardly, breaking the silence and alerting Steve to the presence of the peanut gallery. “It started well?” 

Steve’s face scrunches in pain, bending at the waist and catching his head in his hands as he leans his elbows on the kitchen island. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, buddy.” Dustin nods solemnly in agreement, slapping a conciliatory hand to his best friend’s back. 

Robin is still grimacing. “Fuck indeed.”

“Way to go, dingus,” Max adds unhelpfully.

You’ve stationed yourself at the back of the group where you lean against a wall, though your posture is anything but relaxed. Your arms are wrapped around your torso protectively and you’re basically gnawing on the skin around your thumb nail. You’ve cocked one leg but now it bounces so quickly that you’re nearly vibrating and Steve realizes – belatedly – that you’re scared.

He could almost laugh if he didn’t think that’d be terribly rude. It’s so frighteningly humanizing that he almost forgets that you hate him. He also gets it; you’ve never seen any of this before, you probably thought the kids were making shit up from one of their comic books or something and were kind enough not to call them on it.

Except now you’ve got six other people in the room not only corroborating their stories but also  readying you for a battle against interdimensional monsters, and suddenly this is all very, very real. 

You also seem unsure what to make of Hopper, and Steve finds that he can’t entirely blame you. He’s the fucking chief of police, and he’s standing here barking orders at everyone like soldiers on the front lines. But any aggression in Hopper’s voice comes from a place of concern, a place of care. This ragtag team of misfits have become his wards, and he doesn’t want any harm to come of them.

You’re included in that now.

Steve wants to make sure you know that. 

“Hey,” he offers softly, wincing when that manages to startle you out of your stupor. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Why?” You ask plainly, returning your gaze to the table of maps and plans that Nancy, Mike, Jonathan, Dustin, and Hopper are all pouring over. 

Right, still not friends. “They’re a lot. This is a lot,” he tries, aiming for nonchalant. “I remember finding out about all of this. I didn’t handle it very well, if I’m being honest.” 

You let out a dismissive huff of laughter, but Steve forges ahead. 

“I started screaming,” he explains, keeping his gaze focused on the way Dustin swats Jonathan’s hands away from the map instead of looking at you. “Tried calling the cops only for Nancy to rip the phone right off the wall.”

Your next huff of laughter is significantly less mean. 

“She pointed a gun at me, told me to get out. I didn’t realize they’d set a trap for the monster; I walked right into it- don’t-”

“A trap for a monster? And it caught you? Hm.”

“Har, har.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Walked right into that one too.” 

Your leg stills for a few moments before you shift your weight, silence falling between the two of you. 

Steve wouldn’t go so far as to call the silence comfortable, but he was content to sit in it. So content, in fact, that you almost startle him when you break it. “What’d you do then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You walked into a trap for a monster, had a gun pulled on you, and then what?” 

Steve sucks in a deep breath. “And then…I picked up a bat and started swinging.” 

You’ve gone quiet, and when Steve turns, he finds you already looking at him. He feels painfully self conscious under your scrutiny. “What?”

“You came face to face with a monster you didn’t know existed and…just started fighting?”

“Well, I mean…I did try to run away at first, but-”

“But you didn’t,” you finish for him. 

He nods, thoughtful. “Yeah I- I guess I didn’t.” 

“Okay!” Dustin announces, interrupting your stilted (but amicable!) conversation before turning to look at the rest of the room. “This shouldn’t be a big deal; in and out for recon and that’s it.” 

“You make it sound so simple,” Robin sighs with a roll of her eyes. 

“Kid, who’re you pairing up with?” Hopper asks, finding you standing at attention when you realize the question was directed at you. 

“I, uh-”

“She can come with me and Jon,” Nancy offers, seeing Jonathan nod in agreement. 

“Nancy’s real good with a gun,” Steve offers you quietly, “you’ll be in good hands.”

You ignore him, tense as shit. “But, what about Dustin?”

“Oh, I always team up with Steve,” your cousin explains; your face twists into something unpleasant at that. 

And, in typical Steve fashion, his hackles rise and he gets defensive, biting back at the fact that he’s quite sure your next words were going to be something along the lines of ‘I don’t want my sweet baby cousin paired up with a pervert’ with his tetchiest tone. “I’ve kept him alive this long, haven’t I?”

Your expression turns into an outright glare as you move to point your ire directly at Steve. 

“Don’t worry your sweet little mind over our Dusty-poo here,” Eddie interjects, slapping a hand on Dustin and Steve’s shoulders and giving them both a shake. “I’m joining the two of them today.”

Eddie himself is still pretty green when it comes to the upside down, likely recognizing the panic laced in your tone that still simmers beneath his own skin, the kind of panic that simmers deeper in the bones of everyone else who has had years to acquaint themselves with the upside down. 

You concede with a huff, though Steve wouldn’t say you sound at all pleased about it. “Fine.”

“You know how to use one of these?” Jonathan asks as he holds out a revolver. 

Steve watches as you take it, confidently check the barrel and count the bullets before flicking it back into place. “Yep.”

His mouth runs dry.

Eddie barks out a laugh, stealing Steve’s attention away from you only for him to find the curly-headed fuck staring at him in delight.

“Oh, Harrington,” Eddie coos with faux sympathy, “you are so fucked.”

Steve shoves him away, ignoring the guy's laughter at his expense because he’s right.

Steve is so fucked.

“I can’t believe I got rid of my board! We- we need the board, Steve!”

“We do not need the board. There’s no need for a board; stop it,” Steve argues. 

“The town flasher,” she cackles. 

“Does Vicky know you’re awful? Just terrible, really. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Robin is not ashamed of herself, wiping careful fingers under her eyes to gather any mascara that may have run during her laughing fit. “Please, I’m not going to sit here and be lectured by a pervert, Steve.”

“I hate you.” 

“No you don’t.” She chuckles, following him towards the back of the store like an irksome fly as he fires up the rewinder. “Why does this bother you so much anyways?”

“Why does- why does this bother me? Rob, I was accused of being a pervert. She thought I was, like, molesting kids and shit.” Steve announces, watching in horror as a couple quickly abandons the movies they were debating between and leaves the store. Steve lets out a weary sigh. 

“Okay, but she doesn’t anymore, right?” Robin carries on, smile as wicked and knowing as ever as she leans against the doorway marked employees only. “Once she found out about the monsters and shit?”

“Would you keep your voice down?” Steve hisses. 

“Jeez, you’re really worked up about this,” Robin appears to sober up for a few moments as she considers him. “Is she cute or something?” 

“Is she- what? What does that have anything to do with it?”

“She is, isn’t she?”

Steve shrugs helplessly. “I- well, yeah sure, I mean I guess, but-”

“Oh my God, you’re crushing on her!” 

“I am not, I- Robin, we’ve only met, like, three times and she’s been nothing but rude and called me a pervert. I do not have a crush on her.”

