Your Typical Fangirl

But instead, the most gorgeous woman I've seen slowly steps from the vehicle, taking Vandevere's proffered hand with a polite smile. My eyes remain locked on the strange woman, her flaming red hair catching my attention the most. It's held in a strange curled updo, but even with it's size it somehow manages to look good on her. Decorated with a large feather looking to belong to a peacock, it's overall a very extravagant style. When she straightens, I can see the rest of her outfit. 'Dumbo is gonna have a heart attack if he sees all those feathers,' I think with a little titter. The sound must have been loud enough for people to finally register my presence as soon all attention is on me.

Vandevere takes a few steps forward with his hand out to shake and asks, accent posh and annoying, "My my, who do we have here?" I steel myself before putting on my best polite smile, returning his hand shake that lasts just a little too long as I reply "My name is y/n l/n. Wonderful to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Vandevere." His eye brow cocks and his lips lift into a smirk at my manners; "Well you're quite well spoken for someone of your status." I try not to let the comment get to me, knowing it would only serve to please him further. So I just hum and nod stiffly, rubbing my hand roughly on my jeans. My status. Who does he think he's talking to? I'm the trainer here, I'm not just some common freak in Max's show.

Without much else said, Max leads all of us away and towards his "office". I end up falling into pace with the beautiful redhead, Colette Marchant I think I heard him say? We stay silent, but I do brave a few glances here and there over to her. She has yet to speak a word, but the way that she holds herself is telling enough. She stands in the same rank as Vandevere; high and mighty, unwilling to interact with those less than her. Would make sense, if they really do come from where they say they do. Anyway, we arrive at Max's place, but Holt's kids and I are all shooed away and told to go do something else. I, obviously being the oldest, glance down at them and say "C'mon, let's go get Dumbo. They'll be by him soon, I don't doubt."

And I'm right, of course, as about ten minutes later while I work with the kids to continue training the flying elephant, voices begin to filter into my ears. I recognize them all, and with a sigh stand up, fixing my clothes and waving for the kids to do the same. Just in time, as they step foot inside the small tent a moment later. They're voices have died down, and all eyes are on us. Specifically, on the pachyderm at my side. My hand rests protectively on his head and my gaze remains hard, unwilling to let that Vandevere and his cane anywhere near my elephant. See, Max might own Dumbo, but he's ours. Dumbo belongs to me, Milly, and Joe, and no one else. With Mrs. Jumbo gone, it's my duty to protect him and if that means stopping him from getting publicity then so be it.

My eyes track every single movement the man makes, walking closer to inspect Dumbo and pushing his cane out, looking to try and poke at the baby's leg, only for me to take a step forward and push the stick away. "Please refrain from antagonizing him." I stand firm in front of him, about his eye level. He gives me an impressed look but it's so obviously filled with annoyance. Though he just smiles tightly and hums, retracting his cane. Before he can do anything else, he's pushed out of the way, as am I, by the redhead. I blink a few times and open my mouth to protest, but she doesn't even give me a sideways glance, so I don't bother. I watch as Colette walks slowly around Dumbo, giving him a once-over as she says "Hello there." I watch Dumbo carefully, who has his own eyes trained on something on the ground. Oh, not the ground. Colette's shoes have feathers, too.

"So this...creature of yours is supposed to fly?" I finally hear the first full sentence out of Colette and I'm honestly surprised. She's looking right at me as she paces slowly around Dumbo, but I can't seem to move past the very very strong French accent of the woman's voice. "Yes," I murmur, finally snapping myself out of it with a blush. She huffs quietly and stares at me for a moment longer before looking away. Meanwhile, Dumbo has been creeping closer, and I just see his trunk reach out and brush the sparkling black fabric away from Colette's calves to reveal the feathers on her tights as well before she spins a bit and looks down at him, making him skitter back. I let out a huff of laughter and glance between the two, mumbling "Feathers," to Colette. She gives me a weird look, but I just smile wickedly and turn back to Dumbo.

The guys are having conversation that I haven't been paying attention to until I hear my name mentioned; "Y/n's Dumbo's trainer. She and the kids taught him." My head shoots up to meet the ringmaster's eyes and then Vandevere's, who's shine with even more sick curiosity than before. It almost makes me squirm when he breathes "Ah," and steps towards us again. "And how on earth did you do that?" "Put. That. Down." Again forced to grasp the man's cane, my eyes harden further and I glare at him. I shove it down, not liking the way he had pointed it at the kids. It gives me shivers and he creeps closer, mumbling "I think you're a little too smart for your own good." But before he can say more, Colette says "Alright alright, that's enough." her heavy accent still lingering in the back of my mind. It gets Vandevere to calm down and back off, and before I know it he's guiding Max out of the tent.

Now just Colette, the 'bodyguard', Holt, and his kids are left with me, and soon the bodyguard leaves as well. Wanting to get to know what's happening, I glance at Holt, and then at Colette, before asking "Ms. Marchant, may I speak to you for a moment please?" The woman nods curtly before carefully stepping out of the tent. I would think those heels would be uncomfortable, especially on ground like this, but I don't say anything. Once we're out of earshot, I guide Colette through a little walk around the tamer parts of the circus as I speak. "So what is it you wanted to speak to me about?" she asks, and a little smile twitches at my lips. "You are French, non?" I reply back. Even just the single word makes her look at me in interest again and nod her head slowly.

My smile widens. "So you can speak it fluently, then?" I question, and Colette sighs quietly, nodding once more. Satisfied, I casually say "Pourquoi quelqu'un est-il aussi magnifique que toi dans cet endroit ?" (refer to french guide above) The use of perfect French must take the woman rightfully off guard as her step falters and her eyes shoot to mine in an instant. I smile playfully at the expression on her face as she says "Excuse me?" I shrug, leaning back on the wall that conveniently happens to be behind me and say back "Well I thought you said you're fluent." Colette's eyes narrow in suspicion, and she says "Vous etes egalement francais?" I shake my head, saying back "Non. I taught myself when I was very young. Notice the lack of an accent." The redhead's eyes light up in joy, though her face remains impassive. With a hum she glances behind us and back towards where we came from, were it looks like Max and Vandevere are returning to the tent.

Colette and I silently agree to return, but in no time we've managed to start up a conversation in French. I enjoy listening to a native speaker to hear how her lips wrap around each vowel, and she seems to find entertainment in my many slip ups. "Hey, it's been forever since I last conversed in French." I defend, blushing as she gives me an amused look. When we return, our conversation quiets down into nothing as the rest of them speak. I remain by Colette's side until she leaves with Vandevere. My parting words to her are "A bientot, ma cherie." and they make her blush, just a little bit of pink on her neck.

--

I don't think about our visitors much after they leave, until finally we're all rounded up one day, about a week later. Max stands on a makeshift podium and tries to get everyone's attention. I manage to get Joe up on my shoulders as he's shorter than his sister just before the ringleader starts speaking. "Everyone, I have exciting news! I'm sure you all remember Mr. Vandevere and his companion. Well, they have invited us to perform, at his park. This is--this could make us big, this could be our big break!" Max says, and the excitement in his voice is palpable and makes me chuckle despite myself. But then the worry sinks in; clearly this is a ploy of some sort to get Dumbo into the spotlight, but I'm scared it's for far more nefarious reasons than they let on.

My only comfort is the possibility that I'll see Colette again, though I know it's a purely selfish desire. Still, it keeps me from overthinking things too much as everyone slowly wanders away from Max and returns to their duties. I must have zoned out and missed the rest of his speech. So I put Joe down and urge the twins to find their father before approaching Max. Hesitantly, I say his name, causing him to turn and face me with a grin. "Yes, y/n?" He's overly chipper today. "Umm...are you sure we can trust this VA guy? He just...I dunno, he rubs me the wrong way." Max's expression dims into something resembling understanding, and he replies "Of course. What reason would he have for tricking us? Don't worry, y/n, I'm sure all will be fine."

There's a hint of finality in his voice, and I know better than to argue with the man so I simply nod and murmur "yeah...yeah, I guess you're right," and walk back to Dumbo's enclosure to practice some more before we eat.

--

The next days pass in a blur; packing, getting ready to leave, the excited chatter permeating the air constantly and leaving almost no time to breathe without someone cornering you about the trip. It's exhausting and I take every opportunity I can to slip away from the noise. I don't have much stuff, so I'm all ready to go anyway; it's mostly things for Dumbo. But eventually the day comes, and things move so fast that before I know it we're there and getting ready for the introductory parade that VA has planned. I'm pushed around quite a bit, being on the short side in comparison to the older members of the team, and I let out a frustrated whine when I can't find my way to the Farrier family.

"Follow me." A voice is suddenly next to my ear, and someone's hand is on my bicep, making me jump in surprise, but I recognize the silky accent belonging to none other than Colette. I relax slightly and let the woman guide me through the crowd, trusting her to get me where I need to be. She's taller than me, and weaves effortlessly to and fro until we finally arrive at our destination. I blink a few times in surprise, looking to Colette and asking "Are you--are you sure this is where I'm supposed to go?" The woman smiles and nods, pushing me gently towards the fancy car in front of me. I swallow dryly and try to figure out where to sit. Colette does so easily, swinging her legs over the door and sitting down on the back of the seats, beside VA. But there's no other empty spot except between the two, which I doubt I'm meant to occupy.

And yet, Colette once again waves me forward, and when I do so, she grasps onto my hand and pulls me towards her, until I am, in fact, sat between her and Vandevere. It makes my skin burn in embarrassment and anxiety; "Why am I up here?" I ask, and VA quickly says "Why, because you're the star of the show, darling!" I curl in on myself slightly at the endearment, letting out an offended noise and unconsciously sliding closer to VA's fairer counterpart. She chuckles quietly and practically purrs "La petite étoile est-elle mal à l'aise?" It makes me shudder but I push it back and reply "Bien sûr que non. Simplement...peu habitué à l'attention." Colette hums and I notice VA glancing between us with an odd look in his eye. Perhaps he's wary of the fact that we can communicate without his knowledge of our words?

Either way, he looks away moments later and I do my best to ignore his presence. The parade will be starting soon, after all. And it does, nary a minute later, striking up the bands and revving the engines of the cars, and we're off. Colette's arm raises the second we're within sight of the circus-goers, waving beauty pageant style, elegant and smooth. It's so hypnotic that I almost forget to wave myself, though mine is much less confident, and only comes out a few times. Otherwise, my hands lay tightly clasped in my lap. I begin to fidget and squirm in place when the crowd becomes louder, but luckily Holt points something out to Joe and I focus on that instead of the slowly increasing volume of the people. Eventually, I feel a slim arm snake around my back and pull me closer to Colette, and though I look at her in surprise, she doesn't even spare me a glance.

The statement, while taken as encouragement at face value, holds a strange tone. The man didn't say this to encourage Milly, he said it to get between her and her father, I just know it. So he's already started meddling in our business. I must have tensed so hard even Colette can feel, as she leans over to whisper something in my ear, but before she has the chance she sits up quickly as Vandevere leans over as well, getting uncomfortably close to me in the process, and asks the woman "What is it exactly that we do here?" He pauses. "Ma cheri?" His pronunciation of what is normally an elegant statement makes my nose wrinkle in disgust and I lean just that much further into Colette's form as she replies, French accent put on thick, "We make the impossible...possible." VA does a strange motion with his hand and then, thankfully, sits back, giving me space to breathe again without inhaling his too-strong cologne.

Colette's arm remains around my waist for the duration of the ride, until the car disappears under the tent at which point she removes it with one last gentle caress of my hip. I miss her warmth immediately, and soon she gets off the car completely and I shiver. But then she holds out her hand and assists me in getting off myself, giving me a fleeting smile before walking to VA's side. I sigh to myself, put on a forced smile, and follow the group to the castle that will, supposedly, be our new occupation for our stay.

-

The place is huge. Bigger than anything I've ever seen, and even I can't stop my jaw from dropping when I catch sight of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, intricate murals and gigantic picture windows that the place holds. I'm so preoccupied with looking at the books, in fact, that I don't hear the others talking until my name is called out, and I spin around with a high pitched "Oh! Sorry!" and a sheepish grin. Colette smirks while the rest look at me with unimpressed amusement. Holt says "Come on y/n, Mr. Vandevere wants to show us something else." I nod, scurrying to his side as VA says "Don't worry, young lady. You'll have plenty of time to read between shows." I hum in acknowledgement, but don't give him any other reaction; I want him to know that I don't trust him.

We move as a group outside once again, walking until we reach a large white building. The sounds of horses prancing about hits my ears and I realize that this is VA's plan; get Holt hooked on the prospect of trick-riding again so he'll do what he wants. Smart, but I'm not fooled. I say nothing as we enter, though I am impressed by the gorgeous white steeds that seem to dance around the place, no doubt training for the next show. My eyes look over the rest of the place, seeing what must be Colette's training equipment, bars and swings that I assume she uses to "fly". The thought of getting to see her practice excites me, but it's cut short when my eyes catch on the last thing in the room.

"Ribbons?" I breathe, eyes going wide and fingers twitching.

It catches Vandevere's attention and he smirks; "Ah yes, you didn't think I forgot about you, did you y/n?" I don't have it in me to respond, gravitating towards the silks that hang from the ceiling. "How did you...?" I trail off as my hands brush the fine material, tugging gently to test how sturdy they are; very. From behind me, I hear VA saying "A little birdy told me you used to have your own act in your little show, long before Dumbo came along. Ribbons, isn't that right?" I nod, still in a daze. Finally I turn to look at them, and I'm sure my emotions are crystal clear in my gaze as a victorious smile stretches across the man's face that I somehow don't notice, too occupied with the idea of flying again.

"I haven't practiced in so long though...surely I couldn't--" "Nonsense. One never loses the ability to fly. Isn't that right, ma cheri?" Colette's nose turns up slightly, but still she nods and sends me a soft smile, mumbling "Exactly." I'm completely unsure of any of this, and in the back of my mind I realize it must be a ploy, but with the ribbons right there, within my grasp...I can't help but squeak "Okay, you got me. I'm in." A menacing smile forms on Vandevere's face and he nods once, stating "Wonderful." before turning back to the rest. I block everything else out after that, focusing solely on the ribbons and letting my mind run wild with images of flipping and turning in the air again, as I used to. The general unease I felt slips away completely and I sigh again, hand clasped tightly around one of the silk ties. Maybe this won't be quite as bad as I thought.

--

"Ma chéri?" A familiar voice sounds from behind me and I spin around, finishing dusting my hands. I had planned to wait on my own practice until Dumbo was trained, but they insisted that Milly and Joe could handle Dumbo with Colette, and I could use the corner as long as my heart desired. And boy did it desire. I notice Colette's eyes flicker down my body, clad in a traditional aerialist's practicing leotard, and it makes my stomach tighten slightly, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. But her gaze returns just as fast to my own, and she smiles, asking "Are you ready?" I laugh nervously and reply "Well...about as ready as I'll ever be." The other woman nods and walks a bit closer, before muttering "Just between you and me...tu es magnifique habillé comme ça."

But as if she'd said nothing she just leans away and finishes with "I have no doubt you'll do wonderfully, no need to be nervous," as Holt and the kids come into the building. I shake myself out and shakily whisper "Y-Yup. Thanks, Colette." And with that I send one last nod towards the Farrier family and Colette, before heading over to my station. With a deep breath, I grab onto them tightly and begin the most basic routine that I remember. Within minutes I'm ten feet in the air, tangled carefully in ribbons. From the outside, it probably looks silly, but if I do this correctly then it'll be worth it. My eyes slide down to the floor, where Colette is waving a feather about, guiding Dumbo to the seesaw that sits there. I hang for a while longer, just watching them until, when Dumbo steps heavily on the raised end of the plank, Colette shoots up into the air and her hands grasp the swing bar tightly.

I let out a sharp gasp and she glances over at me, smiling teasingly before looking away again; I do the same, trying to ignore the brunette (which came as a shock to me, I didn't realize that she didn't actually have red hair, they were simply wigs. Personally, I liked her natural hair more than the fancy waves anyway) and pay attention to my own position, hanging precariously above the ground. I take a deep breath and raise myself a few feet higher before going into what I believe is called a double lock split, hissing quietly at the unfamiliar stretch in my thighs. It's been a long time since I've stretched properly, and I've lost the flexibility that I used to master. With a quiet cough, I raise my arms above my head, grabbing the silk with a white knuckle grip and pulling one leg in, hitting another few poses before going for the real big guns.

As I prepare to do the drop, I suddenly hear a scream and my eyes go wide, head snapping towards Colette, and I watch in slow motion as Dumbo smacks into her and she plummets to the net with a scream. But the sudden movement catches me off balance and I also fall. Much like Colette, I let out a high shriek, praying that I was in the correct position. And my prayers are answered, my body coming to a standstill upside down, my head about a foot above the ground. My chest is heaving and my body is buzzing with adrenaline, but I shakily raise myself up again to a circus seat. That's when I realize everyone's attention is on me, and I give them a shaken up smile, waving casually. "That was so cool," Joe finally whispers, and I can't help but let out a loud laugh, the tension in my body fading instantly.

"Thank you, Joey." I say, getting as comfortable as I can in my silks. Which isn't, admittedly, very comfortable, the ribbons digging into my skin. I glance above me to where the ropes are still tightly tethered to the hooks on the ceiling, letting out a little breath before delicately twirling down and out of the ribbons. I groan when I put weight on my legs, having stretched them out a bit too much with a few of those moves and made them sore. Fingers massaging my thighs, I walk towards the group just as VA walks in, Colette coming to stand beside me. She leans over and mumbles "Are you alright petite étoile? That was quite the drop." Her voice is laced with concern, though her expression stays neutral, and I whisper back "I'm fine, I've done that trick before. I'm just glad I had rigged myself correctly or that could have been bad." and chuckle quietly.

The woman nods and sends me a quick smile before leaning back and walking away, so as to not draw too much suspicion. I tune into the conversation that VA is having with Holt and the kids, as he tells them that the show is coming up. It's tonight?! My eyes go wide and my breath catches; there's no way any of us have practiced enough, and I quickly say "Um, Mr. Vandevere, I don't think Dumbo is quite ready for that." VA gives me a strange look and a mocking smile, replying "Oh no, Dumbo isn't set to perform tonight. His premiere is tomorrow." He pauses, allowing confusion to set in. Then what was he...?

"Yours is tonight."

Oh fuck.

"O-Oh, I don't think--" "Nonsense. I'm sure you can figure something out, you're a smart girl." I'm abruptly cut off and the conversation is ended like that when the man turns away, but I catch Colette's eyes from over his shoulder, who's brows are pulled together in confusion; apparently this is news to her as well. I zone out, falling into my head again as VA finishes gaslighting the rest and leaves. I'm only snapped out of it by hands on my arms, and look down to see Milly looking up at me with a reassuring expression, or what she thinks is reassuring; it reads confusion and worry instead, but still I give her a smile as she says "I'm sure you'll be fine Miss y/n. You've been doing this for years, you just need a few more hours of practice and I bet you'll be just as good as before!" I swallow dryly, tearing up, and lean down to pick the girl up into my arms, holding her tightly and spinning her around as I say "Of course my darling girl. Of course I can."

Milly laughs at that, and when I finally set her down she presses a quick kiss to my cheek and states "We believe in you, right guys?" and looks behind her, prompting the others to nod, Joe saying "yeah!" Holt just nods with a smile and Colette mutters "Bien sûr que nous le faisons, ma chérie." It helps to ground me, and calm me down, so I also nod and roll my shoulders back, preparing for a long day of practice. I have five hours before the show starts, which means four hours of practice and an hour to get ready to perform. I can do this, I've done this before, I remind myself. And I get to work.

