#pre-romance

It's so hot. The heat? Blazing. Blithering. She's dying. She's going to drown in her sweat.

Rumi has everything she could wish having. She's never had to endure being destitute: she's always had more money than the amount you need to have to live and not just survive.

She's strong-minded, her will more than firm.

Never has she been bullied, but now it's absolutely the opposite. People? They love her. They love her, so, so resolutely it can be a little scary sometimes.

She's not just speaking about her friends, who seems to appreciate her despite much, like that one time Zoey forgave her for breaking her favourite cup, when she had accidentally used too much pressure while holding the "precious" dinnerware.

While Rumi was fretting over the broken shards , trying to rebuild the ugly lizard that adorned the tea-cup, its owner had fretted over making sure she had been unhurt, assuring her "i don't care about it all that much, really! i can buy another one, i promise, are you sure you're really fine though?"

She's not just speaking about her friends, but she's also speaking about their fans, who seems to admire everything they make. To extents that are sometimes a little much. Downright scary some other times, yes, mayyybe. But, honestly, sasaengs, or papparazis, are not that much of a problem.

They somehow are not recognized when they're just wearing simple facemasks, so..

Rumi's life is great, really. It is. Perfect, almost.

It would be, if her face was the only thing she'd be hiding.

But, unfortunately, it very much isn't. She has things to hide. Not her face, sure, but still parts of herself.

Rumi has everything she could wish having, wich include a fancy appartment that really is more a penthouse, that she gets to live in with her best friends. Their appartment has AC.

She's still dying.

It feels like her second skin is stuck to her first skin, the fabric of her shirt wet with her sweat. Her leggings are doing pretty much the same. Ohhh my god this is awful.

"I'm dying", she says outloud to no-one in particular. No-one, because she's currently alone in the penthouse. Wich logically means that she could go around as unclothed as she'd want to, but the thing is that there isn't a world where that is something she would want.

Mira and Zoey could be back any minute now, back from the pool and its water that must feel so refreshing. Back from the pool, as in, the most effective way of fighting against the heat of the summer wave.

Unfortunately, she has to resort to spraying herself, as if she were some sort of wilting house-plant. The vaporized water feels nice, but. Not enough. Definitely not enough.

"arghhhh, i hate thisss"

She really, really does. Hate this. This being how she's currently feeling as she's laying on the couch and gross with sweat, of course.

Not how she's using the heat as an excuse not to see her own skin and what's on it. Not even the slightest bit, noo, never

She might just have to go lay on the floor instead. It has got to feel blissfully freezing, right? Taking a nap on the tiles sounds heavenly right about now. She'll move there once she'll have finished her daily internet-scrolling session, maybe.

But right now, chosing wich tweets she should answer to and wich to like and wich to simply secretly chuckle to is way more important. Doom-scrolling time is too important.

The only thing that might be allowed to disturb it are messages from Bobby, Celine or her friends: .. very much like the one she just got from Zoey.

"Be there in a minute! ", it goes, wich means they might be back in about , what, 10minutes, if they don't get too distracted. But given that a new coffee shop opened recently...

Her heart pangs a little. She hopes they won't take too long. Because, well, of course they can go to places without her, but a coffee place is somewhere she can easily go with them, and she loves sweet, tastful drinks. So. It'd be upsetting not going. She should ask them to some other day.

'See ya", she sends.

The floor sounds more and more enticing as she keeps scrolling. Specially given that her phone is becoming a little too hot for her comfort. The disadvantage of fast charging chargers is that they get hot very quickly. They get hot.

And the additional heat is pretty annoying, when her body's own is already very much too high. Is the AC broken? If not, then it is definitely not doing its job, the lazy-ass.

With a groan, Rumi unplugs her phone, reachs down to unplug the charger as well and..

Her fingers release their grip on her phone, and she smushes against a previously discarded pillow, and the feet of the table comes greet her and. Woah. Yeah, it is definitely a little cooler down there.

The "ow" that comes is muffled into the plush pillow. Well. Floor time it is, apparently.

Sometimes, things happen despite not having being planned and that's fine, she supposes. You can't fight back against fate. You have to make do with it, and try not to suffer because of its doing as much as you can.

There's things that cannot be escaped.

Ending up down there was apparently one of those things.

She's kind of lucky, really. The (plush as well, courtesy of that one time Mira bought too much fuzzy fabric for an outfit concept and insisted on using the left over) carpet is far away from her that she didn't land on it, which means she's in direct contact to the floor. And to the tiles. The cold, cold tiles. "Oh my god. that's, like, perfect."

She had been right. This is her paradise. She can almost ignore the buzzing of her head. Yeah, she's forgetting about it again. Definitely. She's more focused on getting rid of the pillow, once again chucking it further away, just to lay her cheek directly on the floor. "Wow." As Zoey always says: "yep, that's the stuff", though she usually uses that declaration for food-related affirmations.