Steve definitely has a crush on you. He does, indeed, find you to be quite rude, but he also finds you to be quite pretty. Probably prettier, even, when you aren’t scowling at him, though he can’t pretend he hasn’t enjoyed the view all the same. 

Robin doesn’t buy it. “You so do.”

“Would you go do your job, please?” Steve snaps. “Someone’s gotta be available for the customers.” 

“You’re in a rotten mood.”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” He drawls with a visceral eyeroll as he gestures at Robin’s form.

Robin rolls her eyes right back at him, though she does turn to head back in the direction of the store front. “No, no. You’re just mad because you’ve completely blown your shot with the new girl in town ‘cause she thinks you’re a pervert.”

“I am not- wait. You think I’ve blown my shot?” He asks, standing half-in half-out of the employees only area. “Robin! Do you really think I’ve completely blown my shot!?”

Steve’s hopes for an answer are dashed when the front door chimes, announcing the arrival of a new customer. 

“Robin!” Steve hears Dustin greet excitedly.

“Oh hey, Dustin!” Robin chirps in turn, causing Steve to roll his eyes as he slams a VHS into the rewinder none too gently. “And you brought your cousin!” 

Steve nearly trips over himself as he races to the front of the store, rounding a shelf of videos only to find Robin leaning against the counter with a cruel smile on her face and Dustin – who came in alone – looking between the two of them dubiously. 

“You’re not funny.” Steve admonishes Robin, pointing an accusatory finger at her.

“It was pretty funny.” 

“You’re awful.”

“I’m hilarious.”

“And I’m confused,” Dustin interjects, cautiously stepping up and placing his return on the counter as he scrutinizes the two of them. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing’s going on-”

“Steve’s mad because he’s got a big fat crush on your cousin-”

“-I do not have a big fat-”

“-and she thinks he’s a pervert.” 

Dustin deflates. “Seriously, Steve? My cousin?”

“No. No! Not seriously,” Steve denies. “I do not have a big fat crush on your cousin. Why would you believe Robin? She’s a liar.” 

“It’s not my pants on fire right now, Stevie boy,” Robin taunts. He’s going to throttle her. 

“You’re insane, you know that?”

Dustin lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. “You’re hopeless.”

“So you agree,” Robin jumps in far too enthusiastically, “you think he’s completely blown his chances?”

“Robin.”

“He didn’t have chances to blow in the first place,” Dustin mumbles, words paired with a mischievous smirk. Steve’s going to throttle the both of them. 

“I don’t know why I’m friends with either of you.” 

“Oh, it’s because we’re the only people in town who don’t think you’re a pervert,” Robin sing-songs. 

“Alright, are you getting another movie or are you fucking off?” Steve quickly snaps, gesturing for Dustin to hurry up. 

“Actually, Y/N said she’s not going to let me back in the car if I don’t have Ferris Bueller's Day Off on my person.”

Both Robin and Steve freeze; Robin in anticipation, Steve in fear.

“Your cousin’s here?” Robin all but whispers, continuing when Dustin nods his head yes. “Like, here, here? As in she drove you, here? As in she’s waiting for you outside, here?” 

“Robin…” Steve warns cautiously. 

A silent standoff, and then-

“Robin!”

The two of them are racing towards the exit, Steve’s grabby hands no match for Robin’s elbows who ends up beating him to the door and taking off into the parking lot.

“Robin!”

“Someone’s gotta be available for the customers, dingus!” She calls out as she races towards your car. 

“Unbelievable,” Steve huffs as he slinks back over to the counter with his tail between his legs. Dustin watches him with amusement and mischief alike, waving Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at him. 

“I want this comped on account of you having the hots for my cousin.”

Steve scoffs. “I do not have the hots for your-” but Dustin’s shooting him a look that roughly translates to "don't bullshit me" and Steve folds like one of the cheap lawn chairs Kevin has in the staff breakroom. “Yeah okay, fine, whatever.”

“You’re the best,” Dustin grins, taking off his backpack to put the movie in it. “I’ll make sure to spread the word; soften Y/N up for you.”

“You’re really not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” Dustin disagrees as Robin breathlessly re-enters the store.

“Dustin, your cousin says to stop talking to the child molester and get your ass back in the car.” 

A woman quickly ushers her two young children out of the store. 

“Son of a- sorry folks. Thanks for coming by!” Steve tries to call out after them, glaring at Robin as she perches herself behind the counter with an air of faux innocence. “You’re going to get us fired, or arrested.”

“No,” Robin counters. “You’re going to get fired or arrested. I’ll be lauded for putting a pervert behind bars and making Hawkins a safer place. By the way-” she doesn’t give Steve a chance to retort, snapping at Dustin before he’s able to leave, “-movie night tomorrow at Steve’s. I already invited Y/N.”

“You what!?”

Dustin beams. “Sweet! Thanks Robin. See you tomorrow!”

“Robin,” Steve groans, a wicked headache beginning to brew behind his eyes. “What have you done?”

“I brought your chances back up by at least 0.05%,” she tells him, beyond pleased with herself. “Don’t blow it, Stevie boy.”

He chuckles as he steps up to join your reflection in the mirror, repositioning your necklace so that the pendant sits in the centre of your chest. “My girl, I will not meddle with the sanctity of a mating bond.” 

You let out a humourless snort. “Of course not. Just the sanctity of holy matrimony, right?” 

That earns you a pinch of your waist. 

“I will not send the High Lord of Autumn away when he’s so politely asked to see his mate.” 

“Fine,” you sigh, shrugging your father away from you and heading towards the door. “I will.”

Helion half laughs, half groans. “Play nice, Princess.” 

No promises, pops, you think to yourself, flinging the doors to your bedroom open and flitting past the High Lord of Autumn without sparing him a glance. 

“Oh? What are you doing here?” You ask as though finding him waiting for you comes as a surprise.

Eris is quick to shake off the confusion of your non-greeting and you bite back a smile at the sound of him needing to skip a step to catch up to you. 

“I thought I’d come see my favourite Day Court Princess, of course,” he says with an easy grin, waiting as you accept a tote bag from a waiting chambermaid. 

“Great, and are you done now?”

Eris’ voice is full of humour. “You’ll come to learn it takes a bit more to satisfy my needs, Princess.”

“Eugh,” you huff, waving at the guards who open the doors for your exit, “and where’d you leave your shadow?”

“Why?” A different voice chimes in as a large, dark figure materializes on your opposite side. “Did you miss me?”

“CAULDRON!! Fucking boil me! Holy shit,” you shriek, coming to a stop to hold your hand over your chest in order to keep your heart from taking off down the pea gravel trails and fucking off into Dawn. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

Azriel tilts his head as he considers you. “Well, I suppose right now it’s that our mate seems pretty adamant on avoiding us.” 

