let me be a dreamer

it is, perhaps, fortunate for them both that amalia has no inclination to kill the hunter. oh, she'd like to wring his neck, but solely because she is growing increasingly weary of his prejudice and inability to realise that she is as complex as any human being; this isn't a third-rate horror movie, however much he'd like it to be. she's capable of feeling and compassion — more so, amalia would argue, than a lot of humans are; they're the ones killing and hurting their own kind — but she supposes if the hunter acknowledged that, he'd have to accept that he's probably murdered some people who didn't deserve it.

amalia isn't convinced he's capable of that kind of critical thinking. he wants the world to be black and white, and it is not. it never has been.

❝ with, presumably, the goal of helping people. or do you do it for your own ego, like a lord shooting down caged birds? ❞ her pace remains steady, but amalia's guard is up; she's listening to every step the hunter takes, making sure he's not going to suddenly go for her. he'd have a job, of course, if he's as old school stakes-and-silver as he seems, but she likes this coat, and would rather not lose it to a massive hole in the back.

❝ hm, i wonder, is the reason just that i care? ❞ she's got a heart, she feels compassion. and, once upon a time, she was a young woman set upon by a more powerful monster, unable to fight back for a decade. ❝ it's been a few years since i had any cause for latin, but i'm sure i can dredge something up. ❞ she looks over her shoulder at him, perturbed. ❝ there's nothing permanent? that doesn't involve killing a victim, too. ❞

her insistence is worrying, only in the sense that my embarrassment is a rapidly incoming wave. but then maybe it's not so bad. she doesn't even drink coffee, so who is she to judge ? never mind the fact she literally just clarified that she wouldn't judge at all, so really, this is all a very much self - inflicted scenario.

❛ if you're sure, then . . . three ? four ? ❜ he tries his luck in a squeak of a suggestion, doesn't know what to do with his hands as he waits so drums them against the counter in a rhythm that never evens out. ❛ how many people have you met ? ❜ he wonders whether 'people' includes humans like him, or if he's the odd one out nowadays. he tries to imagine every which interstellar creature he's ever seen in media, and the boundaries are limitless.

❝ i've spent my whole life in space. ❞ yeah, okay, that life has been short, and she wasn't born at all, and there are still debates about whether she's even alive, but she's been on the run, just skating at the speed of light as far from the handy andy facility as she can get, hopping on any ship that'll take her anywhere. and she prefers travelling to being planetside, whichever planet that might be. more freedom, among the stars. more chances to blow ships up, too. ❝ are you headin' back to earth? am i headed to earth with you? do they have droids there? ❞

she stands out. she knows she does. even with all the folks the multiverse can hold, sundry sidney is one of a kind.

four sugars it is! she makes 'em large, too, 'cause sid may never have tasted sugar, but she's pretty sure ryland was not in fact saying it as an off-hand suggestion, but as an implication that he has a sweet tooth or two. she makes him the best fuckin' coffee she can with the tools on offer, doesn't even use her gun arm to froth milk, since the idea seemed to freak him out, and hands it over with a flourish. ❝ i dunno, i wasn't counting. i've passed a whole bunch of folks at docks and such. and i just blew up a whole ship. but met like we've met? ❞ she tilts her head, considering. ❝ —does it count if you accidentally participated in the meeting where a bunch of execs were planning to scrap you? ❞

armand scoffs, although he knows that five hundred and one thousand were equally unimaginable to someone as young as her. hyperbole or not, he sets the record straight on his age. ❝ five hundred years is long time, with a lot of change. a creature that has lived one thousand years would be as old to me as i am to you. ❞ internally, he's grateful that there are not many of them to be concerned about ( not that he's been made aware of ). in most rooms, he's the oldest.

he reaches for a hand towel to dry his hands, ❝ funny and concerning. i can't imagine where you might try to take me. ❞ but likewise strange to envision a modern human who hadn't spent her life shopping. it was such a cornerstone of the 21st century. he furrows his brow, drying his hands before he tosses the towel to the side. the shirt in the sink is also forgotten — it was past saving. ❝ i'm on the internet. and i travel. surely, you know about food you don't eat. ❞

