KilJoius Writes

But no, business as usual. He’d awoken the next morning to her already starting the fire back up, leaving him cold. Prepared breakfast, then they trekked out to figure out how to free Frieren from whatever trouble she got herself up to this time. That was that. A month later and nothing’s changed. Stark finds himself wondering whether that’s a relief or a bother. He’s not sure what to do about it. He holds his hand up above his face to inspect the bracelet she’d gotten him for his birthday. He traces it with a finger from his other hand.

And just as his mind starts to wander, he sees her come into his view. High up above the trees, flying around like it’s as easy as walking. Sometimes he’s a little jealous about it. When the two of them leave him in the dust to scan the grounds, he wonders if they’re doing it on purpose to mock him. He shakes his head at the thought, refocusing his eyes on Fern above him. She's twirling slowly, her dress billowing a bit with the movement. He always wondered how she covers herself well enough that you wouldn’t even guess there were legs under there.

Just as she’s about to fly off, he gets to his feet and calls her name, waving. She immediately locks in on him and he drops his hand, watching her slowly lower herself until she drops next to him.

“I was looking for you,” she says, tilting her head at the pile of wood next to him, ready to be dried. “I thought I’d help you carry the logs back.”

“Pfft.” He raises one arm, flexing and patting his bicep. “I got this.”

“Right…” she sighs and he swears he sees her roll her eyes as she turns away, making his insides twist up. “Try to be nice…”

“Oh.” He steps toward her, catching her elbow before she can lift off again. “Sorry. Guess that was kind of rude.”

“Kind of.” She blinks up at him, unreadable expression as usual. Feels like a step back from the progress they’d made. “I can levitate it back to the cabin.”

“Okay, yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, turning his head to look back at the wood. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They walk in silence and he can’t help but wonder why it’s not the comfortable kind anymore.

“So, uhm, is levitating other things different from flying yourself?” he asks, deciding it’s better to at least try to strike up conversation. He is curious, anyway. She peers at him out of the corner of her eye and he prepares himself for a curt response.

“Not really,” she finally says, turning her gaze back to the logs. “It’s just about focusing on what you want to be raised.”

“Oh…” He ponders that, relieved she took his question earnestly. “So is it double the effort to lift yourself and something else? Or someone else? Like when you lift me?”

“Maybe not double, but yes, it requires more effort.” He nods. “I don’t mind it, though. Taking you with me.”

Stark blinks at the logs in front of him before turning his head to look at her. She’s got the faintest hint of a smile and it makes his stomach flutter. “Oh…that’s good.” After another moment of silence, he adds, “I’m usually like…in distress when you carry me, though.” He laughs, looking back at the logs. “I never really get to enjoy it like you and Frieren seem to.”

When he sees the logs lower to the ground and that she’s halted, he stops just ahead. Turns on his heel to look at her, sees her biting her lips together as her eyes drift to the side. He tilts his head curiously, taken aback when she suddenly turns back to him with an expression of determination. “Would you like to now?”

“N-Now?” He leans back, eyebrows furrowing. She nods resolutely, stepping toward him and holding out her hand that isn’t carrying her staff. He blinks at it, and without more than a second to think on it, takes the hand. He’s pretty sure holding hands isn’t required for this.

“Just be calm.”

“Calm. Got it.”

With that, his body moves without his say so and the flats of his feet leave the ground. She goes far slower than she usually would by herself, which he appreciates. It takes them nearly a minute to ascend to the same height she’d been at initially, just above the tree tops, and he sucks in a nervous breath as they settle in stasis. His stomach rolls uncomfortably as he keeps repeating her words in his mind. Be calm. Be calm. Just be calm.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispers, forcing him to look at her. He inhales and exhales slowly before looking back out, attempting to admire it like she is. Feels her hand squeeze his and he squeezes back, oddly calmed by it. If she’s holding his hand, she can’t drop him. Not that she would, and not that he wouldn’t just let go of her hand. He’s not going to drag her down with him, he’s not a monster. But…it’s comforting. So he finally takes it in.

It really is beautiful.

But the way her hair flows in the wind drags his eyes back to her. He sees flashes of his own red hair swinging in front of his eyes, but her hair is very nice in the breeze. Like butterfly wings, maybe. Her eyes are fully open, bright and gleaming in the setting sun and his heart feels like it’s in a vice grip now. He’d come to terms with how attracted he was to her long ago, but something about this just feels so different. Special, even. It’s not every day a guy gets to hold the hand of a pretty mage who takes him up to the sky.

“Very beautiful,” he whispers, unable to tear his gaze from her.

Slowly, he tugs at her hand so that she drifts closer to him, and she looks up at him in surprise, but not anger. Then, he places his fingertips against her cheek and leans in, hardly needing to call on his own courage at all because it just feels so right. He almost convinces himself of how right it is when she closes her eyes and tilts her head up, and he kisses her.

Almost perfect, until he realizes his mistake just in time to begin an abrupt descent, freefalling through the air.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he comes to, all green and purple filling his vision. As it clears up, he realizes his head is in Fern’s lap and she’s holding onto his hand. It comes back to him in a rush – the logs, Fern finding him, flying in the air, and the kiss. The kiss that nearly killed him. He does note, however, the lack of pain anywhere on his body or head.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks, softly, causing her to snap her gaze down at him with a gasp. Immediately, both of her hands move to cup his face and he feels very strange. “Seriously, Fern.”

“No, you are lucid,” she tells him in a matter of a fact tone, examining his face and pulling his cheeks down to open his eyes more. “I believe you went into shock.”

“I fell,” he sighs, closing his eyes when her grip loosens. “Can you blame me?”

“I cannot,” she shakes her head and lets out a tired sigh. “I was able to levitate you just before you hit the ground, so there is no physical damage.”

“That’s a relief,” he exhales, his head dropping back to relax in her lap again.

She pauses, visibly swallowing as her gaze averts to his chest rather than his eyes, nervous. “I’m so sorry, Stark.”

“A little respect would be nice right now.”

“Mister Stark.”

“I’m joking.” He chuckles, heaving his own exasperated sigh. He reaches up to cover one of her hands on his face with his own, tilting his head into it. “That was my fault, anyway.”

“Perhaps we both share blame…” she whispers, one of her thumbs swiping over his cheekbone. “I’m mostly sorry because…I…erm, I liked it.”

“You’re sorry you liked me…kissing you?” he asks, blunter than he means to and her classic pout reemerges, making him cringe.

“I’m sorry because I didn’t want it to end, especially not like that. Goodness, Mister Stark, would it kill you to have a little more tact?”

Stark swallows, his eyes getting wider with each word she says. In real time, he sees panic slowly cross over Fern’s face as she realizes what she’s admitted to, as well. This is what he had wanted, clear communication, but he’s unsure if he wanted it like this. In an effort to salvage what he can out of this wreck, he sits up, causing her to pull her hands away, but that’s fine, because he just takes them back into his own. “I’m sorry, too.”

“For kissing me?” she asks, the shaky vulnerability in her tone so foreign outside of her being afraid of being weak. As if he’s her enemy right now. He shakes his head, pulling her hands into his chest, which causes her to move in closer, too. It takes no effort at all. “I’ve been wanting you to..." Her voice drops to a whisper, as if it's a secret. "...kiss me ever since…you know.”

“You have?” he asks in disbelief, feeling dumber and dumber by the second. But her face doesn’t contort into frustration again, it just looks…sad. A look that makes his heart feel like a stone. So, he does what he thinks is possibly the only solution to this. Leans in, assessing her reaction, relieved when she does exactly what she did in the air: close her eyes and tilt up, waiting. Now that she’s revealed herself to him, there’s really nothing to hold him back. For once, he’ll be on the offensive. And he only keeps her waiting for half of a second before pressing his lips to hers for the second time. Third time overall, and that’s a win.

If he can get a fourth and fifth, a sixth and seventh, he’d call that victory.

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Thus concludes this little 5+1 story. I have put it in a series simply titled the same as this story, "The Human Condition", along with a previous work, and a work I just published the other day that is entirely smut, however they can all be read standalone and are entirely dedicated to Fern/Stark. They're just put into one series as they are loosely linked in the same story-telling universe. I intend to keep adding into this series, perhaps a few more short stories of their growing romance and beyond, probably more spice, too, though I think I will take a bit of a break now that this one is done. I'm so pleased with it, I hope you all are, too!

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs, pulling his blankets further over himself before getting to his knees and crawling toward her. She covers her nose with her blanket, eyeing him suspiciously. “Remember when Kraft saved me by warming me up with his body heat?”

Fern swallows, blinking up at him as she nods brusquely. Then he lifts his blanket and his other hand beckons. Suddenly, her eyes widen and she shakes her head violently. “I am in no dire need, Mister Stark.”

“Please don’t think I’m being a pervert,” he pleads, inching towards her when she doesn’t move away. “You just look so miserable.”

“I am miserable,” she concedes, her words muffled by the blanket.

“I don’t want you to be,” he whispers, and now he’s maybe a dozen centimeters away.

A pause sits between them as she turns over the scenario in her mind. She’s so very, very cold, and when he reaches out to touch her cheek as gently as ever, an involuntary sigh leaves her at how warm his hand is. Her eyes flutter shut and her head nods on instinct, and now he’s slowly scooting over until there is nearly no distance between them at all. His blankets wrap around her shoulders and his hands cover hers. “I can’t deny how warm you are,” she admits shakily, letting him pull her hands into his chest.

“You really are freezing,” he tells her, unsureness in his tone. “Can I try something?”

“I don’t see why not at this point.” She’d never thought this scenario possible, so she figures it can’t get much worse. Even that cannot prepare her for the feel of his skin on her fingers, her hands being covered by his shirt now. Her eyes pop open, darting down to find her hands tucked under his thermal, palms flat against his stomach. “Oh, goodness.”

“It’s the warmest part of me,” he justifies, his face growing red, and she figures that it isn’t because of the cold. “I mean, besides…you know. But – uhm. Please forget I said that.”

“How are you so warm?” she asks, softly, deciding she doesn’t have the energy to protest what is happening or scold him for his missteps.

“Warriors blood runs hot?” He chuckles and it makes her smile, just a little.

Her hands feel good now, but the rest of her only feels marginally better. She feels him squirm a little to get comfortable, his hands at his sides, seemingly careful not to touch her. But why can she touch him like this and he cannot touch her? If his hands were hot around hers, then they could quickly warm up the rest of her body, she reasons.

“Please put your hands on me,” she whispers, self-conscious now. But he doesn’t even hesitate this time, slides a large hand under her waist and over her back, and when she feels the rough scratching of callouses along her bare shoulder blade, she shivers. Within seconds, he’s enveloped her and all Fern can feel is Stark.

“Wow…” he breathes, his hands finally stilling against the back of her neck and her shoulder, though his fingers begin to rub in soothing circles. “You’re so soft, Fern.”

Her stomach drops, her insecurity intensifying. She thinks about how he is the absolute opposite of soft, his muscles hard beneath her fingertips with just a thin layer of fat to dig into. She’s not athletic in the slightest, running from monsters being her only true exercise once in a while besides their long stretches of walking on their travels. She doesn’t like the quiver in her voice as she asks, “Is…is that bad?”

“Not at all. You feel nice,” he responds, looking down at her now. She feels his nose brush against hers to encourage her to tilt her head up, look back at him. “I like it.”

A small gasp escapes her when one of his hands travels lower, along the dip of her waist, until his fingers brush against her stomach. Heat quickly pools there as she flexes under his touch, her throat so tight she can barely breathe. “I’m not…I’m not strong like you are,” she manages to say.

“I’m not strong like you are, either,” he retorts. “You’re strong in an entirely different way.” Her heart leaps, feeling the warmth of his breath spread over her cheekbones. “It’s almost unbelievable how nice this feels,” he admits, his eyelids hanging lower, “all that we’ve done, monsters we’ve killed…you’re still so…”

It’s not often her desires overtake her will but now is one of those times. Barely a thought passes in her mind, the absolute need to shut him up, and she presses her lips to his, unable to bear hearing anymore. His mouth reciprocates, a groan of her name between kisses. And she is no longer cold. Not in the slightest.

When she starts to feel dizzy a short few seconds later, she turns her head, panting and unwilling to look him in the eyes. The way he sighs out so longingly, a soft, “Whoa,” leaving him, it makes her hot all over.

“My heart is beating so fast,” she blurts out, suddenly acutely aware of how wild it feels in her chest.

“Mine, too.” He blinks down at her, his thumb pressing into the spot next to her belly button. “Like when I’m in battle…should I stop?”

“I…I don’t want you to…” She feels her heart battling with her mind as she forces out the next part, “But we probably should stop here.”

“Yeah,” he agrees and she hears regret in his voice. His hands slowly peel from her, but she digs her fingertips into his chest, shaking her head.

“I just meant, we shouldn’t take it any farther. Please do not move your hands, I’m still cold.”

“Oh.” She sees him swallow but his hands return, quickly extinguishing the cold that had tried to take root once more. “Okay.”

“Please…stay.”

“I will,” he responds under his breath and she tucks her head under his chin. “I always will.”

Finally adjusting and feeling comfortable, she nuzzles in, glad his grip tightens around her body in response. Softly, she thanks him and lets herself drift to sleep.

Something about that from Fern is…different. Makes his chest feel full, his cheeks warm, the corners of his lips twitch. Not like when his master tells him he's done acceptably, or when Frieren calls him a fine young man. No, the simple praise from Fern lights something else up in him. The pats on his head had become rather normal, even, but in combination with her approval makes him feel something a little brighter.

There is a part of him that wants to point out that calling him a ‘boy’ in combination with ‘Mister’ is silly, but he learned that lesson long ago. Besides, lately it’s become sort of a 50/50 situation. Sometimes she gives him the title, sometimes she doesn’t. It’s just one of those things – he has a hard time reading her. The more time they spend together, the easier it gets, naturally. But how she refers to him can be confusing. Calling him Mister now, he wonders if that is intentional. Some sort of control on top of the sweetness of what she’s saying.

Is it?

Is it?

He opts to change the subject, not address it. It’s always suited them better anyhow.

“Wouldn't you just scold me if I had taken him for all he was worth anyway?”

Fern actually smiles. “I would have.”

“So I had no other choice, really.” He doesn’t know why he insists on shooting himself in the foot like this.

But instead of ire, her face fills with mirth. “You and I both know that isn’t the whole truth.” He raises an eyebrow when she reiterates, “You are a good boy, Stark.”

And there it is. She drops the title and he feels weird. Hot and tingly, twiddly thumbs and all. He wants to ask and he almost does. Even turns his body to look at her properly, but she just looks down at her drink with such a sweet smile. One that makes him feel like he should be happier. And it does, it makes him happier. He sees it and it immediately makes his heart pound like it’s demanding entrance somewhere. How rude. He blinks, swallows, doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t know how, really.

“Shall we have a bet, too, then?”

He almost chokes on the damn beer. He huffs a laugh, setting it down and properly looking at her, more in his element than normal. “Sein have a bad influence on you, too, huh?”

“I don’t actually wish to gamble. I just thought it would be nice to give you company.” Well isn’t that nice. She blinks a few times before turning her head to look at him. He sucks in a breath.

“Yeah? You sure you don’t want anything if you win?”

She’s great at letting quiet take over, but he has gotten used to it, so he just waits. “Hm…perhaps you can pay for a treat tomorrow.”

He chuckles a bit. “I can do that – but, I’m not losing, anyway.”

“No? What would you be getting, then?”

Interesting.

What would he win from Fern anyway?

They share money. They share a granny. They share…everything, really. There’s no getting closer, really. But…there is something.

Her cheeks plump with her smile and he exhales quickly.

He likes her.

What does that mean, he wonders. He likes Frieren, and Eisen. He likes a lot of people.

It’s just…different.

Isn’t it?

“if I win, I want…a kiss on the cheek.”

Fern freezes, her eyes dropping to the surface of the table. And she turns red.

Immediately, the excuses he has prepared fall out of him.

“Kidding, I’m kidding –“

“Very well.”

He freezes now, too. He had moved his glass, shuffled things around, tried to make for the door.. He’d made everything as weird as possible, and she’d done nothing wrong. Only responded…like this. He feels his heart going crazy and wants there to be a reason for it. So when she looks up at him, that smile he craves, he braces himself.

“You get a kiss, I get a treat.”

The need to justify - “Well…depending on whoever wins.”

“Right.”

“Are you…sure?”

“Let’s play.”

Fern proceeds to wipe the floor with him.

Has he been played?

Stark sputters, pointing an accusing finger at her. “Did you- did you-You didn’t do some weird mage stuff on the cards?”

“Are you implying I’ve cheated, Mister Stark?”

“N…no.” Stark heaves a deep breath, his shoulders sagging. He does wonder if she swindled him on purpose, though.

What happened to that confused girl mere moments ago, scratching her head, humming and hawing? Just his luck.

“Are you lacking funds to pay for a treat for me tomorrow?” Fern asks, and he almost laughs at how concerned she actually seems.

“No, I have cash.”

“Then…are you disappointed about not receiving your prize?”

Stark locks up for a moment before shaking his head, his eyes setting on the folded cards in front of them. “I just…I’m worse at this than I thought.”

“So…you’re okay with not receiving a cheek kiss?”

Stark laughs awkwardly, waving a hand. “I really was joking, Fern. I’d never try to force you to do something like that, you know that, right?”

“Oh…” He swears he sees something like disappointment cross her face and he swallows. She nods. “I know that. It wouldn’t have been forcing me, though.”

He shifts in his seat, blinking, wondering if he should look at her. She’s seems to be hinting at something, and he’s not sure if he’s getting ahead of himself. “I’m not gonna be a sore loser, okay?”

When he hears a short amused exhale leave her, he looks up to find a faint smile on her lips. She rubs her arm with her opposing hand and his stomach rolls over on itself. But he feels a little better for it, at least.

Goddess, what is this?

It’s all he can think of. Did she want the kiss? He wants so, so bad. So badly to press his lips to her cheek. It’s almost gross, like he used to think. But…her cheek looks so soft. And he thinks his own lips are soft, too. As long as he hasn’t been in a battle, maybe he’s worthy of making contact with that pouty cheek. If…she wants.

“C’mon, let’s go back to our rooms.”

He feels her knuckles brush against his as they ascend the stairs, so he moves his hand out of the way a little. Watches her hand fold behind her back to tug at the bottom of her hair. He wonders if it stings at all when she does that. Once they’re at the top, he slows down in front of the door to her and Frieren’s room, giving her a little wave. She bows her head a bit as she holds onto the door handle, but doesn’t move. He stops in front of his door and tilts his head when she remains there, looking stuck in place.

“Fern?”

“It’s not very nice, you know…”

The wave of confusion that hits him almost makes him physically stumble back as he sputters. “Wh-what isn’t very nice? Me? I’m nice!”

Fern finally turns her head to look at him, her eyes darker than normal with that characteristic pout on her lips that always makes Stark feel like he should to drop to his knees.

“I told you I was joking! I am not an actual pervert,” he groans, covering his face, defensive now. “I’m sorry for saying it, okay? I don’t want a first kiss from you to be the result of a gamble. I’d-I’d never want that, you have to believe me.”

The way she can let silence sit bothers him in a way no one else can get under his skin for, even if he's used to it, because of things like this. He drags his hand down slightly so he can peak out from behind it, to see whether she’s about to unleash her fists of fury onto him. A punishment most cruel, but perhaps deserved at this moment.

“First kiss…” She’s so quiet when she says it, he almost misses it. His throat feels so tight, he’s worried he might lose the ability to breathe. Then, she turns the door handle. “Goodnight, Stark.”

No title.

He goes to bed feeling like things could not get worse.

But the next day, when he takes her to a food stall he himself picks out, she thanks him.

With a kiss.

Stark pays the person at the stand for the dessert bun, thanks him, and turns with Fern.

Fern lights up, her face precious and sweet, the only thing he thinks he wants to see anymore.

And then she stops, drops a hand to his elbow, and grasps.

He stops, too, looks at her, and –

Don’t make it weird don’t make it weird don’t ma-

His voice and breath get stuck right there in the middle of his throat and all that comes out is a stupid giggle, one so happy and joyous, it should be embarrassing.

But she giggles, too.

Fern kisses Stark right on the cheek and he stumbles and stutters, but she just covers her mouth before taking another bite of her sweet bun.

Maybe, perhaps this is how things should be.

He wants to hear that laugh every day, goddess willing.

“Guess it’s a good thing I came,” he sighs, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his scarf. He got here earlier than what should have been needed because he kind of anticipated this. He’s seen her come in hungover on a few occasions, and she is the definition of a little baby. He guides her to the futon in her living room, even pulls the lone shoe off her foot for her. “Why just one?”

“Huh? Oh. Couldn’t find the other,” she mumbles. “I dunno. I don’t remember.”