Another childish groan leaves your lips. “Yes, and if you haven’t noticed I am currently very busy doing just that. So, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Come now, Princess,” Eris drawls, quickly rejoining you on your speed walk in whatever direction might take you away from him. “We thought we might be able to convince you to-”

“Yeah, well, you thought wrong,” you state with finality. “Now, if you don’t mind. I’m on my way to my date.”

That has both males freezing in their tracks; even the Shadowsinger’s shadows seem to pause as they try to catalog this new information. 

“A date?” Azriel finally asks, the first to recover from the shock of your statement. 

“Oh yes,” you hum gleefully, even turning and walking backwards to smile tauntingly at your mates, “they’re a real looker and great conversation. We’ve been meeting for the odd meal and evening stroll.” You pause, tilting your head to really sell it. “I can honestly say it’s never a dull moment.”

“Is that right?” Eris replies cooly, though you notice a little fire in his eyes as he flexes his hands. 

“Quite,” you agree with a patronizing scrunch of your nose as though you actually feel kind of sorry for him. “Well boys, this has been lovely as always, but I’m officially late for my really beautiful date. Tah-tah!” 

With this, you turn and throw a half-hearted wave over your shoulder. 

You don’t bother explaining that your hot date happens to be who you lovingly refer to as me, myself, and I at your favourite, silent corner of the library dedicated to ancient languages. 

Hopefully you’ll have found out eight new ways to tell them to fuck off by the time you leave tonight.

Being in this palace, on this land, breath’s away from the queens who almost destroyed everything he held dear.

Every column in the hall gleamed like a polished fang, chandeliers hung with a gaudy display of gold. It felt almost desperate, that all the embellishment of the room was covering up how the mortal queens were actually so far away from any kind of true class, but instead overindulgent, greedy and simply trying to overcompensate for what they lacked.

There was music murmuring somewhere, a quartet playing something meant to sound elegant, but instead sounded wounded and tight. The air was still, the kind that was brittle and had Azriel’s shadows twitching against his back.

Azriel really hated being here.

Rhysand stood at the bottom of the royal stage, Mor to his right while Azriel flanked them on the left. He stood close to one of those pearly white columns. His shadows discreetly moved around him, settling by his feet on the floor and curling over his shoulders slightly displaying themselves just enough to remind his hosts exactly who he was and what he was capable of.

The Night Court was building an alliance– albeit a fake one– but it still went against every instinct Azriel had.

These surviving queens, the ones who had aligned themselves with Hybern and then Koschei, had endangered his entire family. To even entertain this idea, even if it was all a facade made his skin crawl.

Perhaps that was why he felt so on edge. His gloved fingers twitching at his side, jaw clenching. Maybe it was the garish decor, but there was something about this room that made him feel sick.

Rhysand, charming and poised, voice as smooth as silk. Somehow stirred his way through conversation elegantly. Mor beside him, smiling in a way that almost fooled the Shadowsinger that the Night Court truly was in its era of forgiveness.

He didn’t know how they did it. Azriel wasn’t good at fake smiles and false pretences. He guessed that’s why he was the spymaster and assassin, here as muscle not to form political relationships.

“Now while your attendance is noted, and your gifts…” the oldest of the queens sat centrally, glanced over to the large chest of Velaris jewels that sat at the bottom of the stairs. A bribery, perhaps even slightly too obvious, fitted in quite well with the pathetic flash of wealth this room displayed. “Your gifts are appreciated…but the proposition of an alliance isn’t just something that can be bought.” Her tone was cold, and matter of fact. Laced with a wobble that spoke of the years she had lived and where her voice had worn. Yet she didn’t appear weak, instead hardened by her years on the throne.

The other two queens either side of her. The one to the right, dark long unruly hair, fingers covered in jeweled rings with a mundane bored expression that didn’t seem to match her sense of style. To the left was the youngest queen, still a girl really. There was a slight innocence that came with her younger appearance but Azriel noticed her haunting eyes, sharp and sinister as they scaled over their audience.

“Tell me, why should we trust you now, when your kind has done so little for us on the Continent since the war and even before?” The eldest queen spoke again, her voice louder this time, challenging.

Azriel wanted to scoff, these queens weren’t just cowardly– they were delusional. Entitled. Wholey believed that they were deserving of some kind of retribution.

Azriel. Rhys warned him in his mind.

Azriel hadn’t even realised the snarl he was showing. How his gaze had darkened from the shadow he stood in, teeth showing slightly in disgust. Rhysand’s warning wasn’t up for debate. Azriel schooled his expression before any of the queens even noticed.

Azriel could feel Rhys’s smile without seeing it. That particular practiced curl meant he was seconds from saying something convincing and motivating– something that would get Rhys the exact outcome he’d come here for.

“Because, Your Majesties,” Rhys said smoothly, “we’ve learned that cooperation is the only way you and your people can survive what’s to come.”

The room stilled for a moment. Rhys’ words settling across the room.

The younger of the three queens' eyes widened slightly, inexperience pooling her face as she glanced towards her matrons. Rhys had sounded sweet, but the real implications of his words were still clear.

Rhys had threatened them, in a somewhat charming way. But it was still a threat nonetheless.

One of the queens scoffed then, the one sat to the right with the dark wavy hair. She was a ruler of one of the northern kingdoms, her kingdom managed the mines on the Continent, her reign falling over mountainous terrain that made her kingdom especially fruitful. The jewels that were mined there glimmered in the light, stacks and stacks of detailed designs embedded in stone adorned her fingers. Azriel briefly remembered Rhysand mentioning exactly what jurisdiction the queens fell into, one was of the mines, the other– the youngest he thinks managed the prison. But he couldn't recall any of their names. Didn’t particularly care either.

“And what is to come, High Lord?” she then asked, tone lilting and bored. Twisting the ruby red ring on her forefinger. “You speak as though you see the future. Is this one of your many magical abilities Rhysand?”

The question was loaded. These particular queens had only survived due to their pure disdain for magic– despite the mortal queens all aligning with Hybern and Koschei– these three had kept to their kingdoms to avoid physical conflict. It ultimately saved them from their deserved endings.

Magic was not favoured in their realms, they loathed it. This idea that those not of royal blood could be more powerful. They didn’t allow it, had laws and regulations to avoid it, dampen it— even cull it.

The Night Court had taken note of the civil unrest among magic beings on the Continent. Azriel’s spies had been reporting for months acts of rebellion from magic kind, half-fae and mortals against the monarchy.

It was the perfect ploy for Rhys to get what he wanted, he needed access to these queens archives and leveraging that civil unrest to get in the favour of the Queens was a sure way to do it.

Nevertheless, the queens still sported magic relics on their garments and even this palace was dressed in ancient wards.

The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on Azriel.

There was a shift in Azriel’s shadows, as though they were picking up on something happening rooms away.

Something was wrong– no different–no…something was coming. As though instinct and intuituaion was sending a message to Azriel’s very bones.