She can almost ignore that she still feels very much too scorched underneath her sleeves and pants. She should have stayed in the confines of her room, where's she's able to expose more of herself, but the girls could be back any minutes now, and she promised she'd watch a movie with them. To make up for not going to the pool with them, or to the bathouse, or to the private beach they rented once, or- yeah. Basically any place where it's necessary to show off flawless skin.

Not going means not having to explain things, like why she's not wearing a swimsuit and, what, going in the water fully clothed while Mira and Zoey are swimming around in their own swimsuits that, really, really display way too much?

Yeahh. This is better for her lungs, anyway.

Here, in the relative coolness, her pulse and breathing pace can stay relatively normal, at least.

Even if it means she's stuck inside with an AC that is probably broken , and that actually might have turned into a radiator. Seriously, why is it so hot in there?

She should ask Bobby if the building has any insulation problem, or anything like that. Wich, well. She needs her phone to do that, and she has no idea where it landed. Fuck. Guess she has to sit up.

Nooooo.

With a deep sigh, she does sit up, away from the coolness. Her phone's tucked away, near the other couch, a little bellow it. The screen's light is highlighting the presence of dust bunnies.

She grimaces.

Standing up to go get it is not sounding too appealing right about now. Nope. Her legs are way too achy. Maybe she should just stay there. The looping song from the reel she had been watching isn't that annoying, if a little frustrating. Seriously, they just had to pick an extract ending just before the best part?

Or maybe she could just..

Clanking sounds comes from inside the home. She hurries up, almost stumbling right back to the ground as her head goes slightly tingly at the rush. Is this-

"WE'RE BACKK", comes from in between the entry and the kitchen.

Rumi relaxes, her shoulders lowering back down as she herself does aswell. Okay. Phew. Just her girls.

"Wow. You're looking so red, are you cosplaying a lobster?", she hears next. Next to her, or rather, above her. Mira.

She blinks. "You're back already?"

"Uh, yeah? I texted you some minutes ago, Zoey's phone died so she couldn't tell you" Mira's towering over her, looking down as she speaks, folded arms on the headrest of the couch.

"Hah, yeah, that makes sense. ", Rumi blinks again. Her friend's still wearing her pop-star like (not that she isn't a star) sunglasses, wich is quite a contrast compared to her flowy, angel-like t-shirt. It fits her oddly well.

"Sooo.. why didn't you answer? I thought you were having your internet-phone-couch time. .. No, actually, screw that. What are you doing down there? "

" Mira, it is so much cooler down there", she bemoans. " I feel like I can survive there" Her friend's eyebrows furrow. She leans down a little further.

"Uhm, have you considered trying logical solutions like tying up your hair? Wearing more adapted clothes? You could go around naked and we wouldn't mind to be fair, i'm 1 degree away from doing it myself"

That gets a snort out of Rumi's nose, because , yes, Mira might just do that.

Rolling up her sleeves sounds so easy, right now.

Suddenly, Rumi almost feels like she's younger, just having her first summer with her two newly encountered co-stars and having to subtly manage to state that sleevless costumes were out the question without raising actual questions.

"Nah, my braid was giving me such a headache,"she settles on saying (It really is better now that she lets her hair loose, in comparison) "I prefer having my Rapunzel moment"

"Sureee", Mira drawls, right before masterfully tumbling over the headrest to land on the couch, lowkey striking a pose, except Rumi knows very well it's probably not done consciously. "Hope you atleast drank."

Something in her expression is convincing Rumi that Mira is reconsidering things. Like not having dragged her along to the pool with them, for example.

Wich is exactly why she (hurriedly) gesture to the bottle she fully emptied some half an hour ago. "I was gonna go stand up at some point to grab some more"

"Welp, no need to anymore. We got-"

"Better water than the sink's water?", she asks. Rethorically. Mira is concerningly obsessed with trying out bottled water brands to find out wich is the best.

Her teasing tone is not lost on her.

"Excuse me, I'll let you know that volv-"

"Rumi, want ice-cream?! We bought watermelon flavour, you've got to try!", Zoey screams from the kitchen, making herself known again.

So that's what she's been doing. Probably struggling to find a place to store it in, what's with all the noodles currently in the freezer.

"Oh, no, thanks th-"

"Yes she does!", Mira interrupts her. " Come on, you've got to try it, it taste like nothing but at the same time like absolute shit."

Mira is still carefully scrutinizing her. They're almost face to face. This is actually kind of creepy, really; and definitely disturbing.

"Why would it still be in sale if it's really that bad?"

