#miscommunication

“Yeah,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

You were not listening. Your gaze flicked back to Steve before you could stop yourself. He looked different when he talked about the future. It hurt in a way you didn’t quite have words for.

You didn’t have a problem with Nancy. That was the worst part. You admired her, honestly. The way she never backed down, the way fear didn’t stop her from doing the right thing. She was brave and kind, and she had never once given you a reason to doubt her intentions. If anything, she had always treated you with respect, like she knew exactly where you stood.

And still, there was this small, ugly part of you that envied her.

Because when Steve talked about the future, his voice carried a familiarity that scared you. Like those dreams had been shaped long before you ever fit into his life. Like you were standing on the edge of something that already had a name, a shape, a person attached to it.

You pressed your nails into your palm and forced your eyes back to Robin who kept going like she could out-talk the end of the world if she tried.

“And also the timing,” she said. “Because if Kate Bush is even, like, one second off— boom. Bad. Very bad. No more Max. So, no pressure or anything.”

You nodded again.

It was almost funny, really. Robin had been the reason you and Steve even existed in the first place. She liked to take credit for it too, in that very Robin way, as if she’d personally aligned the stars.

She had introduced you with a casualness that felt intentional in hindsight, dragging Steve into conversations you were already in, finding excuses to pair you off on supply runs.

She had told you, more than once, that whatever had been between Steve and Nancy was done. Over. Ancient history. “Capital M moved on,” she’d said, very confidently. You’d smiled and nodded and absolutely not believed her.

You hadn’t asked him out because of it. Hadn’t even let yourself think about it too hard. You told yourself it was respect, that you didn’t want to step into something unfinished, that you refused to be the girl who ignored a history that big. Mostly, though, you were just scared of wanting something that wasn’t really yours to have.

So when Steve had walked up to you one afternoon, shuffling his feet like he suddenly forgot how legs worked, you’d been caught completely off guard.

He hadn’t been smooth about it. He rubbed the back of his neck, glanced anywhere but your face, and said your name like it was a question and he wasn't sure he knew the right answer. Then, in a rush, he asked if you maybe wanted to get ice cream sometime. Or food. Or just hang out. Like, on a date.

You remembered the way he blinked when you said yes.

Not the easy grin you expected, or the confident Steve Harrington smile everyone knew, but wide-eyed shock, like he hadn’t actually considered the possibility you’d agree. You’d laughed before you could stop yourself, and he’d laughed too.

“Wait, really?” he’d said.

You were pretty sure he’d been more surprised than happy in that moment, and somehow that had made it better.

The memory faded just as you glanced up, and for a split second, everything lined up wrong and right all at once. Steve was already looking at you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

His shoulders loosened. His mouth tipped into that soft, almost dopey smile he never seemed to have control over around you. He looked like he’d forgotten where he was, like the noise and the fear and the plan had all slipped out of his head at once.

Then the RV swerved.

“Steve!” Nancy shouted, lunging forward as the wheel jerked under his hands.

The whole vehicle lurched, everyone in the back yelling at once. Robin and Erica grabbed onto the nearest surface, Max swore and Lucas held her, Dustin and Eddie’s voice rose an octave. Steve snapped back to reality with a startled sound, fumbling with the wheel just long enough for Nancy to shove him aside and steady it.

“What the hell, Steve?” she shouted, eyes locked on the road.

“I’m good, I’m good,” he said quickly, hands up in surrender. “Everyone relax. It was, like, half a second.”

“That was not half a second!” Robin yelled. “That was a full ‘we almost died’ second.”

Steve shot a look over his shoulder. “Okay, but we didn’t die, did we?”

You couldn’t help it. You grinned, biting down on it too late to hide it. Steve glanced back at you again, sheepish now, cheeks pink, like he knew exactly why it had happened and couldn’t even pretend otherwise.

He mouthed sorry without sound, smiling anyway, and your chest warmed despite the fear.

Eddie and Dustin abandoned their seats a moment later, shuffling forward and dropping down behind you and Robin. You turned around at the same time Robin did.

Before you could say anything, you caught Max and Lucas a few rows back, heads bent together, their voices low. Max glanced up and met your eyes. You offered her a small smile and a quick wave. She returned it and you turned back around.

“So,” you said, resting an arm along the back of the seat. “What’s up?”

Dustin stared at you like you’d personally offended him. “What’s up?” he repeated. “Your boyfriend almost killed us all, and that’s what you ask?”

Robin nodded seriously beside you. “Yeah, maybe don’t smile at him for a while. For the sake of everyone’s continued existence.”

Eddie leaned in. “He swerved because you smiled at him?”

You blinked once and then shrugged. “Yeah. He’s adorable, isn’t he?”

“No. Idiot. That’s what we call him.”

Dustin pointed between Eddie and himself. “Smile at us. You won’t see us swerving off the road.”

You raised an eyebrow, then gave them a smile just to prove a point.

Eddie squinted. “Yeah, no. You’re cute. That’s unfair.”

You grinned wider, unapologetic.

“Would you stop it?” Dustin said, throwing his hands up. “We’re trying to make a very serious safety argument here.”

Robin snorted. “I don’t know, Dust. I think the data supports the theory that not only Steve Harrington is this whipped and compromised.”

“But,” Eddie said. “he's the only one who's got the structural integrity of wet cardboard.”

You laughed softly.

Then Nancy’s voice cut through the noise. “Hey, you.”

You looked up to see her already unbuckling her seatbelt, gesturing toward the front. “Your shift.”

“Oh,” you said. You nodded quickly, pushing yourself up. “Yeah. Okay.”

You slid into Nancy’s seat and turned to look at your boyfriend.

He was already smiling at you, that soft, helpless one, which told you he hadn’t learned his lesson at all.

“I wish it was your shift forever,” he said, leaning closer so only you could hear.

You smiled, hands finding the wheel. “Careful. You’ve already proven you can’t be trusted with that.”

He laughed under his breath, then tilted his head. “So. How do you feel after almost killing everyone with your smile?”

You pretended to think about it, lips pursed. “Honestly? Very proud of myself.”

“Unbelievable. I risk my life every day for this group and you’re the real threat.”

“You love it,” you said.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I really do.”

The words felt more like a confession. Your grip tightened on the wheel for half a second.

He nudged your arm with his elbow. “Hey. You good?”

You nodded, glancing at him briefly. “Yeah. Just. . . you know. Trying not to crash the RV.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re doing great.”

The praise warmed you more than it should have. You rolled your eyes to hide it. “Don’t get all sweet on me now.”

He grinned. “What? I can’t compliment my girlfriend?”

The word still felt new sometimes. You smiled anyway. “You can. Just maybe wait until we’re not driving.”

Steve hummed. “No promises.”

You focused on the road, but you could feel him watching you.

“So, uh,” you started, voice casual in a way that absolutely fooled no one. “I kind of heard what you were saying earlier. About your dream.”

There was a beat of silence.

Steve’s laugh came out awkward and rushed. “You did?”

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. “Yeah. Not on purpose. I was trying to listen to Robin do her whole end-of-the-world podcast, but. . . you weren’t exactly quiet.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. That’s— wow. That’s embarrassing.”

You glanced at him then. His ears were pink, eyes darting everywhere but your face, suddenly very interested in the cracked dashboard. It was strangely comforting, seeing him like this.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” you said quickly. “It’s a good dream. It’s. . . really you.”

He risked a look at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. Then, after a pause, you added, “I just didn’t know you still carried it around like that.”

Steve swallowed. He shifted in his seat, shoulders rounding in on themselves a little. “We haven’t really talked about that stuff,” he said. “You and me, I mean. I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You let out a small breath. “You wouldn’t have.”

“I know that now,” he said. “But I didn’t before.”

“It just. . . hurt a little,” you admitted. “Not the dream itself. Just that you talked about it with her before you ever talked about it with me.”

Steve turned fully toward you then. “Hey,” he said gently. “I wasn’t talking to Nancy because it was her. It was just. . . familiar.”

You nodded, even though your chest still ached. “I get that. I really do. I just didn’t want to feel like I was finding out who you are secondhand.”

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “I swear. You’re not second to anything.”

You risked another glance at him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffed out a nervous laugh. “Because saying it out loud to you makes it real. And I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Something warm curled in your stomach at that, easing the sting.

“You could’ve told me,” you said. “I would’ve listened.”

“I want to tell you now,” he said. “If you want to hear it.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

Steve took a breath like he was bracing himself, then let it out slow.

“I always thought,” he began, eyes fixed on the road ahead even though you were the one driving, “that I’d have this really big family someday. Like. . . really big.”

You smiled to yourself, heart already thudding a little faster. “Big how?”

He glanced at you, a little shy. “I mean, a full brood of Harringtons. Five. Six kids.”

You laughed softly. “Six little nuggets?”

His face lit up instantly. “Exactly. See, you get it.”