-

Colette stays with me the entire day, as she isn't performing that night either, instead waiting until tomorrow when she'll be working with Dumbo. She acts sort of as a spotter, and making sure that I don't overwork myself. If I get injured somehow VA would kill me, probably. So even though I want to push myself as hard as I can, sometimes the brunette still gets me down on the ground, whether it be to take a break to breathe or drink some water, and I can't help but be grateful. I know that if it weren't for her I'd have worked with no breaks the whole day. Finally, an hour and a half before the show is set to start, she calls me down for the last time. I nod down at her, performing the last drop for the end of my planned performance and trying to stay as confident as I can as I get onto the ground with the help of Colette. As she takes my hand, I mumble "Thank you, Colette, really."

She just hums and nods, leading me out of the building. She doesn't let go of my hand, instead intertwining our fingers and holding it a bit tighter. It's a simple comfort, keeping me from getting distracted or thinking too hard about what's to come. We enter the area where performers are preparing to get ready and I plan to head to an empty corner that I can borrow for the time being, but instead Colette pulls me gently towards another room. I realize she's taken me to her personal dressing room when I see her name on the door, and quickly sputter "Colette, I--" She shuts me up with a look and leads me inside. Closing the door behind us, I glance around at the small but strangely cozy room. It's warm lighting contrasts with the chilly air, but it's somehow perfect.

Colette finally lets go of my hand in order to go to walk looks to be a wardrobe of some sort, looking through a bunch of fancy looking leotards and uniforms, all hers no doubt. I stay silent, awkwardly playing with my hands until she returns to me with some fabric clutched in her hands. Quietly, the woman says "Here, you can borrow this. I assume you don't have any of your own, oui?" I clear my throat and reply "Uhm, n-no, I don't. But are you sure that I can use one of yours?" Colette smiles and nods, pushing it into my hands and backing away towards the door, saying "Get dressed, I'll be back in ten," before walking out. I nod to myself and pull myself out of my practice uniform, and carefully put on the leotard that Colette gave me. While not a traditional aerialist's uniform, which would have long, solid sleeves to prevent rope-burn, it fits well and has sleeves made of a thin mesh material which reach to my elbow and end with a delicate pattern.

I can't imagine when Colette would have worn this, since trapeze artists don't usually wear sleeves since they don't have need the to and it can restrict essential movement. But I just shake it off and walk over to the large vanity mirror, framed by lights that make me feel like I'm in Hollywood. I smile but it morphs into a frown when I see the state of the rest of my body. My hair is mussed and my face is flushed from hours or practice. I groan and pull my hair out of it's tie, letting it flow over my shoulders, before beginning to put it back into a simple high-pony. I don't even notice the door opening until hands are placed on my waist and my body is straightened back up. I catch sight of the older woman in the mirror behind me and my breath catches.

Her eyes linger on my form, taking in all the details of how the borrowed uniform fits, hands that are still on my waist tightening into a grip that feels almost...possessive in nature? I push the thought out of my head and try to keep my blush to a minimum when she whispers "You look lovely, chère," her voice huskier than normal and accent thick. I thank her meekly, and she lets go of me after a second, instead bringing her hands to my hair to pull it out of it's messy bun that I had settled for and beginning to work her magic. I'm glad I don't have to wear a wig, I've never liked the feeling of those. I stand still and just watch Colette's focused expression as her hands dart back and forth across the back of my head, tucking and pinning my hair into place for a good ten minutes. But I don't mind, the feeling of her nails occasionally scratching my scalp or neck and her light breathing on my skin making it worth it.

Finally, she's done. Her hands are removed carefully from my now completed hair, and she steps back, asking "You like it?" I turn my head to the side, admiring the intricately done hairstyle, before breathing "It's gorgeous," and turning to face Colette and thank her. But I overestimate how far she had stepped back because suddenly we're inches apart and I can feel her breath on my face and I'd just have to lean forward a few inches to press my lips to hers. My eyes drop down to those lips, parted slightly, before Colette thankfully steps back, giving us a few feet of space between our bodies. I thank the gods she did because if she hadn't then I'd be liable to do something stupid. Like kiss her.

Taking a shaky breath in, I thank her with a slightly cracked voice, and she nods, murmuring "Of course. Now get out there, you have ten minutes." Her tone is firm, but not cruel, and I also nod, quickly pattering out of the dressing room with Colette not far behind me, and head out to the curtain that separates us from the ring where I'll be performing. According to Holt, I'm the main attraction tonight; how I never noticed the posters plastered about this morning featuring a cartoonish rendition of me wrapped in ribbons beats me, but my nerves go on high alert and my heart starts beating faster as I see how many people are already in the stands, and they aren't even all full yet. But both Holt and Colette come to stand on either side of me, and the former whispers "You're gonna do great out there kid."

I smile, thanking him with a grateful look, and Colette agrees with a silent nod. Finally, the time comes, and VA walks up to us just before it starts to "wish me good luck", and it would be nice if it weren't for the fact that, just before I go out, he whispers "try not to mess it up, petite étoile." Him using Colette's nickname for me makes me cringe, fighting the urge to either insult or shove him, simply nodding stiffly and saying "Yup," through clenched teeth. And then the ringmaster is introducing the circus, which is my queue to get out there. I sneak about through the darkness, coming to stand in my place where I know the ribbons will be. The side performances go smoothly, giving me time to breathe and calm down.

"And now, what you've all been waiting for! Ladies and gentleman, I present to you...Y/n, our ribbon's master!" Apparently they hadn't come up with a cool name for me yet, which is fine by me, and I put on a smile as the spotlight pans over to me. With a deep breath, I raise both arms above my head, and feel two silks drop beside them, which I grab onto easily. A second later, my body is leaving the ground, the silks being raised five, ten, fifteen feet into the air before finally stopping. Back arched and toes pointed, I open my eyes and look out over the crowd and begin my act. It goes smoothly, as long as I just pretend that I'm alone, with no one but Colette watching me with her sharp gaze and comforting smile. I keep her face in my mind, focusing only on her and not on my act; I had rehearsed it so many times that day I had it memorized.

And then came the drop, the final move. I set myself up for it, wrapping myself in the ribbons properly before scanning the crowd again, where I catch sight of the other performers from Max's group, sitting in the crowd and smiling up at me. My smile widens and, with a deep breath, I let go of the silk in my hands. A collective gasp is heard from the crowd, even a few high pitched shrieks of terror, as I spiral at break neck speed toward the ground. Just before I should collide with the earth, I stop. The ribbons catch me just as they should, my arms extended and head positioned in a pose. Within moments the crowd erupts into an uproar, some standing and others just clapping excitedly as I finish, setting my feet down on the ground and giving them a showman's bow, and exiting the ring until I'm shrouded in shadows yet again.

The second I'm out of sight my entire persona falls away and leaves me panting and weak. I fall against the wall, taking great heaving breaths to try and calm my racing heart, but I can't even get my breath back before it's knocked out of me again when two small forms collide into me. It rips a laugh from my throat, knowing who they were as I wrap my arms around the twins, watching Holt and Colette, as well as some of the other performers, approach me with wide, impressed smiles on their faces. A chorus of congratulations and compliments are thrown at me, and I thank everyone with a breathy voice, appreciating their words but also wanting nothing more than to sit down. Colette must have realized this as she soon waves everyone away before walking over to me and guiding me away from the rest and back to her dressing room.

Once we enter I finally get to breathe again, shaking slightly with leftover adrenaline. My attention snaps to Colette when she says "You did wonderful tonight, chère. I'm very proud of you," and a proud smile pulls at my lips as I scratch my neck awkwardly, thanking her with a timid voice. She also smiles before asking if I need help with anything, and I nod and ask if she could help with my hair. She does so, motioning for me to sit down at the vanity again before beginning to undo all of her hard work. It stayed in place the entire time, proving just how well done it was. Once she finishes, a small pile of pins on the table now the only proof it was ever there, she walks out to allow me time to change.

I sleep very well that night.

--

The next day passes in a blur of training Dumbo and Colette, and before I know it the show is almost ready to start. Colette, in a stunning golden leotard with a matching headpiece and typical red wig, stands where I stood the night before, glancing outside before walking over to us and Dumbo. She crosses her fingers and says something I can't understand from where I'm at, then looks at me and smiles. It's nervous, a look that I'm not used to seeing on her, so I smile too and walk forward, catching her hands in mine and mumbling "Good luck, mon cœur." The endearment makes her blink a few times, but I don't give her a chance to say a word about it before I'm pushing her gently away. Her eyes stay locked with mine for a moment longer, brows furrowing slightly before the corner of her lips twitch for just a split second. And then she's gone, walking to her position in the darkness.

I watch with rapt attention as Dumbo is also led to the platform, which begins raising as the ringmaster announces him and the spotlight moves to him. He's scared, I can tell from here, but Milly whispers "You can do it Dumbo," and almost as if he can hear her the small elephant looks as if he's steeling himself. It makes me smile in amusement, but soon my attention is pulled to the other performer in this ordeal. "And the one who can ride him...the Queen of the Heavens!' It's a fitting title for Colette, I think, and I stare unabashedly as she strikes her pose slowly before the chandelier-esque device she holds onto is raised. She circles the ring and it approaches the platform which Dumbo is on. She steps onto it with elegance, somehow making everything she does look graceful, but as I look around for a moment I realize something's wrong, very wrong.

I don't know what it is until I finally look down; the nets. They haven't put the nets up. My eyes widen and Holt seems to make the realization at the same time as I, for he quickly runs out and shouts "What the hell are you doing, get the nets out there!" to the people in charge of them. I walk forward quickly, just in time to catch "Change of plans, from above." They're not going to put the nets out, I realize. Nothing Holt says makes them move an inch and eventually he exclaims "Colette! Don't!" The woman is already looking down at us, and I can see the confused, thinly veiled terror glinting in her eyes as they catch mine, just as worried. But my voice is gone and my legs are frozen, unable to yell or do anything. And my heart clenches in fear as Colette seems to collect herself, mounting Dumbo's back and holding out the feather to him.

But he isn't taking it. Dumbo just stares at it, not even taking a step forward for a long moment, as if he knows that something is wrong and refuses to go. I see Colette's lips moving as she says something to him, and finally he takes the feather. It's gonna be okay, I think, maybe this will go fine. Colette says her little thing and claps her hands once, allowing some chalk dust to hit Dumbo's trunk. He looks like he's about to sneeze, but instead of sucking in the feather like he normally would, he simply lets out a little huff of air and the feather floats away. I let out a little noise, eyes trained on the two performers like a hawk. Okay, definitely not going to be fine.

But Dumbo gets his shit together and reaches his trunk out for the feather, and I think that he's about to get it when suddenly he lurches to try and reach it, and time seems to slow. I watch in dread as Colette pitches forward and off of Dumbo's back with a screech. She hangs precariously from the fabric that was being used as a saddle on Dumbo's back, now ripping as Dumbo tries to pull her back up. But he can't, and the fabric rips completely, sending Colette plummeting towards the ground. All the air leaves my lungs and at once I spring into action, bolting forward, and scream "Colette!" I don't even realize that Holt's thrown a rope towards her, but she does and grabs at it, sliding down and luckily slowing her fall. Just before she can hit the ground I skid to a halt and wrap my arms around her tightly, nearly falling over myself in the process.

I feel her body shaking with what I can only assume to be fear as she nearly hyperventilates, arms automatically curling around my neck. I look at her and start to ask "Colette, are you alright?" before she breathes "Oh, petite étoile..." and presses her lips to mine, clasping my face between her hands and holding me against her. I let out a little noise but can't even kiss back before she's pulled away at the sound of Dumbo's distressed cries. We both look up at him in worry, and I see that he's hanging halfway off his platform, trying to climb back up but only slipping further off.

And then he falls and I nearly scream, tightening my arms around Colette's waist in panic, but, just inches from the hard ground, Dumbo flies. His ears catch him and he soars over our heads and begins circling the ring. I let out a relieved breath and sag against Colette, who does nearly the same. We watch as the little elephant soars around, three, four, five times as the crowd cheers wildly, but instead of landing he suddenly turns and speeds out of the tent doors. We hear the faint sound of glass breaking as he presumably leaves the building entirely. I glance warily at Colette, then to the door. I'm unwilling to let her go after what happened but I force myself to give her some space, releasing her and following the kids outside, where we just catch sight of Dumbo disappearing behind the Ferris Wheel. He's heading somewhere, I just don't know where, but I can't do anything except go back inside and awkwardly retreat behind the curtains as Millie and Joe run off after him.

-

I'm still shaking a little bit when I return to the now empty ring, cleared of everyone except the performers who mingle anxiously among themselves. I don't see Colette anywhere, but clench my fists at my sides and walk stiffly over to the rest, making sure everyone's okay; these people may not be part of my team, but they're just as much my family as anyone. When I'm sure that everyone's just shaken up from the events of the show, I finally sneak off to try and find the one person who should be the most shaken. When I finally do find her, she's in her dressing room; I knock on the slightly cracked door, hearing a muffled, weak "I'm busy." I sigh and state "Colette, it's me." There's a too-long moment of silence before she thankfully replies "Come in then." and creep carefully into the room.

I close the door slowly behind me, looking over and finally seeing Colette. She's sitting in the chair by the vanity, elbows on the wood and head in her hands as she tries badly to hide her tears. Walking forward slowly, I keep my voice low so as to not startle her when I say "Do you wanna talk about it?" She doesn't reply, so I just crouch down next to her and place my cheek on her thigh, looking up at her face that's crumpled with anxiety, eyes squeezed shut and tear tracks painting her cheeks. We stay like that for a while, until Colette whispers "I don't know what he was thinking. Why would he have done that to me? To everyone?" I figure she's talking about VA and the nets, so I respond "Because he's a selfish asshole who just uses people for his own gain and doesn't care who gets hurt in the process."

I don't bother to hide my contempt and strong disdain for the man from Colette, which she seems to appreciate as she lets out a tiny, single note laugh. "I'm sorry for what I did, by the way. After you--after you caught me." The woman murmurs, but I just smile, though she can't see it with her eyes still closed, and reach up to brush any residual tears from her pale cheeks. Under my breath, I say "If I was upset I wouldn't have come to see you." Finally Colette's eyes open partly, locking with mine immediately. They search my eyes, then my face, for something, before one of her hands comes to gently rest on my head and drag her fingers through my hair, which drapes over her knee like a waterfall. Her nails scratch my scalp slightly and my eyes flutter, lashes tickling my cheeks slightly.

"Ma petite étoile." Colette breathes, just like she had hours earlier, and I open my eyes fully again, smiling gently and murmuring "Mon cœur." Colette's gaze leaves mine, moving lower on my face, before she dips down towards me. Her lips hover millimeters above mine, hesitating; our shallow breaths mingle together between us for a second and I mutter "Do it." And finally, she closes the distance to firmly presses our lips together. I let out a little breath of air through my nose, turning my head slightly and pressing back. Colette's hand, which was in my hair, drifts towards my face, cupping my cheek protectively, and when I'm able to sit up so she isn't forced to bend down so far the hand that grips my waist once again feels possessive. I don't mind, leaning a little further into the woman's body and allowing her to pull me into her lap.

I settle my hands on her shoulders, and lose myself in the kiss for a while longer until we're forced apart by the need for air. My eyes open at the same time as Colette's, but I break eye contact first as I rest my face in the crook of her neck, pressing a little kiss there before sighing and muttering "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I swear to god, the second I see that man I'm gonna punch him in the face." It makes Colette laugh breathlessly, snaking her arms around my waist and holding me a little tighter as she replies "I don't think that's the best idea, chère. But I appreciate the...eh, dedication?" Though Colette's English is practically perfect, I've noticed she still struggles slightly on some words, saying them with less conviction as she feels them out. I smile against her skin and say "That's a good word for it. Good job. Sentiment works, too."

Colette nods and gives me a quiet thank you, which I just hum to in response. We stay in this position for a while, stealing the occasional kiss every few minutes before separating and just enjoying each other's presence. We only separate completely when a knock is heard against the door, and I yelp quietly and skitter off of the woman's lap. She smirks teasingly, but also stands and straightens herself out, running a hand through her dark hair and messing up her bangs slightly in the process. It makes me giggle into my hand as she walks to the door, opening it a crack to speak to whoever it may be that's on the other side, mumbling quick and quiet words to them before finally leaning back and closing the door.

When she turns to face me again, I say "Well, I should probably be getting back before someone comes looking for me." Yet Colette simply smirks again, walking towards me slowly, like a predator stalking prey, and purrs "Oh they already are. That was Mr. Farrier asking if I knew where you'd gone off to." The tone of her voice makes my breath catch and then speed up, heart racing. Unconsciously I back up, but Colette doesn't stop her approach, still advancing on me with slow and deliberate steps. "They won't be asking here again. Which means that I have you all to myself." Trying to play her game, I mumble "Oh? And what might you have in mind?" Another smirk. Before I know it, I'm cornered against her vanity, and her arms cage me in place as she leans closer to my ear.

You noticed a man first, one you knew well. Then you noticed a woman holding him by the neck. She was beautiful, you noted, but it mattered less than how she was mishandling your friend.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You demanded.

For a brief moment, the woman hesitated. Her eyes met yours and she glared heavily. She wasn’t so beautiful in this moment, she was terrifying. You looked into her eyes and saw only death.

“Removing a threat, your highness. Return to your room.” She said in a brisk tone.

The way she addressed you left you stunned. The rich fabric of her skirts, the golden armor said she was someone who should be important to you. Someone under your father’s thumb. Though she was different. There was more confidence in her shoulders than you’d seen in any of your father’s men. What made her different?

“I will not. This man is my friend, let him go.” You said.

Moving closer to the two of them, there was a beat when you expected her to obey. They always did. Your rank forced them to, whether they cared for you personally or not. The moment never came. Instead, she moved further away from you than before.

This wasn’t a random order. Your father had put her up to this.

“Bahman, tell me you’re not what she says. You’ve been my greatest advisor for years. Was it all a lie?” You asked, realizing that the woman’s favor would be a dead-end.

“No, princess, I swear it. I’d never betray you.” He said.

There were many things you could reasonably say you were good at, others not so much. You were miserable with a bow and arrows and even worse with people at times. But you could always see when someone was lying.

“I believe you,” You smiled, placing a hand on his arm as soon as you could, “He’s innocent. Let him go.”

“Those aren’t my orders, your highness.”

“Will it appease you if I get new ones?”

She stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. There was something curious in her eyes that drew you in. You had a task, however, that you wouldn’t be swayed from. She finally gave you a nod.

You gave Bahman’s arm a reassuring squeeze, folding your arms over your chest and walking away without so much as a glance to the woman. You only cared about getting her away from your friend. Nothing else mattered in this moment.

There was no effort in convincing your father. Despite being a hardened king, he still fell victim to the wants of his little girl. Even if you weren’t so little anymore.

You rushed back to the woman and Bahman with a smug look on your face. Now she’d have to listen to your commands and let your friend go. It’d wipe away some of her overly-confident demeanor. When you returned though, the woman was there and Bahman was not.

“Where is he?” You asked, looking around quickly, panic setting in.

“Your father’s will has been fulfilled, anything beyond that is unimportant.”

“He had a wife and a daughter, what have you done with him?”

“I wouldn’t advise troubling yourself with actions that can not be undone, princess.”

A cold, sweeping emotion covered you. Almost like a veil. It gave you chills, every nerve of your body standing on end as she stood before you. Cold, hard anger was all you could feel. And it would not be tamed.

It wasn’t that she had obviously killed your closest confidant, it wasn’t even that she’d unknowingly disobeyed your father’s order to let Bahman live. It was that she stood before you and had the audacity to look proud of her actions. Of murdering a good man with a beautiful little girl and stealing away the closest thing you had to a true friend.