Mor’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, “We know of the rebellion, the unrest in your kingdoms” she said with a slight smirk, her blonde hair cascading in front of her like an armour.

“You don’t need magic to know that,” the oldest spoke again, “although I wouldn’t call it a rebellion, simply a tantrum.”

It was the youngest queen who spoke next, an eerie tone to her voice “Like a toddler throwing their toys when they don’t get what they want. They just don’t always understand yet…the way the world works. That those smaller, weaker…don’t always get what they want.” She finished her words with a smile. Sickeningly sweet.

Strange girl. Mor thought, her words sharing across to Azriel and Rhys.

Azriel couldn’t agree more. There was something sinister about that queen, perhaps it was why her kingdom managed the prison. You had to be a specific type of evil to run those torture traps. There was something about all of the queens that didn’t sit well with him. Had his shadows wringing round him tightly.

The dark haired queen spoke again then. “You come in here like we need your help…but we can assure you that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

The conversation was taking a turn, politics always did but it was unsettling Azriel tonight. There was this sense of foreboding again, his shadows were nervous. The air felt electric, buzzing with anticipation. He swallowed hard.

And then the doors slammed open.

The sound shattered through the large room.Two guards strided in, dragging a woman by her arms between them.

Azriel’s head turned then, instincts sharpening, every sense focusing. While the guards dragged the limp body to the base of the royal stairs, her legs dragging on the floor behind her.

The mortal queen — the oldest of them — did not so much as flinch.

This was planned Azriel realised as he watched the blood stain smear across the marble floor from the body they dragged in.

The dark haired queen who had seemed so uninterested till now, finally seemed intrigued as she rose from her throne with a smirk. The youngest of the queens raised to join her in their descent down the stairs, bunching her dress up so she could move more swiftly— she was eager.

The eldest remained on her throne.

The guards had dragged the prisoner to the centre of the room. Right between Azriel and the queens.

“Ah,” she said from her throne, her voice gravely. “It seems our special guest has arrived.”

The woman they dragged in— you— was filthy. Blood soaked into torn clothes. A bruise bloomed along your cheekbone, a smear of dried blood at your temple. But even in this state, you somehow managed to hold yourself upright, refusing to bow.

Azriel’s jaw locked.

Azriel had seen worse—had inflicted worse— but there was a tightness in his muscles that was foreign to him. Something about seeing you in front of him had him unsettled.

“Who is this?” Rhysand’s tone was light, but Azriel knew the warning in it.

The youngest queen moved then, glided as she circled you. Every step felt deliberate as though she was eyeing up her prey. That sinister demeanor was settling among her with delight.

“A traitor…” the eldest queen spoke from her throne.

“A nuisance…” the other queen muttered nonchalantly.

“A nobody…” the youngest queen sing-songed.

Azriel was struggling to listen to them though. As he watched you heave against your injuries. The guards had released you. Arms hanging hung limp in front, but still tied together in chains. Azriel could almost feel the ache and pain himself just from watching how your breathing shuddered under your injuries, he watched as your blood slowly pooled by your knees…yet you still didn’t bow. Your head remained upright and strong.

Brave.

It was his shadows that whispered to him. Azriel didn’t know the reasoning for why this female was chained and beaten. She could well be a criminal, but despite that, Azriel struggled to look at the sight before him.

Struggled to understand why it was so hard to look at the sight before him.

He had been on battlefields, been there when the wars settled. When all was left was dismembered figures and soldiers fighting for their lives. But this was hard to look at.

He hadn’t even been able to see your face yet. His gaze staring into the back of this defiant person, who didn’t seem to buckle under royal scrutiny or torture.

It was Mor that spoke next.

That natural confidence she always carried purring out, “A nobody wouldn’t get such a greeting.”

Azriel almost smirked, his gaze looking to his blonde friend for a second at her remark. He swore he saw the corner of your lips twitch too.

But the youngest queen stopped her prowl round the prisoner then, face forming into a scowl at being corrected by Mor.

Mor was right. A “nobody” wouldn’t get such a display, such attention especially from the monarchy. Which begged the question of who you were.

“That is true,” the eldest queen replied. Her gaze steady on the prisoner that had been brought in. “This one isn’t a nobody…oh but she is a traitor. And quite the nuisance. Her and that little rebellion have been a pest for quite some time now.”

Her choice of words were interesting to Azriel. Somewhat downplayed. Everything Azriel had learnt about the rebellion was so much bigger than that— it was more than just mice in your home eating all your pantry— this rebellion was powerful.

What this female was a part of was so much more than just a nuisance. But maybe that’s why you didn’t bow or cower. Maybe that was why you didn’t seem to break under the blows, because you knew that.

Knew you stood for something more, despite it being minimised.

And that was something Azriel could respect—admire even.

The words seemed to urge the queen to stand, slowly and steadily she moved down the stairs. Each step she took had Azriel’s heart beating louder. Every move made closer to you had his shadows stirring more.

This was a performance. All of this, just theater. A play, that even he was partaking in.

The guard tried to shove your head down with the push.

“Bow,” the guard breathed, bringing his lips close to your ears. A sickening gravel scratched along your eardrum as he spat out the command. The notion almost had Azriel move from his place. Watching the guard grab you had him losing composure in a way that was so unlike him.

Your silence was absolute though. You didn’t budge, if anything your back only grew straighter, shoulders more squared as you stared the queens dead on.

“We’ve been after this one for years. Always, somehow managed to slip through our fingers,” there was almost a tone of respect in the queen’s voice as she stepped in front of the you.

The other queen spoke then, twisting her finger around her curly hair bored. “She’s supposed to be some kind of symbol of what was it? Pathetic resistance? A little spark of delusion? The rallying of-“

“—Hope.”

The room stilled.

You had spoken.

Azriel’s breath got caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected you to speak. Hadn’t expected you to sound like that either. Unwavering and strong, slightly pained too…and yet your voice sounded like a soft song to his ears.

A song he was familiar with, a song he had always known but for a brief moment had somehow forgotten the words.

The queens tried to gather their thoughts, their words.

They had this whole thing planned out. As though a script had been written beforehand and suddenly the antagonist, you, was improvising.

Voice calm, you continued. “I believe the word you were looking for is hope…a symbol of hope.”

You were met with silence again. One of the queens mouths dropped open in shock.

“But little spark of delusion definitely has a ring to it,” Azriel could hear your smile when you spoke, wished to see it as his own lips turned alight upwards. There was this dry sarcasm that laced your tone. Made you all the more braver, that even in this moment you were taunting them.

You were goading the mortal monarchy. Azriel was impressed, despite it being completely reckless, he couldn’t help but admire your daring boldness.

The dark hair queen scoffed again in disbelief, clearly agitated but trying to disguise it under nonchalance.