“I always imagined three girls, three boys,” he said. “No idea why. It just felt right.” He scratched the back of his neck. “And every summer, we’d pack everyone into something like this. An RV. Just. . . driving.”

“We’d see the Rockies,” he continued. “The Grand Canyon. Maybe Yellowstone. Just stop wherever looked cool.” He smiled faintly. “And then we’d end up somewhere in California. Some beach town. Park right on the sand.”

You couldn’t help it. “You’d definitely burn on the first day.”

He scoffed. “Hey. I’d learn. For our kids.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, but only if they make too fun of you for it.”

“That’s fair,” he said. “And we’d stay there for a week. Maybe learn how to surf. Or at least try.”

You imagined it without trying. Steve surrounded by kids, sunburned and smiling.

“What about me?” you asked.

He turned to you fully this time. “You’re there,” he said immediately. “You’re. . . kind of the whole point.”

Your throat tightened.

“I always thought I’d be bad at that stuff,” he admitted. “The future. But when I think about it now, it’s you making lists and me losing them. You calling shotgun even though you’re driving. You telling me six kids is insane and then naming them anyway.”

You laughed, eyes stinging. “I’d absolutely insist on a dog.”

“Two,” he corrected. “Minimum.”

“Deal,” you said quickly. “And the RV has to stop for snacks. Constantly.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t survive otherwise.”

Steve reached over and squeezed your knee gently. “I don’t need it to look exactly like that,” he said. “I just want it to be with you.”

You smiled, eyes back on the road, heart full in a way that scared you a little. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I think I’d like that future.”

It's a quiet jealousy, one that doesn't slam doors or yell or make scenes. It’s the kind that sits politely in your stomach during movie nights, acid-sour, when Nancy sits just a little too close to Steve.

It’s the kind that makes your throat close when she calls, and Steve’s voice slips into that easy, soft murmur that speaks of years of shared history that you're not a part of.

The secret has roots.

They dig deep, fed by hundreds of small moments. It's the way Nancy can ask him for help with a single, quiet look—research, a ride, a favor for one of the kids—and Steve will just go. No questions, no hesitations.

It's the shared glance across a crowded room that says remember that time? and you’re left blinking, outside the joke.

It’s the way she says his name, just “Steve,” and it carries a weight, a familiarity that makes your own “Steve” feel like you’re borrowing it.

Your breaking point is deceptively small.

It’s Steve’s laugh.

Not the one he gives you—that's a private, husky thing, breathed into the skin of your neck. Not the one he gives Robin or Dustin—that's a bark of a laugh, full of exasperated affection.

It's his Nancy-laugh.

It's a lazy Sunday at the WSQK. The kids are... somewhere. Around, you guess, it's the kind of day where nothing's really happening.

You're sitting on the floor in a patch of sun, fiddling with a loose thread on the rug. Steve's sprawled on the couch behind you, one hand dangling off the side, his fingers brushing your hair every so often.

He’s talking to you. His voice is a low, warm rumble against your head, telling you about his parents’ new, ridiculously small dog and how it tried to fight the vacuum cleaner.

“...And it’s like, this high,” he says, lifting a hand from your shoulder to gesture, his knuckles brushing your cheek. “A puff of angry lint with teeth. You should’ve seen it.”

You laugh. It’s a real laugh, easy and light.

You tilt your head back to look up at him, and he’s already looking down, a soft, smug smile on his face because he made you laugh. For a second, it’s perfect. The sun through the high windows, the quiet, him.

You're a warm, happy puddle.

The bell over the door jingles. Neither of you pull apart. You’re too comfortable.

"Hey," Nancy says. Not to you, really, to Steve. But you offer her a tentative smile anyways, just in case.

"Hey, Nance," Steve says, and his voice doesn’t change, not exactly. But the arm around your shoulders becomes just an arm. The focus that was solely on you diffuses, part of it shifting to her. The sun dims, just a degree.

You start playing with the loose thread of the rug so you don't have to watch them talk.

She leans against the counter, craning her head to look into the the backroom where Mike and the others are playing D&D. "I'm here for the gremlin. Are they done or what?"

Steve shakes his head. "They're in the final showdown. Dustin says the fate of the realm hangs in the balance. Or, you know, until someone's mom calls."

Nancy sighs, a sound of deep, practiced patience. "The realm's been hanging in the balance every Sunday for three years." She glances at Steve. "You owe me five dollars, by the way."

Steve's brow furrows. "For what?"

"The bet. Summer of '85," she says, her voice almost wistful. "You said they'd grow out of it by the time Will started high school. I said they'd still be at it when Mike could drive." She raises an eyebrow. "He got his license last month."

He grins. "Alright, fine. You win. I guess I should've known."

"Should've," she agrees, mirroring his smile. "I remember your exact logic. You said, and I quote, 'Once Will gets a girlfriend, this whole thing falls apart.'"

Steve barks out a laugh. “Oh my god, I did say that.”

“You did,” Nancy confirms, her own smile widening into something conspiratorial. “So. Not only did you lose the bet, your entire theory was fundamentally flawed.” She pauses, her head tilting just a fraction. Her voice is dry, amused “Because, I mean, Steve. Will? Getting a girlfriend?”

And then it happens.

Steve’s laugh.

His Nancy-laugh. The one that makes his whole face light up. You watch it happen in slow motion, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way his head tilts back just so, the easy, open-mouthed smile that’s completely unguarded.

The sound fills the quiet room, and for those few seconds, you don’t exist. You are a ghost in the sunbeam, watching the living.

The thread snaps in your hands.

The sound is tiny, but it's enough. Steve's laugh dies, and his attention swings back to you. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"

His voice is gentle, concerned. It's the voice he uses for fragile things. For a second, you hate it.

You stand up abruptly, and the arm that was around your shoulders drops. Steve looks confused. "Yeah. Just remembered I told my mom I'd help with dinner."

Before you can even take a full step toward the door, Steve is on his feet. The movement is quick, almost urgent.

"Whoa, hey, hold on," he says, his hand gently catching your wrist. His earlier amusement is gone, replaced by a look of soft, aching concern. "I'll drive you."

His other hand comes up to brush your hair from your face, a gesture that would normally make you melt. Now, it just feels like he's trying to smooth over a crack he doesn't understand. "You sure you're okay? You got real quiet all of a sudden."

You can't look at him. You can't look at Nancy, who you feel watching this unfold with that quiet gaze of hers.

"I'm fine," you murmur quietly. "Just a headache. I'll walk home."

"No way," he insists, his voice firm but gentle. He's already grabbing his keys from the counter, his jacket from the back of the couch. He's in full Steve Harrington Babysitter Mode now, the mode that fixes problems and drives people home.

The mode that's a substitute for understanding.

"C'mon. I'm dropping you off. End of discussion." He throws a glance at Nancy. "See ya, Nance."

"Bye, Steve."

The silence in the car is a thick, heavy blanket. He keeps glancing at you as he drives, his brow furrowed.

"You wanna tell me what's really going on?" he asks softly, after a full minute of quiet. "Did I... did I do something?"

The ugly thing in your chest twists.

“You laughed,” you say, the words so quiet they’re almost swallowed by the rumble of the engine.

He glances over, confusion etching deeper lines on his forehead. “What?”

“You laughed with her.” You finally turn your head from the window to look at him. The streetlights wash over his profile in intervals—light, then shadow, then light again. “You have a different laugh for her.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. The confusion doesn’t clear. If anything, it deepens. “What, with Nance? ...Sweetheart, it was a joke about a bet."

"It's not about the joke," you whisper, hurt welling up in your chest. "Or the bet. I don't care about that. It was the sound."

You don't even realise you've started crying until you realise Steve's pulled the car over to the curb a block from your house. He turns fully in his seat to face you. “What sound?”

“Your laugh,” you say, your voice breaking. “You have one for me. And one for Robin, and one for Dustin. But the one you have for her… it’s real. It’s the you that existed before I ever showed up. And I can’t ever get to that part of you, because she was there first, and I’m just… I’m just the one who gets what’s left over after you’re done being real with her, and it sucks!"

Steve stares at you. For a long, terrible moment, he says nothing. The confusion on his face slowly melts away, replaced by something so sad it steals your breath.

“Oh, baby,” he breathes, the words full of heartache. “No. No, no, no.”

He reaches out, his hands cradling your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears.

“Okay,” he says, his voice low and a little rough. “Okay, listen. Let’s… let’s talk about this.” He takes a deep breath, but his thumbs keep stroking your cheeks, a gentle, constant motion.

“That laugh,” he starts, his eyes searching yours. “The one you heard back there. You wanna know what that was? That was me being a total dipshit. A clueless idiot. And it’s the sound of Nancy Wheeler being right and me being a thousand percent wrong about something that was right in front of my face the whole time.”