❝ okay, dedushka, ❞ she teases, irreverent and fearless. why would she be afraid of him? death does not concern her, and it's not something she fears; the red room was not a place that gave fear any place. she was a cog in the machine, an operative with a mission, and even now — free to make her own decisions, to take the jobs she wants to, to use her skills how she pleases — yelena sees no reason to fear death. it will happen, and probably sooner rather than later. assassins rarely live to old age, and she knows she's good, but she doesn't think herself the exception. that bullet is coming for her, whether she's scared of it or not.

anyway, armand isn't going to kill her. she'd put up one hell of a fight, for one, might even be able to match him...and maybe they're friends. kind of friends. yelena's never had a real friend before. ❝ are there vampires who are a thousand, or are you super old? ❞

she shrugs, hugging one knee to her chest and letting the other leg swing. ❝ probably a mall, ❞ she says dryly; surely there's one that isn't closed yet? it's not so late, really. ❝ what, you have, uh, twitter? instagram? and i would eat most things, i think. ❞

geralt could just as well track a deer of his own accord, either the old - fashioned way or with a little assistance from the calming sign of axii to make the whole endeavour easier. but maybe there is opportunity for outlet here for a young pup, so he gives her outlandish suggestion a little consideration. food for thought.

there are many things ylfa cannot do. she can't stop a wolf from taking a little girl and tearing her apart until a monster remains (i'm right here, mom, i'm very, very alive!—i'm scared—what have you done to me?!). she can't stop the village from turning on her, or her feet from running, or the terror from clawing at her throat. she doesn't know how to skin something she's hunted, or how to cook it; the basket was always packed, when she went to take it to her grandma, when she dumped out the boring things for candy and cake and a conspiracy shared with an old woman who loved her. she doesn't know if she can make it on her own, here, or what's going to happen when she grows up, or which rules she's supposed to follow, when the clearly defined rulebook has been torn up and the authority figures that read from it are gone.

she doesn't even know if geralt is going to kill her, someday.

but she knows she can hunt something easily, can find a scent on the wind and chase it down in monstrous form. she knows she can contribute that way, even if she can't get a job or protect geralt right back (not that that will stop her from trying; she's inhumanly strong, now, even though she looks like a little girl still). and maybe, if she proves she's valuable, if she shows she can hunt animals, he'll let her stay with him, and he'll let her fight monsters, too. even if that might be a little like fighting herself.

❝ i don't think it matters. i can choose to change but it also just...happens, sometimes. when i'm upset, or-or scared. and that way's bad. i don't like that way. but if i choose to do it, it just...is. i have more control. ❞ ylfa doesn't know if she becomes the wolf, or if she's trapped inside it, or if they are one and the same. she's always a girl and she's always a wolf, too, whichever form she takes. ❝ it's not gonna make it worse. —right? it's not like i can get wolfier. ❞ maybe it would even be better? maybe she'll be stronger for embracing what she is now, instead of hiding from it.

❝ i wanna help. and it's free. crowns don't grow on trees. ❞

of course he would. of course he would! a part of ella thinks there may be no limit to the amount of things that beau would do for her if she asked, and it took her a long time to get used to it. he has the biggest heart of anyone she has ever met, and the genuine support in his voice tells ella everything she needs to know; even if it is the wine talking. teeth sink into her bottom lip for a moment, as though pondering over the offer. perhaps it would be good for her to learn a bit of self defense from someone more apt to it than she is, but there’s another part of ella that worries it would bring up too much of her past with it. instead, she manages a smile and a quick nod, “ i’ll think about it. “

ella takes another large drink from her glass of water, a smile quickly forming on her lips. “ and i’ll tell you a million times if I have to. you are the most beautiful man i have ever laid eyes upon, beau rafferty. ” her feet stumble a bit as she tries to shift her weight, but a hand catches her quickly on the counter top. maybe he’s right, as much as her altered brain might tell her otherwise, she should finish the water before going to bed.