It was the youngest queen who reacted viscerally. That innocence long gone, but inexperience screaming as she couldn’t contain her emotions.

A slap rang out, sharp and echoing.

Azriel flinched. Azriel never flinched.

Rhys glanced at this friend for a moment, a question probing into Azriel’s mind. Was everything okay?

The queen curdled out a slur with such venom that it ricocheted across the room.

Azriel hadn’t heard that particular slur in a long time. That kind of derogatory language wasn’t favoured in Prythian, and the venom in her words had his shadows skittering.

You didn’t fall though. Didn’t flinch beyond a brief jerk of your head.

Azriel’s shadows stilled entirely though.

Because he could see you more now. And Azriel couldn’t breathe.

Something was clawing at his chest.

Azriel’s fingers twitched where they rested on the hilt of Truth-Teller.

Still, he said nothing. Still, he watched.

Until the young queen bent, wrapped a hand in your hair, and yanked your head back.

The motion revealed your face fully.

And the world stopped. Azriel’s world stopped.

Your eyes. So defiant, wild, bright, even through the pain.

And your smile. It was wide, mad, challenging— beautiful.

Azriel tried to swallow hard but his throat was dry. His shadows were whispering but he couldn’t hear.

The young queen was spiralling, power going to her head. Spewing slurs and insults. Your goading had triggered her, perhaps this was the exact reaction you had hoped for.

One of the queens rolled her eyes, now uninterested in this turn of events. The eldest looked as though she wanted to shake her head in disappointment, but began sending a signal to the guards.

You laughed then. Laughed at something the flustered queen had said, it only angered her more.

But your chuckle was soft, taunting, teasing— fearless.

And then you glanced over to your audience, to Rhys, Mor, the guards.

To Azriel. Met his eyes, your smile only wider.

Something deep in his chest snapped.

Not broke. Snapped. Like a bowstring pulled too tight, releasing all at once.

The world rushed in, too loud, too bright. Every sound, every scent, every breath from your lungs was his.

Mate.

Rhys’s voice was a distant hum, he was speaking now. Mor’s breath barely registered. All Azriel could hear was your ragged breathing, all he could feel was the bond unfurling — furious, desperate, alive— and angry.

And when the eldest queen lifted her hand, another signal. One he recognised— execution— your execution. Azriel moved.

Faster than thought. Faster than the shadows could follow.

The hall exploded into chaos.

But it one quick movement, Azriel wrapped his arms around you. Desperately so. And he removed you from danger.

***

Azriel’s mind was spinning.

A whirlwind of chaos and noise- all his own thoughts- and his shadows.

But the one thing anchoring him was you.

His mate.

Here, with him. And safe.

You were safe. He had made sure of that.

Transporting you both to a off-grid location. A place only he knew of.

His shadows began to disperse around you both, Azriel’s hands steadily releasing you from his hold.

Azriel could take a moment to look at you properly now. The lines of your face, curve of your lips that had him swallowing hard. The depths of your eyes had the bond burning so bright he could have groaned.

But there were the bruises and blood. Marks that you shouldn’t have to bare that pained him.

He could see the terror in your eyes, your brows furrowing—

“What the fuck did you just do?”

Azriel blinked. You were shocked. He could feel it, the confusion. Understandable. “It’s okay, you’re safe now” he assured.

“What—“

Azriel tried to ease out a soft smile. Coaxing his shadows to settle as they vibrated off the pulse of the bond that was currently coursing through his body.

He wanted to touch you again. He was desperate to. Desperate to soothe the aches that were evident across your form, desperate to calm whatever nerves you held, desperate to comfort you in a way only a mate could—

Gods. His brothers hadn’t explained how truly consuming a bond was. Sure, to a degree they had. But their words had not truly explained the depth of how the bond burned so viscerally. How it felt as though it could only be tempered and yet ignited by his mates touch.

This felt like a lot…this felt like everything he’d ever wanted. It was everything Azriel had ever wanted.

His hand twitched as they hovered by your sides, but he pulled them away.

“I saved you. We’ll be safe here, they can’t find you here—“

“I don’t understand,”

Azriel let out a breath, “I know it’s a lot to take in, but they were going to kill you, hurt you… and I couldn’t—“

“No.”

You cut him off. Quick and sharp. Your frown turned into something that resembled more of a glare. There were feelings running down the bond that he was so desperately trying to farse out. Too many feeling, and all consuming— and confusing.

He could feel your adrenaline, anticipation, anger— it mixed with his longing and desperation.

“They were not going to kill me.” Your tone was so sure and firm.

“They were,” Azriel struggled to deliver the words. He knew it. Knew if he hadn’t intervened then, that moment would have been the first and last time he saw his mate.

But you scoffed at his words.

Actually scoffed.

The action throwing Azriel off guard for a moment. Not that he had expectations from his mate. He had seen from his brothers experiences, that when a bond snapped there shouldn’t be any expectations.

But Azriel had hoped for some kind of gratitude for saving your life, mate or no mate.

He moved an inch closer to you then, subconsciously- as though the proximity would make you understand. But you stepped back, your tone steady. Not scared, only sure as you looked into Azriel’s eyes.

“You have ruined everything.”

And Azriel felt it. From your words and in the bond. He really had ruined everything.

a/n: well well well…looks whose back starting another fic when she has loads still incomplete 🫢 I’ve had this idea for ages, and I’ve honestly been writing it forever. Ask @illyrianbitch she’s knows how much I’ve struggled to get this out. Hoping posting this first part will get me out of my writing slump! But anyway my loves - enjoy xx

Azriel adds this to a list of things he knows about you. It’s a pathetic list as far as mates go, merely six items in length; he knows your name, he knows you’re his mate, knows where you’ve been for the last 200 years, knows you can wield fire (can still feel the phantom sting of it on his palm), he knows you have some combat training, and he knows that you’re probably funny. 

He also knows that you’re plagued by nightmares. It feels like a violation, but he swears it wasn’t his intention to learn this about you. 

At night, your magic relaxes and your side of the bond opens up, and more often than not you’re awoken to a stampede in your chest and a hand wrapped around your lungs like a vice. 

On the nights that Azriel isn’t already lying awake and staring at his ceiling helplessly, it wakes him too. The fear, the panic, the dread is so tangible he can feel it dragging him down like quicksand, the air growing thicker and thicker making it nearly impossible to breathe. 

The first time it happened, Azriel thought he was the one having a panic attack. It took him some time before he realized that the bond was vibrating with urgency, the sacred golden string pulled taught under the weight of your discomfort. 

The only thing Azriel has thought to do to save you from the terror you experience is to tug on the bond. Gently at first, and more firmly when the first one fails to wake you. 

There are a few moments of quiet after his successful tug; he imagines you sitting up in bed, the room dark save for the light of the stars and the moon filtering in through the window casting a slight glow on the sheen of sweat that coats your skin as you catch your breath, hair a mess from the tossing and turning you had likely been doing. 