He eyes her warily as she pulls her knees to her chest, circling her arms around them and resting her forehead on her knees. Without responding, he heads into her kitchen. Rummages around for a glass, fills it with water, and brings it to her. Already has one of his own pain pills ready from home. “C’mon.”

“Hm?” she peeks up, then lifts her head upon seeing him. She even smiles a little. “The good stuff, huh? Thanks.”

Carefully, he hands them off to her before sitting on the other side. She slowly drinks some of the water, and he watches her throat bob, lean her head back, drop the pill in. His jaw flexes and he looks away, irritated that even now, his mind wanders. Shakes his head. “You’re a wreck.”

“Yeah,” she laughs a little, then hisses in pain. He frowns because he knows that feeling, even cringes some. With a deep breath, she slowly and gently lowers herself back so she’s resting on the couch and her legs stretch out. He takes the water from her hand and sets it on the table. “I’m sorry.”

He stays silent, averting his eyes, lips thinning to a line.

He’s not even really mad. Just hurt. His pride is hurt, his feelings. Knows it’s his own fault, that Anya’s been nothing but open and reciprocating. Ready for more, just needed him to be ready, too. And he hadn’t been, and that’s his own hang ups and fault. She’s not his, never has been, and certainly isn’t now. All the crap happening with his ex just felt like a catalyst, the last straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. She shouldn’t have anything to feel sorry for, but he finds it hard to admit that out loud. So he doesn’t, for now. Just sighs, looks up at her and tries not to focus too much on the sad look in her expression.

“Who goes on a date on a Monday, anyway?” he asks, rolling his eyes as he rests his forearms on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. She scoffs.

“Those of us who value our weekends enough not to spend them on mediocre men.”

A surprised chuckle bursts from him, and he glances at her, relieved to see her side-sloped smile, though her head is still hung a bit as she stares at her hands in her lap. He nods, looking away again. “Fair enough.”

I think we’ve spent the last dozen weekends together…but that was mostly work, I guess.

Decides to get up and make her something warm, hunting through her cupboards until he finds her stash of tea. Uses it as an opportunity to clear his mind. He runs water into the kettle, puts it on the stove to light, then finds a mug that she clearly thrifted, even still has the sticker tag on the bottom. Upon inspection, he raises his eyebrows, finding it hard to believe anywhere sells a mug for less than two dalc, minimum.

He can’t just let her wallow around. While there is a selfish part of him that’s relieved she’s feeling some sort of guilt, enough to vaguely say sorry, the part that just wants her to be happy kicks that part down. Demands he assuage her worries, tell her that he’s the one out of line, and perhaps finally bear it all. But that…it’s too much. He tries to unite those two parts of him, compromise on something that resolves the tension.

The whistle of the kettle breaks him from his thoughts. Diligently, he pours it over a bagged tea, the only kind she has, and waits for it to steep. He peeks around the wall to see her covering her eyes with one hand, her legs outstretched completely, almost looking like she’ll slip to the floor. He shakes his head as he returns to the tea, pulling out the bag and discarding it, then making sure it’s sufficiently cooled so she won’t burn her mouth. It’s all very over the top and more than a simple friend should be doing for another, but babying her wasn’t something that bothered him. Things being weird between them bothered him.

“Here,” he says as he returns to her, now with a mug of warm tea. Her hand falls and eyes pop open, darting down to the mug. She groans as she reaches out for it. “I’ll spoon feed it to you, if you want.”

“That’s some real sweet talk right there,” she says, passively, and he feels heat lick at the back of his neck. He shakes his head, handing the mug off. “You really don’t need to do all this for me.”

“And you don’t have to feel bad,” he mutters, looking away, because it’s probably the only way he’ll be able to force it out. “I shouldn’t have questioned you. You’re your own person.”

She’s silent for a moment before he hears her sip the tea. Then, she admits, “I was jealous.”

“I had a feeling,” he sighs, “and you know there’s nothing between me and her, right?”

Silent again, he glances at her to find her staring into her mug. It makes him even more uneasy than he already was. “I…uhm…” she starts and he watches her visibly swallow, blinking rapidly before a labored sigh leaves her. She looks up at him, gemstone eyes gleaming slightly, making his throat feel tight. “I didn’t keep my promise.”

Damian finds it hard to breathe with the way his mind races at that declaration, deciphering exactly what it means. He doesn’t take his eyes off her, wishing she would just elaborate, but he’s pretty sure he’s got it figured out.

“Oh.”

That must be what she’s sorry for.

“So, then…what did you see? Or…hear?” He curses himself, wishing he knew more about her ability to better understand exactly where he stands now. Trying to remember just what he was thinking when Zoey was in front of him – had he thought about their time together in university? About meeting her, being asked out by her, one of their few dates? Or something worse? Why would he think about any of that? But had he and just not realized? He starts to feel sick.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” she whispers, turning her head now with her eyes scrunched closed, as if it pains her to look at him. “I’m sorry, Damian.”

“That bad, then?” he asks, softly, insides twisting.

“It wasn’t,” she sighs, leaning over to set the mug down before clasping her hands together to twiddle her thumbs. “It wasn’t bad. It was normal stuff.”

He wonders what ‘normal stuff’ is to her.

“She just…she said she was your girlfriend,” she sniffles, blinking hard, and he knows that look. Tears are welling up as they speak and it makes his heart feel like a stone, sinking. “She called you Dami.” Finally, she looks up at him, properly now, eyebrows drawn together and eyes shiny. “I-I panicked. I wanted to know the truth and I couldn’t wait. I just…I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have done it.”

If there was any part of him that wanted to be upset with her, it melts away within the instant.

“And now you’re here.” Her voice cracks and he sucks in a sharp breath. “After all that, you’re here, taking care of me. I don’t…I’m just sorry.”

She covers her face and he clenches his teeth, wishing he was better at this. Like he was the other night. She might think he’s the one that deserves an apology; that she should be at his mercy – but the truth of the matter he’s always been at her mercy. This moment is no different.

Tentatively, he slides an arm around her shoulders, resting his hand on her upper arm and giving it a squeeze. This apparently prompts the floodgates to open.

“I know you weren’t into her,” she says, quickly, her hands falling from her face and then wrapping around her middle. “I know that. I could tell. I just– she’s really beautiful. I mean, I just saw her and thought, wow, she must be a model, and I wondered what a model was doing in our office. Then when she knew you, it just made sense. Like, of course Damian Desmond knows someone who is probably a model or something like that. And of course she’d be his girlfriend. That’s what I thought. She was so confident and I thought…well. I don’t know what I thought. I think I blacked out or something, and then…logic just flew out the window when you left with her.”

Damian keeps quiet throughout, carefully watching her movements, the way she squeezes her arms around herself, sucks in quick breaths between sentences, bites her lips together and shakes her head as if to scold herself.

Anya finally looks up at him after a beat of silence passes, eyes meeting. He wonders what his expression looks like to her. Almost wishes she would read his mind now, so she could truly understand how much he wishes she wouldn’t cry, especially over something like this.

“Stupid, right?”

“You’re not stupid,” he responds instinctively, squeezing her arm again. She laughs quietly, almost forced sounding, her head dropping again.

“Think you can forgive me?” she asks, chin tucked into her collar with how low she bows her head.

Damian takes a moment to respond, because of course he can forgive her. Again, he just doesn’t think it’s his place to forgive something like this, that it’s even something to forgive. “I have no idea what I’d do if I had what you have, Anya.” She looks up again, questioningly. He never expected her to be perfect. “I can’t be mad about that. It stopped bothering me a long time ago. And…I appreciate that you try, for me.” He forces a smile, tilting his head. “You’re only human. I think.”

Anya chokes out a surprised laugh, her eyes getting wider as a tear falls, her wrist coming up to wipe it away. Then that hand reaches up to grab the back of her head, hissing in pain. “Please don’t make me laugh right now.”

“It’s called payback, for being woken up at 1 am.”

“I’m sorry!” she gasps, groaning and shrugging away his arm. He laughs a little, the tension between his shoulders finally relaxing as he drops his hand.

“Take a hot shower,” he tells her, scooting away a little bit, “talk more when you’re not on the verge of death.”

“Oh, fine,” she laments, rubbing her hands over her face before standing up. He laughs a little, then looks up when he feels her hand on his cheek. Blinks at the little smile she gives him, her fingers sliding over the spot behind his ear, like he’d done to her the night he’d brought her to his place. “Thank you.”

He’s sure his face is red hot, but he doesn’t look away. Just nods and gently loops his fingers around her wrist, pulling her palm to his mouth to kiss it. Unsure of where that sort of boldness came from, he’s just glad she turns pink, too, and that her smile gets big. He lets go, and she slips her hand away, turning from him.

Starts to think it’s time they start having these impromptu meetings in his much nicer place.

Though, there is something homely yet charming about hers.

-----

After he hears her shower shut off, she cracks the bathroom door open slightly to tell him she’ll be quick getting ready, that it will be a ‘low maintenance’ day. He reminds her they have a staff meeting, too, and he hears her groan frustratedly from the other side. When she emerges, looking closer to life and smelling like flowers, he tries his best for a reassuring smile. The one she returns isn’t quite as happy and sweet as normal, but it’s genuine, and he’ll take it for now.

“Please tell me you drove here.”

Of course he did. He’s sure she’d shed a tear at the mere thought of commuting with hundreds of other people to work – her poor mind would probably rupture, he figures. Happily, he opens the passenger door of his car for her, glad her protest is absent today. When he slides into the drivers seat, he looks at her properly for a moment and chuckles at the sight of her. Denim overalls half buttoned, sneakers, a baggy jumper, hair in a messy bun atop her head and the biggest, darkest sunglasses he’s ever seen covering three quarters of her face as she rests her head back. Wonders if she’ll fall asleep on the way.

“We’re hopeless,” she mumbles and he glances at her from the corner of his eye as he approaches a red light. Her head lolls to the side, facing out the window. “That’s what Becky said. That we’re hopeless.”

“When you visited her?” he asks, his unease creeping back up again. Anya hadn’t really talked at all about what she might have said about him to Becky, or what was said in general in regards to him. He hadn’t wanted to pry, come off desperate to know what she says about him. Naturally, though, he was curious. So he leans into it, even though it doesn’t seem very positive.

“Mhm,” she hums, reaching over to roll down the window. “I just realized you don’t have power windows.”

“Most cars don’t.” He shoots her a look as she makes a dramatic show of manually rolling down the window.

“All that money and your car is junk,” she whines as she finally gets the glass all the way down.

He scoffs as she rests her elbow halfway out of the window, her chin resting in the crevice of it. The wind pushes the wisps of hair around her face back and threatens to undo the bun on top of her head until he comes to another stop. He’s surprised she doesn’t say something about how his old drivers car had power windows before they were even a thing on the general market. Or that she doesn’t complain that Becky definitely has power windows on whatever luxury car she sports now.

Ah, that’s right. She changed the subject and now it feels weird for him to go back to the ‘we’re hopeless’ statement.

Devious.

“Would it bother you?” Anya suddenly asks as they get closer to their destination. Damian raises an eyebrow, peaking out the corner of his eye at her as he waits. “If I dated someone?”

His chest constricts. Yes. “No.”

“Psshh.” She returns her head out of the window, letting her displeasure emanate off her. “Liar.”

-----

By the time they arrive, the staff meeting is already in progress, and they’re met with several inquisitive looks and a hard glare from Marcuse, who doesn’t stop his presentation, just dogs them down as they find seats in the back. Damian nudges Anya’s waist and she muffles a squeak through her nose, shoving his hand away when they settle in. Her knee knocks into his forcefully and he smiles a little, far more comfortable with this sort of interaction than what they’d been doing earlier.

“Hungover on a Tuesday is a bad look, Forger.” Damian looks up to see someone whisper over their shoulder at Anya and she sticks out her tongue at them. Damian looks away, uninterested in coming to her defense for this in particular.

“At least I don’t spend my nights gambling away all my money,” Anya mutters just loud enough for Damian to hear, sinking into her seat with her arms folded, pouty. He chuckles quietly, unsure if that’s something she just knows or picked up from their mind. She heaves in a long breath and lets it go dramatically, deflating even further into her seat. “I can’t focus with everyone thinking so freakin’ loud.”

“Turn it off?” he asks and she shoots him a glare, that he can only tell because of the way her eyebrows disappear under her sunglasses and her pursed, angry lips.

“Like it’s easy,” she snaps quietly, turning her face away from him. He shrugs, decidedly not feeling bad because it’s her choice to not share details about it with him, so he can’t know. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. After a moment of silence between them, supposedly listening as well as they can, she titters, making him glance at her again. She points a finger from beneath her arm at someone sitting toward the edge of the area. “Jamie totally shot him down last Friday.”

There’s something comforting about where they are right now. Sidled up next to each other in the back, someone with authority lecturing them at the front, Damian attentively listening to whatever little tidbits Anya picks out from the unsuspecting minds around them. He snickers and she covers her mouth.

“Hey, Chit and Chat, this isn’t 9th grade art class.”

They both jerk their heads up at the scolding.

Is he talking about us?

Damian peers at Anya from the corner of his eye and she nods shortly, her face turning red as her jaw flexes, a laugh threatening to burst from her.

Like dumb kids.

Fortunately, for Anya mostly, the meeting only goes for another 10 or so minutes, most of which she spends seemingly about to fall asleep with Damian periodically nudging her. The few dozen employees in attendance shuffle out, and he’s grateful when they don’t get pulled aside by Marcuse, like the dumb kids they were just acting as.

“Think I’ll see about passing off the restaurant story,” she tells him as they settle back at his desk, because just like that, things are as back to normal as normal can be between the two of them.

“I’ll take it,” he responds, trying his best to sound nonchalant, but his mind schemes in the background.

She snorts, ugly and charming. “You hated that place.”

“I’ll handle it,” he reiterates, slotting his hands behind his head as he leans back in his chair. She gives him a concerned look, eyebrow raising.

“What are you plotting?”

“Why don’t you just find out?” he asks, tilting and tapping the side of his head. “Since you can’t seem to help yourself.”

“I’m never gonna live this down,” she groans, slumping over the desk and cradling her head in her arms. He snickers, already thinking of all the ways he can say ‘tacky.’

Gaudy, garish, trashy, tasteless, possibly sticky, smelling of far too strong cologne, something sticky on the ground that causes a gross noise when walking, so pitch-dark one could end up slipping into some shabby void, never to be seen again.

Damian is more than happy to take this story off her hands.

Pleased with himself, he sits up and scoots back to his desk before flexing his fingers, cracking his knuckles, ready to let that creative writing class guide him. Then his eyes land on the brownie from yesterday. He’d left it here because he didn’t want a reminder of how colossally he had fucked up to be present in his apartment, mocking him. Thinks about sweeping it into the trashcan until Anya reaches for it. He eyes her carefully as she unwraps it, inspecting it.

“You had this with you yesterday,” she points out, glancing over her sunglasses at him. He nods, unsure of himself. “You got it for me, huh?”

“Yep,” he responds dryly, staring at it so he doesn’t have to meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, quietly, setting it down with a frown, which makes him frown, too. “I’m such a jerk…”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, picking it up now, “I’ve always been a jerk. I deserve it.”

“What?” She lifts her head to look at him, pulling her sunglasses up to sit on her head so he can see the confusion cross her face. “No, you don’t.”

Her sincerity makes him uncomfortable, the way her eyes pierce right into him at she says it. “I just meant…all those times. You know. When we were kids. I’m not exactly worthy of…” He trails off, the rest of what he wants to say dying in his throat with the way she regards him so, so earnestly.

“We were kids,” she says, matter-of-factly. Then, she sets a careful hand in the crook of his elbow. He glances at it, fights to resist the urge to brush her off, just for the sheer discomfort he has with being shown sympathy. Especially when she continues, softly, “You don’t deserve to be mistreated, Damian.”

Suddenly, she tears herself away from him, rolling her chair back several meters when a loud crack sounds from his desk, a very heavy binder landing there. They both look up, startled, at Marcuse who is giving them a tight smile, in no way unclear with his displeasure with the two of them. They glance at each other before taking the heavy hint, Anya getting up and scurrying back to her desk and Damian pulling the binder toward himself. Gives him a shrug of his shoulders, opening the binder and offering Marcuse a look that says he gets it, now bug off.

Which he does.

Almost, almost, is Damian grateful for the distraction, because he doesn’t quite know how to handle Anya being so terribly sincere with him.

-----

We were kids.

Damian walked Anya to the subway like he normally did after work, though it was in silence this time. He had decided he didn’t mind that, because he could fool himself into thinking it was because she was still hungover. Managed to pass off the dreaded pastry before she boarded, insisting she take it because he wasn’t going to eat it. Her expression had turned a little brighter, her hand reaching up to swipe his hair out of his eyes before she said goodbye, some strange form of affection he’ll take from her, even now.

When he gets home, he spends too much time looking at himself in the mirror with the same tired eyes he’s been sporting since he was that kid. The bleariness of them is somewhat new, though he wonders if it’s possible his eyesight has always been bad, perhaps since he was young and just gotten worse. His family always had access to the absolute best health care, but he and his brother would never be caught wearing something that physically signaled to others some sort of inferiority, like poor eyesight. He’s 25 now and likes to think he doesn’t give a shit about any of that anymore, but that nagging voice in the back of his head whispers something cruel.

His hair’s longer, too, he’d realized when she pushed it from his eyes. Too long, he thinks. Remembers a time when he was around 10 or 11, when one of his caretakers had somehow let it slip her mind to trim his hair for an entire month. He had been curious how it would look, so hadn’t tried to rectify the situation, though instantly regretted it once Anya had called him ‘shaggy dog’ when it had gotten a bit too long. Remembers absolutely laying into her, popping off every horrible insult his little mind could muster all the while bringing the entire schools attention to his unkempt hair.

He physically cringes as he envisions the way her eyes welled up and he was yet again left scrambling to make it up to her by the end of it.

“I-I thought it looked cute.”

God, he thinks if given the opportunity, he really would punch his younger self in the face.

“Cute? You think –I mean. I don’t care what you think.”

How she had him wrapped around his finger from first punch, he thought he’d never be able to figure out. 16-year-old Damian would have jumped off a bridge if she had said it looked cool. 25-year-old Damian would, too.

“I don’t think you’re very cute anymore.”

If only she knew how those words decimated him. Knowing what he knows now, he’s keen to think maybe she did know, but probably not. Little Damian’s inner monologue was just as bleak as his adult self, just with a lot more propping himself up and denial. If she had understood, she would have taken one peak at his mind and made the correct decision to run for the hills.

For years, they’d grown close, so close Emile had called them an amorphous blob that would soon reach a different level of being, one consciousness and all. So why has she not run for the hills like she should have?

She was using you. She had something to gain. She looked past it all for…

For what? Nothing at all, he tells himself. He reassures himself. He has to convince himself.

He groans. Those damned thoughts always eating away at anything good his brain could conjure, like a curse. A curse he thought he’d categorically exorcised but now knows better than to think they’d ever leave the confines of his mind.

“You are hopeless,” he sighs to his reflection, glaring now, with all the loathing he’d been raised to have for anything he found beneath him. Right now, he thinks the person in the mirror is beneath him.

How he keeps getting stuck in this spiral…well, he knows how, but cannot figure a way out.

Just hopes with everything finally out there, that tomorrow will be better.

It’s all he can do, anyway.

-----

They spend the next few days working closely together, not really addressing all that’s transpired. He’s not sure whether that’s for the best, but it’s what he prefers, for now. Even more so now that she holds his hand when he walks her to the subway again. A lot more when she cheek-kisses him goodbye before hopping on. So much so, he wakes up early on Friday to get to the subway to meet her when she gets off at her stop. When she looks at him in surprised delight, he feels like he’s won something.

“You’re still taking me to the museum, right?” she asks at the end of the day, the walk to the subway routine once more. He gives her a smile as he nods. At the station, as they wait for her car, she asks, “Pick me up tomorrow?”

“Yep.” Maybe he needs to be better at making sure she already knows he’ll always pick her up. “Noon?”

“Yeah.”

His hand instinctively reaches out when hers does, sliding together as if they’re meant to. She giggles something sweet, her earnest smile no longer feeling like it will incinerate him. Instead, he feels warm in a good way, like things are how they’re supposed to be. Those hands link together, they step into each other’s space, and he can’t remember something coming so naturally to him, besides being a narcissist, probably. The way she slips her other hand against his neck and he grips around her back, anticipating the way she tilts back, as if testing him, it makes him chuckle, makes him want to lean in and tell her that he knows her and all the ways she likes to push at his buttons.

Or just press her into the nearest wall and kiss her. Kiss her until she’s breathless, red in the face, weak in the knees. But not yet.

“I like this,” she whispers to him, her eyelids lower now, making his chest tight. “I like it when you look at me like that.”