In a move that was unlike you, you ripped her dagger from its sheath and rushed to plunge it into her chest. Your motions were unplanned and sloppy. They would have made your mentor furious, to see such a lack of form, but it was unimportant to you now. All you wanted was to make her hurt as you did.

She caught your arm swiftly, not moving a muscle otherwise. Her eyes were trained on yours. There was no anger as you expected, though maybe a little surprise.

“I will not fight you, your highness.” She said bluntly.

“I never said you had to.” You ground out.

“I will not allow you to murder me, either. Doing so would not suit you.”

“Don’t ever presume to know anything of me.” You snarled, wrenching your arm from her grasp.

Deep in your heart, you knew she was right. No matter how badly you wished to avenge Bahman, he hated killing, and so did you. It wouldn’t be right to take her life even if you could. But you refused to give her the satisfaction of understanding you at all.

“Stay away from me.”

Your command was harsh and even a bit childish, but the overwhelming emotions in your gut had left your mind blank. Wanting never to see her again was the only thing on your mind. You heard her say something in return. The slamming of your bedroom door made it difficult to hear, not that you cared to in the first place.

Reaching the window, you let out the bitter tears that’d been threatening your composure. Not only had she killed your closest friend, she’d stolen your sunrise too.

----

That afternoon during your court duties you sought to lay out the situation for your father. You’d barely gotten a word in edgewise before he ordered the doors opened and the very person you hoped to avoid led the common people in. A scowl settled on your face.

At your side, Xerxes noticed your expression. His eyes flickered between you and the woman, then between you and the common people. Some of them were beginning to shy away from you as a result of your scowl. He elbowed you hard.

Immediately, the scowl dropped and was replaced with a look of confusion. You turned on him with furrowed brows.

“What was that for?” You hissed under your breath, doing your best to remain quiet and not interrupt your father.

“You are creating unrest.” He said shortly.

“Unrest?”

“Your emotions are too plain at times, sister. The common people thought it was meant for them.”

A response was poised on the end of your tongue, only warded off by your father sending a glance towards the two of you. He was still speaking to the people, but the two of you drew his attention anyway. You’d drawn the attention of the people too if only for just a moment.

It was too public for him to say anything at the moment, so you were both spared from what was sure to be a severe reprimand. You carefully refocused your attention on the task at hand and only occasionally threw glares in the direction of the woman. Who, no doubt seeing them, didn’t once acknowledge them.

----

“If I gave an order and it was fulfilled, I will not punish one of my servants for it. Least of all my Naval Commander.”

“You had given another command by then.”

“One you were too slow to deliver, my dear.”

Anger was building in the pit of your stomach. It couldn’t be so hard to realize that what happened was wrong. That at the very least, he deserved to be mourned.

“He was innocent, Baba. Is this the precedent we’re setting, that the royal family murders innocents?” You asked.

His gaze turned cool and you felt the urge to shy away from it. You knew what you were doing - you were no fool to his weaknesses, to the weaknesses of any king. Xerxes had frozen as you spoke and waited for any reaction.

“I’ve said my piece. You may feel as you wish, but that will not change.” Your father said.

“Can we… I’d like to take care of his family at least. Ensuring their prosperity is the least I can do.”

He narrowed his eyes before nodding slowly. The grip he’d maintained on the arms of his throne loosened. You let go of some of your anger, relaxing your shoulders and letting them fall back.

“You may give them as much as they require,” He allowed, “But as the threat has not been located, we will have to be extra careful of those we trust.”

You nodded, simply feeling content with having made some sort of progress. Something was better than nothing. The first step was sending for Bahman’s family and breaking the news, not that you were looking forward to it. From there you could help them to remain stable. And if you couldn’t bring your friend back, the least you could do was take care of his family in his stead.

----

“Good morning, Baba.”

You pointedly ignored a new presence at your table, leaning in to place a kiss on your father’s cheek. He didn’t return your greeting except in a low hum. The hearty meal on his plate was more interesting at this early hour.

Xerxes was seated at the other end of the table, far from you, your father, or your guest. His face was drawn and he made the barest hint of eye contact with you. You couldn’t help but let a look of confusion cross your face, though you didn’t pursue any questioning.

The only open seat was next to the one person you wanted to avoid. You refused to look at her, even as you felt her eyes on you. It took all of your composure not to break out into an angry blush. Instead, you focused intently on the tablecloth, only looking up when one of the servants brought your plate.

“Daughter, you know our Commander, of course?” Your father’s voice finally addressed you.

You resisted the urge to tense your shoulders or roll your eyes at the question. How could you possibly forget her? She was one of the pride and joys of Persia. And a murderer. One that you could never get too far away from.

“Yes, Baba.” You said, offering up a tense smile as you speared a vegetable rather violently.

“She’s here on my request,” He said slowly, making your shoulders finally tense. You knew that tone too well, “The threat has still not been eliminated. I’ve asked her to shadow you as a protective measure.”

The scoff that left your mouth was purely accidental, but you felt the situation called for it. You’d been trained in self-defense since you could hold a knife. Any possible threat to your body was something you could handle, you didn’t need any help on that front. And you certainly didn’t want any from the Commander.

“I’m more than capable of handling myself. The Commander has more important tasks than looking after me, perhaps like taking her fleet to any of the furthest possible shores and doing something productive there,” You stood abruptly, though you had just sat down. Giving your father and brother a tense half-smile, “I believe I’ll finish my breakfast in the library.”

Your servants scrambled to clear your space, as you walked quickly out of the room. A sigh left your father’s mouth while passing, inspiring a fresh pang of guilt. He was only looking to maintain your safety. But you refused to make yourself need Artemisia of all people.

Closing the door to the library, the guilt subsided, though you knew an apology would be warranted later. For now, you felt safe surrounded by the smells of leather and fresh ink. None of the inconveniences of the outside would bother you in this room.

After quite some time of flipping through pages and taking in the information there, the door opened. You assumed it was your friend by the way the sun was hanging in the sky.

“Good Afternoon, Amani. I’ve gotten an early start, so you don’t have to transcribe nearly as many chapters today.” You called out, attempting to clean some of the ink off of your fingers.

When the chair across from you scraped against the floor and there was no response, you looked up curiously. Directly into the amused gaze of none other than Artemisia. Instantly, your body tensed and the smile you wore dropped from your face.

“Commander, I wasn’t sure you knew where the library was.” You commented.

“I took the liberty of figuring out, your highness.” Artemisia responded, your jab not seeming to affect her as she propped open a random book.

You glared openly at her, not caring in the slightest if anyone walked in and noticed. You refused to hide your dislike. Her disregard for anyone but herself was completely at the forefront of your mind. The only time she does anything for anyone else, you thought, is to better her reputation.

“How fortunate for me.”

In an effort to get away from her, you rushed between the high shelves. Fortunately, it allowed you a break, and aided your purposes. You’d finished transcribing an old book of Persian poetry. It was a passing hobby you’d taken up to fill your afternoons. You thought that by transcribing the palace library, it’d make Persia seem more welcoming to those who spoke different languages.

Plucking the next book from the shelf, you eyed it slowly. It would take some time to properly do the work justice. When you turned to move back to the table, Artemisia was standing there. You jumped and let out a slight noise.

“What the- Go back to the table and stop frightening me.” You demanded.

“I have to ensure your security. The threat could be lying here in wait.”

“In the library? That’s unlikely.”

“It’s unlikely until someone runs a sword through your chest. You spend most of your time in the library, making it the perfect place.”

“Nobody is in here, I unlock the doors myself.” You grit out, shoving past her.

“Locks can be picked and doors can be locked from the inside,” Artemisia sighed, showing the first sign of emotion besides pride, “If this is to work, your highness, you must stop fighting me.”

You bit back the words on your tongue. If you allowed yourself to speak in anger, you’d come off differently than you intended. Your anger made you foolish, daresay childish. That was the last demeanor you wanted to project as a royal. Especially to someone who’d likely enjoy the glimpse into your anger.

“Fine,” You said finally, “But I have terms of this… arrangement.”

“Name them, your highness.”

“One, we don’t speak unless I choose to speak with you; I’ve had enough conversation with you to last a lifetime. Don't get friendly. Secondly, don’t hover, it’s distracting. You can watch me and keep me safe at a distance. Understood?”

“Perfectly.”

The unaffected air of Artemisia’s demeanor was perilously close to testing your nerves. You’d lost so much at the extension of her reach; your dearest friend and now your freedom. Part of you wished she’d give you something more to despise. The knowledge of what she’d done while fulfilling orders didn’t feel sufficient.

Anything she did was carefully devoid of emotion. Almost to the point where you began questioning if she had emotions at all. You would glance at her more than proper, searching for any clues. A part of you began scheming on how to make her react.

Artemisia only moved when something else around her moved. Servants or advisors would enter the library and she’d watch them critically, scanning them for anything she deemed to be a threat. If you moved, she would watch then too, following at a safe distance if you moved out of her original range.

Nothing caught her off guard. The opening of the library door didn’t startle her, neither did the moments you’d abruptly stand up. It was like she’d been trained not to have reactions. The cold, empty expression she wore was driving you mad; you wanted to know how to break it. You wanted to know how to break her.

Your father had many soldiers of a similar bearing, but you’d even seen them break before. A surprising command or swift punishment would warrant the slightest change, their eyebrows would lift higher on their faces or they’d make brief eye contact with one another.

Artemisia, you unfortunately kept realizing, was entirely different.

So caught in your thoughts, you failed to notice someone else enter the library. There was a buzzing in your ears until it took a familiar shape, forming words.

“Your highness?” A voice broke through, making you look up. From the expression on her face it hadn’t been the first time he called for you. Out of the corner of your eye, you could swear that you saw Artemisia glance over.

“Yes?” You asked, clearing your throat and sitting up straighter than before.

“Fairuza, wife of Bahman, is waiting for an audience in the throne room.”

His words sobered you up. You had called her from her home to tell her the news in person, now you wondered if you’d made the right decision. Sweat formed on your palms.

“I’ll be with her shortly.” You said, wincing slightly at the weak thread in your voice.

He nodded, bowing before you and then taking his leave. The silence felt heavier as thoughts went through your mind. You felt wholly unprepared to give her the news, even more unprepared to handle her reaction to it.

You stood slowly, ignoring the weak feeling in your legs. The walk from the library to the throne room felt painfully long. So lost in your anxiousness and fear, you didn’t have any feelings towards Artemisia following at a distance. If things were different, you mused, you might feel more angry about it.

Upon entering the room, you scarcely had time to breathe before a body slammed into yours. You stumbled, righting yourself just before you fell. A warm hand on your lower back aided you briefly before it was gone.

“Anahita, my love, be careful. We don’t wish to injure her highness.” Fairuza’s voice admonished.

“It’s quite alright,” You said, finally gathering your bearings, “I’m very excited to see her as well.”

You hesitantly ran a hand through the girl’s hair, watching as she beamed. It broke your heart. You didn’t want to taint her heart with the news, to dull her smile when she learns her beloved Baba wasn’t coming home to her. A shaky inhale was all you could do to fortify yourself.

“Your highness, I’m sure you’re busy so we won’t keep you. What have we done to earn the honor of your summons?”

Fairuza meant well, but you wished you had more time. You had no idea how to break such news to someone. In the past, when someone was executed, they had been guilty of a crime. How do you tell a loyal woman that her innocent husband was executed in your service?

“I’m afraid this might be something too… sensitive for little ears.” You said.

“That’s alright, your highness. Anahita is a big girl now.”

You wanted to argue against that statement, but knew it wasn’t your place. You may be a princess, but you were in no way a mother. Faruzia’s judgement was absolute in regards to her daughter.

“Fairuza, Bahman...  Bahman won’t be returning home.”

A pin dropping would have felt painfully loud. The silence dragged on, like a punishment for a crime you hadn’t committed. Fairuza’s face crumpled and you wanted to reach out, but she regained her composure just in time.

“What happened?” She asked.

“He was suspected of being a traitor to us.”

“And was he?”

“No. No, he was innocent.”

“Then why was he... “ She tried, but was unable to finish when she looked down at Anahita, who was oblivious to the entire situation.

“The order was carried out before anyone could vouch for his innocence.” You said.

“Who carried out the order, your highness?”

There was a deep, overwhelming emotion in her eyes that you’d never seen. It made you feel ill to even meet her eyes. You couldn’t imagine the pain this brought her, the pain she’d live with for the rest of her life. At your side, your fingers twitched with the desire to point behind you.

“I don’t know.” You said, the words spilling from your mouth unchecked.

Behind you, you heard a sudden inhale. You hated that she’d choose now to show any sense of emotion. It stole any sense of satisfaction you had. You’d caught her off guard, but at what price?

Fairuza nodded slowly. Her fists gripped at her skirts, knuckles turning white with the force of it. You felt for her, but you were also in awe of her composure. You were sure that if you’d been in her situation, you may have reacted much differently.

“Thank you for bringing me here and breaking the news, your highness. We won’t trouble you any further.”

The quick turn-around surprised you, catching you off guard long enough for Fairuza to have collected Anahita. You blinked at her hurry. You were in no such rush to urge them away from you or out of the castle.

“Fairuza, wait,” You called as your mind finally caught up, “This can’t be easy in any way, but I would like to help your family. That way you can all live as you have.”

“I couldn’t accept that, your highness, it-”

“Please, Bahman would want you to be secure.” You interrupted, reaching out and taking the woman’s hands. She stared down at them, not daring to make eye contact with a royal.

A set of eyes felt as if they were burning holes into your back. You wanted to turn around and say anything right about now; tell her to mind her own business, to know her place, anything. No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t bring yourself to even acknowledge her at the moment.

You couldn’t ignore that you’d lied on her behalf, protected her against the family of the man she’d killed. Some instinctual part of you had spoken before your brain could tell you not to.

“Thank you, princess, that’s very kind of you.”

Fairuza’s hands squeezed yours before they pulled away, resting on the shoulders of her daughter. You offered what you hoped was a convincing smile. A glinting caught your attention, your eyes drawn to a beautiful necklace resting at her throat. It boasted a beautiful blue pendant, though you couldn’t figure out what it was made of. You snapped back into the moment, feeling embarrassed at how much time you’d let pass.

“No thanks are necessary. The resources you require will be delivered to your home by the morning’s end tomorrow.”

Two of the palace guards escorted them from the room. Before they were completely out of sight, Anahita turned and offered you a small wave goodbye. You returned it instinctually.

As the doors closed, you felt exhausted. Would that be the last time you saw the girl so happy? You wrapped your arms around yourself while the thoughts swarmed. You could have done more, your mind insisted, you could have saved him.

A particularly heavy breath from the woman behind you reminded you where you were. In an instant, you stood completely straight, turning away from where you’d just been. You avoided any and all eye contact with Artemisia as you walked away.

——

The next few days following the meeting found you struggling and throwing yourself into a self-induced isolation as a result. Besides your chambers, the only place you wandered to was the library. You would reside there until long after the sun had set and you had to squint against the candle light to read the pages.

Artemisia bid you a goodnight long before then, in accordance with your father’s new rules; since the threat hadn’t been eliminated or even found out, he wanted the Commander fully on her guard. Every night as the sun touched the horizon, she would excuse herself quietly, and one of your father’s personal guards would replace her until the early morning.

This change gave you what felt like a break from her. From trying to decipher why you couldn’t get her out of your head. Every thought was consumed in some way with her, whether it meant figuring her out or figuring out your reactions to her. It also meant that you were allowed to seriously overwhelm yourself without anyone stepping in. The personal guards were made to be seen, not heard, and they certainly wouldn’t go beyond their bounds to advise you in any way. Only the Commander had the courage to do that. But then again, only the Commander had the advice the crown needed.

Around the middle of the morning, your head would finally drop to the table, and you’d sleep blissfully for half an hour. Then your misery would creep back in and torture you, plaguing you with nightmares. You were lucky to wake up before they went too far.

You’d throw yourself back into your books, content to pretend nothing had ever occurred.

——

One of the following nights, Artemisia did not excuse herself like normal. You worried that maybe you’d misjudged the time until the sky turned black and she was still present.

“Commander,” You asked, “Isn’t it past the bed-time my father set for you?”

You couldn’t help a little tug at the corner of your lips, thinking yourself rather clever.

“Yes, but your father could not spare any of his guard this evening.” She answered neutrally, though you could swear she’d looked the slightest bit amused.

“Why is that?”

“I’m afraid that information is not for anyone's ears but my own.”

“Did my father state that explicitly?”

“Yes.” Artemisia said, raising an eyebrow. She was clearly waiting for you to fight her on this.

Grumbling for a few moments, you went back to your work. You wanted to challenge her on this point and say that as a royal, you were one of the few the rules didn’t completely apply to, but you didn’t have the energy to form such an argument. Your brain felt like it was running in circles. The amount of mistranslations you’d written and scrubbed away to a testament to that.

It wasn’t until you knocked over a vial of ink that you truly felt something besides exhaustion. A large wave of anger slammed into you and as a result, you finally slammed the book shut and tossed it down the table. Unaware of the ink covering your hands, you dragged them down your face, staining part of your cheek.

You let your head rest in your palms, barely fighting against the heaviness of your eyelids. Sleep was beckoning and you went willingly.

When a hand gently shook you awake, you had little idea how much time had passed. You didn’t care at the moment. Your only focus was on who was touching you.

“Princess,” Artemisia’s voice finally whispered into your ear, “You should return to your chambers.”

“Hm?” You asked, blinking as her face blurred and unblurred in your vision, “No, I’m content to stay here. My book…”

“Your book is halfway down the table and you’ve spilled your ink. Half of it went to fixing the basic mistakes in your work. It will be here in the morning.” She said, leaving no room for argument.

Staring down the table at the book, you had absolutely no desire to retrieve it. The thought of your plush bed was sounding more enticing with each passing second. You nodded, standing up slowly, not paying too much attention to the warm hand on your arm leading you from the large room.

The walk to your chambers passed in a haze and you only realized where you were when the Commander opened the door for you. A small pang of shame hit you in the chest, but it was quickly overtaken by your exhaustion.

You went to throw yourself in bed when Artemisia’s hold on your arm tightened. Turning just barely, her other hand gripped your chin and turned your face. The hold surprised you and stirred up a peculiar feeling in your gut. Unbidden, your gaze dropped to her lips for a moment before you caught yourself.

“You’ve covered your face in ink. It will stain if it isn’t removed.” Artemisia said, eyes focused on the spot, rubbing at the blemish with her thumb.

“I can take care of it.” You whispered.

She nodded, dropping her hold on you and stepping back. Your body felt much colder than before as she went to stand guard outside.

“Goodnight, Commander.” You called out before she could close the door.

You’d caught her off guard and she looked back with an indescribable look. She nodded, one hand on the door pulling it shut, though not before returning the sentiment, “Goodnight.”

——

Recovering from your brief stint of sleeplessness, you felt a mortified feeling settle in the next morning. You despised the way you’d left yourself vulnerable to so much by not properly caring for yourself. Anyone could have posed a threat, but you wouldn’t have known.

Another part of your mind was refusing to acknowledge the kindness Artemisia had shown you the night before. If she hadn’t forced you to return to your room for a proper night of rest, no one would have. You felt you owed her.

Your gut still twisted with an unpleasant anger at the thought of her, but it couldn’t be said that you were unreasonable. She’d shown you a great deal of kindness and you intended to repay her. Then the two of you would be even and you could go right back to despising her.

“Good morning, Commander.” You said, pulling the doors open and offering her the smallest smile you could without seeming overly warm.

“Good morning, princess,” She greeted you.

Her eyes squared in on your cheek, piquing your curiosity, before understanding flooded you. Visions of her hold on you, her face an inch away from yours only hours before made your face hot. You were ashamed that she’d flustered you without trying.