He gives a little, helpless shrug, his eyes never leaving yours. "She gets that laugh. But you... you get the me that's trying not to be dumb anymore. You get the guy who has to think about what he says before he says it, 'cause it matters so much more with you."

Your breath hitches, a little, but he's not done. "The laugh I have for you... it's quieter 'cause I'm holding my breath half the time. 'Cause I still can't believe you're here. With me."

Steve tugs your head closer, just enough so he can press a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry," he murmurs into your hair. "I'm so sorry I made you feel second to a... to a memory of me being a jerk. You're first. You're always first."

He inhales sharply. "I'm yours, okay? You get me. The real me, the one who's terrified of screwing this up with you."

A wet, shaky laugh finally escapes you. "You're not screwing it up."

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. A slow, wobbly smile touches his lips. "Yeah? Good. 'Cause I was gonna have to, like, write you a whole speech or something. I'm not good at speeches."

"You're doing okay," you whisper.

Steve lets out a breath that's half a sigh, half a laugh—his your laugh. "Okay." He brushes a final tear from your cheek. "C'mon. Lemme walk you to your door. Gotta make sure you get inside safe. Rule number one."

He gets out, comes around, and opens your door. His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours automatically, like they were made to fit there. The walk to your porch is quiet, but it's a different quiet. Softer.

At your door, he squeezes your hand. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? First thing. We'll... I dunno. Get ice cream or something. Something that's just us."

He waits until you're inside, the lock clicking behind you. Through the window, you watch him walk back to his car, his hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn't drive away until your bedroom light flickers on.

It was the first day that interns were able to do rotations through the Pitt during the night shift. In the short time that Amara had been there, she was able to observe a lot of things. So many cases were ones that she had spent years learning about from different textbooks. There was one case that she couldn’t quite figure out though: what was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. 

Amara had many different differential diagnoses: 

Divorced

Situationship

Enemies

Telepathically Connected

Siblings

Unfortunately, all of the evidence she had gathered supported each of the options equally, which made every moment more confusing than the last. 

Hour One

Dr. Abbot seemed nice. His whole “Nightcrawlers” speech was a little weird, but overall endearing; especially for the new interns. Amara walked up to him directly after he was done speaking to everyone and most people had shuffled away. 

“Hi Dr. Abbot, it’s my first rotation here tonight, I was just wondering who I should stick with?” She asked. 

Dr. Abbot opened his mouth to respond, before you interrupted him. 

“I can’t believe you, you know that?!” You almost yelled, shoving your finger in Dr. Abbot’s chest. 

Amara jumped at the sudden intrusion with wide eyes, watching the scene before her play out. 

He smirked looking down at you as he crossed his arms, “Oh, really?” 

“Yeah! Really!” You say, “You ate my fucking leftovers!” 

“They were in the staff fridge.” 

“You knew they were mine! I put them there!” 

“Seems like a design flaw, princess.” 

You looked one second away from committing an unethical war crime against Dr. Abbot. He seemed entirely unbothered. 

Amara schooled her face as quickly as possible when Dr. Abbot turned back to her to respond as you stormed away with a huff. 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Enemies 

Hour Two

Amara tried to stay out of your way after the first interaction she saw you have with Dr. Abbot. But, the ER was a small place, and it wouldn’t do well to try and avoid you for too long. When a trauma came in from a MVC, she stuck by your side to watch as you ran the entire show. 

Dr. Abbot was there too. Amara was in awe. She had studied for years how different kinds of resuscitations worked. The communication each code required from everyone. She had never seen anything like this. 

When things started to go badly, the room almost went silent. She watched as you and Dr. Abbot both worked on the patient like one cohesive unit. Neither of you needed words to let the other know what you needed, or where you needed them. It was a fluid procedure, flawless. 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Telepathically Linked

Hour Three

A nurse had asked if Amara could go grab something from one of the supply closets. It took her a while to find the right one because she was still finding all of the different ins and outs of the Pitt. 

Finally, she came across the supply room in question. Before her hand could even turn the handle, the door swung open. 

You were there. Cheeks flush, breath heavy, hair tousled. Dr. Abbot was behind you, she saw his neck was pink, and he was in the process of tying his scrub pants. 

“Oh! I- uh…” Amara started, too embarrassed to form a complete sentence. 

You froze. Jack froze. Amara looked mortified. 

Time stood still for one long moment. 

Finally, you cleared your throat, “Did you need something?” 

“Oh! Yes! Uh…the nurse, she uh…” 

You followed her gaze to Jack’s hands, still working on tying his scrubs. You closed your eyes and questioned every moment that had led up to this. You took a deep breath in as you glared at him silently communicating your frustrations. 

“What were you looking for?” You asked, trying to refocus Amara’s attention. 

She looks at you and shakes herself out of her haze. 

“Tape! The tape without the latex…” 

“Third shelf back, second from the top.” Jack says coolly. 

“Okay,” Amara nodded. 

“Okay,” Jack said. 

A pause. 

“Thanks,” she whispered as she grabbed the tape and scurried away.

Differential Diagnosis: 

FWB (Confidence: HIGH) 

Hour Six

Six hours into her shift, Amara finally got to use the restroom. It wasn’t unusual that she would be on her feet all day, but nothing could have prepared her for the absolute chaos that was the PTMC’s emergency department. There wasn’t a moment to spare, and as an intern she kept getting pulled in every direction. 

When she finally had a moment of peace in the restroom, she gathered her thoughts about the day thus far. Everyone seemed great! Crus was a phenomenal teacher, some of the other students were fun to work with, and Lena seemed to be a great heart at the center of it all. 

She still couldn’t work out what the situation was with you and Dr. Abbot though. And that bugged her. She had worked her ass off to get in to med school, she’d be damned if she couldn’t read the room and figure out what the situation was with the two of you by the end of the night. 

On her way back from the restroom, she saw the two of you in an empty patient room. 

“You forgot to pick her up?” Jack asked. 

“I thought you were going to pick her up!” You replied.

“It’s not my weekend! It’s yours!” 

“It’s like every weekend is my weekend! You always pick up shifts or volunteer with the SWAT team. How do you think she feels? Huh?” 

The wheels in Amara’s head turned. She tried piecing the puzzle together, but it felt like every hour brought forth new evidence that contradicted the last! Now it sounded like a custody battle was happening in room 16. First, she saw you nearly rip Dr. Abbot’s head off, then she saw how flawlessly the two of you worked together, which was promptly followed by what seemed to be a quickie in the supply closet, and now you were arguing about who’s weekend it was for some unknown kid? 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Divorced 

Hour Eight

“Hey are you guys still recruiting?” Lena asks from across the nurse’s station. 

You and Jack look up from the chart you’re working on. 

“No, we stopped.” You say disappointed. 

“Decided it was probably best for us to act normal.” Jack says.

You and Jack exchange a look. One that only comes from years of being bonded together. 

Amara’s brows furrow in confusion. What would two doctors be recruiting for? It’s not like they’re the ones who are hiring everyone. There’s managers for that. They couldn’t possibly be part of an MLM, Amara was sure the salary of an attending could let them afford to live comfortably on their own. 

As she tried harder and harder to wrack her brain for any more context about the conversation, it hits her. Recruiting. There was really only one option that explained everything she had seen earlier that morning. 

The arguing. The silent communication that came from years of knowing each other. The secret supply closet meetings. The custody agreements. The recruiting. 

It was so obvious, she wasn’t sure how she didn’t see it all before. 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Cult Leaders

Hour Eleven

The longer the shift drug on, the more Amara was determined to understand what exactly was going on with you and Dr. Abbot. She didn’t think about the fact that running on only four hours of sleep, sheer determination, and at least 300mg of caffeine was the only thing keeping her going right now. That wouldn’t impair her judgement at all. Right? 

She went to grab a granola bar from the breakroom when she saw you and Dr. Abbot in two of the chairs. 

“Jack. Give me my jacket.” 

Jack looked down at the garment, “This isn’t your jacket.” 

“Yes it is. It quite literally has my name on it.” 

“It’s our jacket then” 

“No.” 

“Besides,” Jack starts, “You left it at my house.” 

“More like you stole it from me.” You grumble. 

“I borrowed it.” 

“For eight months? Really?” 

“Semantics…” 

You huffed. 

Amara could practically see the lightbulb that illuminated above her head. Of course! The only way she could possibly believe that either of you could get on each other’s nerves like this, or have access to each other’s houses, or understand each other in the unsettling way it seemed you did, would be to understand that you must be siblings! 

She listened in as you continued to bicker. 

“Jack.” 

“Not happening.” 

“Jack, I swear to god…” 

“Nope.” 

“You are literally fifty years old.” You deadpan. 

“All the more reason I should have the Jacket and not you, you spring chicken.” 

