#sfw readerinsert

You approach with no attempt to hide the sounds of your footfalls on the cement, but Hawks doesn’t make a move to show he’s realized your presence. Instead, he sits, over the edge of the roof, wings expanded wide on either side of him, crimson feathers looking all the more brilliant in the deep warm glow of the fading sunlight.

The breeze, as soft as a whisper, caresses against them, each feather trembling against it. But silent does he remain, an unwavering pillar overseeing the vastness of the city below--and not a single person to realize that even now, someone watches over them.

A society where heroes can enjoy a little boredom... I'll make it happen, I promise.

“Hey.”

Though soft, the sound of his voice brings you out of your thoughts. 

A small smile starts to tug at your lips as you step closer. “Your desk secretary said you’d probably be up here.”

“Eh? Thought I told Iwata to keep my rooftop brooding on the downlow.”

You move another step closer, almost an arm’s length away from him. The view over the city is mind-bogglingly expansive, even from a few strides back from the edge. Had he been sitting here all this time, since his last patrol of the evening?

Watching?

“In fact,” you say, almost sheepishly. “he told me you’d say that too.”

The man doesn’t respond. The only indication that he might have even heard you is the gentle shuffling of his crimson wings, slowly pulling back towards his body. You can practically feel the stress echoing from his body, feel the tension he keeps bottled up somewhere so deep that not even you can scarcely reach.

But you can reach out, physically. It’s mostly just an instinct to touch him somewhere, to offer an anchor of touch so that he knows he’s not alone. You can’t quite reach his shoulders--the wings are still stretched open enough it’s nearly impossible with him facing away from you--but your fingers do manage to touch, and then card through the layers of soft red feathers that cover one of his wings.

Soft to you. You know how they can each, individually, be used as tools. 

As weapons. 

Things used to save lives as much as they likely have been to take them.

As if it stung, the wing beneath your fingertips trembles. You’re about to pull your hand back in mild alarm, thinking you’ve done something to hurt him--perhaps even aggravated a wound he’d gotten and not told you about--but the wing settles against your touch.

It’s hard to understand what’s going through Hawks’ mind at the best of times when he has such a careful control on even the smallest facial tells--

But you hear him sigh, and the comfort it brings to you is almost silly for anyone who didn’t know him as well as you do. Though it is true you have a hard time reading him physically, there is but one point of expression that seems to elude him and come easy to you: the way he sighs. 

The stilted push of air in stress, as if he’s trying to force the tension out of him.

The deep, languid exhale of peace, letting himself settle into its comfort.

The rushed, half-hidden chuckle he tries to hide.

You wonder if there’s anyone else in the world that notices it.

The gentleness of how he sighs now, with your fingers buried in the feathers of one of his wings, is the single but powerful declaration that your touch feels good to him. So you repeat the motion, over and over, slowly moving closer until you have both of your hands slowly stroking through feathers that mimic the rich, warm glow of the sun as it starts to dip below the horizon at your back.

“...it’s been a while since you’ve let me do this,” you murmur after a few moments, picking out a few feathers that seemed to have met the last of their days; color fading, as if the breeze itself would have had them flying loose and free into the evening wind.

“Yeah,” Takami agrees. “Been a rough couple of weeks.”

“You can take a day off.” Another few fading feathers fall from the rest, through your fingers and towards your feet. “-the stress is starting to take its toll. I can’t remember the last time you’ve had this many molt at once.”

“Eh.”

If the single syllable wasn’t enough to show his disinterest in being honest about his feelings, the vague shrug--or what you assume is a shrug--does plenty to send the message.

“Takami.”

Though gentle, his name on your lips still falls firm and worried. You’re about to open your mouth to say something more, but there’s no chance to do more than part your lips before his wings are stretching out, and upwards, arching so that you can see his face looking at you over his shoulder, leaning on one of his hands.

With the other, he reaches out to you, expression relatively unreadable save for the quirk at the corners of his lips.

“C’mere and sit next to me already.”

Though some part of you wants to stand firm on your concern, the rest of you knows it’s not the time for a talk like that. It knows that, in the end, you just want him to know you’re with him for everything his life and career throws--big or small.

But you don’t make it easy for him. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you tilt both head and eyes to the side, as if having to think about it.