And then the bond would go quiet. No tug back, no acknowledgement, no goodbye. Just silence. 

He has no idea what you think of his intrusion, his unsolicited assistance. But it — selfishly — feels like a piece of you that he now holds. This is something only Azriel could do for you, and he folds the privilege up and tucks it into the recess of his chest cavity, storing it close to his heart.

Your name. Your mate. Your home court. Your power. Your fight. You’re funny. Your nightmares. 

A list of seven; that’s all that your mate knows about you. 

It isn’t enough. 

What’s your favourite book? Do you enjoy dancing? Are you naturally introverted, or were you once outgoing? What kind of music do you listen to? What’s your favourite colour? Do you have any allergies? What’s your favourite dessert? Do you have a sweet tooth? A favourite meal? Are you scared of heights? Are you ticklish? Have you ever had pets? Do you want pets? Do you have scars? Birth marks? Can he find constellations of freckles or beauty marks on your back? How did you survive 200 years of captivity?

Azriel wants to know all of it. He yearns to read you like a book, to flip through your pages and take notes and make annotations and find supporting sources to back up his findings. 

But he can’t even look at Mor or Cassian without the memories of them bringing a smile to your face or being graced with your sense of humour accosting him. It has him feeling like…well, like a failure. 

And if he can’t even look at two of his oldest friends, his family, well, it’s safe to say he hasn’t figured out a way to seek you out, either. 

He doubts your brother would allow him anywhere near you anyway, and as fundamentally wrong as that feels, Azriel can’t exactly blame the male. Azriel did challenge him to a blood duel, after all, and has himself withheld your brother’s own mate from him. 

Shame weighs heavy on his wings. You must be so disgusted; Azriel can only imagine what you think of him. Your mate chased after you in the woods like you were a common thief, killed a male before your eyes, imprisoned you, had you questioned by the High Lord and Lady of his court, and then you found out that he’s challenged your brother to a blood duel for the hand of your brother’s mate. 

What a fucking mess. 

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron?

The city is teeming with life as Solstice grows closer; patrons milling about to find the perfect gift for their loved ones and neighbours. Tinsel, garland, and dried fruit hang in every window, door frame, and alleyway. 

Elain is enamoured by all of it. And Azriel can’t help but think that a few weeks ago, he might have been just as enamoured with Elain. 

But his mind is elsewhere. 

He decides, though, to stick to routine; mornings in the library with tea, walks in the garden, quiet afternoons reading, dinner side by side, sometimes chatting or sometimes sitting together in silence until he walks the female to her room when she retires for the night. 

With Solstice approaching, his routine also includes flying her down into the shopping district to look for gifts. 

And Azriel doesn’t mean to, but he catches traces of your scent everywhere. The cafe he knows is close to your brother’s apartment. A pottery studio in The Rainbow. A fashion boutique Azriel is certain Feyre suggested to you. His shadows even found traces of you at Orhen’s bakery once before, though they informed him that it had been your first and last visit to the establishment. 

He concocts a map of your whereabouts in his head, catalogues your usual haunts and commits them to memory. 

He’s not sure what he plans to do with the memories, but it feels important to do anyway. 

Azriel opts to wait outside of a shop Elain came to check out, not interested in the cramps he’d no doubt get in his wings from tucking them tightly into his body to avoid knocking over bottles of scented oils and perfumes.

She’s overwhelmed, his shadows whisper, vibrating along his shoulders as he watches a few skitter back from a small crowd gathered in the square. His mind immediately goes to Elain, more than accustomed to the Archeron sister’s trauma. Did she have a vision? Has someone made her uncomfortable? Has-

She’s not used to so many people anymore. 

So many people? But-

The crowd thins and a gentle breeze that is barely strong enough to ruffle Azriel’s wings threatens to put him on his ass; sharp apple, tacky caramel, fresh air at dawn. 

Our mate! the shadows cheer.

You stand in the middle of the crowd, hands wrapped tightly around a basket that you hold close to your chest as though afraid someone might take it from you. His shadows tell him you’ve purchased a mug from the pottery studio you like, a gift for Lucien for Solstice. The basket is also weighed down heavily by ingredients; you plan to bake. 

Now Azriel knows that you can bake. 

The cloak you’re wearing is a green so deep it almost appears black, cinched at the waist by a camel coloured corset belt and similarly coloured boots. Your hood is oversized and pulled over your head, but Azriel finds himself wishing Lucien had found you a warmer cloak.

We should get our mate mittens, his shadows suggest. 

But the breeze that threatened to level Azriel now accosts you, and with a shiver you turn your head to find Azriel standing across the square from you. 

He should approach you now. He should offer to carry your basket for you. He should wrap his cloak around your shoulders. He should shield you from the breeze with his wing and walk you back to your brother's apartment. He should ask you what size cloak you wear so he can buy you a warmer one. He should measure your hands so he can learn to knit and make you some mittens. He-

Elain brushes a gentle hand to the Shadowsinger’s elbow and he turns to find her smiling prettily up at him as she pulls her cloak tighter against her frame. “Thanks for waiting. Are you ready to head back home?” 

Home…right. 

“Just about, if you don’t mind-” but the rest of his sentence dies on his tongue as he turns his gaze back to you only to be met with empty space where you once stood. Azriel’s almost certain he can still see the outline of you; your form burned into his retina like he’d been brazen enough to glance at the sun for too long, the air seemingly saving space for where you once were, where you ought to be. 

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron?

Azriel now knows nine things about you. 

He knows your name. He knows where you’re from. He knows you’re his mate. He knows of your powers. He knows your combat abilities. He knows you’re probably funny. He knows you have nightmares. He knows you can bake.

And he knows you’re probably better off without him. 

“Are you looking forward to tonight?” Elain asks, pausing her steps to wait as Azriel ducks under the low-hanging branch weighed down by the heavy snow. 

His wings twitch in anticipation, though Azriel doesn’t know if his nerves are positive or negative. 

He’s sure there’s a part of him who is excited at the prospect of seeing you again, of being near his mate. Just the thought alone has his shadows dancing around his feet. But then he remembers that you’ll be coming with your brother, that your mate wants your brother dead, that your brother hates your mate. He remembers how quickly you fled from the square in the shopping district when you spotted him. 

Is he looking forward to tonight? 

He looks back down at Elain, who is smiling up at him expectantly, and something fond bubbles up in his chest. This is what he’s been fighting for. This is the reality he dared to imagine, dared to ask for, dared to make. 

“I am.” He decides, a small quirk of his lips which acts as a smile and sees Elain’s own growing as a result. “Are you?” 

“Oh yes.” Elain agrees quickly, turning her gaze back towards the familiar path the pair take through the gardens almost daily. “It was very difficult, but I’m quite sure I’ve found Nesta a book she’s never read before, and-”

Azriel nods along as Elain explains her various gifts for the family; her sisters and their mates take centre stage in Elain’s excitement, and she goes so far as to fill him in on her means of acquiring the perfect gifts. 