" Zoey will argue it's good, but do not believe her, her taste buds definitely suffered when she inhaled the chlorine"

"Okay, yeah, I'm intrigued now"

" Ice cream time it is then", Mira snaps upright- like it's not way too hot and like she still has plenty of energy after swimming during around 2hours- , offering a hand to drag Rumi along with her.

She barely stumbles when she gets up, this time.

"We got drinks too, you might finally get to get the strawberry flavour if Zoey didn't drink them all already"

"I did not! ", comes immediately from behind the door, from an offended Zoey. Like she hasn't been drinking all the bobba tea they've been getting, because, you know, it's supposedly cheaper and way better tasting than the ones in America. "I'm innocent, this is slander"

"Why does it sound like you were trying to drown her for this earlier in the pool?", Rumi asks , looking to the side at a Mira that definitely seems guilty of said crime.

"I was not." "She absolutely was."

"Okayy", she laughs "sure"

"I would never." , Mira assures, solemnly nodding, the hand that's not on Rumi's back placed on her heart like she's pledging her honest honesty, or something along the lines.

"Everybody in this building know you would, you innocent looking-demon.", Zoey deadpans. Her gaze has shifted to Rumi's neck . To her turtleneck? To what's underneath it? She almost freezes, except- "Oh my god, I can't believe I didn't notice, you let your hair down? That fits you so welllll" oh.

Yeah. This is her friends. The watermelon flavour waiting for her and the laughter that escapes Mira's throat makes that evident. They're okay with her habits, as odd as they can seem.

"Zoeyyy, do not murder her with your compliments before she's convinced you that ice-cream taste like fucking garbage."

"Excuse me? It does not, it's tastefully original"

"Yeah, usually that means something taste bad", she intervenes. She's still going to try that ice-cream out, but teasing her smaller friend is too nice of a thing to pass. They do the same to her, anyway.

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continuation here ! :)

She shook her head, unable to hold his gaze under the weight of memories she had fought so hard to suppress for too long. Two hundred years of pretending that the first kindness ever shown to her had not stolen her heart long before she had ever deemed it of any use. 

“You never came back,” she whispered, the dip of her head sending waves of silver-white hair cascading in front of her face, obscuring the obsidian dark skin that marked her out for so much hatred here on the surface. 

“It was not for lack of will. I was prevented by those that had missed me.”

She felt, more than saw, his approach to her side; the strange comfort of his looming bulk dwarfing her more modest height with a protective mien that was as much a part of him as the broad muscular body that carried him. He stood close, so close; close enough she could feel the heat of his skin through the cloth of her shirt, shivering just a little in reaction to an intimacy that was not yet fully realised. 

“You are cold?” he asked, his arm lifting, hand hovering as though to clasp her shoulder, slide about her back. 

“I-I ...No, I’m just ... it’s been a strange day.”

Coward, she heard that long-forgotten, despised voice from her deep past whisper in the confines of her mind, the last echoes of a matriarch whose only grace in this world had been to fear Lolth more than she hated the child she had been given to raise in her ranks. 

“X’oriethlyn.”

The sound of her given name, unspoken for centuries, rolling from his tongue without a second thought drew a gasp from her throat, her head spinning with the sudden realisation that this druid, this man, did not lie. He did remember her; he remembered enough of her that the old name bestowed by the Spider Queen herself came as easily to him as the name she had given herself when she had first found freedom on the surface. Warmth coursed through her from the gentle press of his hand to her back as he reached for her swaying form; reached only to steady her, not to presume that she welcomed his touch. 

But welcome it she did, unable to prevent herself from turning into the unconditional warmth that opened his arms to her, allowing her to burrow into his embrace like the lost child she had been when they had first met all those long years ago. He smelled of oak and moss and rich, dark earth, of fur and fresh rain, and all those things she had never been able to put a name to until his capture by the matriarch of House Yril'Lysaen. Halsin’s arms closed around her, just as they had done back then, shielding her from the world as she clung to an anchor that she had thought she would never see again. 

How long they stood together on the shore, she could not have said, enveloped as she was in the safety of the druid’s embrace, her face pushed into the curve of his chest, his breath ruffling the fall of her moon-touched hair. 

“You have come so far, little wolf,” he murmured to her, tightening his embrace against the shudder of memory as it ripped through her, as though he could hold back the tide of whips and spiders and cruelty with just the force of his unassuming presence. And perhaps he could; if it had not been for him, tearing through the remaining ranks of guards in the chaos of the fall, she might never have escaped the Underdark herself. “I have longed to see you in the light.”

“I took your name for me,” she said, the words half-laughing, half-sobs, encouraged when she felt his lips curve into a smile against her hair. 

“I could see your strength even then,” he said, his cheek firm against her temple. “If circumstances had allowed, I would have come back for you. I would have delivered you safely to those who could have raised you better.”