Heat floods his face but he still looks at her because how can he not. She just told him she likes how horribly head over heels he is for her. There should be shame in his gut, but he doesn’t allow it. Not right now, at least. After all that self-doubt, self-loathing, self-degradation; even after all that, his own brain won’t go there, just buzzes with happy thoughts, full of pink and green and softness. Because she’s firmly in his grip and looking at him like he’s the only thing she sees. When her hand slides from the back of his neck over his cheek, he even leans in a little.

“You’re so soft,” she laughs, rubbing her thumb against his cheekbone. “Not so good at guarding your heart lately, are you?”

“Do I need to?” he asks, squeezing her other hand in his. She pauses, blinking up at him with a thoughtful look. Wonders what she’s thinking, whether the hesitation is a good or bad thing.

“I just want to be careful,” she finally says, tilting her head. “With you. I thought about…” He leans in closer when she wavers and looks away from him. Then she laughs abruptly, shaking her head as she returns her eyes to him. “Nothing! Gosh, I’m over thinking. I learned from the best, I guess – I mean my dad, not you, by the way.”

“That was random,” he says, deadpan, furrowing his eyebrows. “But I think I’ve learned not to question that.”

He’s learned not to question it out loud, at least. Still wishes he knew what was going on in that head of hers, where all that came from. It’s just not for him to know, he supposes. Not right now, at least. She’s been more than patient with him, troublingly so. He could do with being a little more patient himself, this time.

“Good boy.”

He flexes his jaw with the deference, of which he cannot tell she means patronizingly or is just being sweet to him in her own way, especially when she compliments him on being so considerate. He chooses the latter, for now, but he thinks they might have to talk about it if she keeps it up.

If all this keeps up.

Before his mind can spiral with that possibility, she tugs his hand so it joins his other on her back, then wraps that arm around his neck. Blinking out of his thoughts, he meets her as she tiptoes up to nuzzle her nose into the crook of his neck. Almost laughs, because the way she breathes him in tickles. He tightens his arms around her as he sees her car come to a stop, cursing it internally for cutting them off exactly on time.

“Maybe next time,” she starts as she loosens her grip around him, falling back onto the flats of her feet, “I don’t have to go home if we’re going on a date the next day anyway.”

A date.

He swallows as she leans up to press a kiss to his cheek, and without any time to react, she lets go of him, giving him a goofy smile and wink before skipping off.

“Wait…” His voice feels hoarse in his throat as he lifts his hand, just a little, as if to reach out for her, but she’s already disappeared into the car.

Don’t have to go home.

His eyes flit side to side over the windows in an attempt at spotting the pink of her hair, just in time to catch her blowing a kiss.

The train starts to pull away and he finally stands up straight, staring at the spot where it definitively disappears from his line of sight.

Next time.

As he considers her choice of words, he wonders if that’s what she’d been hesitant to say.

Damian wishes he could pour his guts out to Anya, but he’ll take whatever this is, for now.

----

The drunken call and subsequent home visit were some of the first scenes I wrote of this story, I was looking forward to a small jealousy/bad decisions/drunken thoughts arc, so I’m happy to finally post them lol

Wow catharsis incoming maybe hopefully ???????????/

Longing for something she doesn’t really know, has never really known. Wonders if she would like to know it, one day in the future. When she sees those beaming smiles on their faces, it makes her think she might. Further, it even makes her consider how that might be with someone like Stark. Someone who gives into childish whims so easily, endlessly encouraging, optimistic in the face of danger even if she knows he’s cowering in fear inside. That’s true bravery, she’s come to realize. Giving little beings the confidence to face their fears – that’s something special.

Heiter, despite his old age, had demonstrated something similar for her. She remembers wondering how someone so advanced in age could have such a childish outlook on life, but as she forges ahead through adulthood, she thinks that might be actual maturity. The way his face had lit up at the illusionary butterflies she’d learned the conjure, the sweet treats he’d taught her how to bake and decorate just so, the charm he’d taken special care to pick out for the wrap around her staff. All little things she’d figured wouldn’t be prevalent the older she got, yet things that ended up becoming more prevalent every day she grows older.

She doesn’t bring it up, but sometimes she does ponder her relationship with aging after spending over a decade with an ageless elf.

“Something on your mind?”

Fern snaps out of her thoughts at Frieren’s beckoning, shaking her head on instinct. Frieren gives her a small smile before looking back at Stark and the child, now dangling off his arm, kicking her feet and cackling something wild.

“I’m going to see about the bookshop in the rear of the village,” Frieren tells her as she turns around. “Sometimes, they’re fronts for mages with less than savory items.”

Before Fern can remind Frieren of their financial situation, she has already taken off, leaving her with not much to do. Their things are put up, so she supposes she could wander the little neighborhood, as there isn’t much in the way of shops besides the bookshop and food stalls here. But something else calls to her, literally and figuratively.

“Fern!” She looks back at the familiar call of her name, Stark letting the little girl drag him toward her. She tilts her head, offering a smile to the girl. “Sorry, I know it’s not your thing, but –“

“We need another person for hide and seek!” the little girl demands brightly, letting go of his hand and extending her arms up. “It’s no fun just two!”

“Oh, well…” Fern looks to the side to avoid the inevitable puppy dog eyes of a begging child.

“Oh, I’m Millie.” This forces her to return her gaze, the polite curtsey the girl giving her almost enough to break her resolve. “I’m seven years old and my papa works in the mines and I’m gonna work there, too!”

“The mines?” Fern asks, perking an eyebrow as the girl gives her an enthusiastic nod, proud hands on her hips.

“And your name’s Fern. Please play with us, Fern!” Millie clasps her hands together and sticks out her lower lip, which makes Fern question who taught her to manipulate so effectively.

With a little sigh, she looks to the side, avoiding Stark’s sympathetic smile before nodding. “Very well. I shall seek.”

“Uh-uh.” Fern shoots Stark a glare at the way he shakes his head. “No way, you can sense us too well, it’s practically cheating! You guys hide, I’ll seek.”

“That’s not –“

“Come on, I’ll show you a good spot!”

Fern finds herself being dragged away in the same way Stark had just been, and his loud counting becomes distant as she’s lead toward a barn. She wrinkles her nose, praying that she’s not being corralled with the cattle. Luckily, they reach a much more pleasant greenhouse up the way, filled with delightful flowers that remind her of some of the fields they’ve crossed in the past.

The girl, Millie, quickly tucks her away under one of the wooden tables and sees her off with a playful finger to her lips to indicate silence.

Fern stares at her lap as she contemplates the life choices she’s made that led her to crouching under a table in a game of hide and seek. Certainly, it isn’t the worst position she’s ever been in, but she can’t find it in herself to find this very fun.

That is, until she hears the door creak open and her heart suddenly starts thumping.

“Fern? Millie? You in here?”

She covers her mouth, tucking her legs closer in on herself, wondering why exactly this silly little game is triggering her flight reflexes. It’s almost enough to make her break into nervous laughter. Almost, but her resolve to not be so easily found actually triumphs. All that training, making herself small, quiet, unnoticeable in every way, mana-suppression or not, comes in handy. His footsteps pass her, and he exits through the other side of the small building, none the wiser. Only after a few seconds pass does she allow herself to exhale.

Why indulge in something like this?

She doesn’t have time to ponder such a question before the living daylights are scared right out of her, courtesy of a rambunctious child bursting out of a pot.

“That was close, wasn’t it?!”

“You’ve been in here, too?” Fern asks incredulously, wondering how she could possibly not have detected the girl. “I thought you would hide elsewhere…”

“I told you, this is a good spot.”

Fern almost laughs, opts to shake her head instead.

“You’re a good hider, too. He didn’t even stop! Or he’s a bad seeker.” Millie looks up in thought, scratching the top of her head.

“Perhaps both,” Fern responds, relaxing slightly now.

“Hey, this is boring. We should sneak up on him.”

Fern frowns. The whims of children make her uneasy sometimes. Millies tumbles out of the pot as noisily as possible that she’d been otherwise hiding ever so quietly in. “Sneak up on him?”

“Yeah, he’s looking for us, so he’ll never expect it!” Millie declares, skipping over to Fern’s hiding spot and bending down slightly so they’re face to face. “We can be like ‘BOO!’” Fern flinches when Millie shoved her hands in her face. Then she mock-cowers. “And he’ll be like ‘Ahhh!’”

Fern covers her mouth to hide her smile, resisting the urge to inform the little girl that, that is exactly how Stark would react.

“Come on, come on!” Millie has no trouble at all taking Fern by the hands and pulling her up. Fern is easily swayed by the idea of Stark petrified in the same way she had been by said girl, anyhow.

Fern does some light sensing to determine whether Stark is close, and when she can’t detect him, she nudges her head at Millie, who does another check around the corner. They scurry across the field between the green house and barn, Millie excitedly whispering about the cow who had just recently given birth to a calf. Fern tries not to shudder at the image the girl paints of helping her mother deliver the calf, instead focusing on keeping an eye out for Stark. When she sees a flash of his red hair poking from above fencing, she snaps her fingers quickly to get Millie’s attention. Surprises herself with how seriously she’s taking this, but decides not to focus on that for now. Instead, she crouches down to be eye-level with Millie.

“I have a secret attack,” Fern tells her, putting a finger to her lips with a mischievous smile she doesn’t often sport. The girl looks up at her in wonder, nodding excitedly with a finger to her lips, too.

Before they can get as close as Fern had hoped to, Millie is already jumping into action with a war cry. “Get him!!!”

Fern huffs small laughter under her breath as the little girl tackles Stark from behind. Stark gasps dramatically, falling forward.

“Time for the super secret ultra attack!” The little girl raises both of her fists in the air, looking behind her to confirm Fern is ready, and Fern gives her a solid nod.

Stark whines that whine of his as they both bang their fists on him, as light as pillows, one could almost hear the way their hits squeak as they land on him. He cries out as if being decimated, begging and pleading for his very life, and Fern almost doesn’t recognize the laugh that leaves her. One so loud and joyous, as if she was a small girl, too. Like she had once laughed, perhaps.

“Millie!”

The little girl groans upon the call of her name by an older woman, abruptly stopping. Fern gives her a sad smile when she looks up, and Stark grabs her under the armpits to move her off and onto her feet.

“Finally, someone’s got some mercy for me,” he teases, waving at the little girl as she giggles, skipping away with a quick thanks for playing. Fern watches her go, sighing happily as her heart starts to calm down. How such a small thing could bring her such excitement, perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised about. Travelling with Frieren had given her an appreciation for the slower parts of life. Even things like this can bring her heart rate up, though she finds it easy enough to quell.

Except when it begins pounding against her rib cage once more upon looking down at Stark.

She swallows, her smile dropping and her stomach fluttering as he turns his head to set his eyes back on her, too. Something about the way he peers up at her from beneath his eyelashes makes him look quietly innocent, almost sweet. Without noticing anything amiss from her, he chuckles, holding his hand up for help up. She furrows her eyebrows suspiciously but ends up taking his hand. Then, she yelps when she’s yanked down.

“Mister Stark!”

Not. Innocent.

“That was sneaky, Fern,” he laughs, rolling her over so she’s on the ground now and he’s looking down at her. “Teaching her my one weakness.”

Her eyes go from big to absolutely huge as she lays frozen beneath him. She sees the realization dawn on his face in real time and that boyish grin turns to dread in half a second.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” he rushes out, scrambling off of her in the instant and hopping to his feet. Without any words exchanged, he bends down to scoop her up to her feet, as if she was that little girl, too. Even starts brushing at her robes, his apologies coming quickly and quietly.

“It’s-erm. It’s okay, Mister Stark,” she whispers, waving away his hands. “I wasn’t scared, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“You weren’t?” he asks, relief washing over his tone as he sighs. “Oh, good, because- shoot, I really didn’t even think about how that would seem, we just resolved that whole hand on the shoulder thing, and-and-“

Fern holds up a finger in front of his lips, her heart finally starting to rest once more. “Please, it’s been over a year since…I’m not so easily startled by you, now.”

“Oh…progress, then.” He gives her a strained smile and it makes her feel a little guilty. She nods, dropping her hand to clasp with her other in front of her. Then, the forcedness of his smile softens, and he looks happy again. “You were having fun.”

“I…” She pauses, the need to justify it on the tip of her tongue. To say something like ‘don’t assume things,’ or worse, ‘I was simply indulging you.’ She forces that down, glancing to the side before setting her eyes on him, smiling. “So were you.”

“Yeah,” he admits freely, that boyish charm pouring out of him so naturally as he scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t get to do stuff like that when I was a kid, you know? Always training, training, more training. Even now, I train and train.” Her heart suddenly feels heavier with those words, but he says them so casually. “So, try to soak it in when we can, right? I dunno…if any of that sounds relatable at all, to you…”

“Somewhat,” she whispers, looking away now as her brain searches for any memories from her childhood that aren’t painful. She sucks in a shaky breath as he ducks his head to look at her, bending down a bit. She shakes her head before asking, “Will you be returning to the inn?”

“In a bit.” He straightens back up, reaching his arms up in a stretch, so she finally turns back to him. “Promised the old lady up the road I’d wrangle up her cats before the sun goes down.”

“Always an errand boy,” she says playfully, stepping backward. “Well, I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Fern?” She stops, looking over her shoulder at him. “Thanks, for playing along.”

She whips around to face the other way so that whatever color she feels heating her face won’t be so noticeable. Quickly, she nods, forcing out, “Please feel free to invite me whenever.”

“Really?” Before he can question her further, she’s already walking away. “I’m gonna hold you to that!”

When she steps into the room and shuts the door behind her, she nearly collapses. How strange it is to be so exhausted by so little.

Over the years, he’s learned so much about her. Orphaned young, like him. Raised by a weirdo, like him. Happy to be carted around by a long-lived, apathetic and eccentric elf, like him. Wonders if she ever saw other kids play with stuff like this, longing to be part of it. Like him.

Since there’s no one else he’d like to share in this than her (Frieren is certainly out of the question), he treks back to the inn they’re staying at, eyes peeled for her. Before he reaches his destination, he finds her standing in a crowd. The purple hair never ceases to draw his eye. It’s not always her, but enough of the time, it is. The matching purple eyes turn to meet his, as if sensing him, as she so often does. He offers a wide smile and a sweeping wave of his hand with the chalk between his thumb and index. Her eyes follow it and he jogs up to her.

“What are you doing?”

Already used to the curt greetings, he starts in, unfazed with an enthusiastic, “Look, Fern!”

Proudly, he displays the two sticks to her and her demeanor immediately softens. Makes him feel soft, too.

“Wait, please,” she whispers, grasping his hands in hers to cover the chalk. He looks at her in slight confusion as she pushes his hands away, shooing him. Before he treks off, wondering whether he messed up, she reaches out, beckoning him softly before promising, “Three minutes, okay?”

Somehow, he knows whatever she's up to is important and to just take her word for it. He probably should have noticed there was something going on with the crowd of people around anyway. With a short nod and no further questions, he takes off to wait for her by the inn.

It’s been slow going to learn Fern, but he’s come to realize he likes it like that.

“Want your journey to be short and painful?”

Stark wants this journey to be joyous, hilarious. Wants it to be full of fun and whimsy. And he wants it to last. Part of that is taking things gradually. An important part of that is taking Fern gradually. Knows that not pressing her is his best course of action, that they only trust each other as much as they do because they don’t press each other when it doesn’t matter. He’s impulsive and she’s calculated. It’s a balance they’re learning, and he learns it gladly with her.

That’s why he’s happy enough to doodle on the cobblestone outside of their inn until she arrives.

“Hi.”

Her voice is soft and absent from irritation as she approaches. He gets to his feet, excited, but waiting.

“Hey,” he responds, smiling a little because she’s smiling, too. “Sorry about that, whatever that was.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, looking away. She shakes her head. “Please don’t apologize.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he continues, stepping toward her. “Didn’t realize, so I'm sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known,” she says, looking up at him with a sad smile. “That was just a prayer for those gone. This village holds ceremony each year and I just thought…well, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“I mean, that’s not nothing, is it?” he asks innocently, tilting his head. “It's important to you, isn’t it?”

“It…it is…” she whispers, bunching her fists together. “It just…puts me in a weird mood. I guess.”

There’s a pause between them, but he doesn’t think he can fill it, so he waits.

“I don’t want to be in a weird mood,” she admits, her eyes cast to the side as if it's hard to look at him. He ducks a bit to get closer to eye level with her, but her eyes stay averted. “You said, ‘look’, and I wanted to, but at that moment I was sort of...well, it's hard to explain...“

“Fern,” he says softly as he reaches for her hand, taking it like she took his back then. “Only explain if you want to.”

More silence and her fingers curl around his. He takes a moment to collect himself, debating the best way to go about this.

“So please…tell me what it was you wanted to show me.”

“You do want to see, then?” he asks, unsure.

“I do.”

He grins, big.

As he drags the chalk against a big slab of stone right outside the village, he feels something giddy in him. It only intensifies when she gasps, and he looks back in time to find her hand over her mouth. It makes his insides light up, a need to keep seeing that expression. He throws the other stick of chalk to her and motions for her to come closer. Her feet follow without hesitation and if he didn't know any better, he might say Fern seems excited. Excited in a way that he really only sees when she's about to dig into a pile of sweets. Without another word, he begins drawing what he thinks a forest troll might look like, round body and tiny head and all. Makes sure to keep his eyes to himself, waiting to see what she’s drawn. Figures it’s best to leave her to it, after all of that.

“Well,” she starts, standing back after several minutes, and he looks at her. She’s got a shy smile on her lips that's slightly covered by her hair and it makes his stomach roll pleasantly as he waits. She continues, “What…what do you think?”

Finally, he casts his eyes on possibly the ugliest chalk drawing he’s ever seen. All lines and scraps and what he thinks could have been eyes and a mouth. Though, someone just has to know Fern to figure out what it's supposed to be. He thinks it’s a round cake. 

“I think,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I think you want sweets.”

“Say something nice,” she demands, but she doesn’t frown. That’s a first. Makes him feel good.

“I think you’re sweet,” he responds without thinking, and when he realizes, he nearly rushes to correct himself. “I mean- I meant-“

“You meant?”

Stark pauses, blinking at Fern.

Her expression is contemplative, even a little happy.

“I mean you’re sweet." He decides to double down for once, tilting his head with a smile. “I wanna see more of what you draw.”

“Oh?” She turns her face away and he wonders why she won’t look at him. Maybe he can guess why. “Well I...would like to see more, too.”

“Of what I draw?”

Another small pause before she looks up, holding the chalk in her grip with a smile. “Yes." She nods, turning around, her words next words a little quieter: "And more, perhaps.”

He doesn’t ask what ‘more’ means.

Just takes her ready acceptance, feeling good about himself. The warmth in his chest makes him feel exhilarated, the little laugh that leaves her more than a reward, like this chalk. Makes him think of that first date he'd messed up so colossally, and that maybe this sort of thing suits them better. Sometimes things can be easy, but when they are with Fern, he feels like he’s won, somehow. Excited, elated even to share more of these moments with her.

And more.

“I got stiff, so I moved up a little,” she tells him, her fingers drawing soothing circles into the back of his head. It takes a good bit of willpower not to lean into that touch. “You didn’t put yourself there, so don’t worry.”

Damian pulls in a deep breath through his nose, trying to figure out what to say, because his first instinct is to tear away from her, apologize, say it was a mistake, and leave.

But the way her eyebrows pull together in worry despite her sweet smile; the way her eyes practically plead with him not to run away- well, he finds that he can’t. Again, that power she wields over him.

“Thanks,” she continues, one hand in his hair sliding back to rest a thumb on his cheekbone, “for staying.”

Damian huffs a little, looking above her to avoid eye contact, only to be pulled right back in when she does this ugly giggle-snort, pushing at his face a little. He looks at her curiously, realizing she’s trying to move his mouth from her skin. With a twinge of mischief in his tone that he swears isn’t intentional, he asks, “Ticklish?”

“Who isn’t ticklish there?” she asks incredulously, gasping when he intentionally blows a stream of air against the same spot. The other hand still in his hair tightens its grasp on his locks, forcing a sound from the back of his throat and an excited smile to spread across her face. “Oho, and look at you–“

“Okay, that’s enough,” he cuts her off, wiggling his way out of her grip before things can progress out of his control. She laughs, whining her disapproval while sliding her hands over the front of his shirt, bunching it up there to stop him. He gives her a wary look, the playfulness in her smile fading to something like a sympathetic look. With a grumble, he tells her, “You always take it too far, Forger.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says earnestly, slowly letting go of his shirt and propping herself up until they’re both sitting up on the futon. “It just felt nice, and I thought…”

“It-uh, it was nice,” he admits, forcing it out because he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t like it. He does like it. He loves it. That’s the problem. “I actually fell asleep…”

“I was surprised when I woke up and you were sleeping,” she says with a little laugh, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Maybe I’m all you need, huh?”

Damian swallows, looking away, wishing she wouldn’t say things like that.