“I hope your night was quiet.” You said, clearing your throat loudly in the quiet space.

“It was.”

You were walking towards the library slower than normal. Her presence at your side drew your attention, staring into her face rather than at the path ahead. She guided the both of you with ease.

“Have you gotten any rest?” You asked.

For a moment, her eyes moved away from the hall in front of you, meeting yours. She narrowed them as if searching for something. As quickly as she’d done it, her focus was directed back away from you.

“Guarding you is not an opportunity for rest.” She answered finally.

“I wouldn’t have minded. You need your rest as much as I do, if not more.”

“Leaving you unprotected would be irresponsible.”

“So is attempting to protect me with no rest,” Turning her eyes to yours, the two of you locked your gazes in a silent battle, “Lack of sleep impairs judgement, Commander.”

“For you, that may be.”

The two of you arrived at the library doors and you dug into your pocket for the key, only to find your pockets empty. Instead, the intricate brass tool was being held out in front of you. You took it but found yourself distracted while sliding it into the lock. You had no recollection of giving Artemisia the key or of locking the doors. The thought of how many details you were missing nagged at your mind.

Seeing the layout of the library, it remained the way you remembered. Your book laid crooked on the end of the table nearest to you, the spilled ink sat in a half-dried puddle. The fact that it was still wet proved how recently you’d actually been in the room.

You wordlessly settled into a routine, Artemisia standing just inside the door as always. Removing the ink from the wooden table had been easy enough, but you were glad you hadn’t dressed nicely, as drops of ink had colored your skirt.

The door opened and you looked up, watching curiously as one of the castle servants came to clean up the ink. She flushed when she realized you’d already taken care of it.

“My apologies, your highness,” She said, looking at you in worry, “I should have arrived sooner.”

You heard what she was saying to you and your brain was processing it, but your eyes were focused entirely on Artemisia. When the library doors opened, you caught on to an unconscious system; in quick motions, her back would straighten and her hand would fall to the sword on her hip. This time she’d been clumsy, hand missing the hilt of her sword at first. To anyone else it would have been nothing. To you, it spoke volumes to her exhaustion.

More time than appropriate had passed since the timid servant had spoken and you gave her a kind smile, “It’s not a problem, but would you be kind enough to dispose of the rags for me?”

“Of course, your highness.”

The situation was taken care of in no time and the doors shut once more, leaving only you and Artemisia in the room. Her eyes were focused straight ahead, even though yours were focused directly on her, “Commander.” You called.

“Your highness.”

“You’re tired.”

“I’m perfectly rested-”

“Commander, I’m not blind. Lack of sleep will topple even the most formidable leaders. I’m not going anywhere, lay down.” You motioned to a couch just at your left. It wasn’t the most comfortable seat available, but it’d do the trick.

“I will not leave you vulnerable.”

“Will it put you at ease if I lock the doors until you’ve gotten enough rest?”

She looked to be mulling over the idea before she gave you one slow nod. You were on your feet and locking the doors in an instant. Gently, you pushed her over towards the couch. The touch only lasted a few seconds at most, but it was enough to earn you a grumble from the other woman. She didn’t enjoy being handled, it seemed.

Her move to the couch was slow and hesitant. At any second, you expected her to abandon the pursuit and return to her post. She surprised you by actually taking a seat.

Artemisia never looked anything less than composed at all times, but there was something in her form speaking to her discomfort. You avoided looking at her for longer than a moment. If it were you, you reasoned, it’d make you largely uncomfortable to be watched in your sleep.

It didn’t take long for her to fall into sleep. You only knew because her breathing grew heavier in sleep, a fact you tucked away in your mind. Despite your focus on the book before you, you found your eyes drifting back to her. The lack of a blanket rubbed you the wrong way.

You remembered one from the previous day, tucked in the back of the library among the unorganized books. Quietly, you tiptoed back to the area, locating it rather quickly. It was a rich blue color almost like the sea.

Before you could reach for it, a hand clapped around your wrist and made you yelp. You whipped around to see Artemisia was the perpetrator.

“Why in the world are you sneaking up behind me?” You snapped.

“You moved out of my sights.”

“You were asleep, I was out of your sights no matter where I was! Was it so terrible for me to get you a blanket?”

“It was when you’re oblivious to the threats around you.”

“What the hell are you on about, Commander? I’m in no more danger now than I am at the table.” You rolled your eyes, leveling a glare at her.

She didn’t react to your words or your glare, seemingly as if she hadn’t heard them. Her eyes focused behind you before landing back on your own, “Look at the blanket, your highness.”

“What?”

“Look at the blanket.”

“You’re losing your mind, Commander. What in the world am I going to see-”

When you looked back at the blanket, movement caught your eye. You squinted at the object curiously. Then it came again; only this time you made out a bright, lithe form moving among the fabric. The light reflected off of the blue coloring of the body. You backed away, right into Artemisia’s form.

“What is that?” You whispered harshly, looking up at her.

“A snake.” She answered, eyes never leaving the spot in front of you.

“I’m not stupid. What is it doing in my library?”

“I’d gather that it’s the work of whoever wishes to harm your family.”

A chill ran down your spine at the images in your head. You would have grabbed the cloth, completely unsuspecting until a pair of fangs sank into your arm. Only then would you have noticed what had happened. By that point, no matter what you’d done, Artemisia wouldn’t have been able to help you.

You leaned back against her, your legs feeling heavy. Your wrist felt cold as she finally released it, wrapping her arm around your waist to keep you standing.

“I need to dispose of it, your highness.” Artemisia said, the words soft against your ear. You could only nod. With no small amount of composure, you moved to a nearby seat, not trusting your legs.

She drew her sword from the sheath at her hip, nudging the blanket with the sharp end. The snake slithered around it before a mean-looking face appeared. It’s forked tongue shot out, the mouth opening entirely as it hissed.

Not held back by any fear, Artemisia swung up with her sword, ending the threat. You couldn’t watch and looked intently at your feet.

A hand came into view; palm up, waiting only for your own. You took the offered appendage and stood with her help. The threat had been only that, a threat - until now. Now it wasn’t truly a threat, but a promise. They were coming after your family--after you--and it was only a matter of time.

“Thank you.” You whispered weakly.

“Of course.”

Absentmindedly, you wondered if she meant it. She was doing a duty to someone else, always acting as if it was nothing beyond that. You had to think that some of it was. Not everything she’d done for you could be orders, could it? The thought that it very well could be left a hollow feeling in your stomach, though you couldn’t fathom why.

She took the key to the doors from your hand and opened them, yelling something you couldn’t make out at someone you couldn’t see. You sat there as she closed it and glanced over to you, before taking care of the scene behind you.

Within a few minutes, the door burst open and your father marched in, a number of guards at his back. He moved to your side, glancing you over.

“How did this happen?” He asked clearly, in a tone that you knew wasn’t meant for you.

“Someone must have access to the library, your majesty. I locked the doors personally before leaving last night.” Artemisia answered, voice as stiff as her form surely was.

“Who frequents this room?”

“Besides multiple servants, the most frequent visitor is Amani, who helps transcribe the books here.”

“It’s not Amani.” You said immediately, “I’d know.”

“With all due respect, my daughter, you have no way of knowing any of this. None of us do. We need to follow any lead we may have,” King Darius said, looking away from you, “Commander.”

You didn’t have to look at her to know she’d given a nod. The heavy material of her skirts and the clink of her armor alerted you to her movements. If her father was sending her, you knew it wasn’t answers she’d come back with, but blood.

“Commander, don’t.” You said, catching her arm as she moved past. She stopped and looked at your hand on her for a long moment, “Please.”

Only a sharp inhale let you know that she’d really heard you. Placing a hand atop yours and removing it from her arm, all she offered was a squeeze. You looked away with a sinking feeling of acceptance. Your father’s orders came first.

She left the room to fulfill his wishes without so much as a backwards glance. Your father pressed a kiss to your temple, before following after the Commander.

----

You waited in the library for the rest of the day with your father’s guards remaining inside of the door. A part of you couldn’t help but despise them, not for being there, but for being where the Commander should have been. Every time the door opened it was only a servant. Though you jumped up just the same with each entrance.

The hours passed in a blur. You couldn’t focus, every movement around you catching your attention. The doors remained closed for so long that you wondered if they’d ever open again.

Then they did.

You sat up straighter, but it wasn’t the Commander who walked through the doors. It was Amani. She looked shaken, but didn’t have a scratch on her.

“Amani? Are you alright?” You asked softly, standing to greet her.

“I’m… Yes, your highness, just shaken.”

“What happened?”

“His majesty and the Commander came to question me about my time here and… a serpent?”

The woman’s voice was full of enough confusion to confirm your initial thoughts. She hadn’t been the one to place the serpent. You were triumphant in that, but shocked to see her in one piece. Mercy in any form wasn’t Artemisia’s goal.

It seemed she’d made an exception.

----

When you saw her, it would have been all too easy to let the act slide, but you couldn’t. It meant the world to you. You couldn’t imagine it was easy to go against her nature, the habits of battle she’d formed, but she had. She’d done it for you.

“I saw Amani this morning.” You commented offhandedly. Just barely glancing from the pages of your book, she gave you a knowing look.

“I would hope so, your highness. You do work with her.”

You gave her a glare, though there was nothing really behind it. It’d be easier if she wasn’t so cagey about the kind things she did. Though you reasoned they were few and far between. They were certainly not in line with her character either, but that’s what made it so satisfying.

“Thank you... Artemisia” You whispered softly, finally meeting her eyes. You didn’t need to specify what you were thanking her for.

She blinked slowly as if she hadn’t heard you correctly. It made you wonder how long it’d been since anyone had spoken to her and not the Commander. Your heart ached in sympathy. It was one thing to be proud of your rank, but it was another to be completely defined by it - to be nothing else.

For once, her stare was filled with something else. Some emotion you couldn’t decipher. Had you made a mistake, being so informal with her? You opened your mouth to apologize, to do anything to relieve the tension, when she beat you to it.

“You’re welcome.” Artemisia returned in the same soft tone.

Her voice sent a chill through you that you couldn’t decipher, but you wrote it off as the quick change in your own emotions. You shared a nod before returning to your duties. Though you couldn’t help but glance back at her, surprised to see her still watching.

----

“Commander?” You said, immediately opening the door to your chambers to ask her a question. The thought of impropriety didn’t bother you much, but she was sure to keep her eyes away from you.

“Yes?”

“Is General Ahmand going to be part of tonight's celebration?”

“I believe so, your highness.”

You groaned, letting your head fall against the doorframe with a thunk. Artemisia raised an eyebrow, hazarding a glance to you from the corner of her eyes. She looked away as you raised your head.

“General Ahmand has a misguided belief that I harbor affections towards him and seeks to gain my attention at every celebration. I have no desire to interact with him, will you remain close to me?”

Asking the question felt like forcing daggers from your throat. It felt uncomfortable, asking her for help, even though she’d offer it anyway. You’d never willingly let yourself need her before. It was why you’d opened the door in only a slip, so she couldn’t look through you and see such thoughts.

“If you wish it, then it will be so.” Artemisia answered.

Nodding, you lingered there. You wished that there was more to say. More to offer her so she understood your gratitude, but nothing came to mind. None of it felt good enough.

You disappeared back into your chambers as quietly as you’d first appeared.

----

Just as you’d requested, Artemisia stood at your side stoically. One hand rested on the hilt of her sword with the other folded behind her back. Those who approached you did so with visible hesitance, casting multiple glances in the Commander’s direction. You felt relieved that she warded off any unwanted attention.

At least, she did until the drinks began to flow.

You’d had a drink yourself, as was customary. But only one. Any more than that and you would have regretted it later. Experience is the best teacher, as you unfortunately learned years prior.

Everyone laughed louder when they were intoxicated. It was a pleasant sound to cover up an unpleasant thing. Most of the people in the room would be perfectly behaved here in the palace, only to turn later. Normal hands would become rough, melodic voices would go rough. It dissolved any composure that evolution created.

“I believe if Lady H has another drink, she may fall into bed with the wrong person.” You muttered softly to the Commander, hiding your amusement behind the rim of your glass.

Artemisia’s mouth turned up in her version of a smile. You couldn’t help the satisfaction it rendered to know you’d caused her reaction.

“I’m afraid I must disagree.” She said in return.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Her husband won’t allow her enough freedom to do so.”

The two of you made brief eye contact and you gave her a nod. She was right, you had to admit. Despite the past of Lady H, her husband suffered from too much insecurity to let her out of his sights.

“It feels like such a shame for her talents-” You started, only to be cut off.

“My dear princess,” A sickly sweet voice came from behind you. You rolled your eyes, watching as Artemisia tried to hide a smirk, “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

“General Ahmand,” You turned around, plastering on a fake smile, “What a surprise.”

“I had hoped you would be in attendance, your highness, but I didn’t dare expect. You have many worthier prospects.”

“That I do, but it is a celebration worthy of my attendance. The conquest of Athens is no small feat. I would never dare to slight those who’ve had such a victory.”

“How generous and wise of you, dear princess. Might I trouble your generosity for a dance?”

From beside you, you watched Artemisia clamp her teeth down on her lip. A smile threatened her composure. You wanted to throw a glare her way, but the General’s gaze didn’t waver enough to allow it.

“I’m flattered, General Ahmand, but I am saving my dances for those we’re celebrating tonight. You understand, of course?” You asked with a smile.

His own smile faded, but he wouldn’t dare argue. Not nearly enough alcohol had been consumed to loosen his sense of propriety.

“Of course. Allow me to release your attention, your highness.”

You gave him a nod and tried to maintain face while he left. It wasn’t until he was out of sight that you let the pleasant smile drop and released a low groan.

“How generous you are to reject me, your highness.” Artemisia mocked under her breath, smirk firmly in place.

“Hush.” You whispered.

“But of course, your highness. Your spotless wisdom is law, your highness.”

A laugh erupted from you unbidden, which you covered up with a cough. The action drew the attention from those around you, but no one questioned it. You only offered a smile to relieve their suspicions.

“You’re terrible.” You said, swatting at her arm once all eyes had left you.

“Am I? If there was an altar dedicated to you, he would live upon its steps.”

“Is it so horrible to be admired, Commander?”

“Not at all. Though I wouldn’t take pride in the admiration of General Ahmand.”

“Come now, who wouldn’t want the attention of a man whose only goal is to gain my father’s favor? He may be more in love with my father than I, but what man isn’t these days?” You said, earning a breath of laughter for your efforts. You tried not to look overly proud of yourself.

The two of you remained side-by-side, Artemisia standing at attention when others came to speak with you. She had little to say and only spoke when prompted, offering nothing beyond pleasantries. Her true humor only revealed when the two of you stood alone.

You had to admit you were enjoying the event more than you expected. The music was pleasant and the atmosphere was calm, more so than any previous night like this. You’d never felt so at ease.

Eventually, to your utter dread, the heroes of the night called on you to claim their dances. With a swift hand, you had been dragged away from your protector before you could realize. Now you found yourself being passed through the group, one dance each, as was custom. They told you stories of battle as you danced, leaving you in awe of many tactical feats.

Much to your dismay, you were joined in a dance by the last hero. You wished to relive all of the dances and hear their stories over again. It must have shown on your face, as the man quirked an eyebrow at your demeanor.

“Is something wrong, your highness?”

“Oh, no, I’m quite alright,” You assured him, “I’m only regretting that the dances are over. Your comrades have wonderful stories.”

“That they do. A life in battle makes you rather skilled in retelling your battles. They’re much better than I, unfortunately.”

“I find that hard to believe. You must have your own way of telling a story that they do not.”

“Not a way that is completed in a single dance, your highness.”

Disappointment flooded you as the song drew to a close and the man bowed. You offered him a nod, making your way back to the Commander. Curiosity gnawed at you, made you wonder if the Commander had similar stories of her own battles. Warmth blossomed in your chest at the thought of her animatedly recounting such a story.

When you returned to her side, you offered her a smile. She didn’t return it, she never did, but neither did she offer any sign of amusement or pleasantness. You felt the warmth in your chest wilt slightly.

“Do you ever tell stories, Commander?” You asked, hoping to break away from whatever was happening.

“Stories?”

“Yes, of your time in battle. Your triumphs and conquests laid out in detail. Our guests were offering me a brilliant retelling of their most recent battles. I was quite enchanted.”

There had been a spark of interest when you first began to explain, but it vanished shortly after. Her eyes were unbearably indifferent. Anything you had experienced earlier, any sign of amusement, was gone.

“I’m afraid I have more important duties than storytelling, your highness.” Was all she offered.

You felt embarrassed that you’d ever asked for such a thing from her and nodded. Silence surrounded you as the music ran down and she escorted you back to your chambers. You tried to ignore the hurt sitting in your chest as you fell asleep.

----

When you woke up, your chambers were still covered in darkness. You couldn’t imagine why you’d woken up until a noise caught your attention.

A soft, hissing noise came from your right. The moonlight coming from the outside illuminated the room enough to give you a glimpse of something. It reflected off of something smooth, but something… moving. You pressed yourself against the headboard as you tried to focus more on it.

Two dark, beady eyes stared back. A forked tongue visible in the sliver of light you had. Cold terror shot through you as you realized what you were seeing.

“Commander!” You tried to call out, but your voice broke, “Commander!”

Complete silence.

The snake moved forward curiously, moonlight catching the scales as it moved. It could’ve been a beautiful sight if it didn’t mean a horrible outcome for you.

“Commander!” You shouted this time.

Nothing.

“What is wrong with you?”

You shrieked as a voice came from your left. Dread filled your bones as Bahman stared back, though you couldn’t figure out why. There was some detail niggling at the back of your brain.

“Why would you call out for her?” He asked, eyes focused unblinkingly on you.

“She… She’s protecting me.” You answered.

“You’ve let yourself rely on her. On the woman who killed me,” He snarled, walking forward. That detail was suddenly crystal clear as you leaned away from him, “You deserve this fate.”

The question of ‘what fate?’ was on your lips, but pain erupted in your body before you could release them. Two razor sharp fangs had imbedded themselves in your leg, leaving you feeling faint already.

“Artemisia!” You screamed.

Two hands on your arms ripped you from the nightmare, barely stopping you from colliding with a strong body as you shot up out of the bed.

“Your highness,” A voice rang in your ears as the hands held you steady, “Your highness, you’re alright.”

It was the Commander. She sat on the edge of your bed, hands on your upper arms, holding you in place. Relief washed over you. It’d only been a nightmare.

“I’m sorry, Commander,” You whispered, throat aching against the action, “What can I do for you?”

Confusion was painted on her face and you couldn’t figure out why. She had come to wake you because there was something she needed, right?

“I don’t require anything from you.”

“Then why did you wake me?”

“You screamed.”

“Oh.” You said, blushing at your own absentmindedness.

A few moments of silence reigned, your mind working in a million different ways. Her hands finally smoothed over you and she released a sigh. You looked at her, but you could only catch a glimpse of her side profile, outlined against what little moonlight existed.

“Rest, your highness,” Artemisia said quietly, standing up and letting go of you. You felt a loss of comfort at the action. But you nodded and turned over, listening as she left the room, and falling asleep shortly after.

----

It was an unspoken decision that the nightmare wouldn’t be discussed. The two of you went about your day as if it never happened, though it was all you could think about. Your heart had felt like it’d beat out of your chest, your mind screaming that you needed the Commander. The Commander would keep you safe. A deep swell of pain had captured your heart when she hadn’t come.

You didn’t like any of it. There had never been a desire to rely on someone so heavily before. You couldn’t--and wouldn’t--acknowledge how it felt. Your work became a much more interesting prospect.