“You gave me a chance no one else ever did,” Fallon whispered, finally raising her eyes to his. “You gave me freedom, Halsin. I can’t ever repay you for it.”

His smile seemed to gentle somehow further in the cool light of the moon, his head lowering until his brow touched hers, until all she could see was the druid she had loved in the secret of her soul for so many years, certain she would never see him again. 

“Your freedom was never something I expected payment for,” he murmured. “Your life is your own, Fallon X’oriethlyn. But I am glad to see you walk in the light. Your radiance is undimmed by time.”

She snorted with laughter, squeezing his waist gently before easing back, dashing the unwanted tears from her face. 

“You are still too charming for your own good,” she retorted, her smile a moonbeam of its own in the face of his chuckle.

“Or perhaps I am seeking to unlock a new memory.”

His palm touched her cheek, turning her face back to his, and for the longest moment, she thought she could see her dreams reflected in hazel eyes that flickered with something neither one of them could yet put a name to. But he was free, and so was she, at last walking beneath the same moon. 

 Despite taking an ibuprofen, you were in constant pain from your stomach cramps, and of course part of your irritability was present because of your stupid out-of-control hormones. You were in such a rotten mood, you didn't even use the opportunity to shop for some things not available in the general store on Crockett Island, instead waiting literally hours for Belle to arrive and take you home, staring daggers at anyone your gaze fell on. You wouldn't even chat up Sturge with whom you always exchanged at least a few words. Seeing your stormy expression, the bearded man didn't even try to engage in a conversation, minding his work on the ferry with 100% of his focus.

 Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you sat on the boat, the dark clouds overhead reflecting your mood rather masterfully and bringing you a little solace. You looked at the text message which just arrived.

 “Hey, wanna hang out once you're back? Riley's over too." 

 You sighed. As much as you loved spending time with the two of them, you really didn't feel like doing so on this particular day, the picture of your warm bed and some disgustingly gory horror film strangely seeming more tempting.

 "I'm sorry, but I guess it'll be just the two of you tonight. Hope that won't be a problem ;)" you finished with a smiley face who's smile didn't reflect your expression at all.

 "Aw, you're ditching me for the priest??" 

 You sighed quietly and typed back: "No, it's just… today's been a little fucked up. I kind of want to be alone. I'd hate to be a party pooper." And you were being honest. For some reason, not even a prospect of going to see Father Paul at the rectory seemed to lift your spirits right now. Most of all, though, you really didn't want to spread your foul mood, especially on your closest friends.

 "Alright. I hope you'll feel better soon. If you need anything or you change your mind, you know where I am <3"

 You knew you'd be alright the next day, all you needed was a hot bowl of soup (preferably some delicious, nasty instant noodles), sensible 13 hours of sleep, and some anatomically incorrect guts being pulled out of some buxom 'college student' on the telly. But of course, God works in mysterious ways.

 You literally rammed into the very person you were not ditching your best friend for on your way home. You were walking very fast, your pace nearly angry and you paid no mind to anyone you passed. Up until you turned around a corner and bumped into the unsuspecting priest so hard, the poor man lost his balance and fell bum first onto the ground. "Oh, god!" you gasped in horror, immediately feeling ashamed and guilty, and dropped to your knees next to father Paul, who looked as if his mind wasn't able to process what on earth just happened. "I'm so sorry Paul! Are you hurt?" His eyes were the size of saucers and he blinked several times before answering: "Um, no, I-I'm fine. I'm sorry, I guess I was just… standing in the wrong place." 

 You sighed and regarded the situation. He was still sitting on his backside in the dirt, long legs bent at the knees, while you kneeled next to him. The sky was becoming darker with the oncoming evening and you probably looked like a pair of idiots, just lounging in the middle of the street, looking dumbly at each other. Sighing again, you stood up and offered your hand to the priest. "I'm so sorry, I mean it," you said as you helped pull him to his feet, "I wasn't paying attention where I was going." Your voice was soft now, filled with fatigue and pity. Oh, how you wanted to disappear right now. Father Paul smiled at you softly and began dusting off his jeans with his hands. "It's alright, don't worry. How are you, how did the meeting go?" he asked and finally looked at you fully.