Differential Diagnosis: 

Siblings (DEFINITELY) 

Hour Thirteen

The shift ended more hectic than anyone expected. A massive MVC made sure that all hands were on deck until the morning crew was fully ready to take over. Amara had learned a lot in her first day. She just needed confirmation about one final case before going home. 

“Uh…Lena? I have a question before I leave.” 

Lena looked up from the computer where she was talking to the day shift charge nurse, Dana. 

“What’s up, hun?” Dana automatically responded. 

“Well I uh, I just was curious about two of the doctors.” 

Both nurses' brows furrowed. It was never a good sign when someone started blatantly questioning things on their first day, even if they were ultimately right in the end. 

“Go on,” Lena urged. 

Amara looked down at her notes before making eye contact again, “I just wanted to know about Dr. Abbot and…” She looked over at you and nodded her head in your direction. 

Both Dana and Lena’s eyes tracked toward you. 

“What about them?” Dana said with a knowing smirk hiding just under the surface. 

“They’re siblings right?” Amara asked.

As Lena took a sip of tea, it immediately sprayed over the keyboard as soon as she comprehended what amara was asking. Dana tried, and failed, to hide the big grin on her face. 

The commotion made you look over and walk toward the nurses station. 

“Everything okay? Was there something you needed, Amara?” You asked, “You should go home and get some rest. It’s been a long night.” 

Dana and Lena both laugh as they look between you. 

And in that moment, Amara believed that fate was real. And it had a vendetta against her. Because Jack came up and immediately wrapped his hands around your waist from behind. You instinctively leaned into his touch. He spun you around and pulled you in for a gentle, but knowing kiss. 

Amara’s jaw was on the floor. Dana and Lena couldn’t stop laughing. You looked concerned for everyone. 

“She thinks you guys are siblings!” Lena howled. 

Your eyes widened and cheeks involuntarily turned a shade of pink. 

“I didn’t mean-”

You and Jack both break out in laughter now as well. 

“I was trying to get a read on you all day and I couldn’t figure it out!” She said. 

“Aw, sweetie,” You said kindly, “We’re just married.” 

“Yeah,” Jack interrupted, “For too damn long.” 

You slapped his shoulder. He smiled down at you. 

It all made sense. The fighting, the steamy closet session, the bickering, and silent communication. 

No telepathy. 

No cult. 

No divorce. 

Just…marriage. Everything that happened wasn’t pointing to some differential diagnosis Amara had believed to be true at different points in the day. They all pointed to you and Jack, two peas in a pod who apparently were good at confusing the interns. 

You could feel the grip on your champagne glass threatening to crush the poor crystals. Your eyes narrowed on him after he had interrupted you for what felt like the millionth time, the other two celebrities looked between the two of you nervously. They weren't sure what had caused this kind of tension so quickly, but they wanted out. They politely excused themselves, leaving you and Michael, staring daggers at each other.

You waited patiently for him to say whatever it was that was making him so moody, but you were met with silence. You scoffed lightly and rolled your eyes, "Fix your face, those sunglasses aren't hiding anything." You brushed past him, shoulder bumping into his. It sent a wave of heat through the both of you silently.

You left the party after that, a silent vendetta against the global superstar settling into your chest. The vendetta wasn't the only thing lingering on your heart, unbridled desire mixing dangerously with hatred.

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Michael watched you leave the party, his shoulder felt like it was on fire. His jaw was so tight he thought his teeth would be ground down to nothing by the time you left his eye sight.

You were a minxy little thing, and he hated it. He hated that you had so easily tricked the public into thinking you were this sweet little princess when behind closed doors you were really a snobby brat.

He had heard your entire tantrum earlier. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but Diana had come up to him and told him that you had asked to see him before the award ceremony started. Something about needing a pep-talk since it was your first time presenting an award. As he approached the holding room where you and your manager sat, he could hear your hypnotic voice talking angrily.

"God, he's such a flirt, it's ridiculous! I mean you saw the way he got handsy with me, it was disgusting! He really thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread, well he's in for a rude awakening. In a year people won't even remember his name." You spoke fiercely, groaning as you thought about the handsy actor that was presenting the award with you.

Michael thought back to when he had spoken to you just a little earlier, how he had put a hand on the small of your back to gently steer you away from people who weren't looking where they were going. Was he being flirtatious... yes, but he didn't think it was so bad that you were disgusted with him. He bit the inside of his cheek, he was trying to be a gentleman, but maybe he should have just let you get knocked off your feet. Maybe that would have taken your ego down a notch. I mean how self centered you were that you thought that he was desperate for your attention. And how self righteous were you that you thought it was okay to pray on his downfall? He immediately pivoted on his heel, walking away from the room, you clearly didn't need a pep talk from him if that's how you felt.

He took his seat in the awards room, pride raging through his body. He had fallen for the little act you put on around others, but now he knew the truth, and he hated how ugly it was. But what he hated most was that a large part of him had been trying his hardest to get your attention. But that was before he knew what you were really like. It should have made him feel better, made him want you less, but it didn't. His body still longed to be close to yours.

He watched as you presented the award, eyeing the actor standing next to you. He rolled his eyes, clearly you thought every man was just dying to get your attention. What was worse is that the guy clearly was. Oh god that made him even angrier. He hated the idea that you were probably thinking to yourself about how much men wanted you, and he hated that you were right.

His eyes trailed down your body as you left the afterparty, he couldn't help himself, and that only added fuel to the fire in his heart. His eyes found your hips, watching them sway naturally as you walked towards the exit. He couldn't help himself as he watched your hair swish softly behind your shoulder. Almost as if you were mocking him, waving goodbye with nothing but the back of your head.

Quincy eyed the man whose breathing had turned ragged as you disappeared out the doors of the venue. He nudged Michael, "Mike... Mickey.... Michael!" He snapped his fingers in front of Michael's face.

Michael blinked and looked at Q, "What?" He demanded harsher than he meant to.

"You look like you're a lion stalking its prey, man. If you like her just go talk to her, don't ogle at her."

"I do not like her, and I was not ogling." He said it too quickly, even he didn't believe himself.

"Right, and I guess next you're gonna say Jermaine is your favorite brother?"

Michael glared at Q, angry that he had been caught.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Michael couldn't get you out of his head after that. Each time he saw your name on a magazine, heard your name on the news, heard your voice on the radio, he felt the hatred grow more and more. It had lit a fire in his chest. But people always say where there is desire there's gotta be a flame. So as that fire grew hotter, so did his want, no, his need for you.

It was a vicious cycle, more hate led to more need, which only made him hate you more, and round and round it went. He couldn't do anything without feeling bombarded by your essence, it was suffocating yet he wanted more.

What drove him crazy was the idea that you had this effect on him and probably hadn't given him a single thought.

Boy, was he wrong.

The more you saw of him the more your confused resentment built up. Each award show, each party, each time someone muttered his name, it was like a hole opened up and swallowed everything that wasn't him. It was driving you crazy, but you couldn't get enough. You secretly loved the thrill. You loved seeing him tense up whenever you stepped in a room, you loved seeing his jaw muscles flex as you walked by. You absolutely delighted in the fact that his hands would ball into tight fists when you talked to other guys, especially guys his age. You couldn't help yourself from letting visions of his big hands on you plague your mind. You wanted him to come up behind you and grab you by the waist, the wrist, the arm, hell even the back of your neck, and lead you away from whichever sad guy you were talking to. But what you loved most of all, is how you could feel him watching you. His sunglasses did nothing to hide his piercing gaze, and you could feel everywhere it went.

Despite the fun you felt, you also felt like you were being tormented. You still had no idea why he was acting like this. You couldn't help but think maybe you had done something? Maybe that small interaction you had completely turned him away from you, or the idea of you. It stung more than you had liked to admit. It was ridiculous, you had only ever had one real conversation with the guy, and yet your mind was reeling over every detail of it, searching for the key to his hatred. It made you feel silly, it made you feel desperate (which you were).

This little game of toying with each other had been going on for over a year. Everything was building up, the hate, the resentment, the confusion, the anger, the sadness, the want, the need. And then it all came crashing down.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It was like fate had planned the whole thing, because here you were at another after party for the same award show exactly a year ago. Luckily you got to enjoy this one, no stress of presenting, no handsy co-presenter... or so you thought.

You stood with a group of other singers, you could feel Michael watching you from just across the room. Diana Ross was standing next to him, clinging onto him like he was the fountain of youth. She was talking his ear off, and it was evident he wasn't paying a lick of attention.

You had grown tired of this little game between you two. You had started to think it was less of a game and more like he actually hated you so much that it made him viscerally upset at the mere sight of you.

You did your best to ignore his stares, trying to focus on anything that wasn't him. In the process of doing that you felt a hand slide around your waist like a snake. You looked up to find yourself staring up at the same guy who you presented with last year, the handsy one, Rob. You tried stepping away, giving him a polite smile.

His grip tightened around you, and he pulled you closer, his head leaning down to your ear. You could smell the whisky on his breath, it made you sick to your stomach.