For the first time since you were a child, you were fully engaged in your duties around the palace. You forced yourself to pay complete attention at court, to participate, all of it. You left no opportunity for distraction.

It earned you a surprised, but proud look from your father. You were always well behaved at court though never like this. Normally, you were focused elsewhere. In the library, mainly, though you had other habits— habits you’d been sorely neglecting as of that.

That was how you found yourself out on the training grounds, trying and failing to throw your knives at the targets. You focused all of your thoughts into your movements, but would find them drifting back to the presence behind you.

Ten knives so far, only one hit the target. The edge of it, that is.

“Would you like some assistance?” Artemisia asked. You grit your teeth against the smile you could detect in her voice.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” You said without turning around.

“I see, your goal is to miss the target.”

You turned to glare at her, only to see her approaching anyway with a smug smirk. She turned you back around so that you were facing the target, guiding your arm.

“Start with your arm back here and when it reaches your ear, release the knife.”

Nodding, you did your best to focus on her words and not the sudden way her hands had been on you. Your eyes zeroed in on the target and you swung, releasing the knife as she instructed, but it still failed to accurately hit the target. She let out a curious hum.

“Your form is your downfall. Correct your feet.” She instructed.

You moved your feet into what you thought was the right stance, but she sighed. Part of you wished to give up on the whole endeavor and return to the library. Knives, swords, and armor had never been your expertise -- or even your goal.

A hand grabbed your ankle and you jumped, letting out a squeak. The Commander looked up into your eyes and waited patiently for you to recover. You wished she wouldn’t attempt to move you without warning, but your request was likely to get you nothing but an eye roll. Slowly, you returned to your former placement.

“Are you sure you were trained by the army commander?” She asked, correcting the direction and placement of your stance.

“Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“I find it difficult to believe anyone he trained could have such an atrocious stance.”

A scowl replaced what had previously been a curious expression. She made no efforts to act ashamed of her comment.

“You do realize you’re within kicking range.” You asked, raising an eyebrow. Sure it was childish, but it would serve her right, you thought.

“I’m well aware,” Artemisia said, but was unbothered as she also corrected your posture, “Keep your abdomen tight. Don’t slouch. Now, go again.”

It wasn’t often that someone else was giving you orders, but you obeyed them nonetheless. Taking a deep breath in, you held it, and went through the motions a few times as practice. On the third practice swing, the knife flew from your hand unrestricted. It landed just outside of the bullseye.

You clapped your hands together in front of you and turned to her, a triumphant smile playing on your lips. She stared at the target for a beat before offering a nod.

“Not terrible.”

Not the most warm compliment, but you took it. You felt invigorated by the small achievement and collected your knives to continue practicing. Over the course of another hour, you had moved your aim closer to the bullseye, but had not managed to hit it. You called it a day when anger began to build.

It had been your hope to impress the Commander with a significant improvement. When none seemed forthcoming, frustration quickly festered in your gut. Ending the session before you became irrationally upset seemed the best course of action.

You walked away from the target and Artemisia followed behind quietly. She feared nothing, but the set of your shoulders left her quiet. Before you disappeared into your chambers to no doubt sulk, she cleared her throat.

“You’re a quick study. Mastering the skill won’t take much longer.” She offered.

The urge to let your jaw drop was astounding. You held back, not wanting to humiliate her. It was kind of her to offer you that comfort. Instead, you nodded.

“Thank you, Commander.”

And as you stepped into your chambers, you felt a smile break out onto your face.

----

You threw yourself into training after that. For some time every morning and every evening before dark, you would stand on the training grounds and throw countless knives at targets. Only once had you hit the center.

It’d been a complete accident, if you were being honest with yourself. The rhythm of throwing the knives and the frustration of missing created a lull. Your mind detached from your body as it moved of its own accord. In that mindless state, your knife embedded itself into the very center of the target, knocking you forcefully back into reality.

Excitement coursed through your veins and you immediately turned to beam at the Commander. She offered the closest thing to a smile you’d ever seen before. It wasn’t much beyond the corner of her mouth twitching upwards, but it’d left you on a high for hours afterwards.

Since then you had been attempting to recreate that same easy, mindless state; all so you could see her smile at you again.

----

For weeks after you had been steadily improving on your aim with the knives, but none of them had quite earned you the same reaction. Still, your stubborn nature refused to let you quit. You were going to prove you were capable, you thought, that was the only reason you were working so hard.

The two of you had fallen into a bit of a habit. You would leave your chambers after sunrise for the training grounds and she’d follow, overseeing the training with a sharp eye. Every now and again, she’d give you instructions or adjust your stance, but that was all.

Today, something about the Commander seemed different. Off. Her skin was always a smooth porcelain, but today there was a sickly tinge to it. You didn’t acknowledge it as you didn’t want to bother her. Though it became more pronounced as the day went on, until it felt wrong to ignore it.

“Commander, are you quite alright?” You asked quietly, watching her expression.

“Perfectly fine, your highness.” She answered quickly. Too quickly. The set of her jaw told you otherwise.

“Mm. I call bull.”

There was no time for her to react to your statement, before you had stopped in your walk. You invaded her personal space and pressed the back of your hand to her forehead. The searing heat there startled you almost as much as her lack of reflexes.

“You’re burning up. How long have you been feeling ill?” You asked, pulling a handkerchief from your sleeve to dab at the sweat on her face.

“Since this morning.” Artemisia said stiffly.

“And you’ve been ignoring it since then? Honestly, you’re supposed to be the intelligent one here.” You sighed, grabbing her and pulling her in the direction of the healer, “We’ll get you seen to immediately.”

For a moment, you could see the apprehension on her features. But whatever had gotten to her must have been affecting her more than she was letting on. She didn’t argue or attempt to combat your decision, she didn’t even make a comment on it. It’d rendered her almost mute.

Her body was pressing into your side more and more. She was losing the strength to hold herself up after having done so all day. It inspired a wave of fear in you seeing her so weak, but you tried to maintain a brave face.

“We’re almost there,” You said softly, squeezing the hand in your own, “Then this will all be handled.”

All she offered you was a grunt and you took it. It seemed better than nothing.

You let decorum fly out the window as you reached the healer, practically beating on the door in your haste. The Commander was slender, but almost completely muscle. Her weight against you was almost too much for you to maintain.

“Your highness, what are you-” The healer asked, taking in the situation curiously.

“She’s ill. I need you to see her immediately.” You demanded and entered the room without being invited.

A long, comfortable looking lounger rested against the wall and you made a beeline for it. Artemisia’s legs were still moving and you took that as a good sign. She was still fighting against whatever was overcoming her. You laid her gently on the lounger and dabbed at her brow again. She attempted to push your hand away.

“Stop fighting me. I’m trying to help.” You hissed.

“Go.”

Despite the weakness that was clear in her form, her tone was stern. As if she was back to normal for only a moment. It made you hesitate, looking down at her in disbelief.

“What? I’m not going-”

“It may be better that way, your highness,” The healer spoke up, looking at the woman with an expression that you didn’t like, “I won’t be able to do much if you’re fussing over her as well.”

“Go.” She repeated.

Leaving her side was the last thing you wanted to do, but you also wanted her to get better. If it was better for you to be absent, you accepted, then you would go. You wouldn’t have to like it.

“Fine. I’ll go, but I want to be updated every hour on her condition. And you,” You said sternly, pressing your handkerchief into her clenched fist, “You have to return this to me when you’re well. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Now go.”

You gave the healer a nod, before finally obeying the Commander’s wishes. The thought of leaving the room made you feel sick to your stomach. There had been a look in the healer’s eye, some sort of pity, that you hated. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean.

Every place you attempted to go reminded you of the situation. Her presence lurked in every corner, reminding you of her sharp wit and steady presence. As you had declared, an update was brought to you every hour, but nothing had changed enough to put you at ease. You didn’t touch any of the food your servants brought and you didn’t dare look in the direction of your work.

Nothing could ease the feelings in your gut. The feelings of fear and desperation, but also the thought that you were missing something. Some piece of the situation. It nagged at the back of your mind and wouldn’t let you go.

“Your highness?”

Snapping from your thoughts, you looked up into the tired face of a servant. You realized in a moment that more time had passed than you thought. Sitting up straighter in your chair, you nodded for the servant to go on.

“The healer is requesting your presence, your highness.”

That was all it took. Like a shot, you were off, meeting up with the healer outside of his chambers. He looked as tired as you felt. You knew it’d probably be kind to inquire after him, but you didn’t care about him right now.

“How is she, sir?” You asked, casting anxious glances at the closed doors.

“It has been a long night, princess. She seems to be improving, but…”

“But?”

“I wanted you here in case her health took a turn for the worst. It isn’t unlikely in a case such as this.”

“And what is that?” You said, fingernails digging into your arm folded over your chest. The thought of her not making it had sent your heart into a frantic beat.

“From my expertise, I believe the Commander has been poisoned.” He said patiently.

“Poisoned? That’s not possible, she’s been with me. She hasn’t had time to be poisoned.”

“I understand that, princess, but that is what the signs tell me.”

“Are you sure that your signs can’t be wrong?”

The healer gave a deep sigh. You knew you were being irrationally combative, but it was easier than accepting the possibility of what he was implying.

“I would recommend remaining at her side during this time, your highness. I will be close if you need my services.” He said, exhaustion in his voice.

You nodded and rushed into the room. A faint sliver of moonlight illuminated the space aside from the few torches. Artemisia remained on the lounger where you’d helped her sit, but she was asleep now. As you approached, you could see that her pallor hadn’t improved. The sickly tinge remained and pulled at your chest.

A sheen of sweat covered her face that you could see. Unconsciously, you reached inside of your sleeve for your handkerchief. You realized when you came up empty. The cloth was still clutched firmly in her hand even in sleep. You refused to disturb her, as you had charged her with giving it back to you. Either she’d return it or you didn’t want it at all.

Another cloth laid on a nearby table and you grabbed it. Pulling up a chair as quietly as possible, you settled at her side. You made slow, careful swipes across her face with the towel. She didn’t stir.

“You’ve given me a scare, Commander,” You whispered as you went about your task, “And now the healer is saying things could still go… wrong. That’s unacceptable.”

She didn’t stir or react in the slightest to your words. You hated it. She was a notoriously light sleeper as you’d learned; with less and less guards available from your father, you would lock the library doors every morning and let her rest. The slightest shift in your seat and she’d move, however unconsciously. If you moved, she was awake and out of her seat in seconds.

“The healer says you were poisoned, but I don’t know how. You haven’t moved away from me in days. I think we’d both notice if something had bitten you.”

A thought that maybe you hadn’t put you on edge. Surely even if you missed such a thing, the Commander wouldn’t have. She made up for your lack of awareness of your surroundings.

“Anyway, you’ll be recovered soon. You’re far too stubborn not to be.”

There was a noise outside of the window that drew your attention away. You slowly realized that it was the chirping of birds. Moving over to the curtains, you opened them a little more to peer out, and found yourself surprised at the pink coloring the horizon. The sun was rising.

“I… I’ve been awake all night, it seems,” You said aloud, looking back even though you knew she wouldn’t wake. Returning to her side, you maintained your gaze outside of the window, “The audacity you have to be ill now. This is the last thing I imagined for our first sunrise-”

Oh.

You felt as if someone had reached into your chest and wrapped their fist around your heart. It felt like the organ would stop beating at any moment from the pain you felt. This whole time… It was so clear now; you had fallen in love with the Commander. The sharp, aloof woman had captured your heart.

Now she was laying weak and potentially dying at your side. A feeling of total helplessness washed over you, igniting a fury that you hadn’t expected. You vowed to destroy whoever was behind this.

“You’re not allowed to leave me, Commander,” You whispered finally, “Not until we finish this.”

Overwhelmed by your emotions and the lack of responsiveness, you finally let yourself cry.

----

The first thing you registered was a warm hand on your shoulder. Not gripping it, but resting there. You wondered who was bold enough to touch you so casually.

Raising your head, you winced against the bright light filling the room. Squinting against the light, a pair of eyes met yours. You remembered where you were and who those eyes belonged to.

“You’re awake.” You whispered, not bothering to stop your smile.

“I am.” Artemisia nodded, “It’s comforting that your skills of deduction haven’t abandoned you.”

You were so happy to hear her voice that you could almost ignore the teasing. The barely-there smirk gave you the deepest urge to kiss her. It was all you could think about, but you held yourself back.

“Good to see you’re still you.” You said. Though you tried to make it sound sarcastic, there was too much genuine happiness behind it to stick.

She only nodded, her smirk growing a little wider. It started you when she began to shift and suddenly held something out in front of you. You took a few moments before realizing what it was.

“You demanded that I return it.” She said.

You recalled that. In the heat of the moment, you had only wanted to give her something to hold onto. Something to anchor her to life. She was too hard headed to leave with unfinished business.

“Keep it,” You finally said, pressing it back into her hand, “It’s yours now.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue, but instead she gave you a nod. Any anxious feelings in your gut melted away. You knew what you were doing, how you were leaving yourself open by giving it to her. You didn’t care anymore. Not after last night.

“Your highness?” A small voice called from outside, before the door opened. Standing there with a tray was a servant bearing a tray of food, “I’ve brought a meal for the Commander.”

The tray was set down in front of you and she took her leave. Artemisia didn’t hesitate to pick at the offerings. That nagging feeling from the day before was back in your brain and without warning, you knocked the food from her hand.

“Don’t eat that.”

“Do you expect me to starve?” She said, looking unamused.

“Did you eat before going to the training grounds with me yesterday?” You asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“By the gods, Artemisia, just answer the question. Did you or did you not eat before we went to the training grounds?”

“Of course, your highness.”

You could see the exact moment that it clicked in her mind. The sickness had rendered a little slower than normal, but she was still extremely sharp. You removed the plate and set it down on a separate table, moving to rush from the area. A hand on your arm stopped you.

“It stands to reason, princess, that if these attacks are no longer exclusive to you…” Artemisia started.

“Then you won’t be the only one in danger.” You finished, your heart dropping. She released your arm after you gave it a squeeze, rushing out of the room.

Stood obediently were two guards. They looked bored when you rushed from the room, before standing up straighter and attempting to look attentive. Their appearance was the last thing on your mind.

“Do not let anyone in that room, do you understand?” You rushed out, barely giving them time to react before taking off at a run.

You paid no mind to the curious looks and the whispers as you ran past. Servants and individuals would move quickly out of your way, staring after you in surprise. You stopped to offer nobody an explanation. Not for the first time, you cursed the placement of the healer’s chambers in the palace. It made no sense to have someone so vital at the furthest point away from you.

It was the least important thing on your list of tasks at the moment, but you’d be glad that it’d finally be fixed. You had been complaining about it for ages.

As you ran, you bunched your skirts at your hips, cursing their length. They were dreadful for running. Naturally, they had no reason to be. You found yourself wishing for one of Artemisia’s dresses. The slits where the legs were would make running and moving much easier. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for a wardrobe change.

You rounded the last corner to the dining hall and found yourself running straight at the doors. Two guards stood outside the doors, exchanging a glance and then looking at you.

“Open the doors!” You yelled, putting all of your energy into the last length towards the doors. Your calf muscles screamed in protest.

The doors were opened just in time. You had been moving so fast that you weren’t sure you could slow down otherwise. It would have been humiliating to run face-first into the stone doors, though you gathered your brother would get a laugh out of it. Artemisia would no doubt find it amusing too.

Your father and brother were seated at opposite ends of the table. The former was just bringing the first spoonful to his lips when you burst in, his head snapping up in surprise.

“Don’t eat that!” You said, rushing to his side and shoving the plate out of his reach, before looking to Xerxes, “You either. It’s poisoned.”

The spoon fell heavily from your father’s hand. He rose with a scowl, taking in your disheveled appearance with a critical eye. Your lungs were burning, but you resisted the urge to take deep gulps of air.

“How do you know this, sister?” Xerxes spoke first, standing from his seat as well.

“The Commander’s food was poisoned yesterday. I didn’t make the connection until her meal was brought to us.”

“Us?” Xerxes questioned, your father cutting in before he could go further.

“Not now, my son. You are sure of this?”

“I’ve never been more sure, Baba.”

He nodded, turning to a guard at his side. There was no doubt that he’d been listening intently, but he offered no sign of it. His visage was entirely neutral.

All of those in the kitchen were rounded up and brought before the three of you. You and Xerxes stood on either side of your father, while he stayed seated. His hands were folded tightly over his middle, knuckles almost going white as they were brought in. The room was as silent as the crypt.

“Is this all of you?” Your father asked in a terse voice.

“Yes, your majesty.” The head of the kitchen said, bowing his head when your father looked at him, “This is everyone employed in the kitchens.”

He grunted, looking up and down the line of shaking servants. Every head was bowed in submission. In a surprising move, your father turned to you, motioning for you to take over. You nodded and tried to keep a level stare over all of them.

“One, or maybe more of you, have betrayed this family. Yesterday someone important to our country was poisoned and now there has been an attempt on my father and my brother; your king and crown prince. I urge you to come forward now and face your punishment with grace.” You spoke clearly, watching them with a sharp eye.

None stepped forward, though you hadn’t really expected them to. One servant drew your attention more than the others though. Her head was lowered, but her eyes were darting every-which-way, and her frame had started to shake slightly. You raised an eyebrow and looked at your family. They had noticed as well.

With slow, deliberate steps, you walked up to stand before the shaking woman. She was only slightly shorter than you were. Her body tensed, but it didn’t stop her nervous reaction.

“What is your name?” You asked, your voice feeling loud in the silence.

“Madhavi, your highness.” She whispered.

“Is there something you’d like to share, Madhavi?”

Her frightened eyes flickered up to yours for a split second. When she saw how intensely you were staring her down, they returned to the floor. She shook her head. You maintained your stare for a long beat and then turned. Ignoring the curious looks of your father and brother, you caught the attention of the guards behind them.

“Take her away.” You ordered and they moved immediately, clasping a hard grip around each of her arms. She tried to fight and pull away from the guards.

“It wasn’t intentional!” The woman yelled suddenly. You held up a hand for the men to pause.

“And what was it then?”

“I swear it wasn’t on purpose, your highness. The woman handed me what I thought was a seasoning and I’ve seen her around here so often that I took her word for it.”

“What woman?” You asked, brow furrowing.

The doors to the room, the doors you’d burst through earlier, opened suddenly. Artemisia stood there in all of her glory, shoving a familiar face ahead of her. You felt your breath stutter.

“I believe this is the woman she’s referring to, your highness.” Artemisia said, forcing the woman onto her knees.

You approached slowly. The world felt like it was spinning around you. Briefly, you met the Commander’s eyes, feeling utterly confused. Then you finally stared into Fairuza’s hardened face.

“How?” You asked, “How could you do this, after everything we’ve done for you?”

“Everything you’ve done for us? You worked my husband like a dog and gave him next to nothing. He may have been too delusional to see your cruelty, but I am not.” Fairuza spat.

The necklace around her neck glinted. Finally you recognized the single, blue scale resting against her jugular. It was revealed as Artemisia yanked back on her hair, attempting to silence the disrespect coming from her mouth.

“Bahman was paid a fair wage that was more than suitable. If he didn’t reveal that all to you, then that is out of my control,” You said slowly, before grabbing Fairuza’s chin and forcing her to lock gazes with you, “What is in my control is your fate. And it is going to be a terrible one.”

You looked up into Artemisia’s face, seeing a look of curiosity there. You wanted to tell her that this was all for her, that every punishment the woman would endure would be for her. Bahman’s death would haunt the woman’s mind, but Artemisia’s near-death would haunt her body.

“You will pay for your crimes over the rest of your days. I hope it was worth it.” You whispered, releasing her face and motioning for the guards to release the other woman, in favor of grabbing Fairuza.