“Also, Damian,” she says, forcing him to look at her with the use of his first name once more. She’s looking down at her hands now, wringing them together slightly around her shins. “I wanted to apologize…about the beaver stuff.”

His ears perk up, so he looks at her expression now, the apprehension returning. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say sorry for,” she laughs sadly, her face turning away from him so her hair covers it. “I was being a jerk, but I promise it’s for a good reason.”

“Oh?” He wonders what it could be, immediately buying in. Maybe Anya had been sick and having a bad day, or the professor had been a bad person. Maybe she read her thoughts and found out something really terrible. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to be annoyed with her attitude that day. Perhaps he should have more faith in her, and her ability to assess people and their intentions. Now he feels a bit bad, even.

“You were giving her all your attention,” she huffs, pressing her forehead against her knees, the next part coming out muffled, “and she was into you.”

Something like a plate shattering blasts through Damian’s mind as he processes that.

“I told you it was a good reason.”

“That is…” Damian pauses, considering his options here. “She was into me?”

“Don’t be a pervert!” Anya scolds him, looking up at him now with pursed lips, eyebrows angrily knitted together. He laughs out loud now, relief washing over him as he reaches up to pat her head, roughing his hand through her already messy hair. She bats it away, grumbling, “And don’t patronize me.”

“You’re just cute, is all.”

When her cheeks fill in pink, he smirks. She reaches up to pat his head now, too, and he lets her; even bows his head a little. “I think you’re cute.” With that, he flushes and looks away. “How excited you were about the beavers, it was nice…to you see you happy.”

He thinks he’s always happy when he’s around her. But knowing she found his interest in the subject endearing, that does other things to him. “Yeah, guess even your grumpy attitude couldn’t ruin it for me.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” she laughs, letting go of her legs so she can stretch them out again. “I shouldn’t yuck your yum.”

“Well, I forgive you, I guess,” he mutters, sliding a hand over his own cheek, as if to push the blush back. With a small headshake, he wipes his hand over his face and looks at her. “And what about you? Are you okay?”

“Much better.” He tilts his head down to see her hand slide over his, squeezing. “Sorry if it scared you.”

“Wasn’t scared,” he lies, flipping his hand so their palms connect, “just, you know…”

“Yeah,” she whispers, pressing her shoulder against his. When she nudges it against him, he finally looks at her properly since he woke up. How she can be so chipper after the night she had, is just another mystery for him to contemplate. She blinks up at him with big, gemstone eyes, the toothy smile on her face softening to a simper. His eyes rest there, on her lips, the way they tilt up and her body pushes in.

That resolve of his truly is weak. How pathetic.

And just as he’s justifying it in his head, that maybe it’s okay this time because they’re both in their right minds, and they had just kissed again last night, and he had held off since she’d been in distress, trying to make sure it was appropriate, and that maybe now – maybe now it is appropriate – just when he gets there, gets to that conclusion –

The phone rings.

“Oh,” she gasps quietly, her lips just barely brushing against his, breath spreading over them, making them twitch. “Missed my check in call with my parents.”

“They call?” he asks, frozen in place, wishing he could just push in, tell her to forget about it – even if that’s incredibly selfish.

“Yes, they call,” she teases with a laugh, pulling away now to look at the clock, and he joins her. He squints, frustrated that it takes him longer than a few seconds to make out the digital numbers, until it becomes clear. His face falls. “I’m pretty late.”

11:10 a.m.

Damian isn’t sure the last time he slept in so late.

Anya tugs her hand out of his to get up and he curls that hand into a fist, frustration and disappointment sitting heavy in his chest.

“Anya Forger!”

He listens to her answer the call, immediately launching into an excuse and apology.

Wonders how mad she’d be if he slid behind her and put that damn phone back on the ringer, swept her up into his arms and pulled her back into this sad sleeping receptacle.

No.

It’s a sign, his mom would say. Another signal from the universe that this isn’t right, and it might never be. So, he tugs at his slacks to smooth them before standing up and straightening out his button-up. Between sleeping up against her and her fists making a home on his chest with his shirt clumped in them, he’s a ruffled mess; more than usual. His hair is probably stuck up in every direction, the way she had her fingers threaded in there. It makes him shiver, the ghost of her touch. Decides it would probably be best if he quietly collects his things and slips out.

Before he can reach the door, he glances over his shoulder to see her rushing up to him in a little jog, grabbing him by the elbow to stop him.

“Hang on a sec, papa.” He looks at her curiously as she pulls the phone down to her chest, muffling the microphone in her shirt.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he mumbles, trying not to sound too bitter, but still letting her pull him back.

“Thank you,” she tells him with a sad smile, “I owe you twice over now.”

“Guess so.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. Without waiting another beat, she gets on her tip toes and presses those lips he’d been missing to his. It’s quick and nowhere near what he’s craving, but it still makes him step towards her and slide his hand around the side of her neck. Eyes slightly open, he pushes for just a little more before she has to step back, breaking the kiss with a quiet smacking noise. Watches her eyes pop open, her face flushing deep red with that shy smile pulling her lips up.

“Sorry about that,” she says into the receiver when she sets it back to her ear, still looking him in the eyes as she does, as if speaking to him. He gently swipes his thumb over her chin before dropping the hand to his side, his stomach rolling over now that it’s definitively time to leave.

Gives her a little wave that she peace-signs back at, and he makes his exit. Hears her behind her door, “Father, please don’t speculate on my love life.”

He shakes his head as he walks to the stairwell, feeling confused– but happy.

-----

By the time Damian walks into work on Monday, he nearly feels like a new man.

Even though he hadn’t seen Anya since that Saturday morning, she’d left him a voicemail while he was out running yesterday. It was short and sweet, telling him she’d thought about dropping by earlier but decided to let him have some space (he didn’t want space), but that she thought to say goodnight. Said she knew he was probably out on his walk (it was a run). Figured he wasn’t purposefully ignoring her (God knows he wasn’t). Told him she hopes he sleeps as nicely as he did when he slept over – that maybe he should more often.

In a way, he’s glad he hadn’t been there to answer her call. Words like that would leave him tongue tied and sputtering, he’s sure. Flirting used to come somewhat naturally to him when it was with Anya, at least, when they were nearing the end of their time at Eden. It’s a skill he’s still re-learning, having had no use for it since she’d left all those years ago. If anyone interpreted any polite manner he had with them as flirting, that was their problem, not his. Now, he feels woefully inept and needs time to properly craft a response that won’t make him sound like a blubbering idiot.

Even with all the messy musing and quiet self-loathing, he still comes out of it feeling better than he has in a long time. He’s freshly shaven with a freshly pressed shirt. Even stopped by the café on the way to work to grab her a brownie with peanut butter caramel, something he’d noticed her eyeing one day they’d come here but had settled for a beverage.

Better still, when he arrives at the office, she’s already sitting up on his desk, a stack of papers in her hands in her grip, nose buried in them. He feels warmth flood his chest as he lifts his free hand to wave at her, ready to take on whatever this is they have going on.

“Hey-“

“Finally!”

Damian feels his lungs constrict, refusing to exhale or inhale new breath, fingers nearly crushing the pastry in his hand.

Anya looks up curiously while his eyes shift, his body rejecting the natural instinct to turn and shoo their visitor whose voice he knows with painful clarity.

“8 am on the dot.” A slender hand slides over his shoulder, squeezing, and he releases that strained breath, glancing at the person he had foolishly thought might have finally given up. Or perhaps he had simply…forgotten. All those good feelings clouding his brain, something he swore he wouldn’t let happen again. Foolish indeed. “You were always punctual, Dami.”

“Dami,” Anya repeats, forcing him to look at her again, her expression bewildered as she watches them.

With zero regard for Anya, Zoey pulls on Damian’s shoulder to turn him to face her, and he does, because fighting back will invite drama. He grimaces as he trains his eyes on her, that wicked smirk on her face again, like he can never escape it. “I’d hate to think you were avoiding me.”

Damian pinches his lips together, clutching the pastry, trapped.

“Sorry,” Anya begins, hopping off his desk to march her way over to them, making Damian want to keel over. “If you wanted to hand in a tip, it’ll have to be with Linie up there.”

Zoey doesn’t bother to look at where Anya is pointing, just stares straight at her. Damian wishes he could snap himself out of existence now. “Oh, sweetie, I’ve seen more than enough of that girl.” She glances at him with a raised eyebrow before looking back to Anya. “I’m here as a personal client to Mr. Desmond here.”

“Client?” he mumbles, rolling his eyes as he takes a step back when she steps forward.

“Oh.”

Anya looks right at Damian, who glances at her exactly once before deciding he can never look her in the eyes ever again.

“It’s the least he can do for his girlfriend.”

“Ex,” he snaps instinctively, suddenly feeling far more irritated, “ex-girlfriend, you mean. Technically. If you can even call it -”

“You two dated, then,” Anya interrupts, laughing uncomfortably, her arms folding behind her back but not backing away. Damian feels his chest constrict as Zoey nods excitedly.

“University – he was such a player.”

Liar.

Damian holds back the urge to groan, glaring daggers at her while keeping his mouth shut.

“Oh, he was at Eden, too!” Anya says, her uncomfortable expression turning absolutely sunny. Zoey does a double take. “Damian Desmond, everyone wanted a piece of him.”

“Ah, so you’re….” Zoey looks her up and down for a moment before glancing at Damian, then back at Anya. “Went to Eden, too, hm?”

“Mhm!” Anya replies in a seemingly happy tone, still not looking at him. “Too cool for me, though. We didn’t talk much.”

Damian resists the urge to give her a perplexed look, instead setting his eyes on the ground.

Just puzzled.

What’s her angle?

“Sounds about right,” Zoey laughs dismissively, her smile tight as she turns to Damian. “Too good for all of us, hm, Dami?”

If the earth opened up and sucked him right down, Damian would be glad.

“So how did things end with you two, then?” Anya asks, circling around so that now Zoey has her back to Damian, facing Anya. He finally wills himself to look at Anya, eyes squinting suspiciously at what she might be up to. She doesn’t even pay him a glance, her eyes focused on Zoey with such fake enthusiasm on her face, it makes him feel incredibly strange. Wonders if she might be reading her mind. Most likely is, in fact.

And that…

Well. It’s as close to a living nightmare as can be, he thinks.

Zoey laughs, waving a hand. “Things just fizzled, you know. He’s such a pessimist.”

Anya scoffs but still doesn’t look at him as she responds, “Isn’t he?”

“The worst! But he has such a cute face.”

Anya hums, expression still without a skosh of genuine happiness. She’s perturbed and he can tell, clear as day.

“Such a shame.” Zoey spins to face him again, her arms crossed over her stomach as she grins up at him. “At least I can just stare and stare at it while he gets my story out to the world – finally, by the way. After over a week of being out of office.”

Damian feels Anya’s eyes on him as he returns his gaze to the floor. Still praying to it, or some sort of higher being, to free him of this mortal coil.

“Come get drinks with me, pretty boy.” Zoey claps her hands together. “Hear all the new interesting stuff I have for you.”

“Don’t let me hold you back.” Anya holds up her hands, backing away.

That helpless feeling singes up his spine, pressing into the back of his skull irritably. Watches her disappear into the back of the office while Zoey looks up at him with a satisfied smile, nudging her head. He lets out a more tired breath than he has since the Berlint police force turned his dorm room upside down.

“It’s morning,” he grumbles, still staring at the spot Anya had disappeared around the corner, “too early for drinks.”

“Coffee is a drink. Come along.”

Damian grits his teeth, glancing around the office before his eyes land on Marcuse’s office, where he can see the mans beady little eyes staring at him behind the slats of the curtain in his window. Begrudgingly, he follows Zoey out of the office and prays that he’ll be hit by a car on his way.

-----

“Don’t tell me that’s her.”

Damian looks up from his coffee to give her a bewildered expression.

After going on about some ‘friend’ having more information and evidence, their conversation suddenly pivots to Anya. Conversation being a generous term, here, as 90% of it had been by Zoey with Damian grunting affirmatives and negatives, wishing he was anywhere but here now. When Zoey says Anya is cute, Damian agrees without even really thinking about it, and then she drops that on him.

“Who?” he asks, shifting his eyes away, unsure if he wants to hear her answer. Perhaps he knows what it’ll be, anyway. Either way, he’s glad he picked the further corner of the café with the least number of listening ears to sit.

“That girl you never got over,” she groans, crossing her arms over her chest, her drink untouched. “The one you cried about that one night.”

“Cried?” he asks incredulously, setting his drink down. “You’re making things up in your head.”

“You probably don’t remember,” she responds, rolling her eyes, “you were shit faced.”

“Excuse me?” Damian shakes his head, blinking in disbelief. “Again, making things up.”

“Pink hair, how many people have pink hair?” Zoey stares right at him, no look of amusement on her face now. “Green eyes, went to Eden.” Damian shrugs as if none of that information matters, and then she says it, names her, “Anya Forger.”

“Okay, okay –“ he nearly gasps it out, his mind suddenly racing. “That’s enough, I believe you.”

“It was right after the second time they raided your dorm,” she continues, crossing one leg over the other. “Found you drifting in and out of consciousness on your floor with a bottle in your hand, like a little baby.”

Fuck.

It must have been that bad for him to not remember it. No, now he has a new thing to worry about.

“You swore she was the only person in the world who could understand your mind,” she sighs, waving a dramatic hand. Damian fists the material of his slacks in his hands, his gaze dipping to the surface of the table between them. “I’ve never seen a man look so pathetic.” He barely registers the insult. “She was why we never worked out, you know.”

His eyes flit up, the statement pulling his eyebrow up in disbelief. He chuckles, now, shaking his head.

So, he had mentioned her ability while faced. He curses himself internally while also letting himself feel a small amount of relief that he’d been vague. Probably slurred it out without thinking, and Zoey’s never been humble enough to pick up subtext. He makes a note to dump out every drop of alcohol in his apartment when he gets home. Clearly, he isn’t responsible enough to be trusted with it. He sighs tiredly.

“She’s too pretty for you.”

Damian scoffs, fighting the instinct to agree with that statement whilst simultaneously fighting the urge to tell her to expressly fuck off. She’d always had this unnervingly skilled way of insulting him that struck deep, right in his insecurities. “Did you come here to dive into my personal life, or actually talk about this so-called story you’re so desperate to have me work on?”

“Why not both?”

“Alright.” He pushes his chair back and stands, for which she protests. He holds up a hand while gathering his things, refusing to look at her any longer. “I’ll take these, you’ll get a call sooner or later.”

“By you, right?” she asks, batting her eyelashes up at him while reaching out a hand.

“You aren’t cute,” he deadpans, stepping backward. Her semi-innocent expression switches to anger before dropping to annoyance with a concluding eyeroll. “See you never, hopefully.” He turns around but doesn’t walk away yet. Blinking down at the floor, he makes a split decision to look over his shoulder at her. She sports a pout that he’s pretty sure she thinks is endearing. He frowns. “Anya’s not the reason we didn’t work out, by the way.”

Before she can respond with some indignant retort, he takes long strides to quickly exit, ready to wash his hands of this.

-----

If something good happens to him, Damian would be remiss not to expect something not good to happen quite soon after.

Careless. How could he walk into the office with his defenses lowered like that? An entire week of being meticulously careful, keeping it all under wraps and doing everything in his power to make sure this would not happen. One moment of vulnerability and bam – all that effort gone to waste.

Anya had taken off to ‘investigate’ something by the time he’d returned to the office. No chance for an explanation, just avoidance, like he himself was so skilled at. Almost the entire workday passes without any sign of her, and Damian decides to use the time to finish this cursed story dropped into his life. Calls all the relevant parties he can find numbers for, takes down statements, pulls together photographs and copies of ledgers, then finally brings it all to a coworker who’s further down the food chain from him and offers him 100 dalc to contact Zoey and get it ready for the paper.

Perhaps he should have done this last week, ripped the bandage off and been done with it.

Hindsight is 20/20.

Damian rubs his eyes tiredly, his vision feeling blurry as he stares at the little clock in the corner of his monitor. Doesn’t bother looking up when people come in and out anymore, giving up on the hope Anya might breeze inside and pretend like what happened just…didn’t. A foolish hope. Always foolish.

“Hey.” He jerks his head up at Anya’s voice, his eyes widening at the sight of her. She’s not smiling, so he doesn’t either, uneasy. “Can you cover for me? I’m gonna leave early.”

Damian swallows, nodding slightly. She nods back without thanks and starts to walk past him, back to her desk. He turns in his seat to watch her, wondering what might be going on in her head. Is she mad at him for keeping this whole thing from her? Upset that he took a story without her? Or – and he thinks he has good reason to think so – is she jealous? Like he had been any time she brought up her own past relationships? It’s never been fair that she could read minds and he couldn’t. If she wanted to, she could know every little insecurity he has, all his misgivings about himself and his tumultuous relationship with her. That sometimes he lays awake at night thinking about her with another guy, even if it was in the past. If she wanted, she could very clearly see how much the idea of her being romantically interested in anyone besides him makes him insane.

Unfair indeed.

“Feeling sick?” Damian asks as she starts to walk back, passing his desk as a necessity to getting to the front door. She stops but doesn’t look at him.

“I’m fine,” Anya says, her voice rigged. Then, she turns to look down at him, her eyebrows furrowed and gaze making him feel small. “If you must know, I have a date.”

Damian clears his throat, his teeth clenching. A date. “Took hardly anything to get that out of you.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal, now is it?” He recoils at the way she snaps, such an unfamiliar tone from his sweet former classmate.

“Guess not.” He shrugs, shifting his eyes. “With who?”

“Guy from the restaurant.” He glances up when she holds up that napkin from last week between her fingers, the man’s sloppily written phone number on it. “Not that it’s your business, right?”

“Anya…”

“Just like it’s not my business what you do with your ex,” she says as she looks away, taking a step back and tucking the napkin back into her pocket.

“God,” he mumbles, running a hand over his face now, “this why you kept his number?”

“No,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I’m a journalist, Desmond. I keep everyone’s phone number.”

The way she utters his last name makes him wince. “You know that’s not what I meant. Clearly, you…”

“Clearly, I…?”

“Know what you’re doing.”

Anya clasps her bag shut forcefully before throwing it over her shoulder, tousling her hair and pushing the material of her jacket askew. “I don’t have to listen to you, you know.” Damian’s eyebrows knit together in concern at her clear show of anger, feeling the eyes of several of their coworkers on them now. “I don’t have to listen to anyone. I can live my life, you can live yours. Right?”

His stomach rolls over at her pinched lips, scrunched forehead, the ruddiness of her cheeks that feels so unfamiliar outside of intimacy with her. It almost makes him want to tease her for being so worked up over nothing. But it’s not nothing.

Anya is pissed off at him.

This is the exact thing he wanted to avoid, but in retrospect, he was setting himself up for misery.

“Yeah,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to smooth over his chin. “That’s right.”

“Good.” He can see her hands shaking just slightly before her fingers flex out, then curl into fists. “Glad we understand each other.”

With that, she turns and walks away, her footsteps a little louder than normal, until she’s definitively gone. The brownie sits on his desk, wrapped like a present, unopened and mocking him for ever possibly thinking that he can do this.

Damian doesn’t even bother to look around, knowing their coworkers are whispering about them and all the drama that just unfolded in front of everyone. Being on the other side of gossip is never fun, but that doesn’t particularly concern him right now. What’s going to eat away at his mind all day and night is Anya being so mad at him. Anya thinking he has any interest whatsoever in Zoey. Anya with that man. That man who hadn’t paid Damian a passing glance, who’d touched Anya little too much, who’s head Damian had happily envisioned exploding.

God, he was fucked.

-----

It’s 1 am and his phone rings.

1 am is a very disturbing time for a phone to ring, but Damian still decides he should probably answer it. He wasn’t sleeping anyway.

After the third ring, he reluctantly reaches out and picks up the handset. Freezes when he hears sobbing hiccups on the other line. God, he hopes it’s not who he thinks it is.

“Hello?”

“Damian.”

“Anya –“ He sits up abruptly, clutching the receiver with both hands now, shoving the speaker to his ear forcefully. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

His head spins before he even has a chance to assess the situation. Someone calling crying at 1 am is never a good sign, and it’s Anya, and she had that stupid fucking date tonight – and –

“Guy was a j-jerk,” she slurs, and he grinds his teeth together, “didn’ wanna go h-home with him and he–he ditched me, can you even, can you even believe th-that?”

She’s clearly drunk and his stomach sinks. “Where are you? Are you safe? Are there road signs next to you? Can you tell me what’s near?”

“I’m home!”

He lets out a somewhat, but not fully, relieved breath, head dropping. “He left you by yourself?”

“Mhm,” she mumbles sadly, sniffling. He rubs his hand over his face. “I didn’ do ‘nything…I didn’ wanna.”

He’s silent, trying to figure out how to interpret what she’s saying. If she knows what she’s saying.