"Rob, please let go of my waist." You placed a hand on his chest, trying to keep as much distance as possible between you and the drunkard.

He laughed, and it made your stomach tighten with unease. "Why would I let go when I just found myself the prettiest little piece of ass in here?" His hand moved lower.

You shoved at him as best you could, pushing him backwards. The motion sent his drink spilling down his chest. He looked at you angrily. "You little bit-"

You slapped him hard across the face. "Don't you ever touch me like that again. I put up with your grab hands last year, but I sweat to god Rob if you try anything like that ever again with me or another woman I will end your shitty career."

Michael was halfway to you when you slapped the man. He halted in his stride, watching with everyone else as you yelled at the guy. Put up with him last year?

Michael's heart sank in realization. You weren't talking about him, you had never been talking about him.

He watched you quickly walk past, eyes slightly glossy, as you made your way to the door. He gently grabbed your arm. "Hey are you-"

You pulled yourself free, "Stop it, Michael. I can't deal with this right now." You continued to the door.

Michael looked torn, on one hand his physical body wanted nothing more than to knock a few teeth out of the slimy guy, but his heart was practically begging him to follow you.

He turned on his heels and followed you out of the grand room, rushing to catch up with you. "Wait, Y/n, slow down!" He jogged up to you.

"Go away, Michael." You kept walking, refusing to look at him.

He took hold of your arms, stopping the two of you in the dim hallway. "Just wait a minute!" He pleaded slightly. "Just- are you okay?"

"Stop it! Stop doing this to me!" You pulled away from him.

"Doing what to you!?"

"Stop the double act, okay?? It's confusing! Just hate me with your full chest! Don't try playing with my emotions anymore, I'm over it." You breathed heavily.

His breath caught slightly, watching you, holding you steady in his hands. "I don't hate you." His voice was raw.

You looked up at him, his scent easing your stance. "What? Then why do you glare at me, why do you tense up when I walk by, why do you act like I'm this evil person?"

"Because I wanted you to be." He confessed. "I wanted you to be horrible so that all these suffocating things I feel for you would go away. I wanted a reason to hate you so I could get over you. But I can't. You are impossibly addictive."

His face was inches from yours. You stared up into his eyes and into his heart. You found that same flame you had been carrying for him buried deep in his chest. You saw all of that desire you had thought was one sided rushing forward like a flood. And then you saw yourself in his eyes, you saw yourself the way he saw you, you saw desire embodied.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt, crashing your lips onto his. He immediately met you with the same intensity, everything he had been holding back rushing out all at once. He pulled your body against his, leaving no space for any hesitation. He gripped your waist like if he let go you would slip right through his hands.

Your hands grabbed at him everywhere, trying to find the best place to anchor yourself. He walked you backwards, your back hitting the wall hard. The force knocked the air out of your lungs, your mouth gasping for air. Michael didn't waste the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You grabbed at his hair, tugging it. He let out a groan in response, which only prompted you to pull more.

You stayed there for a while, panting into each other's mouths, bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, and desire washing away any anger or resentment that lingered.

You were the first to pull back, Michael trying to chase your lips. "Michael." You breathed out his name, catching his attention.

He looked at you, his big brown eyes hazy. "Yeah?"

"Tell me this is real. I don't want this to be a one time thing. I don't want this to be out of pent up anger. I want it to be more than that. It feels like more than that. Tell me you feel it too." You met his gaze.

He saw the scared look in your eye, he saw how vulnerable you had made yourself to him in that moment. "I feel it too, I feel every bit of it and maybe even more." He assured you, gently. His voice takes on a softer tone.

You nodded and pulled yourself into his chest, hugging him. "Why did you pretend to hate me?"

"Because I thought I had heard you talking about me... and it made me upset that you could say such hurtful things and still have my heart captured." He hugged you to his chest.

You placed your chin on his bicep, looking up at him, "You thought I was talking bad about you? When?"

"It was actually last year exactly. It was this award show, and Diana told me you had asked to speak to me before presenting. And when I came by I heard you talking about some guy who had been flirting with you, and I thought it was me."

The realization dawned on you. That's why he had been so different at the afterparty. "I wasn't talking about you! I was talking about that di-"

"Rob, yeah... I kind of just put that together." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I also didn't ask Diana to bring you to me." You frowned.

Michael nodded again, "Yeah, I figured that too... Diana she can be... controlling, manipulative, she's a lot."

"She's old." You stated simply. It made Michael laugh loudly, the smile staying on his face as he looked at you.

"I'm sorry I hurt and confused you. I just, I honestly thought I was the only one feeling so strongly about it."

"No, I did too. You're incredibly attractive when you're trying to pretend you hate me." You smiled, watching him blush.

"And you're incredibly hard to hate when you look like that all the time." He pressed a kiss to your lips.

"Well now you don't have to pretend to hate me, and I don't have to pretend I don't want your hands all over me." Your hand slid back into his curls.

Michael smirked, his hands starting to move, "That can easily be arranged."

You smiled and let him lead you out of the forgotten party.

You were daughter of a Lord, a daughter in a world of marriage and alliances and tasks. A daughter in a land that needed you for one purpose and one alone. 

            Children. 

            Fertility, a womb, a place for children to grow. That was what the world required of you, nothing more and nothing less. A mother who could raise the children with a gentle hand, curbing them and waiting for their lord father to make them what he needed them to be. A womb for the husband and a mother for the child. 

            That was what your world made you. 

            All it made you. 

            You had reconciled yourself to your purpose from the time you were a child, from the time you were told that you would one day marry. Told that as if it were the only thing witch which you should be pleased by. The only thing that truly mattered. 

            The best that you could do. 

            And you have been waiting, waiting to find which lord would choose you, wish to pluck you like a flower from the gardens, one to put on display in a vase, watered and loved only until it starts to wilt, wither and die, then replaced by the next. 

            You have been waiting to become the cut flower, the one that only lives so much longer. Because once a flower is plucked from the gardens, it does not have long to live. 

            It blooms, is cut and withers, fades away. 

            And you have been waiting to become another withered bloom in a kingdom full of dying flowers. 

            You just didn’t think it would be today. You had fooled yourself into thinking you had more time, more freedom. More life. 

            You were wrong. 

            So very, very wrong. 

            “Which Targaryen, Father?” you ask, throat thick with tears, the mucus feeling clawing from your throat up to your mouth, tongue becoming thick. “Which one am I to marry?” Your father looks at you now, apology for the first time seen in his eyes, those eyes which match yours, his lips twisting down in apology, hands folding together, gnarled, withered fingers twisting around each other, rings rattling at the touch. 

            “Prince Maeker, the fourth born son of our good King,” he tells you, tone striving to be imperious and powerful, but falling, failing. You know he wanted more for you, his youngest daughter. You know he wanted a young lord for you, one that would be fit to be with you, one that could grow into love, but one cannot refuse the royal family. 

            It matters not how powerful your father is: When the royals call, all lords must answer. 

            And in this answer, your father has had to trade you. His precious daughter. 

            “I see,” you whisper, your hands clasped in front of you as you look down, bowing your head, tears lining your eyes as your lips press into a thin line, chest constricted and breathing hard. It’s not that the idea of princess is not appealing, it is the fact that you are to spend your life with a man who will never love you. 

            A man who publicly vowed to never love again. 

            You had always hoped that in your marriage, you would find a form of love, a form of affection and attachment. That you would be lucky like your mother and father and your…betrothed and his first wife. That luck of finding love in that whom was chosen for you. 

            But like most girls, your hopes are crushed with an iron fist—in your case, iron throne.

***

            “You would truly marry this girl just to spare her from your sons?” Baelor asks Maeker now, the two of them waiting, standing stiff and rigid outside of the Red Keep, awaiting your arrival, awaiting the sigil of your house on cloth banners. 

            “My sons are not fit for marriage,” Maeker hisses, body rigid, frown firmly set, hands clasped and eyes focused solely on the road ahead. “One is a drunkard, one is a scholar and one is a cruel bastard. I would not saddle any woman to them, let alone one as kind as she.” Baelor looks over at his youngest brother, the way his jaw is clenched so tight that it is a miracle he still has teeth at all and the way his fingers tap an anxious rhythm against each other. 

            “You swore—” 

            “I know what I swore,” Maeker interrupts, turning to look at his brother with a fury in his eyes, a fury that few see and survive. He earned the name of the Anvil, not by being kind and someone who listens; he earned it for his brutality and cruelty. “I also know that this girl deserves better.”

            “This girl,” Baelor whispers, his voice dropping as your carriage crests on the horizon, “deserves someone who can love her. A service you cannot provide.”

            Those words sink into Maeker, hitting him with the force of a thousand hits of war, the idea of his act of saving really being the harm having never have occurred to him. And he wonders if you would have been better suited to his sons, would have brought out the good in them, brought out something in them. 