 A worried line appeared between his expressive eyebrows as his eyes travelled over you and he saw the state you were in. Your own eyes were a bit red, from crying a little in your frustrations earlier, your face was probably pale with the pain you felt the entire day and there was generally a miserable expression on your face. You weren't looking at him now, your gaze stubbornly glued to your own feet. "Hey," his large warm hand softly enclosed your upper arm, right below your shoulder, before moving up to lift your chin with his thumb and forefinger, "come with me to the rectory, we can talk, have some cocoa, I've even got something to eat." You shook your head weakly: "I don't want to be a burden, you've got enough of your plate without me venting out my problems to you while eating you out of your house…"

 The priest rolled his eyes and shook his head too, way more vehemently than you. "Don't be silly. You could never be a burden. I just want to help you feel better. You know I'm always here for you, right, ready to talk about everything, the good and the bad. Also, I still owe you for that lunch, anyway. Come on…" You looked into his eyes, finding nothing but fondness and warmth in them, and it was such an amazing thing to see after the hellish day, it brought fresh tears to your eyes with emotion. "Come on," he said again, even softer this time and pulled a soft handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, handing it to you. His long, strong arm wrapped around your shoulders then and he began leading you towards his little house. You no longer resisted, and instead just dabbed at your wet eyes with the cloth, sniffling a bit.

 Once in the rectory, you were promptly given a simple cold cut and cheese sandwich with fresh vegetable on the side. Father Paul kept apologising that he had nothing better at the moment, but you hadn't eaten the entire day and the sandwich honestly tasted divine. Your eyes were closed with bliss as the pain in your stomach lessened with every bite. Paul ate beside you, sitting at the table in the corner of the room, not saying a word. Once you were done eating, he took the plates away to dispose of them in the sink and began preparing the cocoa. You automatically went to sit on the couch where the priest joined you after a few minutes, handing you a steaming hot cup of cocoa. The cup, the one you always drank from, warmed your hands and you breathed in the sweet chocolatey smell, sighing in pleasure. Father Paul once more wrapped an arm around you, and you immediately leaned into him, your head dropping to rest on his shoulder. His cheek made contact with the top of your head and you could feel soft puffs of air tickling your nose slightly everytime the priest exhaled. "Do you want to talk about it then?" he asked then. You closed your eyes.

 You told him everything. About your pain (you didn't go into details), your filthy cheat of a publisher and of course the bloody fool of an editor, who, as it turned out, was the publisher's nephew, recently kicked out from university, who only got the job because of his connections. The priest stayed strangely quiet when you told him of the editor's unwelcome advances, only slightly increasing his hold on your shoulder. You told Paul about your worries of trying to find someone new to publish your work and the possible backlash of 'being very rude' to the 'promising young man' who would surely 'be the boss of the entire company one day'. Your cocoa was long gone and the mugs lay on the table. You were unconsciously toying with the priest's free hand, a habit of yours since you were little. Your fingers traced over every line, every curve, every little fold of skin on Paul's large, lean hand, drawing invisible patterns, or just softly bending and straightening each finger. You sometimes softly cried some more while you talked, but the man next to you was quick to wipe off the tears with his handkerchief, ever patient, ever kind.

 And ever right, apparently. You truly did feel better, now that your belly was full and your woes spoken out loud. "Well then," you said at last and somehow managed to lean even more into the priest's warm embrace, "what do I do, father?" Paul took a deep breath and you practically felt every second of it against your side: "Nothing. That's what I think." You pulled slightly back to look at him questioningly. "I mean, I don't really know how this entire… business works, but I'm fairly certain you're entitled to work with whoever you want to. If you don't, as you say, 'click' with the editor, if they make you uncomfortable even, the publishers can't force you to work with them and only them. You help them make money too, so you should be able to pick who you want to work with! As for the publisher itself, as I said, your books are selling well, they'd be stupid to get rid of you and you can still work with them while you look elsewhere. I'm sure many other companies would be just delighted to have you write under 'their colours'." 

 Paul's words made sense and they felt like a comforting blanket. "I hope you're right," you said only and settled back against him. You stayed that way for a long time after that, just enjoying his warmth, filled with adoration and gratitude for the man, your thumbs stroking each other's hand now.

 "It's late," you said, noticing the watch on his left hand, "I should probably go home." Paul sat still and quiet for a minute or two, his hands showing no intention of releasing you. "Or you could stay," he spoke quietly, nearly whispering, "some of your things are still here…" Which was true, you did leave some stuff behind after your little accident, your pyjamas, a clean set of clothes, the bag with extra toiletries you kept for travelling. You never really made an effort to pick them up and Paul hadn't spoken of them either. You had everything else you needed in your bag. "I-... I don't want you to be alone. But if that's what you wish, I'm not going to stop you." You did want to be alone before, wanted to just bury your frustrations deep down and not face them until you actually had to, but now… Now the very idea of leaving the priest's arms to walk through the dark cold night back to your empty home seemed positively dreadful. "(Y/N)?" asked Paul. You exhaled and closed your eyes: "I'll stay."