“I dunno,” you bring a hand up to your chin for extra emphasis. “You did make me wait at the apartment for like, an hour, and didn’t return my call at lunch.”

Hawks purses his lips together as if pained and pouting. “Oh come on baby bird , don’t be like that.” He reaches his hand out again, expression shifting into something coy. “Just sit up here with me for a few minutes, and then I can fly us home all romantic-like, sound fair?”

Though there’s not one singular detail that acts stronger than the others, the culmination of them--the softness of his expression, the tease of his words, the honest adoration in the petname--is enough to make you drop the act like a rock into a lake.

You reach out to take his hand, letting the man pull you into his lap in one strong, careful motion. If this had happened several months earlier in your relationship, you might have worried about being so close to the edge of the roof, overlooking the steep drop down several stories onto the pavement below. But this isn’t several months before, and your mind trusts the man whose arms envelope your body and hold you tight against his chest.

Hawks perches his chin over the top of your head and, for a few seconds, the two of you simply watch the flickering landscape below. 

Car lights in the street, the office lights turning on in several buildings as the sunlight fades into dusk. Even as the day winds down, the city yet remains vibrant and bustling, and it makes you vaguely grateful that Hawks doesn’t have to work as many overnights as he did when you first met him. Or, at least, you’ve managed to convince him to sleep on occasion. It doesn’t always stick.

“So,” you break the silence and reach a hand up, idly stroking a thumb over the man’s cheek. “You gonna tell me about all the shit happening with work?”

“Nah,” Hawks says as honestly as he does casually. You’re half a second away from giving him an annoyed flick before he quickly explains, “I’m still working through some case details and my brain just needs some alone time with them is all. I’ll give you all the dirty details once it’s over--just a few more days.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah.”

He tilts his head into your touch and allows a sigh to escape him. Gentle, languid--and you believe his words.

“Besides,” he continues after a moment, tone turning amused and teasing. “Nobody can keep me away from my lil’ hummingbird for too long. I’d go fucking nuts without you.”

“You can say that again, birdboy.”

“ Excuse me, ” Hawks tenses up suddenly against you, and you can hear as much as see his wings stretch out, wide and imposing--though a little less so when you’re snuggled up against his chest. “I’m a bird man , thank you very much.”

“Uh huh.” laugher bubbles up behind your tongue, spilling out when you simply can’t hide how silly--and yet how sweet--his overdramatic posturing is.

But when the laughter between both of you die back down into silence, and the sun finally settles behind the horizon to let darkness start taking over the newborn night sky, you pat a hand on Hawks’ chest.

“Alright, birdman , how ‘bout you get us home like you promised. I had dinner on and everything.”

“Dinner? Oh, now that changes everything.” He moves, lifting up to his feet even with you settled comfortably in his arms, wings outstretched. “What’cha make?”

“A surprise.”

He lifts from the roof, gradually up and into the air with just a few meaningless flaps of his brilliant crimson wings--even with nobody around, there’s still a remnant of that actor putting on a show.

“Okay then,” he says. The wind brushes over your cheeks, like an evening kiss, and you settle into his arms without a single worry for the cityscape below you. “How about we take that surprise dinner and pair it up with a movie?”

“Now you’re thinking like a man who cares about his mental health.”

“Well, I got someone like you t’help make that possible,” Hawks nuzzles his chin over the top of your head, and repeats the words of just several minutes before. “I’d go absolutely nuts if you weren’t here to help pick up all the pieces of me when I fuckin’ drop them down the stairs.”

To that, you say nothing; words aren’t needed. At that point, all that mattered was the feeling of the air rushing past the two of you, the warmth of his body, the steadfast strength of his arms holding you,

Inside, folded carefully and smelling of jasmine, was the softest poncho he had ever beheld. When he pulled it from it’s confines he is astonished to find that it is exactly his size. He searches for a note, or perhaps a tag, to inform him of the garment’s sender but is unable to find such a thing. Perhaps Lyna had left it for him? He feels the fabric against his cheek, ears flickering happily at the softness that greets him. Obviously, it was made by hand, so perhaps his protegee had not woven this for him. 

For a moment, he considers wearing it, but the urge is quickly quelled. Whomever had gifted this to him had obviously put their heart into every stitch, yes, but it would not do for him to show favor among the Crystarium, regardless of how much he loved it.