            If he should have let you find a love your own age. 

            “Many marriages are loveless, brother,” he replies instead, doing his best to shove the worries aside, to push past them, ignore them. Pretend they do not exist, that they are not valid. “She will learn that this is better. I may not provide love but at least I shall give security.”

            “Maybe this girl does not want security,” Baelor whispers, the final word soon to be his as your carriage stops before them, the design simple and sleek. “Maybe she wants magic. Something you have not been able to provide for many years.” And in his words, Maeker can hear his brother’s grief, his oft repeated line Dyanna died and even though you are still here, you act like you are dead too. I feel like I burned my brother along with his wife and am now haunted by his image, his ghost. 

            “Brother—” he begins, but the carriage door opens, your Lord Father stepping out, holding his hand out to you, a radiant bloom, one that is pristine and preserved, as if behind glass. A flower to look at and never to touch. 

            “My lady!” Baelor calls out, stepping forwards, a smile growing across his face, one that is kind and gracious and real. Realer than anything he has seen on his brother’s face in a long while. “I trust your travel was fair?”

            “As fair as travelling in a carriage with only one’s father for company can be,” you answer, your voice soft and lilting, carrying through the air with warmth and humour and lightness and Maeker can feel something inside him crack and crumble at the same time because he has only heard warmth like that when his love was alive, was wandering the castle, filling the corridors with laughter and cheer. 

            With love. 

            “My poor daughter,” your father chimes in, a smile gracing his face, one that is as real as Baelor’s, “has been trapped with me in an enclosed space for days. I fear that she cannot wait to get married if only to get away from me!” He breaks into a laugh as you turn back to him, a menacing look on your face, one that only succeeds in making him laugh harder and it is not hard to see from where you have gotten your warmth, your easy nature. 

            “Your mother was not able to accompany you?” Baelor asks and Maeker feels that familiar chill, the one of grief, of sudden loss and he watches as you and your father still, smiles becoming tight, strained. 

            “My mother passed away a few moons ago,” you answer, smile drawing sadder yet no less genuine, shifting to another form of joy, one tinged by loss yet also gain. One that Maeker has never seen; he has withdrawn, become cold, Daeron a drunkard, Aemon a scholar, Aerion a monster, Daella a demanding princess always irritated by some imagined slight, Aegon a loud and reckless terror, Rhae a little girl who woke with nightmares every night wandering to his bed asking him where’s my mama? a woman she has no memory of. 

            A woman who died to give her life. 

            “I’m so sorry, my lady, lord, for your loss,” Baelor says and when you flick your gaze to Maeker, he realizes that he has not spoken to you once, not said a single word of greeting. Not even my lady. 

            Nothing. 

            Maybe he is a ghost in his own skin.

            “It is fine, Your Grace,” you answer, curtseying as if you had forgotten and possibly you had, but it truly does not matter because not even Maeker worried over the loss of decorum. He had not cared. 

            And that is his first sign that you mean something. 

            To him, that is. 

            “My lady,” he calls out now, his voice too loud, too gruff for the environment now. He curses it, the sound of it, the loudness but he notices that you don’t look shocked, you just look at him. Like looking at him is just something not anything important or hurtful. “Would you tour the gardens with me? Stretch your legs after a long ride?” His question is gruff and he expects you to refuse but you surprise him by nodding. 

            “Of course, Your Grace,” you reply, a small curtsy the other response. And then you are beside him, your hand enclosing around his elbow, grip light like a faerie touch, the scent of you—old books and some sort of flower—overwhelming him, intoxicating in its entirety. Intoxicating in the way that it overwhelms him, so distinct from Dyanna, a woman so gentle, scented with jasmine and roses, distinct and solid scents, ones that spoke of both Dorne and King’s Landing. 

            Her land and her home. 

            “I am so—” he begins but he does not manage much before you cut him off, holding your hand up to silence him as the two of you step through to the gardens together, steps in sync. 

            “Let us not pretend, my prince,” you tell him, voice strong, made of steel, just the faintest hint of brittleness in your tone, “that this is anything but duty. I must marry and your family has made you remarry, so this was a pairing that happened but it is not anything more than that. You need a mother for your youngest child, someone to rein in your elder children while you do what princes do and I shall be that, but you insult me by trying to make a mockery of me.”

            “I intended no insult,” he tells you, bristling at the abruptness, the rudeness of your words while also cracking at the raw aching and vulnerability in you, in your voice and tone. It makes him realize how little you want this but also what little choice you have—you are a woman after all. 

            “No and that is the worst part. You do not intend insult and yet it happens anyways. That is the thing with men raised in power, you do not know the struggle of the women and what you think is proper is really just insulting so pleasedo not try to reason with me or say that is more than duty when I know it is not.” You look away from him, glancing down at the ground, the cobbled walk through the green of the grass, the gardens emerging before you, servants caring for the lawns, boys training to be men fighting in the yard. 

            And Maeker wants you to look at him.

            It’s respectful to look at him, is all. 

            “You are quite opinionated, my lady,” he says, his tone brittle, rigid, angered and you look up at him, eyes flaring with an emotion he does not know, has never seen before yet has a feeling it is all he will see.

            “Opinions are not truth,” you reply, your lips pressing into a thin line, the appearance making him want to press his thumb to them, try to even them back to normal, help them heal from the pressure, “and what I speak is truth. Do not pretend, my prince, that will ever be love when I know it will not be.”

            “You know this?” he asks you, his tone arch as the two of you depart, stepping from the green onto the garden path, a fountain ahead. 

            “You were the one who publicly vowed to never love another,” you remind him, turning your head, attention falling on the flowers, falling on the careful way they’re tended to look wild while reminding everyone that nothing wild lasts. 

            That everything is tamed. 

            Even if it requires breaking them. 

            “You are right, my lady,” he tells you, voice low and rough, teeth gritting at the admission. He doesn’t like assuring you of the fact that you are right, he knows somehow that you will be more insufferable about it. The fact that he cannot deny your knowledge. “But I can give you security and a good life; a title as a princess. Is that not enough?”

            You look up at him, a faraway gaze in your eyes before you blink, focusing back on him, lips still pressed thin. “It is enough, it is just not what I wanted. I had hoped for love, but I know now…” you pause, sighing and looking down, the gesture not structured or planned, designed to bring him rage or anger, rather just you. “I know now that that was simply a little girl’s fantasy. Not proper for the real world, my prince.”

            “You will be well-cared for, my lady,” he assures you, feeling the need to give you something since he cannot give you your girlhood dream, the wish you still cling to in your heart.

            “I have no doubt, my prince,” you say and the words, while said softly and sadly, give him a form of peace. A form of happiness and it is strange. 

            You are strange. 

            But strangeness is not cruelty nor stupidity and in truth, it is refreshing. You are so blatantly you that he never has to fear you hiding from him. You will give it to him as you see it, hear it, feel it. 

            You do not hide. 

            “My lady,” he interrupts the silence of the walk, his voice cutting through the sounds of wind in the trees, in the flowers and leaves; the sound of birds and insects, the chitter and chatter of nature. “I do not intend a mockery or insult with my question, but would you at least consider that we could be…friends perhaps?” He waits, for once understanding the saying of bated breath because he holds his breath, waiting for your reply. Your answer somehow mattering to him. 

            “Yes,” you tell him, a small smile growing on your lips, the kind of shared mischief, “I think we could manage that.”

***

            It is scarcely dawn when you are awoken by banging on your door. Loud, frantic knocks that terrify you, the sound not unlike the morning you were awoken when your mother died, your father on the other side, broken and crying, shattered. A man laid bare by loss. 

            “Open this door, now!” calls a young, imperious voice, accompanied by open-handed smacks on the wood. You sigh and roll from the bed, taking your dressing gown and belting it over your nightgown, shuffling to the door, one arm bracketed around your stomach, the other smoothing your hair as you reach the door, pulling it open to reveal a girl of olive skin, dark hair and the piercing violet eyes of the Targaryen blood. 

            The eyes that glimmer with a look like death. 

            “What do you want, Princess Daella?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and one eyebrow arched. No curtsy, no deference. Nothing. 

            “You will come with me, now,” she says and you shake your head, sighing once and stepping back into your rooms, hand going to the doorframe, preparing to close it. 

            “No,” you tell her and you watch as those eyes lit with a cruel and venomous gleam, dim, confidence waning and confusion reining in its place. 

            “I am a princess,” she says as if you need a reminder of her place, her position. Of the fact that one word from her bloodline can cause any noble lord to bend his knee. 

            “I don’t care,” you tell her, moving the door again, preparing to close it but stopping just slightly, it in line with the middle of your body, one half of you visible to her and the other hidden. 

            “Please?” she asks you and in her voice, you can hear that of a child mourning, that of a child lost. That of a woman who learned to be one without a guiding hand. 