 Father Paul handed you a clean towel and your pyjamas, which he pulled out of the bottom of his dresser. They were clean and neatly folded, hidden from prying eyes under his own clothes. Your toiletries, including a small bottle of shower gel, a tiny hairbrush, a tube of deodorant and even your extra toothbrush were all tucked neatly into the bathroom mirror cabinet. You were also very glad you always carried a small stash of pads (including night ones) with you. You washed the last remaining stress of the day with hot water, which really helped loosen your tense muscles, and by the time you were done and ready to leave the bathroom, you felt like a new person entirely. Father Paul then took your place there and you went to crawl under his covers, lying down in the spot of his bed which now felt quite familiar.

 The pillows and the blankets, the sheets, they all smelled of the priest. You were literally enveloped by his scent, a mix of incense, traces of his cologne and something like sandalwood, which was just so incredibly him, and you inhaled deeply, feeling comfort seeping into each and every pore of your body. The only light in the room came from the lamp on Paul's bedside table and from the little gap under the door leading to the bathroom. The unchanging hum of running water in the next room was slowly lulling you to sleep.

 Finally there was a click as the light switch turned off and Paul left the now dark bathroom, wearing the form-fitting p.j.'s you were also familiar with already. He too lied down in his usual spot and turned off the lamp, bathing the rectory bedroom in darkness. You both turned to face each other at the same time. You'd already slept in this bed several times, but it was different now. Now there was no illness, no injury which would mean one of you had to make sure the other was alright and safe, now you had pretty much no logical reason to be here. The priest simply wanted you here. You simply wanted to be here with him. His hand found yours above the covers, as it did everytime you were there, but it felt much more intimate now. 

 You were glad he couldn't see you clearly as you squeezed his hand in return, for your cheeks were rapidly becoming red. It felt like a moment between lovers. And it should feel so strange and wrong, knowing his position on this island. The funny thing was, it didn't. It felt right and like the most natural thing in the world, even as you pulled his hand closer to press a single feathery kiss against his knuckles. It didn't feel wrong, it felt like love. Pure and simple. 

 Your brain was probably half asleep already, because it didn't stop you from doing something which you would never dare to do while fully conscious. You moved on the bed and closer to him, your arm extending until it was resting on his slim waist, while still keeping some distance between you bodies. "Thank you," you breathed out oh so quietly, worried that anything louder would shatter the moment completely. Paul didn't speak, his own hand slowly caressed your cheek and hair, before it too settled on your waist, his long fingers somehow warming your entire side. "Sweet dreams, (Y/N)".

Under cover of the trees, they had a chance to eat and rest for a little while, while their camels drank water from the small lake. After eating their dinner, both Jonathan and the warden fell quickly asleep. Unable to sit still and do nothing, Evelyn decided to help Mr O’Connell with the camels.  

“I’m surprised by how comfortable you are here,” Mr O’Connell told her rather bluntly as he checked one of the camel’s feet for injuries.

Men! She thought angrily. Indignantly she raised an eyebrow at him and said, “It may surprise you, Mr O’Connell, but not all women want to spend their time drinking tea at Shepheard’s Hotel. I’ll have known that my brother and I have been living in Egypt since I graduated from Oxford four years ago.”

The look in Mr O’Connell’s eyes showed that he realised he had made a mistake, and he hurried through his apologies in a similar manner to Jonathan when she caught him trying to take a book from the library without permission.

Not wanting the others to wake up and become a part of this conversation, Evelyn raised her hand. “Mr O’Connell, it has been a long and hard day. Let’s pretend that the heat made you forget your manners,” she said as she looked at him with her librarian glare.

He nodded in response, and for a while, they quietly worked together to check that none of the camels had any injuries or were dealing with fleas or ticks.  

“So you graduated the same year that Carter found the tomb?” Mr O’Connell hesitantly asked her after the last camel was declared healthy.

“Yes. Are you shocked that I went to a university?” she asked sharply. She was still a bit miffed at him.

Mr O’Connell calmly shook his head. “No, it’s clear that you are an educated person. It stands to reason you learned everything somewhere,” he said. 

His words halt her in her steps, and she can’t do anything but look at him with astonishment. Men who were interested in her always looked at her like she had two heads when they found out she went to a university, that is, if they were still around after discovering she was half-Egyptian.

But Evelyn no longer cared what men thought of her; she hadn’t done so in years. She was a librarian, an intelligent woman, and soon she will be an experienced archaeologist.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

Evelyn nodded.

“When Belzoni found Seti’s tomb, he did a lot of damage, but it’s still one of the most decorated tombs found until now. So Seti could have stored numerous treasures of incredible wealth at Hamunaptra that you can study when we arrive there. So why is it that the thing you want to find is a book?” he asked.

“Because we can learn so much from it,” Evelyn told him enthusiastically. “The incantations that are in the book of Amun-Ra are from the Old Kingdom, which was more than a thousand years before Seti became pharaoh. If we can find it, we can better understand how religion influenced everyone’s daily life, from the pharaoh to the nobles, farmers, and servants.”