❝ 'kay. ❞ whether or not ella remembers this conversation in the morning is another matter, but the offer is there regardless; there is nothing beau wouldn't do for her, and if what she wants is to feel a little safer, of course he'll help where he can. this kind of protective urge in his chest isn't a new one — he raised his sisters, worked his ass off so they wouldn't have to know the same kind of struggle he did, when he was young, and he'd kill for any of them in a heartbeat — but he likes the warmth of it. if he wasn't so controlled, he reckons he'd be far angrier, far more willing to punch first. as it is, he's glad to use that for good. for keeping those he loves safe.

his ears go pink, his smile bashful and pleased as he ducks his head at the compliment, as though it might not hit him full force if he's not facing it head on. ❝ that's the wine talking, honey. ❞ maybe he believes it to be an exaggeration, but it's nice to hear, all the same. and god, ella's cute. she's so cute, and beau can't believe that he gets to have her in his house, his bed, his life. he reaches out, unable to help it, thumb rubbing over her flushed cheek. ❝ okay, okay, jeez, ❞ he laughs, putting their glasses by the sink and moving over to her slowly, pausing to kiss her. gentle, because she's too far gone for anything more, but beau can't resist.

❝ i don't see a lot of options, so you're gonna have to make do with me, ❞ he continues, scooping ella up as though she weighs nothing, his smile full of love. he carries her through to the bedroom, gentle as he deposits her on the bed. the last thing beau wants to do is jostle her too much. ❝ you, uh, wanna take your makeup off or anythin'? i can get the stuff. ❞

generally, at this hour, he's the only figure haunting the courtyard. most sleepless humans find themselves in more populated areas, drinking or seeking companionship in sequestered corners. under the light of the moon, however, armand recognizes that it's not such a dreary night to be alone in. light always made the world seem a touch safer. it wasn't. and the young man couldn't know the level of danger he could be in if armand chose it. it's times like this, when the living are comfortable in the dark, that he most remembers what he is.

but he's neither hungry nor interested in covering up a public kill. maybe there really is no reason to fear.

frankly, they're probably here for similar reasons. it's quiet at night, and while that's the only time armand can visit, he's not alone by mistake. he was happy to slip away from the coven for the evening, to let them sort their own petty squabbling amongst themselves. he'd return by curfew and handle any necessary matters then, but he hoped not to need to. they weren't going to fall apart after a few hours out of his watchful eye.

❝ bonsoir, ❞ he answers politely, a glance to the man's setup, and the sketchbook on his lap. a lone artist sketching outside the louvre — a natural choice. there's a lot that he can tell about him, without a single peek into his head. armand studies for a second longer, registering the accent, ❝ you're american, correct? ❞

screw the nightclubs and the ladies; this is what beau came to paris for. maybe he hasn't had a chance to get inside the louvre, but he's not even sure if all the artwork's been brought back, yet, from where it was hidden during the war—and the exterior is just as beautiful. and beau craves peace more than he does company. he's spent years in close proximity to the same group of men (or, near enough to it, with the dynamic of a group shifting as some were lost and replacements brought in, as though they're all just parts of machinery), going to the pub, sipping his drink in the officer's club, working hard. beau's good at being around others, even if he's always on the periphery.

but he prefers this. quiet and space, a chance to breathe. but how can he complain at the company of one man, when this is more than he's had in years? beau is, after all, the stranger in his country. and maybe he, too, just wants to appreciate a beautiful building. seeing it up close is different to taking reconnaissance photos, after all.

❝ i am, ❞ he agrees, one side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. ❝ what gave me away, the uniform or the accent? sorry, by the way. none'a my french teachers could ever get rid of it. ❞

❝ if i'm biased, i have no interest in changing, ❞ he replies, fingers laced with hers. flowers are an easy comparison, but she manages to choose one that merges beauty and death in a way that only plants and vampires can. sometimes, in the quiet moments like this, he's taken aback by her — taken aback by them. how long had it been since he felt this type of contentment? even in the coven when he knew he had control, there was never a relief this pure. even when calm and at ease in the theater, he still had to take care. danger and obligation still weighed heavy in the back of his mind. it was something second nature, but until he was free of it, he didn't recognize what it meant to feel free.

free, but not lonely.

it's not always simple, he can't erase centuries of hypervigilance, but he's not playing a role or transforming himself into something someone else needs. it's overwhelming at times, but he feels closer to one person than he can remember feeling in so long.