            A girl who formed herself into what she thought she should be. 

            A girl who learned the measure of her bleed from a man not a mother. 

            A girl who only knows how to demand, never measured by a guiding hand. 

            A girl trying to be a woman without any idea of what one is. 

            “You know,” you begin, voice quiet, slightly lilting in the still morning air, “I lost my mother just five moons ago. I was awoken just like this morning to loud knocks on my door but instead of a spoiled princess on the other side who has learned that by being demanding she gets what she wants, I saw my father. Broken. And yet, even though my loss is newer than yours, I was expected to get up and travel here and marry your father. So, no, Princess. I will not. You want someone to guide you to be grown, find a better way of asking than demanding for we all carry our own scars. Yours does not make you special, Princess. Come back tomorrow when you have a better attitude.” And then you close the door. 

            And go back to bed. 

***

            The next morning, you rise, silence your companion as maids enter and help you dress, only the rustle of fabric upon your body and your hair swept up and away. The sounds of being noble, the sounds of being alone. 

            Because even in a room full of people you are alone. 

            And that was when you heard it—soft knocks on the door, delicate and quiet but no less present. It was why you stopped the maid that went to answer the door, instead doing it yourself, revealing Daella, more subdued in a gown of black and grey, her hair braided tight but no circlet of gold upon her brow. Rather, she looked like the child that she was. 

            “Princess,” you greet her, nodding your head, conscious of the way her violet eyes glimmer not with a Targaryen gleam of cruelty and venom, but instead of worry. Nervousness. Innocence. 

            “Would you please accompany me today, my lady?” she asks you, tone quiet, that of the child which she is, scarcely more than fourteen. 

            “I would, Princess,” you reply and then you step from the room, walking with her, your voices rising and falling through the stone corridors, echoing around, laughter and joy and peace. You learn that she is a girl who misses her mother, who needed her and she was not there. A girl who is trying to grow up without knowing how. 

            And you promise her that you are here now, that you will guide her. As is your role. As is what the marriage creates. You tell her that never will she be alone again, never will she go through pain alone again. You tell her that while you may not be her mother, you will be there for what her mother cannot be there for. 

            You tell her that you care, that you are here. 

            You tell her that you are not leaving. 

            And that was what she needed to hear. Precisely. 

***

            The next time Maeker sees his daughter, Daella, he sees not the demanding, irritated princess filled with scorn and ready with a harsh word for anyone. Instead, he sees a young girl with flowers in her hair and laughter in her eyes with kind words and pleasant manners. 

            He sees the girl he always thought she would grow into. 

            And he notices your proud smile. Your attentions. 

            And that stirring inside of him that he felt when he first saw you, that cracking and crumbling grows more. 

            Because you are repairing that which he cannot. 

            He does not know how he feels about that. 

***

            “Mama?” calls out a small voice, a frail voice. One cut through with terror, a tone that awakens you, pulling you from sleep as if it were your own child even though you have none. Will never have any of your own truly. 

            “Rhae?” you call out and you hear the shuffle of little feet, feel pressure on the bed and you sit up, adjusting, blinking your eyes as you watch a small shape of a child no more than three crawls onto your bed, towards you, one hand clutching a small object shaped like a star. 

            “Mama?” she asks again and then she’s flopping on you and you know what she is asking you. Are you her mother? Are you the mother that died when she was born?

            “I will be,” you whisper and that admission is all she needs, burrowing deeper into you, whispering mama safeover and over as sleep pulls her down, little hands holding tight to you as you tuck her in under your blankets, holding her close, holding her against the fears of the world that she holds. 

            The fears that your presence seem to have managed. 

            At least for a little while. 

***

            The wedding is only days away when Maeker catches a glimpse of you in the gardens, head thrown back laughing, a full-bodied laugh, Rhae tucked up in your side, little hands holding onto you, Daella seated beside you, laughing with you as Aemon—Aemon—gesticulates wildly before you, re-enacting a scene of something. 

            And Maeker is taken aback because in that moment, he realizes that he has not been awoken by Rhae in many weeks. That Daella has not insulted anybody since your arrival and that the Maesters have stopped complaining of Aemon and his need for books and only books. 

            And the common key is you. 

            Somehow, in the short time you have been here, in the Keep, as his betrothed, you have begun to repair what Dyanna broke with her death, the thing that Maeker has not known how to fix, too buried in his grief, in himself. 

            In his own loss. 

            You have seen to the heart of his children in a way that he hasn’t been able to and even if it is only duty, this marriage, to the both of you, he knows now that he will you give the world if only because you have brought smiles back to half of his children. 

            You have done what he could never.

            And for that, he will give you everything he can. 

***

            “You idiot,” you hiss, catching sight of Daeron, slumped and drunk, shirt coated in his own vomit, hair loose and lank, draped about his face. You shake your head, signalling for a maid, who approaches you with a smile, the staff of the Keep having grown to love you, you and the way you always acknowledge them and their efforts. The way you treat them as people. “Would mind bringing me a bucket of water? Cold, preferably, if that is possible, miss?”

            “Of course, my lady,” she tells you, curtseying before you and then scurrying off as fast as she can to get you what you need as you walk cautiously towards the mass of a man on the floor before you. You nudge him with your toe, watching as he stirs, mumbling about fire and death and dragons and a queen of flowers emerging unscathed, a queen that brings salvation. 

            A dragon dreamer, you remember hearing. Dreams told in riddles to conceal dangerous truths. 

            Enough to drive anyone to insanity. 

            “Here you go, my lady,” the maid says, voice quiet and kind as you turn, taking the metal bucket from her, thanking her and dismissing the curtsey, telling her there is no need and then she departs and you lift the bucket, tossing the water over him, the water cold, cold enough to shock him, his body jolting to awareness, hand reaching for a dagger, movements too drunken to grasp anything at all. 

            “Get up, you fool,” you hiss, dropping the bucket, the sound of metal on stone echoing and he whines, his hands going to his ears, violet eyes squeezed shut against the light of candles, of flame. 

            “Go away,” he whispers and in response, you reach down and tuck your hands under his armpits, hauling him to his feet, pulling him up with a strength most people would be surprised you possess. 

            “You make a mockery of your family,” you tell him, voice louder than normal but by no means a yell, yet still something that makes him pull away from you, your steps sure and his sluggish, stumbling. “And that ends now. You have dreams that scare you,” you say as you reach his chambers, nodding at the guard to open them which he does, accompanying you as you haul the prince into his rooms, letting him drop onto the bed, “while so do other people. You have a family that needs you and a family that cares. You will change because I will make you.” 

            And then you walk away, leaving him to sleep, mumbling a curse in his sleep, one directed at you while you go to the staff, instructing them to limit his wine, a little more each day. 

            You will wean him off the substance, slowly but surely until he need it no longer, withdrawal not a bitch when done slower. 

            You should know. 

            You’ve done it for your father. 

***

            The wedding came too fast for Maeker’s liking, he would have preferred to stay alone and sullen, locked inside his room, using the last of Dyanna’s oils on what once was her pillow, trying to hold her too him even while the scent of you, of flowers and old books seems to permeate his mind, not even what once was Dyanna enough to drive it from his mind. 

            And now he is here, vowing to you before the Seven, vows which he does not think he can maintain. Vows he has sworn before, vows which he meant then. Vows which he first swore and still means, vows to Dyanna. 

            His only love. 

            And yet, the press of his lips against yours, the seal of the marriage sends a shock through his body, his skin feeling alive, no longer numb rather electric and pulsing. Like he was a ghost truly and your kiss has made him flesh again. 

            He does not know what to make of these strange feelings, nor what to make of the way you avoid him, rather finding his children, his son Daeron. Seeking out the children that you have vowed to take on as your own. You are no older than Daeron, in fact, you are younger—Aerion’s age—and yet you mother all of them. 

            He notes that now your touch has reached Daeron, his drunkard son no longer drunk, his hand enclosed around a cup of water, turning down the wine that people offer him with strained smiles, a smile that reads fuck off. 

            He notes that his children close around you, Daella on one side, Aemon on the other, Rhae on your hip and Daeron in front, talking and laughing and Maeker can feel that crumbling in his chest intensify because it looks, for all the world, like you and Daeron are the couple, surrounded by your children. 

            That your family is not with him, but with his son. 

            He doesn’t know why he cares. Only that he does. 

***

            The hall seems to stretch too long, too much distance to cover, knowing what must happen, knowing neither of you wants it but it must happen. Blood must dot the white sheet. 

            Which is why you follow Maeker, hands folded in front of you, fingers knotted together, knuckles white from holding onto each other as you walk, your two sets of footsteps echoing off the stone walls, the rowdiness of the ceremony still ricochetting off the walls, reaching you even now. 

            It had been a beautiful celebration, your new family most welcoming. All except the bridegroom who pressed a chaste, brief kiss to your lips with eyes closed and held breath. 

