let me be a dreamer

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. ❞

like falling into the void. like you blinked and their universe went dungeon dark. (he wakes with a frightened huff, confused by the cool fabric across half-closed lids. a cold cloth, texture drying within palm.) his blurry sight lands on the woman. she’s kneeling at a healthy distance. her smile was soft, worried.

they are both too young to be this tired, bea thinks—but they are both too young for a lot of things they are living through, and the world does not care how old they were. she can no longer imagine a world where she gets to sleep deeply in a comfortable bed until she wakes up, naturally well-rested. she only sleeps at all because she knows august is watching her back, as she watches his now. hypervigilance is a great stimulant. she sits close to him and she watches the adults, the woman especially, though bea does not meet her eye.

she can't wait to be gone. strangers set her on edge. bea's still afraid they won't let the kids leave, tomorrow.

beside her, august shifts, and bea's attention turns to him, stretching her hand out in return. their fingers don't meet — skin-on-skin contact is the worst, saved for dire situations and bleeding wounds — but the ghost of them together is enough. she nods in answer, tired eyes shifting across the fire and back again. she keeps her signing small, private. a whisper, just for them.

< yes. she's watching. worried, maybe? or assessing. i'm bad at knowing what people are feeling. > she rubs an eye, biting the inside of her cheek to stifle a yawn. < nobody else has come near. >

but how best to discuss matters of destiny ? it is a word as flimsy as superstition, wispy like smoke and impossible to get a solid grasp on. by the gods, even religion is less controversial a topic to pivot a monarch on, with all its political sways and pulls. the simple matter is this : not everyone believes that some things are simply meant to be, and yennefer is on even less certain footing in this newly charted territory. she is not privy to their customs or beliefs, has no idea how the outward truth may fall upon this already skeptical listener's ears. and so she bends the truth. not for anyone's sake but the general populace, the whitest of lies for she suspects the nature of her . . . hunch wouldn't be quite as palatable.

this should be a matter for the triumvirate together. it should be a matter for the king; anyone who knows anything about ravka's governance knows that zoya is only going to tell the rest of the inner circle. and yet yennefer sought zoya out. perhaps a sense for power, both grisha and political, perhaps chance. perhaps one witch seeking another, though zoya despises the term. she's flattered, inasmuch as she is always flattered to know she has a reputation outside of ravka's borders (fearsome zoya, sankta zoya, storm witch zoya), but unmoved by it. flattery is a matter of course, when one looks as she does, and she is a general.

her laugh is dry and humourless; where did yennefer say she had come from? ❝ this is a country still recovering from civil war. from the scar dark magic left on the land. yes, i would say there has been turmoil. ❞ and then, even more she's unwilling to talk about; a king with a monster in his body, saints alive once more, a squaller unlocking power she should not be able to control. but that is not something to be shared with a stranger.

she crosses her legs, her gaze direct. general nazyalensky does not shy away. ❝ i'm sympathetic. i care greatly for this world and its balance. the order of things. dark, forbidden magic has done a lot of damage here, to my country and my people. but i neither know nor trust you, and i don't wear the crown. as much as it would suit me. ❞ she's just its confidante, its advisor, its closest friend. that is no secret. ❝ you understand, i'm sure. ❞

it did cross her mind. book club is tomorrow and she's way behind. not her fault, really. it was a terrible book and she kept falling asleep with it on her chest, so she came in here to finish it and leave. not chit-chat.

but this was amalia braganza. she'll read in the subway on the way-there, it'll be fine.

amalia has always loved dance. even before she had any kind of training, when all she had were village dances and servants' balls, when she'd learn how to dance by watching the lords and ladies, and take that knowledge back below stairs to teach to her friends, she'd loved to dance. if she'd never been turned, she would never have been able to learn properly. she would never have performed — though it's not a profession that lends itself well to being as nocturnal as she must, especially in this age of increased technology and scrutiny. she'd certainly not be a choreographer, someone known in a way that she has earned, rather than gained through manipulation and supernatural persuasion.

she wouldn't be talking to christine chapel, a smile on her face, completely at ease.

discomfort isn't something amalia wears in public; if she feels it, she keeps it to herself, until she's alone. and humans, especially of the dance, non-hunter kind, do not scare her.

❝ that's kind, but they'd be wasted on me. ❞ she waves a hand airily, as though it can be chalked up to a chosen diet, and not vampirism. ❝ how's the book? ❞

𝑨𝑵 𝑨𝑴𝑼𝑺𝑬𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑫 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑳𝑰𝑷𝑺. The thought of facing an entire battalion did little to frighten her. In fact, her emerald hues seem to glimmer with a new found vigor. 