“I didn’ even wanna go out with h-him,” she hiccups and he sighs, flopping back onto his bed, adrenaline still pulsing at his skin. “You believe me, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, quietly, dropping his head to the side. “I’m sorry he abandoned you. That’s fucked up.”

“It is!” she shouts and he pulls away from the phone, cringing. “Fuck that guy! Fuck him.”

The tiniest bit of shameful joy tugs the corners of his lips up. Gently, he reminds her, “Not so loud. It’s the middle of the night.”

An exaggerated sigh. “He was…rude. Stupid. Touched me.” He makes an unhappy sound, a little ‘hmph.’ “Wanted to take me to his place ‘n’ I said no thanks. He paid for alla my drinks, though!”

“I’m beginning to see what happened.”

“I don’t owe any guy anything!” she snaps, surly and he actually smiles now. Increasingly glad that he kept the phone in his room plugged in, too. “S’not my fault they’re dumb and dump their money-and now lookit at me…I’mma mess…”

“I wish you’d called me,” he says, softly, unsurely, “from a phone booth or something. I would’ve come to get you.”

“S’whatever. I can get ‘round my own, I don’t need help.”

Because she’s drunk, he tries not to take that personally.

“It just…it hurt my feelings…”

It hurts his feelings, too. Another something to cram down and not think about. He clicks his tongue before asking, “Should I drive over?”

“Nono,” she sighs, her sobbing almost completely ceased. “’m just…gonna go to bed…”

“Drink water,” he tells her, his soft tone somewhat hardening now, “and get a painkiller now, you’ll need it.”

A little laugh on the other end and it makes him feel a bit better. Then, she gasps, “But I don’t wanna miss work!”

“Just make sure your alarm is set?”

“Will you come a’ get me? So I don’t sleep in.”

He pauses, staring hard at his ceiling. Swallows. “Sure. Of course.”

“Okay…” she sighs, sounding relieved, and tired. He frowns and turns on his side, hand under his cheek.  “Thanks, Damian. Please don’ be mad at me.”

He inhales a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Promise?”

“…I promise.”

“Mmm…” He hears her heave in a deep breath, at least a count of 3, before releasing it. Then, the line starts to sound a little fuzzy, and he hears her faintly say, “Night night, then.”

“Goodnight, Anya,” he sighs, waiting with the receiver still to his ear until he hears the click.

Hopes she didn’t just pass out right now before getting herself that water and pain medication.

----

Stark whines that whine of his as they both bang their fists on him, as light as pillows, one could almost hear the way their hits squeak as they land on him. He cries out as if being decimated, begging and pleading for his very life, and Fern almost doesn’t recognize the laugh that leaves her. One so loud and joyous, as if she was a small girl, too. Like she had once laughed, perhaps.

“Millie!”

The little girl groans upon the call of her name, abruptly stopping. Fern gives her a sad smile when she looks up, and Stark grabs her under the armpits to move her off and onto her feet.

“Finally, someone’s got some mercy for me,” he teases, waving at the little girl as she giggles, skipping away with a quick thanks for playing. Fern watches her go, sighing happily as her heart starts to calm down.

Only to begin thumping against her rib cage once more upon looking down at Stark.

She swallows, her smile dropping and her stomach tightening as he turns his head to set his eyes back on her, too. He chuckles, holding his hand up for help up. She furrows her eyebrows suspiciously, but ends up taking his hand. Then, she yelps when she’s yanked down.

“Mister Stark!”

“That was sneaky, Fern,” he laughs, rolling her over so she’s on the ground now and he’s looking down at her. “Teaching her my one weakness – you.”

Her eyes go from big to absolutely huge as she lays frozen beneath him. She sees the realization dawn on his face in real time and that boyish grin turns to dread in half a second.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” he rushes out, rolling off of her in the instant and hopping to his feet. Without any words exchanged, he bends down to scoop her up to her feet, as if she was that little girl, too. Even starts brushing at her robes, his apologies coming quickly and quietly.

“It’s-erm. It’s okay, Mister Stark,” she whispers, waving away his hands. “I wasn’t scared, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“You weren’t?” he asks, relief washing over his tone as he sighs. “Oh, good, because- damn it, I really didn’t even think about how that would seem, we just resolved that whole hand on the shoulder thing, and-and-“

Fern holds up a finger in front of his lips, her own heart finally starting to rest once more. “Please, it’s been over a year since…I’m not so easily startled by you, now.”

“Oh…progress, then.” He gives her a strained smile and it makes her feel a little guilty. She nods, dropping her hand to clasp with her other in front of her. Then, the forcedness of his smile softens, and he looks happy again. “You were having fun.”

“I…” She pauses, the need to justify it on the tip of her tongue. To say something like ‘I was simply indulging you,’ or ‘don’t assume things.’ She forces that down, looking to the side before setting her eyes on him, smiling. “As were you.”

“I got stiff, so I moved up a little,” she tells him, her fingers drawing soothing circles into the back of his head. It takes a good bit of willpower not to lean into that touch. “You didn’t put yourself there, so don’t worry.”

Damian pulls in a deep breath through his nose, trying to figure out what to say, because his first instinct is to tear away from her, apologize, say it was a mistake, and leave.

But the way her eyebrows pull together in worry despite her sweet smile; the way her eyes practically plead with him not to run away- well, he finds that he can’t. Again, that power she wields over him.

“Thanks,” she continues, one hand in his hair sliding back to rest a thumb on his cheekbone, “for staying.”

Damian huffs a little, looking above her to avoid eye contact, only to be pulled right back in when she does this ugly giggle-snort, pushing at his face a little. He looks at her curiously, realizing she’s trying to move his mouth from her skin. With a twinge of mischief in his tone that he swears isn’t intentional, he asks, “Ticklish?”

“Who isn’t ticklish there?” she asks incredulously, gasping when he intentionally blows a stream of air against the same spot. The other hand still in his hair tightens its grasp on his locks, forcing a sound from the back of his throat and an excited smile to spread across her face. “Oho, and look at you–“

“Okay, that’s enough,” he cuts her off, wiggling his way out of her grip before things can progress out of his control. She laughs, whining her disapproval while sliding her hands over the front of his shirt, bunching it up there to stop him. He gives her a wary look, the playfulness in her smile fading to something like a sympathetic look. With a grumble, he tells her, “You always take it too far, Forger.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says earnestly, slowly letting go of his shirt and propping herself up until they’re both sitting up on the futon. “It just felt nice, and I thought…”

“It-uh, it was nice,” he admits, forcing it out because he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t like it. He does like it. He loves it. That’s the problem. “I actually fell asleep…”

“I was surprised when I woke up and you were sleeping,” she says with a little laugh, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Maybe I’m all you need, huh?”

Damian swallows, looking away, wishing she wouldn’t say things like that.

“Also, Damian,” she says, forcing him to look at her with the use of his first name once more. She’s looking down at her hands now, wringing them together slightly around her shins. “I wanted to apologize…about the beaver stuff.”

His ears perk up, so he looks at her expression now, the apprehension returning. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say sorry for,” she laughs sadly, her face turning away from him so her hair covers it. “I was being a jerk, but I promise it’s for a good reason.”

“Oh?” He wonders what it could be, immediately buying in. Maybe Anya had been sick and having a bad day, or the professor had been a bad person. Maybe she read her thoughts and found out something really terrible. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to be annoyed with her attitude that day. Perhaps he should have more faith in her, and her ability to assess people and their intentions. Now he feels a bit bad, even.

“You were giving her all your attention,” she huffs, pressing her forehead against her knees, the next part coming out muffled, “and she was into you.”

Something like a plate shattering blasts through Damian’s mind as he processes that.

“I told you it was a good reason.”

“That is…” Damian pauses, considering his options here. “She was into me?”

“Don’t be a pervert!” Anya scolds him, looking up at him now with pursed lips, eyebrows angrily knitted together. He laughs out loud now, relief washing over him as he reaches up to pat her head, roughing his hand through her already messy hair. She bats it away, grumbling, “And don’t patronize me.”

“You’re just cute, is all.”

When her cheeks fill in pink, he smirks. She reaches up to pat his head now, too, and he lets her; even bows his head a little. “I think you’re cute.” With that, he flushes and looks away. “How excited you were about the beavers, it was nice…to you see you happy.”

He’s thinks he’s always happy when he’s around her. But knowing she found his interest in the subject endearing, that does other things to him. “Yeah, guess even your grumpy attitude couldn’t ruin it for me.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” she laughs, letting go of her legs so she can stretch them out again. “I shouldn’t yuck your yum.”

“Well, I forgive you, I guess,” he mutters, sliding a hand over his own cheek, as if to push the blush back. With a small headshake, he wipes his hand over his face and looks at her. “And what about you? Are you okay?”

“Much better.” He tilts his head down to see her hand slide over his, squeezing. “Sorry if it scared you.”

“Wasn’t scared,” he lies, flipping his hand so their palms connect, “just, you know…”

“Yeah,” she whispers, pressing her shoulder against his. When she nudges it against him, he finally looks at her properly since he woke up. How she can be so chipper after the night she had, is just another mystery for him to contemplate. She blinks up at him with big, gemstone eyes, the toothy smile on her face softening to a simper. His eyes rest there, on her lips, the way they tilt up and her body pushes in.

That resolve of his truly is weak. How pathetic.

And just as he’s justifying it in his head, that maybe it’s okay this time because they’re both in their right minds, and they had just kissed again last night, and he had held off since she’d been in distress, trying to make sure it was appropriate, and that maybe now – maybe now it is appropriate – just when he gets there, gets to that conclusion –

The phone rings.

“Oh,” she gasps quietly, her lips just barely brushing against his, breath spreading over them, making them twitch. “Missed my check in call with my parents.”

“They call?” he asks, frozen in place, wishing he could just push in, tell her to forget about it – even if that’s incredibly selfish.

“Yes, they call,” she teases with a laugh, pulling away now to look at the clock, and he joins her. “I’m pretty late.”

11:10 a.m.

Damian isn’t sure the last time he slept in so late.

Anya tugs her hand out of his to get up and he curls that hand into a fist, frustration and disappointment sitting heavy in his chest.

“Anya Forger!”

He listens to her answer the call, immediately launching into an excuse and apology.

Wonders how mad she’d be if he slid behind her and put that damn phone back on the ringer, swept her up into his arms and pulled her back into this sad sleeping receptacle.

No.

It’s a sign, his mom would say. Another signal from the universe that this isn’t right, and it might never be. So, he tugs at his slacks to smooth them before standing up and straightening out his button-up. Between sleeping up against her and her fists making a home on his chest with his shirt clumped in them, he’s a ruffled mess; more than usual. His hair is probably stuck up in every direction, the way she had her fingers threaded in there. It makes him shiver, the ghost of her touch. Decides it would probably be best if he quietly collects his things and slips out.

Before he can reach the door, he glances over his shoulder to see her rushing up to him in a little jog, grabbing him by the elbow to stop him.

“Hang on a sec, papa.” He looks at her curiously as she pulls the phone down to her chest, muffling the microphone in her shirt.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he mumbles, trying not to sound too bitter, but still letting her pull him back.

“Thank you,” she tells him with a sad smile, “I owe you twice over now.”

“Guess so.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. Without waiting another beat, she gets on her tip toes and presses those lips he’d been missing to his. It’s quick and nowhere near what he’s craving, but it still makes him step towards her and slide his hand around the side of her neck. Eyes slightly open, he pushes for just a little more before she has to step back, breaking the kiss with a quiet smacking noise. Watches her eyes pop open, her face flushing deep red with that shy smile pulling her lips up.

“Sorry about that,” she says into the receiver when she sets it back to her ear, still looking him in the eyes as she does, as if speaking to him. He gently swipes his thumb over her chin before dropping the hand to his side, his stomach rolling over now that it’s definitively time to leave.

Gives her a little wave that she peace-signs back at, and he makes his exit. Hears her behind her door, “Father, please don’t speculate on my love life.”

He shakes his head as he walks to the stairwell, feeling confused– but happy.

Fern can barely conjure the energy to turn her head to gaze upon him, much less mutter a quip about him seeing her like this. In a thin white tank, the bandages around his forearms are becoming unraveled, exposing partially the corded muscle underneath. He must be so hot in those black pants. She almost feels sorry for him as he lays there, looking dead.

“Fern,” he whines, muffled by the grass beneath, “please tell me you can make snow or something…”

“Don’t you think I would have by now if I could?” she sighs, looking back up at the leaves above her. “There’s not enough room for you here.”

“Fern,” he whines, again, finally rolling onto his back and covering his eyes with one of his arms. “Managed to hunt a rabbit…”

“That’s good.”

“Doesn’t that deserve at least a sliver of shade?” he asks when she says nothing more. She hums a dismissive sound and he turns on his side. She can feel his pleading gaze. Again, he calls her name, “Fern…”

“The rabbit should be dressed and cooked now, so it doesn’t rot in the sun.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, getting to his knees and inching toward her. “You’ve been laying here all day, give me a break!”

When she turns her head to fix her glare on him, he recoils.

“You’re all spread out, though,” he tries, pointing at her arms that are spread far and wide across the small expanse of shade. Her legs are, too. Her lack of response prompts a huff from him and he scrambles to his feet. “I know you’re gonna call me a perv,” he grumbles, kicking off his boots and peeling away his socks. She blinks, her gaze softening as he reaches for his belt. “But it’s just necessary, okay? So please…” His shirt comes off and his pants fall, revealing a pair of shorts underneath. “Just, don’t look, okay?”

Fern feels her face get hot as she whips her head the opposite way, staring directly at the dark wood of the tree trunk. Stark sighs behind her and she hears him fall onto the ground, probably laying down. After a moment, she dares to peer over, finding his face covered by his shirt to block the sun.

The shade has grown a few dozen centimeters. It’s far enough now that her entire wingspan doesn’t take it up completely. The sun crawls lower, albeit painfully slow, but in a mere hour, she estimates there will be enough space for both of them.

Or, perhaps, there is enough space now.

With a deep inhale, she rolls to her knees and scoots herself to the base of the tree before plopping down on her bottom. He senses her shift and pulls his shirt away just enough to peak at her. When their eyes meet, she tilts her head. Hesitantly, he pulls the shirt off his face and props himself up on his elbows, his eyes following her hand that pats the ground beside her. His eyes flit back up at hers, as if asking permission, and she nods, that hand beckoning him now.

When he flings his shirt to the side and scrambles over, she smiles a little. He hisses slightly when his back meets the trunk of the tree, and she cranes her head back to see a small cut where the wood protruded. He reaches behind him, the spot just out of reach and he groans, hanging his head forward.

“You need to be more careful,” she tells him softly, reaching behind him to swipe the spot of blood away. Feels him tense under her touch and she looks at him curiously. When she pulls the hand between their faces, he winces at the sight of red on her finger. He takes her hand in his and wipes it with part of the bandage that’s unraveled, muttering an apology. Her face heats up slightly as her hand lies limp in his, his movements careful to get it off in one clean pull.  

“There.” He turns her hand over in his before setting it back in her lap.

She inspects the hand, holding it in front of her face while he snaps the protruding part of the tree off to create a more smooth surface. Finally, he relaxes against it. Her hand drops and she casts her gaze at him. “Don’t you want a bandage?”

“Too hot,” he mumbles, pulling his arms up. “Honestly, I should take these off, too.”

“Let me.”

She’s not sure why she offers and she almost takes it back when his expression turns suspicious. Her cheeks puff irritably, eyebrows dragging together, and the suspicion on his face softens. “Oh…okay.”

So very cautiously, he extends his arm towards her, keeping too much distance, and she takes it. Slowly, she starts close to his elbow, taking the frayed end of the bandage in her fingers and cupping his wrist with her other hand. She lowers it so it will sit in her lap and starts tugging the material away, looping it in deliberate motions. She feels his eyes on her face and peaks up, blinking at him when their eyes meet. “Not good?”

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, good.”

She suddenly feels self-conscious under his regard. “Look over there, then, please.”

“Right.” He sighs and leans his head back, shutting his eyes.

When she finishes with that arm, she sets it next to her and carefully balls up the bandage. Then, she reaches across to pull the other across his chest and repeats. Once she has both undone and tucked neatly away, she realizes he’s fallen asleep. She hums, blinking slowly as she comes to the secondary realization that she hasn’t been able to look upon him like this, ever. Dressed down to near nothing, the only times she’s witnessed it were during times of necessity. Dressing a wound, emergency bathing after nasty situations, and of course, purely accidental glances. But now, it is just the sun keeping them in their state of undress, and Stark is asleep. Despite her misgivings, it is nice to feel so relaxed around someone.

It helps that Stark is easy on the eyes, too, she supposes.

Fern soaks it in before Frieren returns from her research.

Returning to the office to find yet another note felt like a continuation of his good luck that day. He had missed her once again, with a few hours remaining in the work day. The receptionist doesn’t even acknowledge him taking the folded note from her desk anymore.

“I can’t wait to see beavers,” she buzzes excitedly the next day. “We should get there early to check out the University!”

Damian stops himself from making some joke about her intelligence and education, because going early is exactly what he had planned to do to maximize his chance of avoiding Zoey.

“Whatever Ms. Forger wants,” he drones, watching her collect her things. She looks over her shoulder at him, her cheeky grin for him once more.

It really is quite nice the way her smile makes him feel, especially when it’s just for him.

“You should take the pictures,” she says as she turns to him, holding out a camera. “You’re better at framing than me.”

“Marcuse would probably have a fit,” he responds, taking it anyway, “if he found out we’re using the paper’s equipment.”

“It’s his fault for firing our only photographer,” she huffs, pulling her coat on. “It’s been a month and still, no one. Oh, you should apply for the job, actually.”

“Me?” he laughs, following her as they make for the front of the office. He glances at the receptionist, who gives him yet another wary look, one that he’s now associating with her specifically. He shrugs, looking back to Anya.

“That way we could be real partners!” He tilts his head in interest. “Marcuse gets mad because we could be working on two different stories, but if you were the photographer, I could steal you away whenever I want.”

Damian smirks, ducking his head a bit. “You already steal me away whenever you want.”

Anya laughs, bumping her elbow into his. “But then we won’t get lectured for it. Never thought about photography being your true calling?”

“Not at all,” he admits, shrugging as he pulls the camera bag over his shoulder.

Wouldn’t mind being your personal photographer.

He bats away the thought, glancing at her to make sure she hadn’t picked that up. Her lack of reaction relieves him. Sometimes, it’s fine to tease her, flirt with her that way, but only when he was in control of it. Having her see just how badly he has it for her would be humiliating and probably ruin everything.

Probably.

Once they arrive at the University, he decides he can use the camera for some personal use, too, capturing a few good photos of Anya posing with various statues and pieces of art.

“This is one of those schools that’s known for environmental stuff, right?”

Damian gives her a hard look and she puts up her hands in defense. “Did you do any research before we got here?”

She makes a pinching gesture with her index finger and thumb and he sighs.

“And this is why I’m a journalist, not the photographer.”

“You could do both.”

“Maybe if it was double the pay,” he snickers, nudging his head to move her along. “How did you manage this kind of work before you came to the Bayan Post?”

“I did a lot more work myself,” she says, candidly, “once I got here, you threw yourself at me to do my work for me.”

“Threw myself?” he asks, resentfully.

“Sure, the moment I walked through that door you were begging to work with me!”

“Marcuse put us together,” he snaps, glaring down at her. He stops walking as he realizes- “My workload has increased since you started.”

When she doesn’t stop walking with him, he huffs and jogs to catch back up. She looks up at him, mischievous smile and all. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Hard to argue.

“Now take a photo of me with this weird plant.”

Damian looks around, realizing they’ve made it to the conservatory, then at Anya, who is crouching next to a disturbing pair of fingers that seem to be pushing up from the ground, her making a peace sign next to them. He looks at the label in front of it.

Xylaria polymorpha Dead Man’s Fingers

He grimaces, but still takes the photo.

-----

The entire ordeal feels more like being in class than an interview, but surprisingly, Damian actually enjoys learning about beavers.

Unsurprisingly, Anya is the one who is bored. Expecting to pick up a beaver and take a picture with it, she is sorely disappointed when the professor tells her that is firmly against code of conduct. Even when Anya tries to tell her that it will be a good photo opportunity for the story, the professor again shoots her down. Still, Damian manages to snap some photos of the beavers they get to see towards the end of the hike.

“Through the floodplain, you’ll find sticks like these.”

Anya takes the stick the professor offers, looking at it with mild curiosity.

“See how they’re broken? Not from a saw or something snapping it in two, but by beaver maw.” Damian looks closer as she speaks. “Teeth marks.”

Damian furrows his eyebrows in thought before turning to glance around, spotting a stick he had noted earlier as being particularly mangled. He grabs it excitedly and showcases it to the professor. “Like this?”