            The same man you must now lie with. 

            “I shall cut my hand,” he says now, the two of you on opposite sides of the bed, his lip curled in a sneer as he reaches for the dagger. 

            “No,” you tell him and he pauses, the blade hovering above his palm. “You will make a mockery of me in this way too, my prince? A wife who cannot even consummate a marriage? What would the court ladies think of me?”

            “They would not know,” he protests and you shake your head, tears lining your eyes, stinging and you bite your lip, working it between your teeth. 

            “But I would,” you whisper, the sentence ragged and torn, dragged from your throat as an admission you did not want to give. You can see the change in Maeker, your husband, the change from a man just disinterested, to a man who cares. 

            You did promise friendship before. 

            “I shall ensure it does not hurt,” he whispers, setting the dagger back on his table, walking around to you. He unlaces your hands, setting them by your sides, his touch gentle, dangerously slow as he unlaces your gown, helping you out of it and your small clothes, laying you gently upon the bed, thumb tracing over your cheekbone in a tender gesture as he undresses himself, positioning himself lower, hands spreading your legs wide. 

            You feel exposed, a strange feeling in your lower belly, skin too tight and lungs not quite working right as he presses kisses to your inner thighs, that strange feeling in your belly growing hotter, coiling in a way that is new. 

            In a way that is strange. 

            His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, his mouth finding the place between your legs, kisses pressed there that feel sinful, a strange wet feeling growing, that coil winding, breaths hitching. The feeling of him there is sinful, strange, but not unwanted. 

            You can scarcely feel anything at all, can barely think as he licks from entrance to clit, tongue working at you, fingers helping, the stretching and rubbing and shifting new and strange and painful but no less wanted. 

            You are barely more than a pool of sensations, the feeling so strange, so much that you feel hot all over, the scratching of his beard echoing throughout your entire body as he licks and thrusts and you come undone, the feeling so sinful that you feel disgraced until he rises, pushing into you, his hands taking yours, pressing them into the mattress as you hiss in pain. 

            He moves slowly and then waits until you tell him to move, that it’s okay and he continues, shifting into you, moving in and out, your blood upon him and the sheets, your maidenhood taken, given. You chose to give it to him and as he whispers praise, encouragement, you find you do not resent him nor regret it. 

            And it is done far sooner than you thought and he is beside you, his arms moving as if to hold you, but you rise on shaky legs, pulling your clothes back on, the evidence of your blood and release and his seed dripping down your scratched and sensitive thighs. 

            “Where do you go?” he asks you as you move, steps shaky, unsure. 

            “To my chambers, Your Grace,” you whisper, a strange thickness in your throat at the smell in the room, the smell of jasmine and roses, a woman who is not you, but rather that of the woman who had a place in his bed first. 

            A place in his bed always. 

            You realize that when you lay with him, you hoped. You hoped that maybe, just maybe, he would change, that something would come of this marriage but you can smell her all around you and you know. 

            There is no place for you in this life. 

            There never really was, only a small foolish part of your heart believed. 

***

            Maeker can feel your absence in the room as assuredly as he can smell you on the sheets, your scent so strong that he cannot smell Dyanna, the oils he spread around the room just this morning. Instead, he can only smell you, taste you, the earthy flavour of you lingering upon his tongue. 

            And he likes it, likes you, more than he cares to admit. 

            He needs you, wants you here beside him. Wants to hold you in his arms because you wanted him tonight. Or maybe, you truly did not want to be mocked, but whatever the reason, you moaned his name in a breathy way that he can still hear now. 

            And he wants you here, wants to hold you, wake to you in the morning, but since you have left, he contents himself to your pillow (he already thinks of it as yours, since it is your scent that lingers, not hers), holding it against his body, pretending. 

            Pretending, for the first time in three years, that it is not Dyanna. 

            No, he pretends that it is you. 

***

            Over the months, every interaction with Maeker only solidifies that feeling within you more, the feeling that yes, you have found in marriage, what you always wanted. 

            It is simply one-sided. 

            You are second to a woman who no longer lives. A woman who took your husband’s heart with her when she went. 

            And you aren’t even angry because you are the idiot who fell for a man who said he would never love another. 

            And most definitely, not you. 

***

            Maeker is frustrated. Extremely. Because he sees you everywhere in the castle yet you avoid him. You speak with Daeron, you study with Aemon, you train with Aegon—the boy no longer reckless, but rather well-behaved, attending all his lessons and boasting of his mother to all who will listen (the mother in question, being you)—shop with Daella and are never gone from Rhae. 

            You have even seemed to fix Aerion, the boy no longer a monster, but rather a prince with diplomacy, just an undercurrent of venom. 

            “You are a prince! Act like it, you motherfucking fool,” you had told him. “You resent your cousin so fucking be better than him. Don’t break people’s fingers when they displease you. You act polite and simply destroy them in a political, civil way. Be someone to proud of.” 

            You had even gone to Maeker, the one time that you had willingly sought him out, giving his heart reason to sing for weeks because you had looked at him. You had told him to spend time with his idiot son, that he wanted attention and so he should damn well give it to him for when he does good, not bad. 

            And he has.

            And Aerion no longer destroys that which he touches, rather speaking diplomatically, keeping his opinions of being a dragon to himself. 

            You have repaired all the breaks in his children, but have only created more within Maeker. You have shattered him completely with your avoidance. 

            Every time he means to spend time with you and his children, you find some excuse to leave. Every time. 

            And he. Has had. Enough. 

***

            “Stop avoiding me!” Maeker yells out now, pushing into your chambers, face red and contorted with anger and irritation. “You are my wife and you do not even look at me. You said we could be friends and yet you do not even give me that!” You stand, sighing and setting your book aside, rising from the couch, reaching for your dressing gown, meaning to belt it but then he is there, stalling you, taking your hands in his. 

            His grip is warm and soft and hard all at the same time. He holds you like he needs too. Like he will break if he lets go, like you will disappear and he cannot have that. You swallow, feeling the thickening of your throat because the Seven are often cruel, but this is a new level. 

            This is taunting you with the care of a man you can never have. 

            A man who belongs to a dead woman, her ghost holding the place her body once held in life. 

            “I do not avoid you,” you say instead, pulling your hands from his, mourning the loss of contact as you step away from him, crossing your arms over your body, feeling vulnerable and exposed. “I simply have my duties as you have yours.”

            “You avoid me,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I enter a room and you leave. You take dinner in your rooms if I am to be at the table. You raise my children but leave if I attempt to do so with you. Do you…” he pauses and you turn, noticing the way his face seems to fold, fall in on itself, doubt reflecting in those dangerous violet eyes. 

            Those perfect, beautiful eyes. 

            “Do I what?”

            “Do you love someone else?” he asks and the question is so strange that you cannot help but release a bark of laughter, a cruel sound, cruel and cold and brittle. Ever so brittle. 

            “Do I love someone else?” you cry. “It is not I that loves someone else, my prince. It is you! No, I am the one who loves you! You who love a ghost!” And then the cracking laughter gives way to choked sobs and then he is there, pulling you against him and you are sobbing too hard to resist. 

            “I feared you loved my son,” he whispers into your hair as you cry, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “But since you don’t, I may as well be honest with you.”

            “Be—honest?” you choke out, pulling back just enough to look at him. 

            “I love you. I have from the day you arrived, I believe. And, this was never truly duty for me. I sought to save you from my sons because I saw something in you I thought they would break and I did not want them to break you,” he pauses, looking down at you, a hand rising to cup your cheek. “Perhaps I loved you before I knew you. Perhaps I chose to marry you because I loved you even then.”

            “You useless fool,” you cry, the tears still pouring and he sighs, smiling just slightly at you, his own eyes filled with tears. 

            “I deserve that,” he whispers before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to your lips, one that tastes of salt and despair and love and new beginnings. “Now, I believe you said I love you, but I do not think I heard you.”

            “You mean I must repeat it?” you ask and he nods, the movement serious, but he not as betrayed by his smile. “Very well, husband. I love you, I love you, I love you.” And then he is kissing you again and again and again, steering the two of you towards the bed, whispering his own confession of love you every time he presses his lips to yours. 

            And as he lays you on the bed, the two of you hear the door creak open and he has just enough time to roll off of you, pulling you against him to hide the sight of his desire before Rhae appears, holding the stuffed star and looking tired. 

            “Mama, Papa,” she whispers, climbing up and onto the bed, landing right in between the two of you, “I had a nightmare again.” 

            “Shh,” you whisper, drawing her against you, smoothing back her white blond curls, “we’re here now. And we plan on going nowhere.”

            And so, the three of you fall asleep in the bed, Rhae’s small body curled into yours, her hand on her father’s chest. 

            And your hand laced tight with Maeker’s, the two of you unwilling to let each other go even for sleep, needing to know that the other is real.