The lack of fight in the woman made you feel uneasy, but you didn’t waver from your spot until she was completely out of sight. You heard your father dismiss the rest of the staff while you stood, unsure of what to do next. Artemisia’s hand on your arm drew you from your thoughts.

“How are you feeling?” You asked.

“I’m fine, princess. Though I should ask you that.”

“I’d be better if I hadn’t just condemned a woman to a lifetime of torture,” You said, trying to laugh, but it came out terribly bitter, “Now I have to figure out what to do with her daughter.”

“You will find an answer. You always do.”

----

The wind swept through your hair and rustled your dress. You pulled the blanket on your shoulders tighter around you. Despite the sunshine, it had done little to warm you. You peered around the corner with slight impatience.

“Anahita, stay away from the rose bushes,” You called out, “Come inside, it’s almost dark.”

A little head of hair popped up amongst the plants. You felt a smile blossom on your face, almost rivaling the flowers surrounding you in the garden. Ever since Fairuza had been revealed as the traitor, her daughter had come into your care. They lacked any other family who could take her and you’d been happy to do so.

“Coming!” She called, though you knew it’d be at least another five minutes until she actually came inside.

“Still allowing her to run your schedule, I see.”

You turned to see Artemisia propped against the doorway. Her arms boasted a speckled pattern that you recognized as blood. She hadn’t stopped to freshen up before seeking you out, making you her first stop after returning.

“She’s not the only one,” You smiled, approaching her, “Welcome back, Commander.”

Instead of returning your greeting, she gripped the blanket around your shoulders and pulled you into a rough kiss. You melted into the embrace. Her lips were bruising, telling you just how much you’d been missed. A soft whimper left your mouth before you remembered where you were and pulled away.

Your forehead pressed against hers as you took in a ragged breath. A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth and you wanted to kiss it away. Before you could do so, a little pair of arms wrapped themselves around the both of you.

“Hello, Commander!” Anahita said joyfully, looking up at the woman with a bright grin.

“Good evening, Anahita. I trust you’re behaving?” Artemisia said. Her voice was a little more stilted with the girl than with you, but she offered an awkward pat to the girl’s shoulder.

“Of course.”

Artemisia gave her a nod. You wanted to laugh at how uncomfortable the child still made her, though Anahita clearly admired her. She was getting better slowly.

“Alright, you. It’s time for bed,” You said to the girl, pushing her towards the doors. Turning to the Commander, you looked her up and down slowly, “And it is time for you to clean yourself up.”

“Mm. And will you be joining me?” She asked, only loud enough for the two of you to hear.

“We’ll see.”

Artemisia raised an eyebrow, but you only offered a coy smile. You ushered Anahita inside after stealing a quick kiss from the warrior. The excitement settling in your gut made you eager to return to the woman, but you had your duties to the girl first.

----

After getting Anahita into bed and reading her a story, you had rushed back to your chambers. There you found Artemisia submerged in a warm bath, steam rolling off of the water, her arms propped over the sides enticingly. You traced her muscles with your eyes before meeting her gaze. No matter how quiet you tried to be, she always knew you were there.

“Nice of you to join me, your highness.” She said.

“I’m sorry. Anahita wanted a story and I couldn’t deny her. It was hard to get her to sleep, she’ll likely be all over you tomorrow.”

You came to stand next to the bath, intertwining her fingers with your own. Her face didn’t change, but she squeezed your hand lightly.

“We’ll deal with that then. Join me.”

And join her you did. You laid in the warm water with her, exchanging kisses and words, until it had long gone cold. Even after that you didn’t sleep. You propped yourself near the window, watching the stars in the sky as she wrapped herself around you from behind. A pair of lips pressed a kiss behind your ear.

The two of you ventured into more physical pursuits until the morning, leaving you feeling pleasantly sore. Your head was laid on her chest when the sound of chirping caught your attention. Outside of the window, the sun was coming across the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant orange.

“It’s sunrise.” You remarked with a smile.

“So it is.”

“We met at sunrise. Do you remember?”

“I remember you attempting to give me orders, but not that it was sunrise.”

“You ruined my morning. I was so furious with you and I hated you for what felt like ages. Though somehow you wormed your way into my good graces.” You said, pressing a kiss just above her heart.

“We’ve never shared a sunrise.”

“Not on good terms. The only other time, you were… I thought you were going to leave. I couldn’t enjoy it like I wanted, especially since you weren’t awake to see it.”

“I owe you two more sunrises, then?” Artemisia inquired, trailing a hand down the side of your face. The gentle touch left you breathless.

“You owe me far more than that.” You grinned, leaning up to steal a kiss.

You walk past without acknowledging him and he moves on to the next woman who seems naive enough to suit his tastes. The goods are of fine quality, but the prices are enough to make even you balk. Perhaps your Father wasn’t so remiss in sending you with a companion. 

“Do you intend on making a purchase, Princess?” Artemisia asks slowly, “Or will we circle the market again?” 

You thought being so close to the water would bring her comfort, but she’s been antsy all morning. The market on the east dock is hardly the worst place she’s accompanied you to and her behavior gives you pause. 

“Impatient, Commander?” 

“Those willing to do you harm can do so easier if you follow a predictable path.” 

“That’s what you’re for.” You offer a pointed look. 

Normally, you wouldn’t take so long at the market, but you’re looking for a gift; for your very own companion, coincidentally enough. She would be leaving again in a few moons and you wanted to send something with her. 

Jewelry was off the table; she had no use for it and it would only serve as a hazard when she fought. You’d briefly considered a new sword, but knew she was too fond of her current weapons. Going down the weapons route, you decided a small, concealable dagger would serve her well. The problem was finding the right one. 

Every weapon you’d seen this far was too ornate. The hilts were made of heavy material or inlaid with a dozen gems that’d impede the point of being concealed. You need something functional that you can adjust just enough to make personal while still serving her well. 

“Be that as it may, we shouldn’t tempt them just because I’m capable of defending you.” 

“Why not?” You grin, admiring a stall of delicate chains in gold and silver, “I thought you liked spilling blood.” 

Artemisia says nothing. 

You chuckle and shake your head. 

Your eyes catch a stall with a large man hammering metal in the center of countless weapons. It lays tucked behind everything that glitters, simple and cold in its nature. This is your third time around the market and only now do you notice it; it’s the only stall not shouting to draw attention. 

Drifting towards it, the stall runner perks up. His eyes trace over you with interest. You can feel Artemisia follow close behind. She’s hardly ever far. 

“Ah, a woman of taste. Come, come, let’s see—“ He peruses his selection and holds one out to you, blade first, “Try this one.” 

Raising a brow, you reach out, only to find your wrist gripped. Artemisia glares at the man while hissing in your ear, “How have you survived this long by yourself?” 

You’re shoved roughly behind Artemisia’s form. She rips the blade from the vendor’s hands, not blinking at the blood it draws from her palm, and holds it out to you. Her eyes pierce the vendor and he seems to tremble where he stands. 

Taking the dagger from her hands carefully, you turn it over, inspecting it. It’s beautifully crafted, with a simple hilt and sharp, but ultimately doesn’t stand out to you. There’s an inscription along the blade that you try to read. You fail, coming to realize it isn’t a language you know. 

“Use it.” 

You look up, trying to place the voice. Artemisia is still glaring at the vendor, while he looks at you, but neither of their lips are moving. Turning, you find no one behind you either. 

“Did someone say something?” You ask softly. 

Artemisia turns, frowning. She shakes her head. The vendor doesn’t acknowledge your question, only stares, like there’s an answer he can’t understand without you. It makes your skin crawl. 

“Kill him.” 

Neither of their lips move. But you hear the voice all the same. 

You want to drop the dagger from your hands, but you can’t. Your fingers are wrapped around it and unmoving. It’s like your body is reacting independently of your mind, refusing to respond to basic commands, the desire and bloodlust so strong it feels like it’s all you have. 

The vendor's eyes light up. 

Every warning in your mind is going off. Something is very, very wrong here. But you step forward and turn the dagger blade out. You want to scream, but can’t open your mouth. All you can do is watch yourself pull back with the intent of burying it in his chest. 

Artemisia grabs your wrist before it sinks into his skin. He hisses and spits a curse at her, but she only rips the blade out of your hands, throwing it down at his feet. 

“Come on, Princess.” She says. 

When you don’t budge, eyes glued on the dagger, she takes matters into her own hands. You’re hefted over her shoulder. The action breaks you from your trance, shock overwhelming you. 

“Commander, put me down.” You demand. When she continues to weave through the crowds as if she doesn’t hear you, you growl, “Commander!” 

The Commander puts you back on your feet and shoves you backwards into an alley. Grabbing a couple of scarves off of the last stall she can see, she wraps one around your head. She uses the other to wrap over her own hair. You stare wordlessly up at her. 

You’re pushed into the shadows and she leans against a wall. Her eyes are focused on the main path. 

“Where did you go?” Artemisia murmurs, “When you held that weapon?” 

“I don’t know…” You admit. 

Her gaze turns on you. It’s dark and sharp, “You were going to kill him.” 

“I was. I wanted to, but it wasn’t… me.” 

She nods as if she knew all of this already. You can see her mind working a mile a minute, all while keeping a hard eye trained on the path. Dozens of people pass by before she looks away. 

“Why did you stop me?” You whisper. 

“You didn’t want to kill him.” She says simply. 

“But how could you know that?” 

“I know you, Princess.” 

Artemisia says it like it’s the most natural thing to admit. You’ve never met a soul the Commander bothered to know. It warms you from the inside and makes a smile bloom on your face. 

You lean up and place a kiss on her cheek. She stares at you and though she doesn’t say anything, you can feel the confusion radiating from her. The simple truth is that like Artemisia has never bothered to know anyone, you’ve never had anyone bother to know you. You’re a stepping stone to your brother or father in the eyes of the court or people; but not to the Commander, it seems. 

How odd. 

How lovely. 

“Kiss her,” Comes that voice again and you freeze, “Claim her.” 

When you look into Artemisia’s eyes, something clicks. You smile and grip the edge of her garment to pull her closer. The unyielding armor beneath her dress grounds you, stabilizing your mind while your heart races. 

“Artemisia.” You whisper. 

“Princess?” Artemisia asks automatically. 

“Will you kiss me?” You ask, “Will you claim me?” 

“I’m sorry. I don’t like surprising clients. It puts both of us in a very awkward position,” she offers, shaking her head.

“So this has happened before?” you ask, motioning between the two of you. She shifts and sighs, giving you an uneasy nod. You watch as her long, manicured nails tap an uncomfortable rhythm into her purse.

“Family does what they think is best for grieving loved ones. It’s not the first time I’ve been put in the middle of a divided household.” Grieving loved ones. The phrase makes your stomach cramp and a lump lodge firmly in your throat. How small and ordinary that makes such an unfathomable loss seem. You find yourself getting angry again.

“By divided household do you mean rational human beings and people who believe in ghosts?” You ask sharply. A slow smirk spreads across Ms. Howard’s face, and she hums dangerously, like it’s a challenge. Which is exactly when Margot runs up the front steps and stops between the two of you.

“Oh god,” she gasps, out of breath as she brushes strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes. She seems to realize the mistake of letting you two meet before she could be there to act as a buffer, and her face is struck with a horror you find gratifying. Even Billie Dean Howard looks both mildly irritated and relieved. Anyway, you aren’t sure her high society, sculpted face is capable of twisting with emotion the way yours is. “What time is it? I’m late, aren’t I? Shit. I was gonna prep her, really. Fuck,” she explains in a hurried breath to Ms. Howard who just raises her brow.

“I’m right here,” you drawl, narrowing your eyes at Margot. She turns to you, steading herself before grabbing onto your upper arms and shaking you once.

“You are going to suck it up and behave.” Her eyes are blue as crystal, just like Catherine’s, and tears well in your vision.

“I don’t want this bullshit in my house,” you insist, though your voice wavers, and you swallow harshly, avoiding Billie Dean’s curious, unoffended eyes.

“I don’t care. If you won’t do this for you, do it for me. Please, Y/N,” she sighs, brow furrowed tightly. You chew your lip, wishing not for the first time that Margot didn’t look so strikingly like Catherine in the eyes, in the way she begs. There are sharp, painful moments every once and a while in which you see it, and they never fail to make you weak in the knees. So you relent, bowing your head and nodding tiredly, sniffing and wiping your nose with your used tissue. She rubs your arms and kisses your forehead, and then she invites Billie Dean into your home, leading you to the dining room and away from the living room which looks like a tornado swept through—tissues on the floor, blankets crumpled on the couch.

You sit across the table from Billie Dean and pick at your fraying tissue as Margot makes tea and opens the blinds, dust dancing in the sunbeams. You watch her closely, the way she looks around, assesses the place. It’s almost as though she’s listening for something. So much so that she’s startled when Margot sets a mug down in front of her, a distracted thank you leaving her painted lips.

“So what did she tell you?” you ask as Margot plucks the disintegrating tissue from your hands and sets a box of them down in front of you instead. You glare mildly at her and at the assumption that you’ll be breaking down in front of this stranger over things that aren’t real.

“Next to nothing,” she answers easily. “Just that you’re both grieving, and you’d like to make contact with a loved one,” she says, nodding to both of you. “It’s policy, really. I don’t want details.”

“Why? Does it influence what you tell people?” you ask bitterly. She cocks her head at you again, blinking.

“No, but it affects how people receive me. The less I know, the easier it is for clients to trust me,” she explains plainly.

You grit your teeth and sip your tea. It’s made the way Catherine used to make it for you, with an extra sugar you always denied wanting but she knew you liked. You didn’t know Margot knew about that. You imagine them sitting together one sunny afternoon, Catherine telling her about all your silly little rituals and grinning the way she does when she talks about you, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. That gentle affection makes you want to cry again, and you set down the mug, avoiding Margot’s knowing gaze as she sits down beside you.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Everyone says you’re the best at this,” Margot offers, her hands wrapping around her own mug as she shifts forward. She’s been interested in the paranormal for as long as you’ve known her, so her awe and respect is disgustingly genuine. “Helping people move forward, I mean.”

“Well, thank you,” Billie nods with a faint smile. Her modesty irritates you, and your shoulders tense against it. “But I don’t deal in bereavement,” she explains gently. “I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to speak for those who can’t anymore.”

“So speak,” you say, and Billie’s eyes drift to you, piercing and blank.

“Y/N,” Margot reprimands quietly, but Billie waves her off.

“It’s alright. I understand why you’re angry. I don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t think you do understand, actually,” you reply, voice sharp and cutting.

“You think I’m a hack. That I take advantage of people’s pain, their desperation. That I’m taking advantage of Margot. And you’re angry because I’m not even nice about it,” she muses, a satisfied smile teasing her lips. She’s exactly right, and part of you wants to throttle her for it. “I won’t try to convince you of the truth. In fact, I don’t care whether you believe or not. What I do care about is Catherine.”

You dislike the way her name rolls off Billie’s tongue, soft and careful, and you hate the way Margot’s spine straightens next to you. You wonder how she knows her name but figured it was easy enough to google. The accident was all over the local news.

“She’s here?” Margot asks breathlessly. You roll your eyes, mostly on principle, partly because you want Billie Dean Howard to know exactly how much you don’t believe her. Billie hums, glancing down and away, rings clinking on her mug as she listens to something you can’t hear. Something you know isn’t there.

“She says she’s glad you got her message,” Billie offers, her eyes closing, and Margot grips your forearm. “And that you knew to hire a translator,” she adds, surprised, and then chuckles, shaking her head. “That’s a new one. Usually I just get called a psychic.”

“What message?” you ask, looking at Margot and trying to ignore the way Billie seems to be bonding with your dead wife.

“Our sign. The one we decided on when we were little,” she explains hastily as Billie begins tapping out a rhythm with her knuckles on the kitchen table. Not even you know what the sign is. The two of them were sworn to secrecy so that they could be sure it was a genuine message from beyond. Margot claimed to have heard it a few weeks ago, and you hadn’t believed her, too sick with grief to deal with that kind of false hope. It was what set her on the hunt for a medium in the first place, desperate to get you to see, to understand. As Billie taps, Margot’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. Y/N, that’s it,” she gasps and then, to prove her point, sings along to the song she and Catherine had made up when they were kids. You remember Catherine saying she’d teach it to your own kids once you had them and tear up for what feels like the tenth time in the last hour.

You aren’t sure how to explain Billie’s knowledge of that song, and the thought sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine.

Wordlessly, Billie holds out her hand to you, and you look down at her open palm then back at her waiting eyes.

“Kate would really like to talk to you,” she says quietly, and the nickname digs into your heart as a cruel but lucky guess.

“I don’t believe you,” you insist hoarsely, feeling as though the walls are closing in on you. Billie sighs but doesn’t retract her hand.

“She says you’re being needlessly stubborn, sunshine.” The pet name, however, strikes you like lightning, the breath knocked straight from your lungs. Margot’s thumb rubs circles in your forearm, and then all at once you’re crying, hot tears dripping down your cheeks. Your chin wobbles, and you wipe your eyes bitterly, shaking your head as you pull away from Margot’s touch, breath hitching.

“I can’t do this,” you sob, a hand pressed to your heart as you stand up and walk out, making your way through the front door and into the afternoon sun. You gasp, finally able to breathe as you sit down on the step and press your palms harshly into your eyes. You’re barely out there a minute before heels are clicking on the concrete behind you. The noise that escapes you is somewhere between a frustrated whine and a growl as you dig your nails into your scalp, trying desperately to control yourself in front of Billie Dean Howard, Craigslist psychic.

“Do you mind?” she asks, sitting down next to you. You’d expected some kind of platitude on grief, so the question catches you off guard. When you glance over, Billie is holding a cigarette between her teeth, lighter poised and ready. You can only vaguely shake your head, and the lighter flicks on. Her cheeks hollow out when she inhales, blowing smoke away from you as she leans forward on her knees. The sharp, heady smell of tobacco fills your nose, and you think you haven’t had a cigarette in years. Catherine would kill you. You laugh at the thought, just a little, and Billie’s gaze narrows on you, curious and watchful. So, you wipe your eyes and try to stop the tears from coming and coming as you sit up straighter.

“I’m sorry.” Your nose is stuffy, voice muffled, and Billie taps ash onto your front step.

“Please don’t be,” she says immediately, and you’re confused by how soft her voice is, how placating. It leaves room for vulnerability, and your stupid body latches onto the invitation with frightening speed.

“You being here,” you start, but your voice cracks, and you bite hard into your lip to keep the sob down. “Is just another reminder that she’s gone.” Your shoulders cave, and your breathing catches, and Billie’s brow furrows, a frown settled deep into her mouth. She reaches out, carefully, hesitantly, but you shake your head. She retracts her hand as you press your shaking palm into your forehead. You can’t look at her and her perfect hair, her perfect makeup. “It just hurts so much. I’ve barely been able to go through her things. And Margot, god, I love her, but this whole...beyond the grave shit is too much,” you sob and then laugh, near delirious. “Oh god,” you groan, shaking your head and wiping your puffy eyes. Margot, of course, had been right. You did break down in front of Billie Dean Howard.

“I just don’t think she’s ready,” you hear Billie whisper, and you swallow, swiping tears from your cheeks. She’s looking up and behind you, and you turn on instinct—almost hopeful—to find the space empty, devoid of Catherine.

“What?” you rasp, your heart aching. Billie turns back to you, her attention refocused, and shakes her head, taking another drag.

“Your wife isn’t a fan of my smoking,” she offers, amused as she snubs it out on the step. The reminder is unkind, you think, and you’re angry with yourself for allowing Billie to convince you—for a brief moment—that your wife might be standing right behind you, running her fingers through your hair in that soothing way she does. You can almost feel it now, in fact. “Grief is a funny thing,” Billie says. “It only lets us hear what we want to. Not always what we need to.”