“Exactly,” she says with surprised delight, and Anya gives him a look. “The more you see, the closer you’re getting to them. Now if we walk through this floodplain, it’s not active or wetted, so we can see the vegetation quality…”

At least one of them is interested, he figures. This was Anya’s idea, after all. At one point, she tries to tell them they’re switching jobs and she’ll take the photos while he makes notes, which he’s fine with.

“Maybe photography isn’t your calling,” she mumbles at him after the professor drops them back off at the University. “Maybe you should go study beaver dams or something.”

“What’s with the pout?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her. “You proposed the story.”

“There was no story,” she sighs, swinging her arms as they walk, “just that professor giving you a personal lecture.”

“What do you mean by that?” he inquires, startled by what she might be insinuating.

“You, acting like a little puppy dog,” she says with a mocking undertone. “Following that lady around –“

“Because it was a guided tour,” he interrupts, looking at her like she’s an alien

“Didn’t even back me up about the beaver thing,” she grumbles, “just wanted to hear about twigs and mud.”

“You didn’t think the tree stump was interesting?”

“What tree stump?”

“You’re bad at this.”

“It was boring!”

“What about ‘getting the story’? What about everyone deserve a voice? What about –“

“Okay, okay!” She huffs angrily, folding her arms. “You liked it so much, you do the story.”

“I will,” he snaps unintentionally, turning his face up and away from her. “I’ll do your story for you.”

“Not if you’re gonna lord it over me,” she responds sharply, not looking at him now, either.

They walk in silence for several minutes through the University halls and Damian starts to feel nausea hit his gut.

Are they arguing? He’s actually not sure. He feels annoyed with her and can tell she’s annoyed with him. But is this an actual fight? It’s been years since they’ve had an earnest fight, long before they even graduated Eden. Even when she broke his heart by taking off across the country, they hadn’t fought about it. It makes his insides feel tangled, unsure of himself. A feeling he hates; being unsure. When he dares to peer at her, she’s got her arms folded and her shoulders to her ears, more pouty than she usually gets when he’s ticked her off. Except, he doesn’t know why this is ticking her off so much more than his usual ribbing.

By the time they reach the entrance of the subway, she stops, so he does, too. He looks at her curiously as she tips her face up to the sky.

“I’m gonna go home for the day,” she sighs, dropping her head. He scrunches his eyebrows together when she turns on her heel, still not looking at him.

“Why?”

“I’m just tired.” She’s lying. He can’t read minds but he can read her. “Still jet-lagged, maybe.”

He wants to roll his eyes and call her out, but he doesn’t. Something tells him he needs to let this one go, and that forcing confrontation will go poorly. She spares him a quick glance, then does a double take, her eyes softening.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” he offers back, his mouth feeling dry. She reaches out to give him a one-armed hug, which he returns the same way. If she’s not going all in, he won’t either. His pride won’t let him.

It would figure that when he gets to the office, this is the one day Zoey hasn’t been here. Even more annoying, she doesn’t stop by at all even after he returns. For the first time this week, Damian didn’t have to indulge in Anya’s wild goose chases just to ensure zero contact with his ex, and it’s the day he enjoys himself and somehow gets on her bad side.

It’s a place he doesn’t want to be.

-----

“How’s the beaver story going?” she asks flippantly, dropping a binder on his desk after she gets settled in for the day. Today, he doesn’t have anywhere for them to be during working hours, so he just prays Zoey won’t show up. It’s all he can do now. He pushes her binder aside, refocusing on his computer. “I’m not mad, by the way.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, glancing up to catch the pout pulling her mouth to the side. “I’ll probably finish it today.”

“Are you still going to the city council meeting with me tonight?” she asks, batting her eyelashes now, making his stomach roll. He nods, looking back at his screen. “Okay.”

Without any fanfare, she swipes her binder back up and treks to her desk.

At least Marcuse will be happy.

All he can do now is keep an eye out the window, his quick escape already planned if needed. He apologizes to Anya in his head should it come to pass, because he’s sure he’ll be leaving her to deal with it.

But, the day progresses fairly normally. Closer to the type of day he’d have before Anya started working there. It makes him feel a little empty, missing the routine of her sitting on top of his desk, or offering to get her a snack during their lunch break. So, when 5:30 p.m. hits, he sighs at his computer as he shuts it down and glances behind to see Anya already packing away her things.

Another day of avoiding his ex, but he wonders at what cost.

Communication is so important to his job, it’s a wonder he’s so bad at it in his personal life.

“Ready?” he asks her when she stops at his desk, looking expectantly at him. She nods and he gets up to join her. Attempting at normalcy, he tries for small talk. “The council meeting is about the museum, right?”

“Partly. They’re trying to cut funding,” she grumbles irritably. “It’s the one we went to in 5th year, remember?”

Damian looks up in thought before blinking, suddenly recalling the memory. To be fair, it wasn’t the most memorable museum trip they’d ever taken. After the bus hijacking, school officials apparently decided going to the Berlint Museum might stir up some traumatizing memories for their classes. They’d spent the night at a local inn because the drive was over four hours long. Now he remembers it rather well, the museum had recently acquired a piece of moon rock from the latest expedition the Ostanian government had completed in space. Remembers that pang of jealousy as Ewen and Anya excitedly yelled in each others faces, ready to spend the entire day together being insufferable. Even worse when Anya had grabbed Ewen by the hand that day and didn’t let go.

“This never gets old.” Becky had teased him as she often did, that smug look on her face, as if this was more entertaining than her stupid soaps, the ones he only knew about because of Anya. Told her to mind her business and keep her fat mouth shut while Emile scolded him under his breath for his entirely not-clever insult.

“We should go together,” he offers without thinking much about it. He spots her surprised expression and rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “If you want. It was a nice museum.”

“If they don’t shut it down,” she sighs, the surprise falling from her face, replaced with a bitter look. Anya being so grumpy makes his guts squirm. “As if we need three more golf courses instead of a good museum.”

He snickers, a smile ticking up the corner of his mouth. She laughs, lightly, too. “Golf sucks.”

“Oh my god, right?” she agrees eagerly, turning to him, her expression more pleased than he’s seen it since yesterday. “So boring! You can’t even cheer or they get mad and tell you to shush. Not that there’s anything to cheer for, I was just trying to be a good girlfriend.”

Damians stomach drops rapidly – girlfriend. “Can’t see you dating a golfer.”

“Barely,” she says with a shrug, “for like, a month. Played golf at University – you think you’re boring? At least you don’t play golf.”

He really needs to stop acting so surprised that she had a life between graduating Eden and working at the Bayan Post. Of course she had relationships, and of course she has old exes she can talk about freely. So does he, he supposes, but once more, he’s overwrought about it and thinks those things are best left in the past. At least, he wishes they would stay in the past.

“Football is way more interesting,” she says while giving him a cheeky grin. Along with the blush that spreads on his neck, relief washes over him. He’d much rather hear her talk about him and his hobbies, rather than some old ex. “You could have become a pro, I bet.”

“I wasn’t that good,” he laughs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “compared to Bill or whoever.”

“Bill was too burly.” She clasps her hands together, swinging her feet as she walks. “So, you wanna go to the museum with me?” she asks suddenly, tipping her head up at him. He swallows as he nods, her beaming smile infectious. He’d much rather see her happy. “Let’s go next weekend.”

“If I haven’t pissed you off by then,” he says offhandedly, and her expression turns to a glare. He waves a hand. “I’ll try not to, at least.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Sounds about right.

The journey to city hall is fairly quick, only a few short blocks from the papers office. When they arrive, the meeting is just about to begin, and he hangs back to get her a donut from the refreshments. Finds her at the outer edge of the folded open chairs and slots in next to her, handing the pastry off. She gasps quietly and takes it gladly, bumping her knee into his as she whispers a soft thanks.

While they’re there, Damian does his best to focus on what’s being said and not think about the crumb on the corner of Anya’s lip. Knows she’ll probably be trying to read minds and doesn’t want to get caught in the crossfire. He’s got no idea how her ability works and thinks he’s better off not knowing sometimes.

It’s there and then it’s not. The way she peers up at him and then brushes her fingers over her mouth. He smirks, eyes landing on the spot she missed, and he decides, who cares. Reaches up to swipe the crumb that stubbornly clings to her lip. She looks up at him, blinking in surprise while he shifts his eyes to the front of the room. Hears her hum quietly and he feels some satisfaction in catching her off guard once in a while.

“That guy doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying,” Anya whispers as she leans into him, her lips close to his ear. His eyes follow where her finger is pointed, at the council member currently speaking. “He’s in the pocket of corporate sponsors.”

The man speaks of dwindling tourism and the need to save money in the budget where they can, insisting that the museum is no longer a viable source of income for the city. Anya scoffs audibly and Damian snickers.

“Bullshit,” she snaps quietly and he ‘tsk’s her, nudging his elbow into her arm. “He’s even thinking about how sad the local schools will be about the museum closing. God, he sucks.”

Damian puts his fist to his mouth to stifle his laughter, still poking her in the side.

Anya clears her throat before shooting up a hand into the air. “Jochen, do you remember that donation your campaign received from that country club last year?” Damian has to hold back his guffaw as she stands up. “What was it, the one that’s been trying to buy up that property for the past few years? Laurel Hill?”

“Forger,” one of them snaps and Damian blinks, looking between her and the councilmember. “We can have you forcibly removed.”

“Quit it,” he whispers urgently to her, tugging her by the sleeve to sit back down, trying to not let laughter lace his tone too much. Wonders how often she comes to these things to be a pain in the ass. “You wanna get us kicked out?”

“Pff,” she flaps her lips, folding her arms as they remind the audience that there will be a time for questions and comments at the end. The way she tucks her chin into her chest and glowers is cute, he thinks. “Don’t think so loud, it’s distracting me.”

Before Damian can defend himself, someone on the other side of the room points out that every time they’d cut funding for the museum, where the money goes isn’t made public. Anya snaps her fingers, looking up excitedly, and then suddenly, the audience breaks into seemingly random shouting and chatter.

Anya causing chaos wherever she goes. Damian finds it oddly comforting.

“Now you’ve done it,” he comments, glancing around as some people stand up, tension starting to spike. Against his shoulder, he feels her press, and he looks down, ready to tease her, but instead finds her eyes fluttering shut. “A-Anya?”

Quickly, he turns so he’s able to catch her before she slumps forward. Memories come rushing back from the few occasions this happened at Eden. Usually when they were in the middle of a crowd and some sort of pandemonium broke out. He slides an arm under hers around her torso so her elbow curls around his neck and he pulls her into his chest. “Hey, Anya.”

“Dizzy,” she mutters and he can’t tell if she’s conscious or on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Okay, that’s enough fun,” he whispers, hoisting her up with his other arm. Briefly considers going full princess carry with her, but decidedly doesn’t want to bring too much attention to themselves. Instead, he shuffles out with her clinging to his neck and chest, until he can get them safely out into the cool breeze of night, the streets considerably quieter.

With an exasperated sigh, he manages to sit her against the wall and sinks down next to her, keeping an eye out for a taxi while rubbing her back. She mutters a quiet apology, one he’s unsure whether is from her lucid self.

“Turn your brain off, Forger,” he mumbles as if it’s easy, hoping that it is, and pulls her head into the crook of his neck.

After a few moments, he sees a cab with the light on, and he leans as far away from her ear as possible so he can whistle through his fingers. Gently, he eases her up against the wall so he can jump up and flag it down. It pulls over, and he looks at her warily, knowing full well how precarious this all looks. He crouches down in front of her and takes her hands in his, squeezing. Slowly, her eyes flutter open, just barely and she smiles sleepily at him.

“C’mon, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m kidnapping you,” he says, gently, tugging at her hands.

“But you are,” she whines, letting him pull her up by the elbows. He gives her a worried smile as she stumbles up, grabbing his arm for balance.

With effort, he manages to get them into the back of the vehicle, and the driver doesn’t even question it, just hears the address and takes off. Damian chooses not to think about how that should be worrying. Instead, he sighs a small breath of relief, turning his gaze to Anya, who is leaning with her head back on the head rest, one hand covering her eyes and the other clutching the edge of the seat. Without giving himself time to second guess it, he reaches over and slides his hand under hers, knitting their fingers together.

Her lips uptick into a strained smile and his stomach flips uncomfortably, the way she looks to be in pain. Wonders if it’s like a migraine, or maybe worse.

“Overdid it,” she rasps out, the hand covering her eyes dropping to her side now. He squeezes her hand.

They sit in silence for the duration of the trip; he assumes it’s the best course of action. When they arrive, he pays and circles around the cab to help her out. No argument from her this time.

“Here,” she exhales, handing him her keys as he holds her up by the waist, her body draping around his awkwardly.

He doesn’t remember these spells affecting her this badly when they were younger. He wonders what’s different besides being older. Maybe more people? More complex thoughts, a better understanding that overwhelms her? Maybe– maybe it’s not good for her, and the more she does it –

Stop.

He shakes his head, blinking rapidly, knocking those thoughts away for now. Focuses on opening the building door in that janky way her neighbor had taught him, then decides to just hoist her onto his back for the trip up the stairs. He sure is glad he hasn’t let himself go all these years, because giving someone a piggyback ride up several flights of stairs is decidedly not a very easy task, even as light as Anya is.

He gets her door open and enters her apartment. She whispers, “Leave it,” as she gently squeezes around his neck before his hand can reach for the radio. Without another word, he just nods, carrying her the last bit of the way to let her down on her sad little futon.

Cursing himself as he looks at the damn thing, he wishes he had just brought her back to his place. This tiny, lumpy mass of blankets and metal isn’t a good place for her to sleep in general, but especially not after all of that.

“Hey, Damian.”

Broken from his spiraling thoughts, he looks over at her with his hand over his mouth, smoothing over the stubble on his chin. She’s looking at her lap, her hands wrung together. He waits.

“Think you could stay?” she asks and he sees her nails digging into her palm. “I get nightmares after sometimes and it’s – I just, I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course.” It’s not even a question she needs to ask. If he’s honest, he’s not sure he could force himself to leave even if she insisted she was fine. He’s worried.

“Okay,” she sighs, sounding genuinely relieved as she kicks off her shoes and pulls her full body onto the futon. “You could…”

“Just get some rest,” he interrupts her, swallowing thickly. Knows what she’s going to offer but can’t even bear to hear it, because he might take her up on it. He pulls her blanket from the edge of the thing over her, then starts circling the place, flicking off all of her lights that she seems to leave on when she’s out. When he reaches the last one, he glances at Anya to see her curling up into a ball, the blanket covering her eyes now. Stomach rolling and chest feeling tight, he pulls the last switch down and darkness fills his vision.

-----

Like any other night he’s either unable to (or just doesn’t) take his sleep medication, he sits awake.

That’s okay with him, because he’s used to it, and he’d rather be lucid in case something happens.

Whether he’s over-reacting or not, he doesn’t give himself time to dwell on. Just stares at the ceiling and replays the last few weeks in his head. Weeks, to months. Soon it will be a year since Anya Forger fell into his life again, turning it upside down. Again.

In a way, he’s thankful for it. Being around her doesn’t give him much time to wallow in his own self-pity. The last near-year was more enjoyable than the rest of the last half-decade. Actually looking forward to waking up, going to work, seeing what she has in store for him and whoever else gets caught in her web of chaos and adventure. It’s never boring, and he realizes just how dull his life had been in the period she’d been gone from it.

If only there was some good part of him that genuinely believed he deserved her. Spending so much of his young life telling himself that she was below him, he’d forced himself to believe it for a time. That she was just like everyone else, always trying to figure out what they can get out of him, what having his name in their back pocket could do for them. Somehow, he managed to believe something so absurd about her, and now his grown-up self won’t let him think for a second that he’s the one that’s good enough for her after all of that mistreatment. Somewhere down the line, he’d fallen in love with her, never to climb out of that hole. Further down that line, he’d convinced himself he couldn’t have her, because if he really loved her, he’d see how bad for her he’d be. Disappoint her like his father did everyone in his family, hold her back with all his baggage, make her realize that without all that Desmond clout, he’s really just a loser.

That’s what he thinks, at least. Of course, he would love to be proven wrong. But he has no doubt that it would take a quite a bit to fool himself into thinking he’d even be a quarter worthy of Anya.

At some point, her little whines draw him from his thoughts, and he decides to scoot over until his back is against the futon, reaching up to lace his fingers with hers. He hears a relaxed sigh escape her, squeezing his hand with hers. He smiles a little for it, happy his touch is comforting enough. Every time he hears her make a noise, he rubs his thumb into the webbing between her index and her thumb. After maybe an hour of that repetition, she startles him when she suddenly gasps for air.

“Oh.”

He looks over his shoulder to find her sitting up on her elbows, and there’s just enough moonlight to make the tears on her cheeks shine, forcing his insides to twist up. Her eyes are locked on their intertwined hands, and he wonders if he should apologize. Then, she sets her eyes on his, her eyebrows furrowed worriedly and her lower lip pouting out. Her hand gently tugs his toward herself, pressing the back of his hand against her sternum.  “Damian…please.”

Without much thought, he takes her at face value for once and rolls to his knees, gently pulling his hand from hers and slowly climbing onto the futon as she reaches for his chest, gathering his shirt in her fists. He knows he shouldn’t, but he does it anyway, curling his arms around her waist and neck, pulling her head under his chin. Feels her lips against his neck, not kissing, just there, soft breath spreading over his skin.

Anya crying has always put Damian at his most vulnerable, unable to say no to anything she’d ask or to even think clearly. The only thing that presses against the insides of his mind is the urgent need to fix whatever it is that’s making her cry. So, when she beckons him with teary eyes, he really has no choice in the matter. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she nuzzles in, “I just…”

He pulls back slightly to see her eyes closed, her head tilting so her lips brush over the point of his jaw. A surprised intake of breath from him makes her eyes pop open and look at him nervously. He shakes his head shortly. “Don't be sorry,” he tells her, ducking his head so that they’re facing each other properly. “Not for this.”

His resolve almost completely dissolves away when she presses in, lips against his. Her body conforms to his and he gives in, molding his mouth to hers as he slides a hand over the dip of her waist. Her foot drags up his calf and hooks around the back of his knee, drawing him closer. It’s only when she breaks away for air that he can properly assess just what the hell he’s doing.

Exactly what he’d like to be doing, if he’s honest. But not what he should be doing.

“Anya,” he whispers, pulling his arm down around her neck so he can slide his hand over her cheek, pulling away slightly when she pushes in for another kiss. “Hold on.”

Her eyes flutter open, concerned still and her lower lip tucked between her teeth. He smiles sadly at her, knowing he’s about to disappoint her again. She blinks, returning the smile with just as much regret as his. She tells him, “It’s okay.”

Damian holds back the urge to apologize. Knows it’s not what Anya wants to hear. Knows she’s already forgiven him, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve her. He runs his thumb over her lips, watches her eyes fluttering shut once more as she presses her cheek into the palm of his hand.

And no matter how he tries to deny it, being like this gives him such deep comfort, he feels selfish. Selfish because he’s supposed to be comforting her, easing her worries, making her feel safe and happy. But as she cuddles in closer and he breathes her in, he knows he’s the one getting far more comfort out of it between the two of them.

-----

Xylaria polymorpha - Dead Man's Fingers

It isn't as scary as it sounds lol I am an environmentalist by trade and have lots of random biological and ecological facts swirling around my head at all times so I drop them in when I can. Beavers are cool as hell, shoutout to my Environmental Stats professor!

Shortly before lunch, Anya slams a binder down on his desk and he looks up, completely startled. She pouts down at him, arms crossed and a hard glare. It’s much harsher than should be on her pretty face.

“Look through this,” she says, her voice sounding strainingly polite, and he looks curiously. “Find whatever evidence you can that this restaurant had health code violations.”

It’s interesting how she thinks she can boss him around.

“That doesn’t sound like it’s my job,” he says but still picks it up to open, “sounds like it’s the governments job.”

“I agree,” she responds, leaning her hip on the edge of his desk. “As far as I can tell, they’re good, but it seems like someone trying to get them shut down with rumors.”

“Huh,” he remarks, flipping through it. “Who cares?”

“I do!” she exclaims and he recoils. “You should! It’s not right.”

“It’s not our –“

“This is literally our job,” she cuts him off and he gives her a hard look, unsure of whether she’d been reading his mind. She rolls her eyes, puffs her cheeks. “No, I’m not.” He looks away, irritated, because even when she’s not, it seems like she is. It’s a very confusing position he’s in. “I just know you’re blowing this off because you think it’s below you.”

“Why are-“ he sputters, dropping the binder and pushing his chair back, “what’s with your attitude?”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she snaps and he gives her a befuddled look. Her glare is still so harsh. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“I haven’t,” he retorts, his stomach sinking. He hates that she reads him so well even without that damn ability. “Can you please keep your voice down?”