❝ Do not limit yourself. You control the winds, and they bend it your will, as does storm and lightning. A battalion should be child's play to you.❞ Lark replied as she lifted her hand, the embedded gem shimmering as she called upon it. As if out of thin air, an ornate blade materialized into her hand. The blade was slender, but strong, one that valued speed over strength. 

❝ What do we breathe if not air, Zoya? ❞ Lark mused and pivoted to face the other. ❝ Steal the breath from their lungs. Be creative. Stay to the trees if you like, and I shall be a distraction for you to be able to do so.❞ 

Feeling confident, She grinned, something feral and wild within that smile. 

❝ I would not suffer them to live. These…witch hunters, left to their own devices, they will surely hunt down Grisha. Let us show them the error of their ways. ❞ 

❝ i do not need to be told how to summon, ❞ zoya snaps, her tongue sharp and her gaze sharper. she does not need a merzost blade, she does not need nikolai's guns; she is the weapon, and she has known how to wield herself since she was a child. her hands are still, but the air pressure shifts anyway. zoya is the storm. she's the hurricane, the lightning, the sheer force of the world. she is also depleted by weariness, and alone, and above all, she is a general. lark's ego wishes them to forge ahead with no back up, no plan. this is not about individuals. war never is; ego is what got them the darkling. it's what got her friends and family killed. ❝ save your patronising talk for the children. ❞

there is one person who can give zoya orders, and he is not here—and she frequently argues with him, anyway, king or not.

❝ no. you are thinking with your anger, not your head. we know nothing of where they have come from, what strength they have behind them. we've not had long enough to catalogue their weaponry, to determine which of ravka's many enemies may be funding them. we don't know if they've got captives. if they die now, not only do we likely die in the process, we lose that information. tamar's spies will learn what they can. and then we kill them, with greater numbers. ❞ zoya needs soldiers, not people grinning at the thought of a one-woman battle. she has a country to run. she may hate the grisha hunters, she may wish them dead, but vengeance must be sharpened into a blade. ❝ the answer is still no. we go around. ❞

grace interlaces his fingers, palms upward and crooked at the wrists in a stance that pensively prepares him for explaining something. ❛ bonnie and clyde are — were — probably the most notorious crime duo of their time. of all time. ❜ the word duo seems like safe terrain, not necessarily implying romantic connection while still conveying the general message of his comparison. he cocks his head in a directional gesture to follow as he walks to retrieve the good stuff : they have pouched ready made coffee for zero g, but the instant is hopefully a decent enough medium for her to work with. ❛ they were in the press, shows, there's a movie — which, if you can forgive historical inaccuracy, i hear is pretty good. driving away from a crime scene with old - timey banjo music playing. what more could you want, right ? ❜

❝ you haven't spent much time in space, huh? ❞ sid really doesn't think some couple from some time in old earth's history can be as notorious criminals as some of the people anarchera has cooked up among the stars. it is, after all, anarchera, full of space battles and mercenaries and chaos. of all time seems a little excessive a claim, is all. sidney hasn't been around very long, so maybe she's wrong. but she bets bonnie and clyde didn't even blow up a spaceship, and she has definitely done that—and aside from the fact that her entire existence makes her a fugitive and there's a megacorp who wants to melt her down for parts, sid doesn't think she's a notorious criminal. she's just...a droid with sentience she's not supposed to have. and who got to decide that, anyway?!

why is her existing so wrong?

she follows ryland through the ship, to a kitchen that is, frankly, disappointing — and sid doesn't even eat! well, maybe there's no fancy coffee machine, or even fancy coffee, but she's still going to make the best fucking cup she can. ❝ doin' the sugar's part of the job. ❞ she doesn't want to half-ass it. not even because she's scared ryland might decide he doesn't want her around, might decide to throw her out the airlock, but just because he's nice, and he deserves a good cup of coffee. and outside of battles, sid isn't sure what purpose she serves. too many, and not enough. ❝ i don't have any tastebuds, i don't care how you take it. and i haven't made coffee for a lot of people before. ❞

HIS GRIN only widens at the buffet of his hair , at the threat she gives him .

❝ tempting. but i'd get blood all over my kefta. ❞ zoya knows she is in a fortunate position; that very few people have ever been privileged enough to know nikolai like this, to have known him as prince and king and lover. there were years she couldn't let herself acknowledge anything she felt for him, because it was all an impossibility. a silly girl from a small village thinking she could turn the head of a king—and she has spent her entire life taking any foolish notions and grinding them beneath her heel. she cannot afford silliness, or foolishness. people are always watching. ❝ suffocation, perhaps. ❞