Her words strike you as condescending, but the way you’re imagining Catherine’s fingers in your hair is too soothing for you to feel any meaningful irritation. Slowly, your eyes dry, and the two of you sit in silence for several minutes as the birds chirp in the summer heat.

“You know what I don’t understand?” you ask finally, and Billie hums, glancing at you. She looks ridiculous sitting on the step with you, done up and gorgeous while your only accessories are fuzzy socks and the dark bags under your eyes. “If there really is something after this, why would Catherine stick around?”

“It’s not exactly a matter of choice,” Billie admits, folding her hands against her black slacks. “Some spirits can’t move on for whatever reason.”

“Of course,” you nod sagely, sarcastically. “Unfinished business.”

“Do you have any idea what that might be for Catherine?” Billie presses, cocking her head delicately. You scoff, the anger swelling in you again.

“I dunno. Maybe her whole fucking life?” you burst, looking wildly to Billie. She doesn’t react, just presses her lips together sympathetically. You feel as though you’re being pitied now, and you can’t bear it. “Please leave,” you choke, turning away from her. You almost feel Catherine’s thumb against the back of your neck, swirling slowly, and a shiver runs down your spine. If only, if only.

Billie sighs and digs in her purse. She comes back with a business card for you to take. When you do—however reluctantly—she takes your hand in both of hers and holds it tightly, leaning close to you.

“Call me, Y/N. When you’re ready,” she breathes, searching your eyes for understanding. You aren’t sure what there is to understand, but you nod, and she gives you a tight, sad smile. She smells like cigarettes and oranges and cherries. “Take care of yourself,” she instructs, standing up and smoothing down her blouse. For a moment, you even think she means it.

When she’s gone, Margot steps outside and sits where Billie had been, her arms folded across herself.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she breathes heavily. Your eyes mist over, and you shake your head.

“You got what you wanted. Your proof, your sign,” you confirm, sniffing. She swallows, considering you, and then nods.

“Yeah,” she gasps, tears welling in her eyes. “I did.”

“She’s good, isn’t she?” you concede even if you do think she’s a fraud, and Margot laughs, wiping her eyes. Billie Dean Howard is a striking woman, and you wouldn’t be surprised to see her in the limelight one day. Or at least her own little niche of limelight.

“Listen, honey, I probably shouldn’t have…” she sighs, leaning over to squeeze your knee. Margot’s never been as good with words as Catherine, but her heart is just as big. “That was a shit show, wasn’t it?”

I'm not sure how long I'd been out when I finally wake up to the feeling of someone's hand gripping mine tightly. Light slowly begins to filter through my eyelids and the world starts to register in my head as I awaken, and I take a deep breath to try and fill my lungs with the still air that fills the room. I don't know which soldier is holding my hand, since none of us do that, and it makes me try to open my eyes. It's also bright, I finally realize, something that is certainly uncommon in the barracks. Did I fall asleep outside again watching the stars? I've been doing that a lot recently, I think. But that still doesn't explain the hand, nor the lack of the sound of my general screaming my name. It's certainly late enough, if the position of the sun is anything to go by.

I finally force my eyes open with a quiet groan, and vaguely feel the hand tighten around mine as my head turns towards the owner. Vision blurry, I don't recognize who it is, but it's definitely not a solider. And that's when I remember; I'm home. I came back home. And by the dark color that the blob of a person is wearing, it's either Enoch, which is very unlikely, or the headmistress. Blinking a few times to try and clear the sleep in my vision, I groan again as a pounding headache finally hits me like a freight train. The person quickly leans in, and their free hand gently presses my chest back down as they whisper "Don't try to get up just yet, darling." Oh yes, that's Miss Peregrine. I whine in response, but do as I'm asked and relax back onto the pillows again.

After a moment of silence, I ask quietly "What happened?" Miss Peregrine replies with "You fainted during the reset. You've been out for..." she trails off and I hear the clicking of metal on metal along with the soft sound of a ticking clock as she checks her pocket watch and finishes "six hours and seven minutes," a second later. I hum in response and sigh heavily; my hand remains in hers through the entire ordeal, and it's a welcome weight to help ground me in the moment while I attempt to remember the previous night. I can't recall much other than flashes, but I do remember the planes and the bomb and the panic attack. I finally realize that the person who carried me inside just before I blacked out must have been Miss Peregrine, and for some reason it makes me blush lightly thinking about being in her arms like that.

When I finally have enough of that, I sigh again and, my vision fully having returned to me, turn my head to face the headmistress, who looks to be staring at me, only turning her head away quickly when I make eye contact. I smile teasingly and mumble "It's rude to stare, Miss P," and the woman rolls her eyes, something I notice she only does around me. Otherwise she's much too proper to do something so childish, so it feels like a sort of privilege being able to experience it, even if it's happening because she's annoyed at me. "Are you feeling well enough to stand? I'm afraid dinner is in....ten minutes, and I've yet to prepare the table." I smile and nod, already beginning to push myself up with her quick assistance, and soon I'm on my feet. Miss Peregrine keeps one of her delicate hands on the small of my back as we finally leave my room, and I subconsciously arch into the touch.

When we arrive at the kitchen, the woman leaves my side, effectively removing her hand from my skin and, to my embarrassment, I actually whimper a little at the loss. The sound makes her chuckle quietly and give me a little smirk, one which I return with a pout as I try to deny it. Miss P then turns, still looking smug, and begins to gather plates, calling out "Could you help me set the table, please?" over her shoulder. I shake myself out and grumble an agreement before doing so, taking the china dishes from her hands and moving back and forth between the dining room and kitchen, setting each one in it's place, until there are thirteen perfectly arranged table settings, one for each of us plus Miss Peregrine. Once done, I brush my hands clean from invisible dust and look over my work proudly, returning to the kitchen and announcing "Done!" to the headmistress, who seems to just be finishing something.

The ravenette turns her face to me with a small smile and thanks, before saying "Wonderful. Now, go get ready to eat, you look as if you've just been raised from the dead." I scoff in mock offense, jaw dropping and hand going to my chest. "How dare thou!" I exclaim, acting hurt, but Miss Peregrine just gives me A Look and I wither, reducing down to a pout and a murmured "I'll be right back." She nods curtly and I hear a tiny, satisfied noise leave her throat as I exit the kitchen, heading to my room to get changed and cleaned up.

--

Questions come rapid fire for the first few minutes of dinner, but I luckily don't have to answer most of them once Miss Peregrine calms the children down. I answer the basic ones, if I'm feeling better and such, but I tend to shy away from the reason that I passed out, not comfortable talking about such things with literal kids present. Miss P seems to understand as she gives me a nod when I glance at her, mouthing "Thank you" from beside her. Halfway through, everything calms back down, and the rest of the meal goes smoothly, talks of our upcoming walk, what the others were doing outside before being called in, all that. I stay silent, just observing and listening, but a smile remains on my lips the entire time. Now that I'm older, no longer a child like I used to be, I feel less like their sister and more mature; maybe this is how Miss Peregrine feels.

It's not like I feel like their keeper or protector, I could never do what she does, but it kinda feels as though I've upgraded from sibling to parental figure. I am the oldest one here besides Miss P, after all, so it would make sense why I feel like this. And while it's a loss to not connect with them like I used to, it's already rewarding in and of it's own being someone that they look up to. Miss Peregrine is really lucky to have these kids, I think as I eat, and glance over at said woman. Her eyes shine with contained happiness as she watches over her charges, a barely visible smile ghosting over her features all the while. She loves them, I know that, and faintly remember the few times she gave me that look. It wasn't often, seeing as I was almost always the troublemaker, but when it did happen it felt like fireworks exploding in my chest.

Through my time in the army, I had a lot of time to think. And think I did, about anything and everything under the sun. But my thoughts still fell back to the old headmistress quite often, and I've come to terms with the fact that I definitely had (and probably still do) a crush on the woman. But who wouldn't? She's strong, powerful, confident. She's what every woman wants to be and she doesn't even have to try. Of course someone like me would have a natural pull to her, but it's not like anything could ever come of it anyway, so I just try to keep it down to a minimum. If I can turn the schoolyard infatuation into simple friendly admiration, then everything will be alright. So I focus on my food, finishing it up a few minutes later and returning my attention to the rest of the table once I realize I've been staring.

--

"Y/n!" I skid to a halt in the grass, just out of reach of a running Claire, and spin to face the person who called my name. I can hear Claire laughing happily when she realizes that she's going to get away from my tickle wrath, and I glare playfully at her. I then call back "Yeah Miss P?" The headmistress skips over the nickname and says "Could I speak to you please?" I nod, mumbling an "Be right back" to Claire, who pouts before going to find someone else to play with. With that, I follow the headmistress back inside, where she leads me into the study, closing the doors behind her. Gesturing to a seat, the woman sits across from it, quite close to me. When I'm settled, she finally asks "I hope you don't mind, but...I'm curious." I cock an eyebrow in confusion, waiting for her to continue. "Why did you pass out last night? Did something happen?"

My breath catches in my throat for a moment and I realize that there's no getting out of this. There's no way I'm going to deny Miss Peregrine an answer, so I nod stiffly. With a deep breath, I begin answering; "Well, as you know, I've been in the war this whole time while I was gone. And I've had to go through a lot of stuff, but I think that the hardest was definitely the bombings. I've seen homes demolished, families torn apart, parents taken from their children and vice versa." I pause, swallowing roughly to clear my throat. "And last night, even though I knew it wasn't going to hit, I think that seeing the bomb just brought me back to all of that. Remembering all the people that I couldn't save, all the lives that were lost. I just....I feel like I could have done so much more.

"I know that it isn't my fault that I couldn't help everyone, but seeing that thing just coming at you, at the people I love....reminded me of that. I don't know what I would have done if I had actually lost you, or--or anyone that night. So even when I logically knew you would stop it, I couldn't stop my head from throwing me back to the day it happened." I stop, unable to continue as my voice cracks and tears blur my vision. I don't like revisiting my past, especially now that I'm finally out of the army, and doing it in front of someone makes me feel weak, useless. But I'm quickly engulfed in a pair of warm arms that I instinctively fold into, and Miss P mumbles "Alright, alright. It's okay, I'll never let that happen. I will never let any of you get hurt." I nod as best as I can and curl further into the woman's embrace, trying to get as close as I can to her body in the process.

"I still regret leaving, you know," I eventually whisper into Miss Peregrine's neck where I had buried my face, hands holding her blazer. Faintly, her breath hitches and her posture stiffens, but still she hums and murmurs "I know you do. I regret letting you go. But you're a stubborn girl and even then I knew I couldn't stop you." The comment makes me chuckle wetly, knowing that she's totally right. "Still am," I mumble against her and she nods. We stay like that for a while, just mumbling quiet stories to each other, and even once we've separated she still tells me of the things that she and the children have been up to these last eleven years. It's comforting in a way, knowing that life still went on even though I wasn't here, while I was out there helping people. Or...trying to help people, at least.

When it's finally time to part ways, Miss Peregrine leaves me with "I'll always be right here if you want to talk about it, y/n. You have that, right?" before telling me to go back outside for a while. And as I walk away from her, words still ringing in my head, I realize that I'm failing miserably at keeping this little crush down to a minimum.

~

One deep brown eye popped open and you still smirked coyly. She rolled over in an instant, grabbing you to pull you on top of her. You laughed and met her kiss in the middle between you two. You wound one hand around her head and cupped her hair. After about 15 minutes of that, the two of you went downstairs.

The kids were of course romping around going back and forth with laughter and each other. Fiona stopped in front of you and smiled. “Good morning, Misses. I grew this just for you!” And she held up a red and purple flower but unlike most of your themes with these colors, there were very distinct splotches of red and purple which merged between the spots.

You took the flower with a smile and verbal gratitude.

Fiona ran after Hugh who just ran past.

“I think we missed breakfast,” you mused to Farah as the two of you made for the kitchen. No matter the time of day, that would always be your guess as to Alma’s location.

Moiraine and Alma were both in there, talking while they did the dishes. You adored Moiraine’s laugh to whatever Alma said. The Blue shrugged with her arms out. “I am only suggesting-“

“Well, I suggest you keep it to yourself,” Alma quipped sternly.

You guffawed at her. Moiraine spared you a kiss.

“Good morning, darling. We saved the two of you a plate,” Alma advised, holding her arms out to the table.

You kissed her briefly as well before sitting to eat.

“I was just proposing we change something about the house. Anything so this can feel a little more like our Home,” Moiraine answered Farah’s questioning look. She was being very dramatic, eventually coming to stand behind you and pick at your bedhead.

Alma sighed, eyeing the other woman like she was one of her defiant teenage Wards. “I understand that, but due to the make-up of our Home, any changed would have to be repeated daily.”

You pulled a face. That was a weak defense. “I think we can get around that,” you blurted thoughtlessly.

Those perceptive mixed blue-green eyes suddenly glared at you, but you could feel Moiraine’s crystal blues shining down at you. Alma huffed, making you smile. She had really loosened up since you’d come back. Perhaps it was the lighter load, mental or physical, but Alma was only closed-minded when she perceived a true threat to her loved ones. “What do you propose?”

Moiraine glowed at her victory, knowing you – as always – were the key. Alma couldn’t just shoot down anything if you were within earshot and could develop an opinion. The only time you didn’t argue was if someone in the Loop was at risk of getting hurt. So, Moiraine had plenty of openings. “How about a topiary?”

Alma frowned and shook her head. “Fiona put a lot of thought and effort into those.”

“Also, we don’t know what will happen if we change something Fiona grew herself,” you added, defending the children.

“We could fix the bog!” she suddenly volunteered enthusiastically.

The Ymbryne grimaced. “That is a defense against any who mean us harm.”

You looked up at the confused and frustrated witch. “Like the Hollow.” You’d given them both the full history story, and you’d each killed the trapped Hollow by the beach.

“I thought that Hollow came from the water.” Both of you and Alma nodded. “Then what makes us think they won’t all come from the ocean?” Moiraine questioned.

Alma smiled patiently. “The bog has already captured several who intend us harm. It’s a part of the loop.”

“What about some furniture?!” Moiraine asked, exasperated.

“Like what?” Alma indulged.

Moiraine gestured dramatically. “The sofa in the sitting room. It’s black. We could make it any other color.”

Grimacing, Alma was considering it. “What color?”

Moiraine smiled and stood. You all followed. She was dramatically squatting to check the dimensions, feeling the leather. “Yellow,” she proposed with a laugh. Alma’s eyes bugged. The Sedai was hysterical with laughter. “What colors would you approve of?”

“I like it black.”

“So… purple? Extremely dark purple?”

“No,” Alma protested. She shook her head, in full denial.

Moiraine tilted her head. “You have to compromise somewhere.”

Alma crossed her arms. “I don’t, actually. It’s my house.”

You frowned at her. “Really? I thought it was ours?” you emphasized. Stepping out of Farah’s arms, you came between the two hard-heads. When Alma went to rationalize, you raised one finger. “Nyuh. You don’t get to pull the Ymbryne card, not if this relationship is a partnership. It’s valid for Moiraine to want to make this Home in this world feel more like her own. Don’t pretend to entertain the thought, then shut her down.”

Moiraine grinned. This was why she wanted you around for this conversation. Alma looked at everyone in the room and had to be fair because her grown girls would accept nothing less. “What do you suggest?”

You nodded gratefully and looked at the long couch. Holding out your hand, you made the particles change and the leather turned a baby blue color. Moiraine looked for no more than a moment before wrinkling her nose. She twitched her fingers and the color darkened and deepened.

“And how about a material change? So we can stop sticking to it,” Farah stated, waving her hand sideways so gracefully.

The material changed from shiny leather to a softer fabric that you were dying to run your hands over. “And Millard’s nakedness.”

Moiraine sneered in distaste again. “And maybe a cleaning Weave.” She guided her hands down the length of the sofa, conducting Power you felt.

Once it was done, you all observed for a moment then went to test it out. Moiraine sat experimentally on one end. Farah sat on the opposite end’s plush armrest. Alma gestured for you to sit which you did, longways so she had to sit between your legs, her feet in Moiraine’s lap. She leaned back against you and made amends with Moiraine. You leaned your head on Farah’s thigh, looking up at your #1 gal. The Headmistress smiled down at you. She ran her fingers where she pleased before pausing. “What made you pick Blue?” she asked curiously.

“He did what?!” you hiss, stopping short of throwing your folder across the room purely on principle. 

You press your fingers hard against your temple as Pepper explains that Tony’s newest, impulsive purchase of a construction site during a fight had been spectacularly destroyed in under a couple of minutes.

“Yes, I understand it was technically taking responsibility,” you say tightly. “No, that doesn’t stop the optics from being a nightmare.” A pause. Then, quieter and resigned, “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

You end the call before she can apologize on Tony’s behalf again.

Before you can even process what you’d need to do for that problem, the doors slide open behind you.

“Hey,” Steve Rogers says easily, strolling in with a casual gait. “How’s it going?”

You turn around and face the super soldier with a reprimanding glare.

“You’re late.”

You flip open your folder with practiced precision, pull out a neatly annotated sheet, and press it into his hands. 

“Highlighted sections are your main talking points. Civilian relief efforts. Accountability. Team unity. If a question veers off course, you pivot. Smile, acknowledge, redirect. Got it?”

“Oh. Uh—okay,” he says, already skimming the page, brow furrowing as he murmurs the bullet points under his breath.

You’re about to remind him to breathe when the doors open again.

Perfect. On schedule, for once.

You grab the second set of notes and turn sharply.

“Here are your notes, Roman—”

The words die in your throat, and you immediately pull your notes back from reach. 

“You’re not Romanoff,” you say.

Clint Barton looks down at himself, pats his chest, his arms, then grins cheekily. 

“Nope,” he says. “Definitely not Romanoff.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

“This is not happening right now,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

It’s not surprising. Natasha Romanoff treating a mandatory press event like a suggestion at best is practically tradition. Still, you’d allowed yourself the faint, dangerous hope that today might have been different.

“Barton,” you say calmly, checking the time on your phone, “I don’t have the energy for this. Where is she?”

He shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself. 

“I owed her a favor. And now,” he says, gesturing to himself with a flourish, “you have me.”

You don’t respond. You just dial.

“Yes,” you say the moment the line connects. “Pull Romanoff’s name from the panel.” A beat. “I don’t care that it’s already printed. I don’t care if they already noticed. Do it.”

Protests crackle through the speaker. You hang up before they finish.

Across the room, Steve is still by the doors, shoulders hunched, quietly rehearsing under his breath, as if this were a mission briefing rather than a media circus.

“Rogers,” you snap.

He straightens instantly.

“Stick to the notes,” you say firmly. Then you turn, leveling Clint with a look that could curdle vibranium. “And you—stay out of that room.” You point toward the wall separating you from the sea of cameras and questions waiting on the other side.

Clint raises both hands in surrender and gives you two thumbs up.

You push past him, silently fuming at the things you have to deal with.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, voice sing-song and far too amused.

You don’t slow down.

“To fix this,” you mutter.

Like every other mess the so-called Earth’s Mightiest Heroes leave behind.

It’s part of your job after all, to deal with these sorts of messes, even if one of them is a frustrating red-haired agent who especially enjoys being your problem to clean up.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Your knuckles rap sharply against the door, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway. You don’t bother knocking again. You already know she heard you.

As you wait, your phone buzzes with a notification. You glance down and check the messages.  

It’s a photo from one of the press assistants.

Steve sits at the panel, but he’s not facing the audience of reporters. Instead, he’s looking to the person on his left with rapt attention. Clint is sprawled in the chair beside the Captain, boots up on the table, microphone in hand, mid-gesture as if he’s counting off points in a story no one asked to hear.