She scoffs, turning away. Finally, he gets up and grabs her elbow, pulling her with him. Her protest is almost nothing, she just follows him out. It should be weirder than it is for him to be tugging her into the back alley, but she says nothing of it, just stands there against the brick wall with a pout. He sighs, looking at her with mild confusion.

“Talk to me like we’re adults, please,” he asks, earnestly, his eyebrows to his hairline as he looks at her. The angry look she gives him makes him want to die.

“YOU talk to me!” she demands, and he recoils. “You talk to me, what is wrong?!”

“N-Nothing.”

He curses himself, knows that came out too fast and not very believably. The look on her face tells him as much. “Then what? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says, honestly, stepping forward. His irritation must have been way more evident than he realized for her to have such a strong reaction. “There’s nothing wrong with you – this, it-it has nothing to do with you.”

A lie. But he still tells it. “Don’t treat me like some annoying stranger, then.”

“I…” He swallows, looking skyward for a moment before training his eyes back on her. “I’m sorry.”

Her look softens, her entire body seems to relax and he feels relieved for a moment, but his guard is still up. “Okay. I forgive you.”

He smiles a little because her angered expression softens to a point it looks like she’s actively trying to look pissed. It’s funny and not his fault. She huffs. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he tells her, “Some stuff happened while you were gone. I got put on a story I don’t really want to do.”

“Oh?” she perks up, looking curious now. He rolls his eyes, cursing himself again.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” He’s not telling her anything that isn’t true. “The lead hasn’t been back since.”

“So what’s got you hot and bothered then?”

Damian sucks in a breath. It really isn’t fair of him to keep being dishonest, no matter how much he tries to deny it in his own mind. So maybe he should just be a bigger man than he thinks he is. “It was from someone I didn’t want to see.”

Anya gets quiet, looking up at him. He peers at her and grits his teeth, wishing now of all times she would say something funny or dumb or distracting or –

“You don’t have to say anything else.”

Relief knocks him in the chest and he exhales a breath he’d been locking in there. Looks at her suspiciously, but she’s twisting her foot into the ground, clearly uncomfortable. Like she’s actually taking his distress seriously for once, even looks guilty. It makes him feel guilty, which he isn’t quite sure how to deal with, just knows he doesn’t want her acting like this anymore. “I mean…I’m fine.”

She peaks up at him from beneath her lashes and he inhales sharply. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, shoving his hands into his pockets as she brings her hands to her front to clasp. “Don’t worry about it. I just want things to be normal with us.”

“I can try for normal,” she says, reaching out a hand to set on his arm. He looks down at it then back up at her, a strained smile on her face. “I’m needy, though.”

“Clearly,” he teases, and her laugh pulls at his heart. Doesn’t like that it’s making him consider how needy he is. That she so readily admits it means she’s nowhere near his level. He wants her attention all of the time, but pride won’t let him ask for it. She does so with no qualms whatsoever. “I’ll make sure to look at you more.”

“I’d like that.”

That’s dangerous of her to say. He tries his best to look past it.

“Let’s go.”

Just an hour later, he beckons her to get up with him for lunch. She did want to check out the restaurant threatening to close. The delight on her face makes him feel softer. “I know it’s going to be interesting!”

He gives her a suspicious look but still nudges his head. “If you say so.”

They gather their things and take off. He guides them there somewhat, flags a cab eventually because he’d like to not spend his whole day on foot. She calls him lazy and he shrugs because he knows she likes to be driven around since she’s on foot and public transportation most of the time. She’ll posture about her independence and honor in suffering, but they aren’t so different. When they get to the restaurant, she’s in action.

“Is the owner here?”

Damian stands a few meters away, looking around curiously as Anya deals with the social aspect.

“Look at that!” She waves her hand toward a statue of a walrus with its mouth open, water spraying from it. He blinks, casting a disapproving look at her. She scowls back at him unhappily. “Don’t be so uptight.”

Dismissively, he shrugs and within the minute, a man comes out to greet Anya. That man takes her hand that she had been holding out to shake his with and puts it to his lips. Damian feels a weird sound get caught in the back of his throat and looks at them with a scowl. Neither notice him, his anger unmet, and he quickly reschools his expression to one of indifference. Even if he decidedly does not like that.

The man gestures at Anya to sit at a table with him and Damian blinks at how rude he’s being. It’s common courtesy to introduce yourself to all members of the party, isn’t it? The man looks over his shoulder and tells Damian the seater will be with him shortly. Damian makes sure he looks offended and confused at Anya who is covering her mouth, likely hiding a giggle at his discomfort.

“That’s actually my partner,” she says while motioning him over. Damian glowers at the man as he slides into the seat next to her. Anya introduces them and Damian doesn’t even register the man’s name, just feels strange sitting within such a tacky place in such a tacky seat with such a tacky man. It’s a type of restaurant that blew up in popularity over the last few years, themed with tropical island décor that looks just terrible, if Damian is honest. Gaudy and garish, yet somehow Anya looks like she fits in just as well. He tries not to think too hard on what that means for him and what he’s into

Damian ignores the free bread set in front of them and spends the next 10- or 15-minutes thinking about this man’s head exploding as he reaches out to touch Anya’s hand for the third time.

When Anya compliments the restaurant’s furnishings, Damian wheezes slightly, rolling his eyes. She jams her elbow into his side while still focusing on the man in front of them, who excitedly explains, “People don’t realize the sort of rivalries that are had between restaurants, y’know.”

“I did not know.” Anya takes notes as they talk and Damian does nothing helpful, just sits like a pouty child. Eventually, their conversation starts to die down, and he only perks up when he hears the man ask Anya if Damian is her partner in just reporting.

“Kind of an inappropriate question,” Damian inserts himself, ignoring the look Anya gives him. He gets up, nudging his head to encourage Anya to follow.

“Yes, Desmond is my reporting partner,” she says, looking up at him pointedly as she does. Swiveling his head around to hide his displeasure, he just shrugs his shoulders again. Lets them say their farewells as he begins trekking away. Finally, she catches up to him, laughing. “He said you were rude.”

“He was rude first,” he says, childishly, looking down at her hands, which are folding a cocktail napkin. “What’s that?”

“It’s his phone number,” she responds nonchalantly, pocketing it. Looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “So we can keep in contact about the story. Jeeze, give me some credit.”

He feels his eye twitch, bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything dumb. Like, why would you want some guy’s number. As if that’s any of his business. Pushes away the idea of slipping the napkin out of her pocket, dropping it into a trash can or puddle. Something stupid and petty.

God, he must be projecting, he realizes.

His lack of response prompts her to start summarizing the visit, thinking out loud about the validity of the restaurant’s claims of sabotage. He’s half listening, half getting into his own head. Even if she’d promised and done a rather good job of keeping that promise, he still found himself guarding his thoughts unintentionally at times. Now was one of those times because if she happened to take a peek, he’s sure whatever she’d see would make him want to be swallowed alive.

Thoughts about Zoey, that restaurant owner with Anya, the way their hands touched, Zoey grabbing his arm, Anya smiling at the man, Zoey handing him receipts, Anya folding up the phone-number napkin –

“Where are you going?”

Damian freezes, looking up and darting his eyes back and forth.

“Subway’s this way,” she beckons him and he turns on his heel to face her again. She sighs as he blinks himself out of his daze. “Lost in that head of yours again. You used to call me an airhead.”

“I still do,” he comments loftily, looking up and away as they approach to pay their fairs. “I still recall you saying you’d be one thousand centimeters taller than me when we grew up.”

Anya laughs in surprise, nudging her elbow into his. He smiles. “I didn’t know math, okay?”

“You still don’t.” He chuckles when she gasps loudly.

“You’re going to make me fall into old habits, Sy-on boy,” she teases and he swallows, taking a seat. She sidles up right next to him and makes his arm and leg feel hot with her proximity. It would be natural to just slide his arm around her shoulders, he thinks. Then bitterly – if things were like that. He opts to drape it across the back of the seat – which is also normal.

Very normal, he praises himself.

How absurd it is that just a couple of months ago, he had her pressed against his front door, and yet the feel of her shoulder against his chest still makes him forget how to breathe.

When they arrive back at the office, the receptionist waves him down. Anya looks at him curiously but still proceeds to her own desk, to his relief, as he approaches said receptionist. She relays that Zoey had been here and left a message.

He picks it up and reads the receptionist’s nice handwriting, simply:

‘Dami, Be here next time I get here! – Ms. Zapf’

He stares at it for a few more moments before looking up at the receptionist with a frown. “You know you didn’t have to write this down, right? You could have just told me.”

“She insisted on a written message…” she responds sheepishly and he sighs, nodding.

He jumps when he turns and sees Anya spying over his shoulder. He instinctively crumples the note in his hand, then curses himself because if that’s not suspicious, he doesn’t know what is. “Dami?” she asks rhetorically, and his tongue becomes tied inside his mouth. “Hmm…Zapf, huh? I feel like I’ve heard that name before…”

She doesn’t wait for him to try to conjure some excuse or reason to have this note – she just walks away while tapping her chin in thought, repeating that name out loud. And he just stands there, replaying the immediate events in his head and cursing himself even more. She knows he’s researching a story without her, that it happened while she was gone. There’s absolutely nothing for him to be acting so suspiciously about. Yet, here he is, as if he’s hiding some love note from an affair – an affair he’s not having because he despises Zoey and he’s not even in a relationship for him to be adulterating in the first place!

With an exhausted sigh, he falls back into his chair at his own desk and drops the balled up note in his top drawer before slamming it shut.

-----

If Damian isn’t in the office, Zoey can’t really get in contact with him, he realizes. Now, he can’t exactly take the next few weeks off work until she gets bored and gives up, but he can be doing his in-the-field work instead. Being in the office is only part of the job, after all, as their boss likes to say at all-hands meetings.

And Anya had so many places she’d been itching to go to.

“There’s a bingo fundraiser at the senior center!”

Wherein the residents raise money to take a trip to the aquarium – Anya had said the old people there were cute.

Neighborhoods where the water supply had been shut off after a gas contamination leak. One of those neighborhoods just so happen to include her apartment complex.

Interviewing some high-profile professor from the biggest University in the Bayan region about their research with the local beaver populations. He can already envision Anya trying to pick one up.

The local city council meeting where they would discuss funding for the resident museum that she had taken particular notice of.

How silly of him not to notice earlier that a majority of the places and stories she was pursuing were all catered to her specific interests. Whether she was doing that intentionally, he’s not sure, but he’s not in any exact hurry to point out to her. The things she investigated were considerably more interesting than the garbage he had been tasked with, and he will take going to an old folk’s home over seeing his exes face again. And with Anya, he’ll accept that deal gladly.

Besides, he enjoyed watching her work. If he could just sit back and admire her all day, he’s not ashamed to admit that would be quite nice.

Tuesday, the old folks home. Anya is sure to get all of the details between Linda and Carl, who have a long-standing rivalry and are constantly accusing each other of being filthy swindlers. Somehow, Damian gets roped into helping set up the tables, then sent to get tea cakes and cookies, and he quickly realizes he’s becoming the errand boy for the day while the rest of the elderly indulge in Anya. She is cuter, he’ll concede. Doesn’t stop him from grumbling as he treks to the closest bakery.

And luck would always have a laugh at him, because when he exits the bakery, he notices just how dark the clouds had gotten in the short few minutes he had been inside. Usually, he’s good about checking the weather in the morning – his friends had called him an old man the way he’d immediately flick the TV to the news while getting ready for the day. Today, however, the power had been out at his place and he hadn’t thought much of it. By the time he reaches the retirement home, the tell-tale drizzle has already begun descending upon him. He hurries in to protect the dumb desserts.

After a grateful worker helps set out the confections, Damian settles in and scans the room lazily, trying not to focus on the smell of peppermint and disinfectants, the crackly sound of the radio playing music that predates him by at least 30 years. Linda and Carl resemble an old version of Damian and Anya from when they were kids, childishly partaking in games and trying to beat each other by any means necessary. He read somewhere that after a certain age, people start to regress emotionally. That’s probably what it is. Then his eyes land on another set of elderly people who are sitting quite close. He focuses his attention a little better on them, listening in as the man reaches to point at the bingo card of the woman next to him.

“You’ll lose your head, love,” the old man mumbles affectionately, directing her to dab the number/letter combination just called.

The woman bats away his hand and makes a mess of a mark on the corner of his bingo card with her dauber. “Don’t patronize me, honey.”

Damian feels something heavy in his chest as he watches the playful banter between the old couple. The way she pokes his side, and he moves to kiss her temple. How natural their interactions are, oblivious to everyone else around them, just existing in their own little world they seem to have built together. It makes him feel nostalgic for something he’s never really had, he thinks. He blinks when the next number/letter is called, trailing his eyes to Anya, who has taken it upon herself to raid the tea cakes before the rest can get ahold of them. Feels that heaviness in his chest travel lower, into his gut, when she glances toward him, double-taking before beaming at him.

He lets a smile pull his lips together, decides he’ll enjoy the affection she gives him, even if it’s from across the room.

When she returns to collecting cakes, he looks back at the elderly couple, who are bantering in a familiar way. Within moments, Anya strides across the room to settle next to Damian, and her eyes set on that same pair. He shifts his eyes, attempting not to make it too obvious he had been staring at them. He’s gotten to the point he can get away with staring at Anya for too long, she doesn’t even acknowledge it anymore, but a random set of elderly people feels a little too strange.

“I told you they were cute,” she whispers to him, nudging her elbow into his as she holds out one of the cakes – a coffee cake, he can smell. It’s a very nice scent that helps mask the formaldehyde.

Maybe they were cute.

“Not as cute as you,” he says, absently, taking the cake from her hand. His sense of shame has become skewed, because he just snickers when she gawks up at him.

Still feels relieved when all she does is hum in response, taking a bite out of the snack cake.

And when they gear up to leave with the rain starting to come down, he does that cheesy romantic thing where he tries to cover both of them up with his jacket. She even wraps both of her arms around his torso while he holds his jacket up as a shield, giggling maniacally as they rush for the subway. When they get under some shelter, she says, “I knew it was going to rain.”

He gives her an incredulous look as he shakes the excess water from his jacket. “And you didn’t think it prudent to bring an umbrella?”

“I thought you’d have an umbrella!” she exclaims, looking at him as if he’s the one in the wrong. He huffs, rolling his eyes. “Then you’d be like –“ She lowers her voice to mock him, clasping her hands together. “Ohhh, Anya, I can’t let you get soaked by the rain, I have to walk you home with my 400 dalc designer umbrella that is also x-ray- and bullet-proof.”

Damian scowls. “Is this your convoluted way of asking me to take you home?”

He clears his throat, blinking.

“Let me rephrase that.”

Anya giggles, covering her mouth. “I get lonely walking home sometimes.”

“Like my company that much?” he asks rhetorically. She shrugs. “I am a very boring person.”

“You have a calming presence,” she tells him and he feels his cheeks burn as he averts his eyes.

“Did you get what you needed out of that whole thing?” he asks, leading them to the car. “Besides cake.”

“Free food is half the fun,” she says, brightly, and he scoffs.

“It wasn’t free, I paid for those.”

“So charitable,” she says, smirking up at him knowing good and well that he doesn’t actually mind paying. “In any case, I got enough for our purposes. They had some very nice things to say about the non-profit that I’m sure the people in charge will be happy to have published about them.”

“So, platitudes.”

“Yep.” She shrugs. “Not everything can be groundbreaking.” He bobs his head. Boy, does he know that. “Cake makes up for it, though.”

When they get to the office, he’s almost forgotten his predicament. It’s not until he sees the receptionist come into view with a wary look on her face. Without even asking, he swipes the note from her desk that he knows is likely whatever Zoey had her scribble down. More of the same and he trashes it, thankful Anya had rushed to the bathroom before she could witness the interaction. Tries not to think about tearing out his hair.

-----

Interviewing her neighbors begins at her apartment, where she’s still getting ready for the day. She’d insisted he might as well just come there instead of the office to start the workday. It was unclear how long they could get away with working so closely together before Marcuse blew a fuse, but he’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

Once again, he’s on her futon, patiently waiting for her to get her things together. Justifies it as working, since they’re actively talking about work. Brushes away the thought that he is technically in her bed, as sad as that is.

“I just think our local municipalities should be a little more transparent,” she says as she fixes her hair in the mirror. She makes a face at her reflection, pointing at her head. “My hair is greasy. It’s been 3 days since they shut off the water now.”

Damian wrinkles his nose. “I wish you’d just come shower at my place.”

She blinks at herself in the mirror and he swears he sees her cheeks get a little pinker. Looking at him in the mirror, she swallows. “I’m…fine.”

He furrows his eyebrows, wondering what prompted such a shy reaction. “Deodorant can only do so much.”

“And when the smell becomes unbearable, that’s when I’ll go see the mayor myself and demand reimbursement.”

“Reimbursement?”

“For physical hardship, that’s a thing, right?”

“Forger,” he says, warningly when she turns to him, hands on her hips, “if I have to smell you, I will personally drag you to a hotel for a shower.”

God, why am I like this.

Anya bursts into clearly uncomfortable laughter, making a beeline for her front door. “Uh, okay weirdo. Let’s just get going.”

Every day, Damian digs himself further.

When he asks about her neighbor, she hurries him along. “I may have accidentally called her dog ugly within earshot. We’re not on good terms.”

The fact that surely won’t be the most ridiculous thing for her to utter just today makes him chuckle, earning a curious look from her. He blinks, looking at the shoulder strap of her bag, twisted up in a way that looks like it’s digging in. Thinks about how uncomfortable that must be, and when she looks away abruptly and fixes it, he wheezes. “You sneak –“

“Moving on!”

Her loud knocking on a door ceases their conversation, and he decides to let her have this one.

By the time they canvass a few blocks worth of residents, many predictably being at work during…working hours, Anya declares this project a possible waste of their current working hours.

“We should just go back to the office,” she sighs as they reach the sidewalk, falling into step again, “I’ll probably have better luck making calls.”

Damian panics a little internally, unsure of how he’s going to spin this so they can remain out of the office. It’s been three days, not enough time for Zoey to tire of this, but there’s no good reason to be out for the rest of the day.

“Then I can call the mayor and let him have it.”

“How do you have ready access to the mayor?” he asks, frowning at her. She gives him a mischievous look that tells him he doesn’t want to know. Then he glances at her hair, notices the sheen of it and his eyebrows scrunch up. “You cannot go into the office smelling like that.”

“Oh my god!” she exclaims, looking up at him in bewildered offense. “I do not smell!”

“You know how you get used to the smell of your own home and don’t notice it, but then someone comments on it when they’re visiting?”

Anya gawks at him.

“Yeah. Let’s go back to mine.” The fact he’s having to convince her to come with him should probably concern him. He’s not sure what changed. “No ulterior motives, if…that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, I…” She ducks her head, looks like she’s searching her brain, making him wish once again he could be the one who read minds. “I’m not worried.” She huffs a breath, finally meeting his eyes. “Fine. You win. Let’s go.”

He fights the urge to rescind his offer in order to protect his feelings. He’s not sure what her hang up is, but he’s trying not to be pushy or pouty. It’s rather difficult with her, he finds. And frustrating.

At least this ensures their absence in the office.

There was a part of him that considered just going home, say he wasn’t feeling well. Easy enough to just take himself home and crawl into his favorite spot in the world. Unfortunately, he was very sure that even with medication as strong as he has, it won’t be enough to knock him out while he anguishes over whether Zoey and Anya would cross paths. This way, he gets to spend more time with her anyhow.

Wonders if it’s strange how not-sick of her presence he is. His patience for people had always been rather short, and for a long time, her presence specifically tested that patience.

Now, he spends hours upon hours with her. Must be why he so quickly picked up on her change in behavior.

Maybe being around Becky resets her, or something. Maybe she got to see what she was missing out on by spending all her time with him. Maybe she realizes what a loser he actually is, now that he doesn’t have all that clout he used to carry. His chest feels tight with the sudden change in his mood, cursing himself for being so buried in his own head.

One thing is certain. Damian is his own worst enemy and needs to be lobotomized. Stat.

-----

“What, what is it?” The man pulls his glasses from where his shirt is buttoned, reminding Damian that he needs to make an appointment with the optometrist. “What, the taped interview?”

“Yes, the taped interviews,” he says, letting annoyance lace his tone, “it’s part of Forger’s terms of agreement not to do them.”

“Desmond,” Marcuse scoffs, running his hand over his balding scalp, “you know as well as I do, scrubs don’t get to make–“ He air quotes the next part- “’terms of agreement’.”

“It’s a shame you signed them, then.” Damian looks at him unphased.

He’s not entirely sure what Anya’s hang ups are about being taped, but he has some inkling it has something to do with that troublesome ability of hers. While she’s never revealed her entire past to him, he knows enough to connect some dots. He’s never pressed her for more because anytime it ever came up, she’d become faraway for a while. Felt like she’d pull away indefinitely if she revealed anymore than she already had. For now, Damian just knows it’s important her appearance isn’t readily available to the media, and he’s going to make sure that importance is not lost on the people they work with.