When Rhys had first approached him, asking his brother to please keep an eye on Feyre’s quietest sister as she recovered from the loss of her former life, Azriel wasn’t sure what he could possibly offer the female. 

Mor was probably the best option of the bunch; bubbly and effervescent, a certified professional when it came to being a member of the family that made up the Night Court. Even Cassian would have been a better option. The general was far more approachable than Azriel, had an affinity for filling in awkward silences, and was disturbingly, perpetually positive. 

In fact, if you asked him, the only person worse for Elain than Azriel would have been Amren, and at least then the ancient being would have been able to relate to her on the grounds of being female alone. 

Yet, falling into routine with Elain had been easy. Safe. Comfortable. 

He met her where she was every day and never asked for more, never pushed her farther than she was willing to go. And she never asked him for anything, either. He could show up with his usual frown or his shadows a flurry of activity behind his wings and she would simply sit with him until he felt better. 

Elain felt a lot like the answer to a question Azriel didn’t realize he’d asked until he found her. 

“What’d you get for Cassian?” Elain asks then. 

“I’m…not sure that answer would be polite to explain to his mate’s sister.” Azriel settles on, smiling to himself at the sound of Elain’s dainty laugh. 

“Fair enough. I- oh!” 

Azriel’s head snaps up and his shadows still in anticipation, fingers dancing at the hilt of the blades still (always) strapped to the Spymaster’s thigh. He relaxes when he sees the female smiling up at a small bundle of sprigs with delicate berries. 

“Have you heard of the mistletoe tradition, Azriel?” 

The corner of his mouth curves upwards and he tilts his head, tucking his hands behind his back as he steps up to the female. The glint in Elain’s eyes has him instructing his shadows to monitor the manor doors and alert him if any of his family members come looking for them for dinner. 

“I’m not sure that I have.” 

Elain hums mischievously before turning her gaze back up to the sprig. “It’s an old human tradition. It’s often hung in doorways and couples who are caught standing under it together are meant to share a kiss.” 

With this, she shifts a step to her left so that she’s standing directly beneath the mistletoe. Azriel’s certain if he hadn’t sent his shadows to take watch they would be tittering around his head. 

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron? 

Azriel tries to remember the last time he’s ever taken anything for himself, demanded anything for himself. He’s always had a father to answer to, a High Lord to bend to, orders to comply with, missions to execute. No room for error, no room for questions. 

Azriel had been burned, tortured, restrained, set free, kept on a tight leash, monitored, whispered about, used. 

And he’s taken it; every single order, every single master, every single job, all with a polite nod of thanks before performing his duties to the absolute best of his abilities. 

He’s tortured people, killed people, trained people, fought battles, won wars. 

This – Elain, her, right here – is all Azriel has ever asked for. 

Azriel was forged by fire and agony, carved from stone and pain. He wanted this; he chose this. 

“Is that right?” He murmurs, stepping closer to the female until he could feel the heat emanating from her body against his chest, forcing her to crane her neck to smile up at him coyly. Officially situated under the mistletoe with the female he was willing to fight for.

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron? 

“I’m not usually one to break tradition.” Elain whispers, eyes dropping to Azriel’s lips and encouraging his eyes to fall to hers.

He wants this; he chose this. 

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron? 

“I see no reason why you should start now.” He replies in kind, lifting a gloved hand to cup the side of her face, stomach tightening in anticipation at the way she instinctively leans into his touch. 

He wanted this. He wants this.

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron? 

With an inhale Azriel bends, lifting his other hand to help steady Elain as she rises to her toes to meet him in the middle, cold noses bumping and Azriel thinks to himself finally as their lips meet and he-

He lets his lips linger there, the heat he expected to feel both on his lips and in his soul missing as Elain lets out a hum; whether the sound is in approval or more thoughtful in nature, Azriel isn’t sure. 

He isn’t sure. 

Do you really think you know better than the Cauldron? 

Azriel isn’t sure. 

He doesn’t think Elain is either, the way he finds the female blankly blinking up at him leads him to believe that she might be feeling just as unmoored as he does.

A cool brush against the nape of his neck alerts him to his shadows’ return. Morrigan is coming to collect us for dinner. 

“Dinner is ready.” He informs Elain, cataloguing her face once more before his hands fall to his side and he takes a step away from her. He finds that doesn’t feel any colder due to the loss of her warmth. She doesn’t try to follow him. 

“We should head back in.” He continues, forcing his eyes in the direction his shadows just came from and pretending he can’t feel Elain’s contemplative gaze on the side of his face. 

With a quick nod, Elain gathers her skirts and follows the well-travelled trail towards the house. 

His shadows echo a previous version of Cassian as Azriel follows dutifully behind the new fae: do you really think you know better than the Cauldron? 

No, Azriel finally admits, sinuses stinging as he and Elain leave the garden, I really don’t think I know better than the Cauldron. 

Azriel is busy pretending that he doesn’t feel fundamentally wrong while he listens to Rhys and Cassian argue about wingspans as everyone takes their places at the table. 

“Okay, you know what? Nesta, get the tape measure out.” Cassian barks as he sits in his chair with a thump. 

“I’m not fucking measuring you, you overgrown bat.” 

Cassian’s brows furrow in confusion as his mate takes her place beside him. “Why not? You had no problem measuring m-” 

“Oh-kay,” Mor calls out with a smirk, interrupting Cassian’s sentence as she serves herself a generous glass of wine, “what the two of you measure in your bedroom is hardly Solstice table conversation.” 

“We’ve had worse,” Rhys replies with a smirk, shooting a wink at Azriel, “we’ve had Solstice dinners where the two of them were actually-”

“Can’t we have one family dinner without nonsense?” Feyre asks with a sigh.

Amren responds from around the rim of her wine glass. “Not around here.”

Azriel is moving on autopilot, reaching to accept the bottle of wine from Mor’s hands in order to fill Elain’s glass when his shadows stir. 

“Oh, Y/N! I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.” Feyre sing-songs, standing to greet you with a warm embrace. Azriel wonders if your smile isn’t a touch tight. “Did you come alone?”

With this, Feyre steps back which exposes your cloaked form, snowflakes beginning to melt now that you’re being warmed by the house and leaving little dew drops on your lashes. Azriel puts the bottle of wine down in preparation to stand, intending to offer to take the wrapped packages from your arms, to relieve you of your cloak, to pull out your chair across from him and fill your glass of wine. Anything. 

“Actually, Lucien had come along with me.” You offer with a hollow chuckle. “We’d been hanging out in the gardens trying to gather up the courage to enter.”

No. 

Azriel deflates in his chair, his blood, his wings, his stomach all travel south as they fall victim to both gravity and horror. 