“Oh, God,” you mutter, scrubbing a hand down your face.

Another problem to deal with, just as you’re handling this one.

Right on cue, the door opens, and your most frequent problem appears in front of you.

You don’t give her a chance to speak. You simply turn your phone around and shove it into her line of sight.

“This is your fault,” you say flatly.

Natasha glances at the screen for half a second before lifting her gaze back to you, lips already curling into an amused smirk.

“Well,” she says lightly, “hello to you too.”

She’s dressed down in a black tank top, loose sweats, and hair pulled back without effort, and somehow she still looks good, and that only makes your irritation feel worse. 

You pull the phone back and cross your arms.

“You were supposed to be there.”

She mirrors you, folding her arms and leaning casually against the doorframe, completely unbothered by your tone. 

“Steve’s handling it,” she says. “He’s good at that earnest, heroic thing. Besides, I wasn’t even part of that mission.”

You let out a slow, controlled breath, the kind you’ve perfected for moments exactly like this, and start tapping through your phone.

“No,” you say, finally finding what you’re looking for. “You were supposed to be there to clear up this rumor.”

You hold the screen out again.

An article fills the display with a scandalous headline. Below it is a photo of Natasha at Tony’s most recent party, leaning far too close to a national ambassador at the bar, her smile caught mid-flirt.

You sigh in exasperation. 

“How do you manage to have a playboy reputation worse than Stark’s?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe.

“Please. I breathe near someone, and suddenly it’s a scandal. According to them, I’ve slept with half the world’s diplomats.”

“Which is exactly why you were supposed to deny it publicly today,” you say, rubbing your temple. “Instead, I’ve got Barton out there improvising some story.”

Natasha chuckles, low and soft, and shakes her head. She steps closer to you and reaches up, her thumb brushing lightly between your brows.

“You always get this little crease right here when you’re angry,” she murmurs. “It’s cute.”

You smack her hand away without hesitation.

“It’s stress,” you snap. “Which means I’m apparently adorable every time I have to chase after you.”

Her smirk only widens at your words. 

“I should cause trouble more often then.”

You ignore that, not bothering to entertain her usual flirting banter any further. You still need something to mitigate the whole rumor mill.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in those situations?” you sigh in exasperation.

She arches her brow. 

“Like what?”

“You always make it look like you’re one step from bringing them to your bedroom,” you challenge.

Natasha pauses just long enough to eye you suspiciously. Then she sighs dramatically and gestures dismissively with her hand. 

“I didn’t sleep with anyone if that’s what you’re asking about. We just talked politics. Not exactly the kind of foreplay I’m into.”

You press the stop button on your phone, ending the recording immediately before her little suggestive comment and nod in satisfaction. 

“Perfect. Thank you.” You turn the phone back toward her. “Now sign here so that I can release this as your statement.”

Her mouth parts slightly as realization hits. She blinks at you for a moment and then finally laughs under her breath, impressed despite herself. Without breaking eye contact, she traces her signature on the screen with her finger.

“Well played,” she admits. “A little underhanded though.”

You give her a deadpan look. 

“I work with superhumans, gods, narcissists, and spies. It’s a required skill at this point,” you say simply before directing your focus to your phone.

Natasha’s gaze never leaves you.

You feel it even when you refuse to look back up. You focus on your phone instead, thumbs moving quickly as you forward statements, tag editors, and lock down follow-ups. This is familiar territory. Safe territory. Paperwork and damage control don’t flirt back.

You’re almost impressed she’s managed to hold her tongue this long.

Almost.

Then she shifts with the soft scuff of her foot against the floor as she pushes off the wall like she’s made a decision.

The subtle change draws your attention, despite how hard you try to resist.

“Well,” Natasha says lightly, breaking the silence, “I think you’ve kept me long enough.”

Your head snaps up. Instinct takes over before logic can catch up, and you look past her into the room, suspicion flaring sharp and immediate.

“Don’t tell me you have someone waiting in there this whole time,” you say in panic, preparing yourself to develop some cover before more rumors can spread.

Her smirk blooms, the kind she wears when she knows she’s already won something.

“I meant,” she says smoothly, “you kept me from my bed.”

Natasha takes a step closer. Then another. Before you can stop her, she lifts her hand, fingers warm against your skin as she tilts your chin up just enough to force your attention back to her. 

Green eyes lock onto yours.

“But,” she adds softly, “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

For exactly one heartbeat, your carefully built walls falter. Your pulse stutters. Heat flares low and dangerously. For a split second, it would be so easy to forget the job, the rules, the reasons you’ve built this distance brick by brick.

Then you remember.

Who she is.

What she does.

And most importantly, how much she enjoys teasing you like this.

You push her hand away and step back, reclaiming space to clear and cool your mind.

“Be at the next press call,” you say evenly, your voice steadier than you feel. You turn away before she can read anything on your face. “And please try not to stand too close to anyone in the future.”

Behind you, you hear the smile in her voice.

“No promises.”

You don’t respond. You just keep walking. Not until you’re safely out of her sight do you let your expression crack, stern composure giving way to the helpless heat creeping up your cheeks. 

At least this problem is handled. You exhale slowly, forcing the feeling down where it belongs, already bracing yourself for the next mess waiting to be cleaned up.

Because if Clint is still holding a microphone, there’s no way whatever he’s saying is harmless.

You can only hope it’s fixable.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hearing room smells faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. The kind of room designed to make people feel small.

Unfortunately for the people seated behind the long crescent table at the front, Natasha Romanoff has never been particularly good at feeling small.

You stand along the side wall of the room, tablet tucked against your chest, one shoulder resting lightly against the cool wood paneling. From here, you have a clear line of sight to everything: the committee members, the press row, the cameras perched on tripods like watchful birds.

And Natasha.

She sits calmly at the witness table, as if this is the least stressful place she could possibly be.

Your tablet screen glows softly with neatly organized notes of talking points, diplomatic phrasing, redirect strategies, and neutral language suggestions meant to keep the hearing smooth and uneventful.

You spent most of the night preparing them.

And you know very well she’s not going to follow half of them.

Still, there’s always a first time for anything.

Natasha sits with one ankle crossed casually over the other beneath the table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely folded together like she’s waiting for a lunch order instead of answering questions from a congressional oversight committee.

Her expression is perfectly composed, but then her attention drifts.

Her eyes flick across the room for barely a second before settling on you, where you stand against the wall. When she catches you watching her, one corner of her mouth curves upward. A quick wink follows.

You immediately look down at your tablet, pretending to review your notes.

You recognize that teasing look. And you sigh quietly to yourself at how your heart still fell for it.

Across the table, one of the committee members adjusts his glasses and leans toward his microphone.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he begins, voice carrying the dry superiority of someone who has never really cared about anything but himself. “Given your…complicated background, many citizens are concerned about the level of autonomy the Avengers currently operate under.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly.

That’s the first warning sign.

You tap your pen nervously against the tablet.

“Complicated,” Natasha repeats mildly. Her eyes flick toward you again before returning to the man across the table and giving him a playful smirk. “That’s a polite way of saying assassin.”

The room shifts uncomfortably. Someone in the press row shifts in their chair. A few reporters glance up from their screens. Still, the man presses on.

“You spent years working for foreign intelligence agencies, including organizations hostile to this country.”

Natasha nods once.

“Yes.”

You glance down at your notes. Page three.

If questioned about past affiliations, acknowledge and redirect to present-day service.

Your gaze lifts again.

Natasha doesn’t even glance in your direction as she does not follow that suggestion, choosing not to say anything further to defend herself.

The committee member leans forward.

“And yet the public is expected to trust that someone with that background now acts in their best interest.”

Natasha’s lips curve slightly as her eyes slide toward you again.

You immediately feel the headache starting behind your eyes.

“Well,” she says calmly, “it seems to be working out so far.”

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the press row.

You pinch the bridge of your nose at her cheeky response.

That wasn’t on the list.

Across the room, Natasha watches the gesture, her smile deepening subtly.

Another senator leans forward.

“Let’s not pretend the Avengers have some spotless record here. Property damage, civilian casualties, unsanctioned interventions—”

The smile disappears from her face as Natasha straightens slightly in her chair.

The second warning sign.

You lower your tablet slowly, hoping that someone on the panel has enough sense to stop pushing and insulting the people she considers her family.

“—one could argue the Avengers cause nearly as many problems as they solve.”

Natasha studies him for a moment. Then she smiles. It’s the smile that usually means someone is about to regret something.

“Respectfully,” she says smoothly, “the people who tend to complain the loudest about the Avengers are usually the ones who call us when aliens start falling out of the sky.”

The press row shifts again. A few reporters start typing faster.

You close your eyes briefly.

That’s going to trend.

Across the room, one of the senior organizers shoots you a pointed look.

You give them a small, helpless shrug.

What did you expect with that line of questioning?

Another member of the panel clears his throat.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he says sharply, “this isn’t a stage for clever remarks.”

Natasha leans slightly closer to the microphone.

“You’re right,” she agrees pleasantly. “It’s a stage for questions. So, please, continue.”

The room goes still for a moment, surprised by her sudden compliance.

You watch her closely. Natasha is actually doing remarkably well. Better than expected, honestly.

The next few questions go by without incident.

Natasha answers them calmly. Even cooperatively.

You almost start to relax.

Then the man at the far end of the table speaks.

“Let’s be honest here,” he says flatly. “You want us to trust you with global security decisions when not that long ago you were little more than a weapon.”

The air in the room tightens immediately. 

Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes does.

You notice it right away.

The man continues.

“A weapon pointed wherever your handlers decided.”

Your hands tighten around your tablet.

The room waits with bated breath.

But Natasha says nothing.

You frown at her unusual reaction. Normally, this is where she would slice someone in half with a perfectly delivered line.

Instead, she simply reaches forward and switches off the microphone.

The quiet click echoes louder than anything she could have said. She stands, and chairs scrape slightly as several people lean forward.

“Ms. Romanoff,” someone calls sharply. “We’re not finished here.”

Natasha straightens the cuff of her jacket.

“I am,” she says calmly.

Then she turns and walks out of the room.

The press erupts instantly with questions, shouting, and cameras flashing. 

You rub your forehead and exhale slowly. To be honest, she lasted longer than you expected her to. With a sigh, you gather your things quickly and head for the door after her.

You’re halfway down the hall when a voice snaps behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turn and see one of the hearing organizers stride toward you, irritation written across his face.

“That was completely unacceptable,” he says sharply. “You need to manage her better. She does not get to walk out of a government inquiry like that.”

Your patience, already thin, frays another inch.

“She answered every question asked of her,” you say evenly.

“She avoided several,” he snaps.

You cross your arms.

“No,” you correct calmly. “She declined to entertain insults.”

The man scoffs.

“If Ms. Romanoff expects the public to overlook her past—”

You cut him off.

“No one is asking anyone to overlook it.”

Your voice is sharper now.

“She’s spent years proving who she is now.”

The organizer folds his arms.

“That doesn’t erase what she was.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He looks satisfied.

You step closer.

“But if we start digging through the past of every person in that room back there,” you continue calmly, “I wonder how many spotless records we’d find.”

The man’s expression shifts.

You keep going.

“Political favors. Quiet deals. Offshore donations.”

Your voice stays calm.

“But sure,” you continue lightly. “Let’s focus on the former spy who helps save the planet every few months.”

The organizer stiffens.

“You’re implying—”

“I’m implying,” you say flatly, “that you should be very careful about throwing stones in a room full of glass.”

Silence stretches between you.

The man glances down the hallway. Then back at you.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his previous bravado despite his clear nerves.

“We expect Ms. Romanoff back in the chamber for further questioning.”

“Noted,” you say.

He leaves. 

You stand there for a moment, breathing out slowly. Then you turn the corner, only to stop in surprise.

Natasha is leaning against the wall just a few feet away. She looks entirely relaxed, like her character wasn’t just insulted a few minutes ago.

“…How long were you standing there?” you ask with a sigh.

Her smirk appears instantly.

“Long enough.”

Not wanting to meet her eyes anymore, you look down at your tablet, closing out of your pages of notes.

“Well,” she says lightly, pushing off the wall, “Safe to say, I didn’t follow your notes.”

You sigh and look back up at her. She’s standing closer now that you can feel the heat of her presence.

“No,” you say softly. “You definitely didn’t.”

She watches you carefully, waiting for the reprimand.

Instead, you shrug.

“It’s fine.”

You walk past her. Then pause just long enough to add over your shoulder.

“I liked your responses better anyway.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Natasha doesn’t move for a moment. Then a slow smile spreads across her face as she watches you go. She catches up to you easily.

“Shouldn’t we head back in there?” she asks.

“Nope,” you reply. “I’m heading out for lunch.”

Natasha steps ahead of you and opens the door before you can reach it, holding it open with one arm braced against the frame.

When you walk past her, she leans slightly closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath.

“Can I join?” she asks.

You stop and give her a completely deadpan stare.

She responds with a slow, shameless smile.

You roll your eyes and shove her lightly on the shoulders as you walk past.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

She chuckles, low and amused, behind you.

And your hands tighten around your tablet as heat rushes to your face at the sound.

Natasha watches the reaction with clear satisfaction as she quickly follows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Music hums through the Tower as another one of Tony’s parties is underway.

The party spills across the penthouse floor in warm gold light and polished marble, guests drifting in small clusters of diplomats, donors, and a few celebrities who pretend they weren’t desperate for an invitation.

You stand near the edge of the room, tablet tucked under one arm, scanning the floor as you look for any potential problems.

No fights. No reporters. No Avengers attempting karaoke.

So far, so good.

You take a slow sip of the club soda in your hand and check your list again. Catering is moving smoothly. Security rotations are holding. Pepper already texted you once to say everything looks “miraculously under control,” which is about as close to praise as you usually get.

You’re just about to allow yourself the smallest moment of satisfaction when your gaze drifts toward the bar.

And there she is.

Natasha leans against the polished counter, elbow resting lightly beside a glass of something amber. Her red hair falls loose tonight, catching the warm lights of the room. She’s speaking to a tall man in a navy suit, whose accent faintly carries through the music.

You recognize him after a moment.

A visiting ambassador.

Natasha tilts her head as he speaks, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smile she uses when she wants someone to forget what they were saying.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

They’re standing a little too close.

Not inappropriate. Not technically.

But close enough that tomorrow morning’s tabloids would absolutely have opinions if they could get their hands on any evidence.

You open your mouth to sigh when a sharp flicker of light flashes from the garden outside the glass wall.

Your head snaps toward it immediately.

Another flash.

Hidden between the hedges lining the balcony below, a silhouette shifts.

You set your drink down without a word and move.

The doors slide open quietly as you step outside, heels clicking across the stone terrace. The photographer is still crouched near the bushes, lifting the camera again when you reach him.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You reach down and take the camera cleanly out of his hands.

“Hey—!”

You flip the device over in your hands with practiced efficiency, pop open the side panel, and pull out the SD card.

The man stares at you in disbelief.

“You can’t—”

You toss the camera back to him, which he fumbles into his arms in panic.

“Yes, I can,” you reply calmly.

Your phone is already in your other hand.

“Security,” you say when the line connects. “Terrace level. We have a trespasser.”

You hang up before the man can start arguing again.

Two security guards arrive within seconds and escort the photographer away while he protests loudly about rights and lawsuits.

You dust your hands off lightly.

Problem solved.

When you turn back toward the party, several guests are staring at you, the commotion drawing the attention of half the room.

You straighten and offer them a quick, reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine,” you say easily. “Just someone who forgot they weren’t invited.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the nearby group.

“Please,” you add, gesturing toward the music and lights, “enjoy the party.”

They quickly return to their conversations.

You feel it before you see it.

A familiar gaze.

You glance toward the bar.

Natasha is watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly as she tilts her head in invitation.

Heat creeps up your neck.

But you don’t mind the chance to escape the attention of the others. You pretend to check something on your phone while making a strategic retreat toward the bar.

When you reach it, you realize that the ambassador is gone.

Natasha sits alone now, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as if she’s been waiting.

You slide into the seat beside her and signal the bartender.

“Whiskey,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment before speaking.

“Was there a problem?” she asks casually.

You take the glass when it arrives and glance at her.

“You already know what it was.”

Her lips twitch.

You take a small sip before continuing.

“I thought I asked you not to stand too close to people unless you actually planned to bring them back to your room.”

Natasha turns slightly toward you, green eyes bright with amusement.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

You rest your elbow on the bar and rub your temple.

“Very specifically.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. Then she scoots her chair closer. Just a little.

The shift is subtle, but suddenly the space between you is noticeably smaller.

She tilts her head slightly.

“So,” she says lightly, “I can be close to you like this, right?”

You exhale slowly before you lean your head against your palm and look over at her with a tired frown.

“You should only do things like that if you actually mean them,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment.

Something in her expression softens.

Her hand lifts.

You don’t even react anymore when her thumb brushes lightly between your brows.

“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.

You start to protest—

But her hand doesn’t stop this time.

Instead, her palm cups your cheek gently, guiding your face toward hers.

Her voice lowers.

“What if I do?” she whispers. 

For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background.

Your pulse stumbles as Natasha’s gaze holds yours steadily.

Still, you can’t help but feel the skepticism rise in your chest that this is just another one of her teasing flirtations.

“…Natasha,” you warn gently.

She doesn’t pull away.

“What if,” she repeats softly, “I actually mean it?”

You stare at her for a long moment.

Natasha doesn’t look away.

The music from the party swells faintly around you, a slower song bleeding through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, but the sound feels distant compared to the quiet tension between you and the red-haired spy standing far too close.

Her hand is still cupping your face.

You reach up and take her wrist.

For a second, she thinks you’re pushing her away again.

You do pull her hand from your cheek, but this time you don’t let go.

Your fingers settle around her wrist instead, warm and steady.

Natasha’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

You lean back against the bar a little, studying her with narrowed eyes.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a few words,” you say calmly, “before I’m falling into your bed, Romanoff.”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts slowly into a smirk, unbothered by your challenge. She tilts her head slightly toward the dance floor, where the music has slowed, couples swaying under the soft golden lights.

“Well,” she says lightly, “we could start with a dance.”

Her gaze flicks back to yours.

“Unless,” she adds innocently, “that’s going to start some rumors.”

You stare at her for half a second. Then you roll your eyes. Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand.

Before she can react, you tug her off the barstool.

Natasha follows easily, amusement flickering across her face as you lead her toward the dance floor. Guests part subtly around you, more interested in their drinks and conversations than the quiet moment unfolding between an Avenger and the person responsible for keeping their reputations intact.

You stop near the center of the floor and turn toward her.

Natasha looks almost smug.

You place your hands on her shoulders, then slide them up around the back of her neck before pulling her close.

Natasha blinks once, clearly not expecting that.

Your arms settle comfortably there as the music carries the slow rhythm around you.

“You’re surprisingly lax tonight,” she murmurs.

You give her a small, unimpressed look.

“I’m being practical,” you reply. “Keeping you close to keep an eye on you.”

Her hands come to rest lightly at your waist.

“Sure. Practical,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She studies your face.

“And what about potential rumors?”

You shrug slightly, pulling her a little closer as the dance begins.

“I can handle any rumors,” you say.

Natasha’s eyes soften, just a fraction.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, and people might think you like me.”

You tilt your head.

“I manage the Avengers,” you say dryly. “Liking dangerous things is part of the job description.”

Natasha laughs quietly under her breath.

The sound is softer than usual.

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you move slowly together to the music.

Then she leans in just slightly.

“Still,” she murmurs near your ear, “a dance seems like a good start.”

You glance at her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romanoff.”

Her smirk returns immediately.

“Oh,” Natasha says, eyes glinting, “I’m just getting started.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~