There was a glint in Mr O’Connell’s eyes that she was unfamiliar with. It was gentle and warm, like he enjoyed listening to her talk about ancient Egypt.

Not knowing what to do with that, she said, “We should probably wake Jonathan and the warden soon. How much longer do you think we must travel before we reach Hamunaptra?”

He had a thoughtful look on his face before he answered. “If we keep up the pace of today, then we should arrive there just before dawn in four days’ time.”

“That’s good,” she said with delight. 

Mr O’Connell smiled at her. “If you can wake the others, Miss Carnahan, then I will make sure we are all packed and ready to go,” he said.

“You can call me Evelyn. We’ll be working side by side for the time being, and I’m alright with you calling me by my given name,” she told him.

Mr O’Connell looked at her with surprise before the look on his face shifted to a shy but happy expression. Before he could say anything, she walked over to where her brother and the warden were sleeping. 

----

“Is there anything I can do for him?”

The question is so sincere that Jo sighs, frustrated to not have a good answer.

“I don’t think there’s anything any of us can do. He just...needs time. Rest.”

“But he’s not resting,” Seraphina insists.

Jo walks over to the bedroom door and peeks through the sliver that it’s open.

Inside on the bed Erystos is curled on his side facing away from the door. She can’t see his face, but Jo can tell he’s still awake from the way he shifts and sighs and readjusts the pillow.

 She steps back and looks at the angel.

“Listen, I - I don’t think either of us can give him what he probably needs right now.”

“I won’t know that unless you tell me what you mean.”

Jo knows she isn’t going to win this one. Seraphina still has plenty to learn about earthly relationships if she hasn’t figured it out herself...but she’s also stubborn. The most stubborn person Jo has ever met, breaking her own personal record.

“He was just captured, mocked, roughed up and humiliated by his own kind. He might not just be hurting on the outside, you know?”

The wording briefly confuses the angel but it’s clear on her face when she realizes what Jo means. Seraphina has felt her share of inner hurts, even the one Erystos is going through now.

Especially that one.

It’s not at all unlike the way her own kind caused her pain and cast her out. That sharp, unrelenting hurt of knowing you no longer belong.

“I see,” Seraphina whispers. She steps towards the door again and Jo doesn’t stop her.

-

Seraphina slips into the dark room and closes the door slowly. She goes to his side, her bare feet soundless on the carpet. A breeze from the window ripples the fabric of her overly long night shirt.

She sits at the edge of the bed.

Erystos goes still but his breathing gives him away. Still awake.

Seraphina puts a hand on his arm. She is quickly learning the importance of touch to earthly beings. What it can communicate without words; the ways it can harm or heal.

After a long silence the demon’s hand slowly creeps up and settles over hers. Seraphina scoots a little bit further onto the bed and Erystos shifts closer to the wall to make space.

Seraphina doesn’t speak as she curls her smaller body around the demon from behind. She loops an arm over his side and presses up against his broad, solid back. Her forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades and her legs bend to fit into the shape of his.

Erystos is tense a moment longer before finally melting into the embrace. He gives in fully to the offered comfort, holding Seraphina’s arm gently to keep it in place. He even hums gratefully when the angel gives him a little squeeze.

Anders opened his mouth, floundering briefly before deciding he'd walked into that one. He'd invited Fenris here to prove a point. A lively debate on the road home from their latest mission the evening before had found Anders insisting that there was no problem that magic couldn't fix, to which Fenris had, predictably, responded that there was no problem magic could not create.

He was saved from having to backpedal out of this current exchange when the door to the clinic opened and a wan-faced Mattias urged his partner Bennick through the door with a palm on his back.

"Healer," Mattias said. "The lung rot is getting worse..."

Anders waved the two inside and toward the slab of wood that served as his operating table. He glanced back at Fenris.

"I will show you the things magic can fix," he said quietly enough for just the elf to hear.

~o~

An hour or so later Anders' patients departed, Bennick breathing easily and his partner looking immensely relieved.

"They have four adopted kids," Anders was telling Fenris. "Two are Blight orphans, and two of them are elves. One of those is the little girl we rescued from that slaver earlier this year."

Fenris, perched on a crate out of the way, was silent.

"If you're trying to think of any problems my magic just created," Anders told him, flashing Fenris the same smug smile the elf had given him earlier, "I'll save you the trouble. There aren't any."

"Perhaps not in this case," Fenris admitted. "But you cannot say that had you wanted to use your magic to kill the man instead, you could have."

Anders shook the water off his hands and dried them on his trousers. "Yes, and you could join forces with a Tevinter slave ring and be a bounty hunter for escaped slaves, but you don't use your gifts that way."