“But Lucien decided he really didn’t feel very well so he headed back to his apartment.” You explain, Feyre making a sympathetic sound as she looks back towards her mate.

Her mate, whose hard stare is directed at Azriel. 

They saw; our mate and her brother saw you kiss Elain. 

“He made me promise to deliver these, though.” You continue, imbuing your voice with put-upon pep as you hold the various wrapped packages aloft. “I think he has some here for a few of you, and I made something quick for the lot of you, just as a thanks for allowing me to stay in your beautiful city.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet.” Mor coos, standing to come and accept the remaining package from you once Feyre steps away to place Lucien’s gifts on the sidetable. “You’re going to stay for dinner, right?” 

Azriel watches your gaze flicker to the two empty seats across from him and Elain, and it’s impossible to miss the way you pointedly forbid your eyes from falling onto your mate or your brother’s mate. 

“I actually think I’m going to head back to the apartment myself. Make sure Lucien’s faring alright.” You explain politely, eyes crinkling at the edges and Azriel has the horrid feeling you’re fighting back tears. He reaches out down the bond and tugs. He tugs and tugs and tugs but you simply smile at Rhys over Feyre’s head before taking a protective step backwards. “Happy Solstice, everyone.”

You’re seen off with a chorus of Happy Solstices as Mor and Cassian tear open your gift to the house. 

Azriel now knows ten things about you; he knows your name, that you’re his mate, where you’re from, what powers you wield, your level of combat training, that you’re funny, you have nightmares, you can bake. He knows that you’d be better off without him. 

And now he knows that you know you’d be better off without him, too. 

Your gift to the house had been a tin of delicious smelling baked goods with a note stuck to the lid: Shadowsinger, do not eat. 

Azriel isn’t sure he could stomach it, anyway. 

<- previous | next ->

"I can't," you stressed, your brain unable to form coherent sentences. That usually gave way to laughter and babbling. This was none of those things.

"Were you working?" Azriel asked after a pause, disappointment tinging his tone. You had agreed to three days off. Promised him. It had only been a day and a half.

Still, you couldn't lie to him. Not as you were. You nodded jerkily against his chest and felt him sigh. His exasperation did not last long. He would be angry later, surely, but right now, you didn't need angry.

Azriel pulled you back and held your face between his hands, searching your eyes. "Does it feel like it usually does?" he asked, urgency now overwriting the disappointment. He turned you one way, and then the other. "You look more out of it," he murmured, mostly to himself. His thumbs wiped your tears.

"Feels bad," you got out. "The same but bad."

"Oh, my love."

There really wasn't much he could do. In his years of loving you, Azriel had tried everything to lessen the repercussions of using your magic, but the only thing that helped was rest. Taking breaks. Basically, the one thing you refused to do. Even when he got Rhysand to lighten the load, you went after more work.

It was because you cared—because you were wholly devoted to this court and your family. Azriel adored that about you, but watching you cycle through emotions that weren't yours, the heaviness of whoever you'd been questioning sticking to your being, he looked to resent it. You choked out an apology that he shushed.

But when he saw you again, a piece of parchment clutched between your fingers, your gaze analyzing the streets of Velaris, he could tell that something was different. He didn't think to care. His feet were closing the distance between you before he could think about anything.

"Hello," he greeted, breathless and rushed.

You looked at him not with a dazed confusion, but with a meekness that didn't suit you. You crinkled the paper in your hands and blushed, eyes fluttering. "Oh. Hello."

At the stark contrast from your earlier meeting, Azriel became unsure, but no less besotted. His brow twitched as he tried to tame the thoughts of how beautiful you were; they were distracting, and there was clearly uncertainty lining your eyes.

"Do you..." he began, losing his voice behind increasing panic. He had thought you liked him. Wanted him? He was unsure about the depth of your understanding, but you had acknowledged you were mates.

You paused, mouth twisting to the side and gaze downcast. "I came looking for you," you admitted, taking a deep breath in before finding his eyes. "I know I didn't make the best impression, and I wanted to explain myself."

You spoke so elegantly, your tone even and your voice like a melodic hum to his ears. Your voice was higher before, more free-flowing. You held more purpose in each of your words now, held yourself firmer. Azriel found it both intimidating and enticing.

He shook his head. "I don't think I understand."

His shadows were charging you. You looked down at the way they twined along your arms and brushed your hair behind your pointed ear. Embarassed—Azriel felt your embarrassment through the bond.

"I don't—Well, I don't quite know how to explain this, but I sometimes get like... that when I've used my magic too much. I didn't really understand the gravity of our meeting until later that night, after I'd slept for 12 hours, and then I was unsure if you were—" you winced slightly "interested in me. As a mate, I mean. After I sort of draped myself over you and pranced around."

Azriel was thoroughly confused, but he knew that did not sound right. "Interested in you?" he parroted. He stepped forward and tried to find your shifting gaze. "I have thought of you every day since we met."

You peeked up from your lashes. "You have?"

"Of course I have." The shadowsinger shook his head, fighting the urge to grab your hand. That was probably too soon, and the streets of Velaris were rather bustling around you. "I—you were more than I had dreamed of."

"Was it the prancing?"

Ah. So you were funny, too. Azriel felt his chest warm. "That helped."

You bit into your lip and looked down at the parchment, fiddling with the edge. "I realized that I didn't get your name, but I remembered the shadows. I came back and asked around. The citizens here are very knowledgeable about their court. They told me to find the stairs. Gave me directions. I think I was almost there."

Azriel felt the warmth in his chest turn aflame. You were looking for him. He reached out a hand, and you placed the sparse-looking map in his grip. It was incredibly endearing, and he was going to start laughing from the sheer feeling of butterflies in his gut.

"You really were almost there. But I think you would have found the 10,000 steps a bit disheartening."

You blew out a breath and shot a look of disbelief his way. "Wow. I did find it rather strange that it was only a set of stairs separating the High Lord from his city."

"Rhysand is very close with Velaris." Azriel tucked the map into his jacket. He appraised you for a moment, watching the wind against your skin. "I looked for you, too. It was difficult, though. You vanished. I feared..."

"Yes, well, when I get into states like those, I'm at my own whim. Luckily, I have a good relationship with many courts, so I'm not in too much danger," you jested, answering the question Azriel hadn't asked.

"Is it always dangerous?"

Something panged inside of him.

"It would be less dangerous if I had someone."

Azriel lost his breath. He looked upon the shy smile you were offering and wanted to ask you to move in with him, to accept the bond now so he could covet you and show his family that he wasn't crazy. That you were real.

That was all too much. Too fast. And even though Azriel did not quite believe in soulmates beyond that of the cauldron-blessed, he might be changing his mind as he stared at you. Because even though it was all too fast, and even though you were different from how he'd remembered, he found himself drawn to both sides. He found himself wanting to protect you from anything and everything.