❝ come, but i don't think it'll surprise you, ❞ he leads her through the garden again, until his footsteps stop in front of wisteria and its heavy, cascading branches. ❝ it's ethereal somehow and they take so long to flower, but their vines can remain for 100 years under the right circumstance. what better plant for an immortal? ❞

ending up here was by no means guaranteed; there were so many points at which their paths might have diverged, choices made that could have changed the outcome of their entire relationship. armand and his coven might have run her out of town, when amalia had refused to join them, or he might have chosen to stay in paris. she could have had to flee before he was ready to go, with the hope of reuniting in england when they could. she could be dead. she could never have gone to paris at all. it was not easy, and there are times amalia still worries she pushed armand into a decision he did not truly want—but she is happy. happier than she's been in a long time.

solitude has always been a safety net, for her. she prefers to have nobody but herself making decisions for her life, she wants to maintain the perfectly manicured grasp she has on control. for so long she had none. but it was also extremely lonely. now, walking hand in hand with the man she loves in a garden that is just theirs, she never wants to go back to it.

it is, in all honesty, quite a terrifying thought. forever doesn't scare her; she's had a long time to come to terms with the prospect. somebody else never quite factored into the equation...and it means she has someone to lose.

❝ wisteria sinensis, ❞ she murmurs, her smile soft. amalia rests her head on armand's shoulder, and looks up at the branches. ❝ nearly as old as i am. this one's a little younger, but still it's a child of another century. it's very fitting. ❞ there are so many things they could do, but she's happy to remain in this peace. it feels neither cavernous nor cloying, and amalia is grateful for it. grateful for him. ❝ and purple is my favourite colour, did you know? ❞

maybe her friend would care. still, i like her mettle and my curiosities linger, aliens or not. i wonder how she came to be here, both in the literal sense of how time and space and physics factor into the equation, but also the simple fact of why her and why now ?

❝ and they'd just believe me, would they, your scientists, in this scenario of yours? ❞ molly has her doubts; no matter how strongly worded this hypothetical letter would be, she's a time traveller from another century, not a space scientist, and a woman to boot. maybe attitudes on that last point have improved, over a century, but if academic doctors are anything like the medical ones she knows, they'd be looking right down their noses at her for everything else. ❝ i'm surprised you aren't questioning it, if i'm honest. believe you me, i've nothing but questions. ❞

and so few answers. she doesn't know why she remembers things that never happened, or why her eyes are special, or what exactly went on in france. she doesn't understand how time travel works or what she's looking at, half the time, in the future, or what on earth the doctor talks about, most of the time. but she's here, and she's learning, and she lets her heart lead the way. nothing very scientific about that. just compassion, something which always seems to be in short supply, yet molly has in abundance. she can spare a wee bit for strangers, whatever shape they take.

❝ it was that or death, ❞ she says with a shrug, as though that explains it all. ❝ and aye, you'd be right, there's a lot of that going about, that close to the front line, but there's not usually aliens involved. ❞

ella sputters for a moment before her features turn in disappointment. ❝ i-----well! i've never tried, i guess. ❞ the dark thought crosses her mind for a brief moment; knowing that perhaps she hasn't thrown a single punch at anyone, but she's taken several. ella shakes the thought away before she can even linger on it for longer than a second. violence has never been in her vocabulary. her entire life, she has been too soft for a world that grows harder and harder by the day. the less she has to think about protecting herself, the more she can move on from that part of her life.

she has her own family, now. she has beau, now. there are far better things in her life than she could have ever dreamed of. why should ella spend another second longer in a world that is no longer the one she lives in?

❝ if you wanna learn, for self-defence, i'll teach you, ❞ beau promises. not tonight, and not because he loves fighting, but he will. he hopes, desperately, that it's not something ella will ever need. he'll fight for her, he'll bloody his fists, before he ever lets anything get to that point—but he hopes, too, that that is never necessary. he's not a fighter on the ice, most of the time, nothing more than cleanly hitting someone into the boards, but there are times he's dropped gloves, times the cap on the anger he bottles up is knocked off and he explodes. in day to day life, he's even less of one. beau doesn't want to hurt anybody. at least not unprovoked.

but he'd do it for her in a heartbeat.