So he stowed it away, the mystery of who had thought to give him such a thing waning in the face of his tasks. It is not until nearly a week later that the question presents itself again, as yet another package is left in the middle of the Ocular. This one is nameless and tag-less just as before but contains something much different. Instead of clothes, there are several sandwiches lined in neat rows waiting for him beneath the lid of the box. They were fresh, the meat still warm and steaming. 

His stomach growls. 

It had been decades since G'raha had felt the need to eat but it comes rushing in like so much water. He is quick to scarf the meal down, licking his fingers after each bite. There was no doubt that the food had been made with a care and precision many lacked. Why they had bestowed him with such a gift was beyond his comprehension.

He contemplates hunting down his benefactor, it would not do for them to keep leaving such gifts without his thanks but quells the thought. Perhaps it was just circumstance? And besides, if they sought to remain anonymous then he would keep to it as they did.

However, fate worked in strange ways.

G'raha had stepped from the Ocular for only a moment in the pursuit of making sure the Crystarium’s defense were up to task. When he returned from his duties he was shocked to find someone waiting for him. Well, not so much waiting for him as caught mid task. The Warrior of Light stood in the midst of his Ocular a paper wrapped box in their hands. Upon his entrance they stopped, staring wide eyed and slack jawed at him. They stammered an apology, hiding the package behind their back, cheeks burning.

“So,” He says, not lack of amusement in his voice, fingers lacing tight around the staff in his hand, “I assume ‘tis you who left me these gifts?” The look in their eyes can only be described as oddly guilty. Their ears twitch as they not, facing back and away from him. Scared.

Slowly, with hands shaking, they present their gift to him. He steps forwards, taking it gently from their grasp as if the package was made of glass. Their eyes do not meet his as he lifts the lid. Inside lay a pillow, the scent of jasmine lifting into the air as easily as it had with the poncho. It’s plush, silken, and a lovely pink color that he hadn’t seen before. It occurs to him that they must have dyed the fabric themselves. He looks to them again. Their hands are clutching at the hem of their shirt, plucking the few stray strands that poke from the fabric.

“It’s lovely,” He says, a small smile on his lips, “I only wonder at the occasion.”

They gulp, visibly, at the question managing to allow their eyes to catch his.

“Clothes to keep him warm, food to keep him fed, and a pillow to lay his head.” 

They recite it as if it’s been driven into them. G'raha cannot help but blink. The words spilled so easily from their lips and yet it looked as if it pained them to utter but a single sentence.

“I … assume this means something?"

G'raha’s brows furrow as his Warrior of Light lets out a choked sound, burying their face in their hands. "I–It’s a courting poem! I’m trying to court you!” They practically squeal.

Ah.

When he was younger he’d heard of the practices other Miqo'te partook in. He’d known that Keepers tended to court their lovers with the female usually pursuing the male in a dance of many steps and traditions. He had not payed it much mind, instead turning his attention to ancient mysteries and forgotten folklore. He curses himself for it now. 

How was he to respond to such heartfelt and painstakingly made presents?

“Then,” He says, words carefully weighed on his tongue, “Tell me, in your culture, how do I respond in kind?”

They peek from between their fingers, ears pricking at his words, “Well I suppose you could tell me you liked me back.”

He does not stop the bubble of laughter that seeps from his chest. Still holding the pillow aloft, he uses his free hand to slowly detach their hands from their face. “My Warrior of Light, there is not a world in all the fourteen shards that I would deny you my affections.”

All you get is a loud crunching in response, but it’s answer enough to confirm the shadow’s identity. You let out a sigh and lean against the doorframe, one hand rubbing over your face as adrenaline leaves your veins–at least you don’t have to learn how you’d hold up against a home invader.

Once calmed you glance up at the shape of Shin-Ah. The details of his body are more clear now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness. But it’s definitely him, thank the stars above.

He looks at you curiously, golden eyes washing you over with warmth enough that whatever feelings of apprehension are fully lost from your mind.

“What are you doing down here?” you ask, taking a step into the kitchen with renewed hunger.

Shin-Ah shrugs.

“…Got hungry,” he murmurs, looking back to a bowl he holds in one hand, the other rummaging through it’s unseen contents and popping something into his mouth.

“At 2 in the morning?”