Marcuse looks up at him from under his eyeglasses, stress lines in his forehead and lips pinched into an unhappy frown.

“Listen, she’s better looking than the rest of you, so I’d rather have our prettiest be the face,” he says, pushing the sheet back to him. Damian narrows his gaze, not because he disagrees, but because he doesn’t like hearing that sort of thing out of this man’s mouth. “If you’re so insistent, I suppose you could do the taped stuff.”

“I don’t do interviews.”

“You don’t get to make those decisions.”

Damian squeezes his lips together to hold back a snarky retort. He doesn’t really hold any sway here, not like he would if he had the good sense to hold onto whatever shred of significance his name still held. He has to remind himself that this is what he wanted.

Marcuse reiterates it, “You’re not Damian Desmond here. You’re a journalist at the Bayan Post.”

He chuckles when Damian makes a face at that, waving a dismissive hand.

“Find me a pretty face with the same charm as Forger, and I’ll consider swapping her.”

With an eyeroll, Damian picks the schedule back up and leaves the room without any parting words.

-----

After work, he traces his steps back to her apartment like he memorized a few weeks ago.

In front of her apartment building, he holds her keys up to his eyes, realizing he’s not sure which one opens the building itself. Typical. Anya hadn’t thought to mark them for him and Damian had been too caught up in saying goodbye to remember to ask. He’s also now realizing she has an absurd number of keys. Outside of the building, mail, and apartment, why on earth would she need over a dozen more keys? Not to mention the crazy number of keychains.

He huffs, spreading them out in a vain attempt at singling out one key that looks more important than the others. It would figure he would end up smitten with someone as messily chaotic as her. After a moment, he decides to just start trying keys.

“Nope,” he grumbles to himself when the first doesn’t work.

Second, no luck. Third, still none. Fourth…

Once he gets to the last key and it also fails, he inhales an irritated breath.

“Are you new here, dear?” He spins around to see an older woman hobbling up on a cane, her own key out in her free hand. He steps aside as she approaches before jamming the key in, shaking the handle up and down, side to side, before the shoddy door breaks open. She laughs at his confused expression. “It’s an old building. Has it’s quirks.”

“Right,” Damian sighs, pulling open the door to hold for the woman. Now he really wonders how Anya can be happy in such a run-down place. “Thank you.”

The woman nods with a smile as she enters, and he follows. Now, to figure out the mail.

He stands in front of the rows of mailboxes, wondering if the smallest key might be the right one. Tries it on her apartment numbered box, and of course he can’t have this one win. He feels someone else’s eyes on him and looks over his shoulder to see the old lady watching him.

Well, she’s been kind so far. Maybe she can help. “I’m sorry to bother you, uhm, miss,” he stutters, the old habit of calling older people ‘old man’ and ‘old lady’ almost resurfacing, like this sense of helplessness making him feel like a kid again, “but would you mind telling me which of these keys is for the mailbox?”

She looks at the keys curiously as he holds them up, then reaches out. He waits while she picks out a slightly skinnier key than the rest and gives it back to him. He smiles down at her appreciatively, thanking her as he quickly turns back to the mailbox and works in the key in. He collects her excessive amount of magazines from the box, as well as bills and what he recognized as a comic book subscription bag. Quite a bit more mail than he was expecting, but it is Monday. He shuts the door and removes the key, making sure to note it as the mailbox key.

Still, the old woman stands near him, observing. Now, he wonders if he looks like a complete creep.

Oh no.

“It’s uhm-“ He whirls around to look at her, though she doesn’t look perturbed, just curious. He rubs the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. “I’m getting the mail for my…” He pauses, the label on his tongue. Coworker. Friend.

“Your girlfriend?” she asks, tilting her head. He sputters, more nervous laughter as his tongue becomes tied in his mouth. “That is little Anya’s apartment, is it not?”

“Oh, yes,” he breathes out, surprised, blinking down at the woman, “you’re familiar with her?”

The woman squints suspiciously up at him and he leans away a bit, slightly intimidated. “Why don’t you walk her elderly neighbor up to her apartment.”

Elderly neighbor? This must be…

“Then, you can thank me for the help by moving some things for me,” she says, her smile returning, but there’s something mischievous there now. She reaches out for the keys and plucks them from his hands, going over which key is which as they begin ascending the stairs. The building doesn’t have an elevator, because of course it doesn’t, so the woman hands off her bags for Damian to carry on top of all the other things he’s carrying – his own bag, the mail, magazines, now grocery bags and the woman’s purse.

Yeah, Anya definitely owes him.

-----

After work on Tuesday, Damian has another phone installed in his bedroom.

It’s just because he missed her call that morning – she was a few hours ahead now and had called when he was asleep. Missing a call if it was important would make him a jerk, and once she gets back, he can just unplug it, he figures. It’s temporary, and not weird.

Who he’s trying to convince, he’s unsure.

Regardless, he’s thankful he did it when it wakes him up before dawn.

Well, thankful might not be the right word. He thinks he made the right choice, at least. Even at the cost of his sleep. Wonders if he should just stop taking his pills while she’s gone, so he’s not so thoroughly knocked out that he might still sleep through the ringer.

“Okay, and listen to this, Becky’s dating someone who plays guitar.”

“Is that part of her charity work?” he asks, rubbing his forehead while letting a dumb smile sit on his face, without anyone to try to fool. It’s 5 am and he’s happy to be awake.

“Oh, she ran into Emile a few weeks ago, she told me.”

Damians smile drops and he blinks up at the ceiling. “Is that so.”

“At a fundraiser, that’s why I thought of it. Oh…now I kind of wish I hadn’t brought it up.”

“It’s fine,” he says, knowing his tone is rigid. “I…hope he’s doing well.”

He hears her giggle. “He bought that chain of candy stores that are in malls.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” The moment Emile was given access to his family’s funds when they came of age, he’d gone on a binge that made him sick to his stomach just thinking about. “She…didn’t happen to say anything about Ewen?”

“I thought you might want to know, so I asked,” she says and he can tell she’s holding back teasing him, which he appreciates, “he started a charity in his family’s name for space exploration.”

He snickers. “That’s also very on brand.”

“Right? Wait, what time is it? Oh, shoot, I have to go. We’re going skiing! Pray for me.”

“You’re in my thoughts.” He curses himself because of how that sounds. He adds, “Seriously, be careful.”

“Bringing back unpleasant memories?” He cringes, thinking of their 9th year when he came to school after winter break on crutches. “Ah, Becky is at the door. I’ll call tonight!”

He pulls the phone from his ear to look at it when the line clicks.

Emile and Ewen had taken turns carrying his things for him for the entire two weeks he’d been limping around school on crutches. Remembers Becky making fun of him for looking pathetic and Ewen telling her she didn’t need crutches to look as ugly as she does. Anya begrudgingly agreed that Ewen had roasted Becky pretty thoroughly with that one that even she didn’t know what to say, while Emile declared Becky deceased at 8 am on a Monday. The memory makes him feel warm.

In a snap decision, he rolls out of bed and heads directly for the side table near the front door where his address book is. Flips through it until he gets to the E’s and his eyes land on Egeburg, and Elman right underneath. Staring at the two names for a good minute is enough to make him second guess himself, so he walks away. He leaves the book open to their names.

-----

Damian forgot how boring things were without Anya around.

Somehow, it makes him a garbage worker, too. When he gets to work and gets his coffee, he has to resist the instinct to proceed further into the office to reach her desk. All of his pens and highlighters are in his desk drawer, nary a one missing. No interesting gossip, no huddling over paperwork and clippings, no amusing banter, no pretending he doesn’t like it when she distracts him. No looking at her face and quietly fantasizing about all the things he’d rather be doing with her than be in this office, yet still doing all of the work she makes up for him.

No, instead, he sits at his desk, listlessly looking out of the window, as if that pink head of hair would come rounding the corner any minute.

Pathetic.

It’s only one more day, he tells himself. It’s Friday, which is usually the busiest day of the work week, with several interesting tips flowing in from varying sources. Typically one of the more stimulating tasks, sorting through them and deciding what’s worth following up on. Usually, they come in the form of phone call or mail, but sometimes people made the trek to the newsroom to drop something interesting – whether it was fit for the paper or not was another matter.

He did enjoy peering over whenever an irate nobody came waltzing in with what they thought was truly big news. Today was not one of those days, however. Today was a day he would regret coming into work at all.

“This is enough to make waves in the philanthropic community.”

Damian looks warily at the front-end receptionist, who is trying their best to calm the Bayan Post’s newest visitor, looking on the verge of an aneurysm. Trains his eyes on her and his stomach drops.

Can’t be.

Why would she be here.

“Just – who are you? Let me speak to one of your reporters.”

Immediately, he gets up from his desk and starts making his way towards the back of the building. The last thing he wants is for his ex-girlfriend to spot him and make all of her problems his again.

“Dami?!”

Fuck.

“Well if this isn’t good fortune.”

Bad fortune. Bad, badbadbad –

“Well, whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me.” The woman he doesn’t want to be looking at is in front of him now, swiveling her head over her shoulder to give the receptionist she had been yelling at a sly grin. Turns back to him, waving a hand. “Take me to your desk and ask me what’s interesting.”

He looks at her with disdain. There’s a list of people Damian wishes to never see again – an emphasis on never. She nears the top of that list.

“What are you doing here?”

Doesn’t give her the courtesy of addressing her by name.

“What do you think?”

He grumbles, wishing he had called out today. He even thought about it so he could wait pathetically by his phone. Didn’t and now he’s here with his ex-girlfriend, caged like an animal.

“I’m not really the person who decides on whether to take a story,” he tells her, backing away slowly, “I’ll get the assignment editor –“

“Ms. Zapf?” They both turn to see Marcuse poking his head out of the door. Damian glances back at her to see that cat-like grin splitting her face apart. “What brings you in?”

“I have a story for this reporter right here.” He cringes when she pats his back forcefully. “He was just taking me to a conference room.”

“That’s not–“

“Desmond is one of our best!” Marcuse strides over to them and lands a heavy hand on his shoulder that nearly makes him stumble. “He would be over the moon to be of service to the daughter of the owner of one of our biggest advertisers.”

God damn it.

Typical rich people bullshit. Damian is one to talk – but damn it if being on the other side doesn’t suck.

“Right, fine. Let’s go.” He knows the drill.

“I’ll have someone get you coffee!”

Damian sighs agitatedly as he begins leading her down the hallway, peaking in each window of each door until he finds one that’s empty.

“How the hell did you end up in a place like this, Dami?”

Something about his familial nickname being uttered by her makes his skin crawl.

“Desmond is fine.”

“Oh, don’t be so cross with me,” she whines and he shrugs off her hand on his shoulder. “I’m just happy to see you.”

“Let’s skip the small talk.” He opens the door and pushes the kickstand down to make sure it remains open. “Make this easy on both of us and give me the summary.”

“As if it’s simple!”

He’s sure it is. Rich people don’t realize in the moment how insanely simple their problems truly are. He would know. He’ll help that along handily.

“Don’t close that,” he sighs as she pulls the kickstand back up so the door shuts. She smirks at him and he finally looks at her properly. Wonders how he once found those furtive, sly eyes attractive. Slanted and dark, so different from Anya’s. He shakes his head. He shouldn’t be comparing her to Anya. That’s dangerous territory. Instead, he just huffs and waves at her to sit across from him. “Let’s hear about whatever lowly person had the audacity to look at you while committing the atrocious act of being poor.”

“I don’t remember you being this grumpy,” she says, looking at the chair in front of her with contempt. He smirks a little, knowing she’s debating whether it’s worth it to sit in a commoner’s chair. A sort of smugness Anya had taught him to have about people that are too high and mighty for their own good. Like he used to be. Like he still is, he thinks woefully.

A knock on the door distracts them, and she opens it to see an intern standing with a mug of coffee, looking very nervous. She scowls at him, and Damian almost feels bad for the poor lad. “Cream and sugar are the bare necessities of coffee.”

The intern apologizes profusely and leaves. Damian wishes there was a way to speed this up, but somehow, he thinks she’s going to take her sweet time.

“Okay, listen to this,” she starts as she turns around, hands on the back of the chair she’s meant to sit in, “I was on the Host Committee for a fundraiser for literacy with kids – or something, I’m not sure, doesn’t matter. Did you know kids can’t read anymore?”

Damian scoffs, holds back the urge to ask her if even she knows how to read.

“I can’t imagine what those teachers are doing. They’re being paid to educate, so why aren’t they educating? Personally, I’d think their wages should be cut, that would motivate them to do better. Don’t you think? I mean, if they can’t –“

“Zoey.”

Finally, she stops rambling on at his call of her name and she looks up at him. Her face spreads into a wicked grin and it makes him uneasy. It had always made him mildly uneasy before, too, but it is so much worse now. “So…you do remember my name.”

“Okay, is this going anywhere? Is the ‘story’-“ he air quotes as he says it, “-that you think teachers are lazy and need their meager wages slashed?”

“No, no.” She shakes her head, waving a hand. “I overheard two board members in the VIP lounge talking about ‘moving money around’ and something about 100,000 dalc! I was pretending to freshen my make up while I listened.”

“You eavesdropped on some suits,” he clarifies and she nods excitedly.

“It’s a scandal, right? Like, huge!”

“I mean…” Damian smooths his hand over his mouth and he looks up in thought. He hates that she might actually have something legitimate.

“I also have these!” She reaches into her purse and pulls out some crumpled papers while finally taking a seat. He furrows his eyebrows as he takes some of them and attempts to straighten them out into something readable. It looks like part of a ledger. He frowns, looking up at her.

“Won’t someone realize this is missing?”

“Those are the copies I made! The originals are still there.”

“Then…why are they all smashed up?”

“I was in a hurry.” She shrugs, leaning over to point at a page with income and expenses sections. Taps a line that says ‘Miscellaneous – 100,000 dalc’. “100,000, like they said.”

“Okay…” He takes a breath, sifting the papers around. “It does sound like a possible story. But, I have to ask, why?”

“Why?” she echoes him incredulously.

“You might get mixed up in trouble with this – which, let me clarify, I do not care about. I’m just not sure why you would want this to be publicized.”

“Dami.” She reaches out to take his hand and he recoils, snatching his hand away while she tries to clasp it with her other hand. “I care. I care about all those poor little children who can’t read. How will they know what an apple is if they can’t read?”

“I don’t see how that’s related.”

“Also, I’m bored.” She leans back in her seat, folding her arms. “The men in charge of this thing are rude and annoying. It would be nice to see them knocked down a peg.”

He heaves a long, exasperated sigh. Wonders when his suffering will end. “I’ll have someone get in touch with you.”

“Nonono,” she says, knocking her knuckle on the table between them, then pointing a finger at him, “I want you to handle it. Your boss just said you’re the best and I believe him.”

“I have a lot of other things I’m working on.” It’s not a lie, exactly. He does have a few things he’s tracking, but Anya is usually the one coming up with ideas. And she has lots of ideas. He’s actually afraid of what’s in store for him when she gets back into the office on Monday.

Fuck. I forgot about Anya somehow. She’d probably love this story.

He feels something unpleasant in his gut as he thinks about her coming face to face with his ex from University. Not that he should, it’s not like they’re together, like a couple. But still, something about Zoey and Anya talking makes him feel like he wants to die.

“Put them off,” she says, flippantly and he rolls his eyes. “I’ll talk to your boss. Charles, right?”

“Marcuse.”

“Sure. You focus your attention on this and I’ll handle him.”

Great. Perfect. Amazing.

He should have called out sick.

-----

Damian left all of the receipts Zoey had brought him in the office. Felt like bringing them into his home would curse him with negative energy or something, like his mom used to say. Tries not to think about how this is all going to go on Monday when she inevitably comes in to check on things, explain to Anya that his ex-girlfriend is now top priority for them, or at least, for him. It makes him want to rip out his hair, so he tries his best to wipe his mind clean of it, for now. He’s going to pick her up at the airport and would rather at least look somewhat happy to see her so she doesn’t ask him why his scowl is scowl-ier today.

It's hard not to smile when he sees her anyway.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come back with an extra suitcase or three.”

She laughs as she walks toward him, holding out one arm in offering for a hug. He meets her easily when she stops, letting go of the handle of the suitcase to wrap both arms around his torso. He envelopes her shoulders with his arms and tries not to be so shamelessly obvious about how much he’d been looking forward to this hug.

Even pulls away first, to ensure minimal embarrassment. She looks up at him with such a happy expression, it makes good things inside of him light up.

“I will be going to the post office to pick up many, many packages in the next few weeks.”

“That tracks,” he chuckles, reaching out to fix a stray hair standing up rather high on her head. The affectionate look she gives impends to kill him. “I hope your tiny place has enough room for all of it.”

“Mean!” she snaps jokingly, reaching up to pat her own head down for the hair he had fixed. “Maybe I’ll just store the excess in your apartment.”

He swallows, tries not to think about the implication of what she said. “Your chaos is not welcome in my safe space.”

“So, so mean!” she repeats and he grins, lets her push his shoulder. “Just take me home, Desmond.”

“Got it,” he responds, finding it pleasantly easy to banter with her. It’s a nice reminder that he can be normal and nice. Though he doesn’t like it conjuring thoughts of Zoey. He clears his throat and nudges his head to move things along. “You’re probably ready to get home.”

“Absolutely,” she lets out an exhausted breath, letting him lead her out of the airport. “I cannot wait to sleep in my own bed.”

“I get that,” he responds, earnestly.

“Oh, I got you something.”

He looks curiously. Expects nothing, hopes for nothing. Not even that can prepare him for a Bondman comic to be laid in his hands. He stares at it for a moment before chuckling, flipping it over while shaking his head.

Some things really do never change.

They make their way back to his car, all while she recounts much of her adventures with Becky. She speaks pretty quickly and he’s sure he won’t remember everything, but he does pick out her lamenting having to eat raw oysters and triumphantly declaring she conquered the snowy slopes. When they get to his car, he does more of the gentlemanly stuff she scolded him for and puts her stuff in the trunk, opens the passenger door for her.

“I hate driving,” she exhales, sounding tired. “I am so happy to be driven around.”

“Must be nice,” he says as he starts the car. “Guess that’s why you owe me.”

“Yes, I do,” she says with a giggle, her body relaxing into the seat. “Can’t wait to find out what for, perhaps the Desmond boy himself will give me a little hint?”

He hums, eyes trained on the road. “I’ll tell you when I think of it.”

It’s not a very long drive, just out of the way. He listens to more of her stories happily. When he parks, she races to unbuckle herself, and he knows instantly that she’s trying to beat him to her bags. He laughs as he falls out of the car, stumbling to the trunk before leaning on it. She glares at him and he gives her the slyest grin he can muster.

“Move, Desmond.”

“Not happening, Forger.”

It’s familiar and he likes it. She beams up at him and it makes him feel a little more brazen, bumping his hip into hers to nudge her out of the way. Her surprised laugh makes him feel nice. Instead of succumbing to his desires, he opens the trunk and hauls out her bags. She tsk’s in a mocking way but he ignores it, leading the way to her apartment he’s memorized the number of. Following, she giggles maniacally.

Should he be ashamed of how much he likes that sound?

“Bed, I missed you.”

He simpers as she falls onto that sad sack of cloth she calls a bed. Resists the urge to call her back to his much nicer one. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you,” she calls after him, holding a hand out. He eyes it, stepping closer. “I really mean it.”

“I’m sure you do,” he tells her, sincerely, letting that hand take his. He sits, looking at her. “Ready for Monday?”

“I am,” she says, squeezing his hand. He squeezes back, lets the good feelings take over. “I should warn you, I had so many ideas while I was gone.”

“Of course,” he chuckles, can’t help but take her hand in his other and envelope it. It feels right there. “Never a days rest with you.”

“You’ll have to tell me about all the interesting things that happened while I was gone.”

His heart sinks.

The last thing he wants to talk about is Zoey. The last thing he wants to talk about with Anya is Zoey.

He forces a smile and she frowns in return. Almost irritated, she asks, “What was that?”

“What is what?” He feigns innocence. Her fingernail digs into the back of his hand. “Stop being paranoid.”

“Don’t mess with me,” she warns and he looks at her in surprised delight. She smirks at him and his expression relaxes.

“I’m going to go,” he tells her seriously, tugging away that hand. It feels reluctant, the way she lets go. He tries not to read into that. “Call me if you get lonely without someone yammering in your ear.”

“Becky has the gift of gab, what can I say.”

She’s right. He shrugs as he grips the doorknob. “Night, Anya.”

Her lips spread into a nice smile that he wants to kiss – so, so much.

“Thank you. Goodnight, Damian.”

-----

When he settles into bed, he lays the comic next to him in his bed and prays he doesn’t dream about Bondman.

-----