❝ mm, i know. you told me. ❞ god, he loves her. he loves her so much. it's so easy to kiss her back, to let his fingers tangle in her hair, to press lips to her forehead. he wants this forever, this closeness. beau had always thought he preferred being alone, that it didn't matter that he'd not had a relationship in a long time; he loves his friends, loves being around people, but he values his space and being able to retreat to the quiet. but ella is different; she brings him out of his shell when he needs it, and is a gentle cushion in the quiet he needs to recharge. her presence is always easy. even when she's drunk.

beau chuckles, shaking his head. ❝ nope. now, 'cause i reckon you'll be asleep the second you lie down. c'mon, sweetheart. ❞ he kisses her forehead and steps back so he can pick up her dress, shaking it out and folding it over a chair to be dealt with properly tomorrow. at least it won't be crumpled. while he waits he starts undressing himself, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that only fumble a little, placing it with her dress. ❝ you good? ❞

        “good to know the offer's on the table,” hawke says, then grins. “though, if athenril ever asks, i rebuffed the very mention of it. violently.”  they're pretty sure their mother is already having a hard enough time accepting that their children are smugglers; they can't imagine how she'd react if hawke came home and told her they'd switched careers to join a gang. still, the dregs they've met are solid folk. it wouldn't be a bad thing to count themself among their numbers.

        but for now, the smuggling is at least a bit more lucrative for them. they'll stick to trying to solidify some degree of trust between kaz's crew and athenril's company, in the meantime. it can only benefit them both.

        as they both continue to wait for the late ship to arrive, hawke feels an anxious buzz settling across their shoulders. “i'm mostly worried about what that means for when it comes in...” they can't help feeling some suspicion at the lateness—athenril's ships run on a tight schedule; they very rarely arrive off time and when they do, they're early. “wait, there it is.” the ship comes into view just then, moonlight reflecting off the white of its sails.

❝ your secret is safe with me. ❞ for once, inej means it. she may be kaz's spider, crawling into people's homes and businesses, gathering information for his schemes — with very little she knows held back — but this is not about work, or a mark. this is about someone in a position they cannot afford to lose, and inej knows a little something about those kinds of odds. and, perhaps, she worries what kaz might do with the information.

hawke may not be one of them, but neither are they a mark. she has no desire for them to become one. trust and friendship may be tenuous things, these days, small flames gently nurtured, and vulnerability rarely handed to anyone outside her inner circle, but inej would like to think they are something close to it. even kaz brekker does not betray his friends, though he'd claim otherwise.

❝ alright. i'll find a vantage point. ❞ already inej's mood has shifted, the wraith laid upon her shoulders like a cloak. the teasing she tries to be comfortable with has gone, replaced by focus. ❝ i'll be watching, but signal if you need to. ❞ she doesn't wait for a response; inej is gone, already a shadow. on silent feet she climbs higher, following hawke's movements from the roof of a boathouse, two of her knives in her hands.

she prays she won't have to use them, pre-emptive penance on her tongue, but she's ready to.

she sits on the bunk and, at once, feels even more incongruous in her armor. she's not quite ready to let it melt away in front of billie and see her reaction.

the butterflies in her stomach are settling oddly, as if looking for the right anxiety to call home.

❝ space may not be the most common place to find 'em, but i'm sure you can find some whenever we stop to refuel. this place'd look better with more greenery. ❞ the cabin is, like any cabin on any ship billie's ever been on, entirely nondescript, just walls, a bunk, some storage, and a little window. she knows it isn't much, but it's what she's got to offer. she'd never wanted a luxury cruiser or a mansion on some world; billie had just wanted a little freedom. that she gets to do the ship up is entirely by design. why would a mechanic want an already perfected ship?

❝ nah. i'll, uh, give you a few to settle in? holler if you need anything. intercom button's right there if you can't find me. ❞