"They are not gifts, mage," Fenris said, scowling.

Anders held up both hands. "Fine. My point is that it's not magic itself that is dangerous. A sword by itself is not evil."

Fenris looked at him, his green eyes dark and thoughtful, and not for the first time, Anders thought them beautiful.

"I will think on it," the elf admitted after a long moment.

Anders couldn't help the grin that stole onto his lips. He disguised it by rubbing at the itchy stubble on his chin. "I could show you something else magic can fix," he offered, gesturing at Fenris's arms and the lyrium tattoos snaking around his biceps.

"You mean this problem that magic created?" the elf asked, words thick with sarcasm.

"I can guarantee you which side of this argument you'll land on afterward," Anders said with a smile.

Fenris regarded him for the longest stretch of silence that had lingered between them during this same conversation several times before. Anders saw the elf's eyes flick over the exam table where Anders had drawn the chronic lung sickness out of Bennick's body. Fenris curled his hands in and relaxed them, a tic that seemed to accompany deep thought. Finally, he slid off the crate.

Anders thought he was finally going to let him attempt to ease the endless ache of the lyrium brands, and so he was disappointed when the elf made for the door. Resigned, Anders watched him go silently, since there really weren't any other arguments for this that he hadn't made.

Fenris opened the door, but then stopped. He glanced back, though not quite meeting Anders' eyes.

“F-for me?” he stammers. “Yeah!” you say, and smile at him. “I figured we could have a little picnic, just you and me.” “Just -- just us two?” He blushes so hard you wouldn’t be surprised if the seawater started steaming off of him; his long, reptilian tail curls this way and that, carving arcs into the wet sand. “Is that okay?” you ask, sure that he’ll blurt out a reflexive protest before eventually circling around to yes that’s more than okay. “Yes!” he blurts, being direct about it for once, and you grin at him delightedly. He’s so cute. You pat the blanket next to you, and Leviathan comes over to sit half hesitantly, half eagerly; he sits and has to immediately get up again to wave the seawater off of him and his drenched clothes and hair before he soaks right through the Lord of Shadow’s face. Then he just stands there, frozen for a moment in painful awkwardness. “That’s a handy trick,” is all you say, lightly, as you start pulling boxes of food out of the picnic basket, and he unfreezes and sits down next to you with his knees pulled up to his chest and tail curled around his feet, and quietly starts eating the food you hand to him, all dishes you know he likes and which you made a point to save from Beel, no matter how much Beel made sad demon eyes at you. You’re pretty sure this is one of the main reasons why Levi likes you so much: you don’t mock him for being his very awkward self; you barely even tease him for it, except in those rare cases when you’re sure you can make it abundantly clear that you’re only doing it fondly. And why would you mock him for it? After all, you’re more than well acquainted with awkwardness yourself. You know how it feels. You lean back on your hands and stretch your legs out in front of you, sighing contently. The gentle roaring of the waves rushing up onto the sandy shore, the rough splashing of brine against the nearby boulders, the smell of the salty sea air, it all erodes away the cares of the day. Leviathan slowly relaxes, too, until he’s sitting with his legs crossed and holding his box of lion’s head meatballs over oleander and rice in his lap and sneaking glances at you in between taking slow bites of food. “What’s it like down there?” you ask. “In the ocean?” he says. “Yeah. You dive down really deep, don’t you?” “Yeah,” he replies, blushing again, as though that’s something to be awkward about; maybe it is, for him. “So what’s it like down there?” you ask. “It, uh…” He thinks about it for a moment; you imagine him trying to put words to something that he’s experienced for millennia, but probably has never had to describe, let alone to a human who knows little about the Devildom’s oceans. “It’s dark,” he finally says, “and quiet, and empty, except not really because there’s still plenty of fish and jellies and tiny krill and stuff in the deep, and there are giant venom-sponges living along the trench down there --” he waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the ocean “-- and they tend to make noises sometimes while they filter-feed and most of the deep-sea animals have bioluminescence anyway so I guess it’s not that dark either…” He trails off, seeming to realize how much he’s rambled and contradicted himself, but you’re sitting there grinning at him practically with stars in your eyes, because you love everything about the ocean, and Levi rambling on about sea creatures is just about the cutest thing ever. He sees you grinning and ducks his head bashfully. “I’m not good at explaining it,” he mumbles. “It’s like … it’s not technically totally dark and quiet and empty, but it feels like it is, you know? It feels like … when I’m down there, I don’t have to worry about anything at all.” He curls in on himself a little, drawing his knees up a bit, like he’s anticipating that you’ll mock him for some part of that, like he’s still not used to the fact that you make a point of being nice to him whenever he’s not being a jerk, because you actually like him.