The man doesn’t say anything. His eyes are answer enough as he looks at you, a single brow quirked as if to ask you the same question–you know what? That was fair. The two of you were in the same boat. He pops more of the unknown snack into his mouth, teeth crunching on the contents.

You eye him for a few moments, curiosity coloring your thoughts.

“So...what are you eating?”

A few steps take you closer to him, close enough that you manage but a glance to what’s in the bowl before he gently tugs it up and out of your view.

“Shin-Ah,” the name sounds a little too firm on your lips as you try to uselessly reach for the bowl he keeps just out of your grasp, the man’s expression somehow equally cool and flustered all at the same time. “I want to see what you’re eating! I don’t remember us having anything that crunchy!”

The two of you lightly struggle in the dark kitchen for a few breaths longer until--finally!--you manage to tug the bowl away from him.

Though you’re not quite sure what to expect when you glance inside, it certainly isn’t what you find instead: unpopped popcorn kernels. Just. A whole bunch of them. As if poured right out of a bag--they’re still covered in butter-flavored oil, or whatever it is that’s packaged with the kernels.

Did....did Shin-Ah just open up a bag of popcorn and start eating it?

Though the answer is obvious, you still feel yourself stiff with confusion, not even fighting as he is finally able to steal back the bowl from your hands. In but the same moment, expression utterly deadpan, Shin-Ah takes several kernels between his fingers and eats them, teeth crunching oh-so-loudly on the hard, unpopped pieces.

Oh. So that was the noise.

“You can’t just eat unpopped kernels!” you whisper loudly, not wanting to wake the others--but you are so terribly tempted with the knowledge now implanted in your brain. “That’s horrible for your teeth! Why are you doing....this?”

You make a grand gesture with your hands at him as if to somehow encompass the atrocity that is eating unpopped kernels of popcorn.

All the blue dragon can do is shrug, and somehow managing to look endearing while doing it--he crunches on another several kernels as you only stare in complete horror.

“No electricity, was hungry,” he says, tilting his head to the side as he looks at you with a touch too much of his endearing honesty. “ ‘s not that bad, really.”

You really have to wonder how that isn’t hurting his teeth.

Despite the power of wondering, your hunger still gnaws at your stomach--now there’s a vengeance to the pain as if it had been wronged by being made to wait. Though you do your best not to pay Shin-Ah much mind in his odd choice of snack, rummaging through the cupboards doesn’t yield very much of an offering.

A package of pop tarts, some chips, candy....nothing with all that much sustenance, but food all the same since you’re more or less locked out of scoping food options from the fridge or freezer.

You’re about to relinquish yourself to the few snacks you managed to find, but a hand on your shoulder pulls your attention away. Face turned, you see Shin-Ah holding out a half-finished bag of beef jerky in your direction.

“We still had some?” you ask, taking it before sitting yourself up on the counter beside where the man leans. “I thought the others had eaten it all up--hey, why didn’t you just eat this?”

You open the bag all the same and start chewing on a piece of the jerky, half-expecting for your night time snack partner to merely shrug--assuming he offered an answer at all.

But he surprises you with one.

“...I thought you’d come down here for a snack,” Shin-Ah says softly. You’re not sure if it’s a trick of the darkness, but you swear that there was a touch of pink on his cheeks. “I saved it for you in case you wanted it.”

The moment felt sweet for all of two seconds before he crunches loudly on more kernels, though all you can do at the sound, the situation, the mere fact that Shin-Ah is in a dark kitchen at 2 in the morning eating unpopped popcorn kernels--

The weather was cold and a little deary--Fall and Winter weren’t playing well with one another, leaving the air chilled, but not nearly enough for snow. The rain came down softly, more like a heavy mist, blanketing the campus and being a nuisance for the students who didn’t think to prepare for the weather.

Umbrella in hand, you slowly moved across the campus, the ambling buildings and unmarked crossways. Even now, it seemed a surprise that you knew your way around so well; what had once been little more than a maze was now an extension of home.

Beacon Academy was truly an intriguing place to work; as a teacher’s assistant, you were able to see things in a different perspective, having a few years of an active career of hunts beneath your belt. You were able to see where all of the lessons were put to use, how the caffeine-fueled rants of Oobleck or outrageous stories of Port were somewhat useful in your endeavors after graduation.

It was nice to come back to a place you had called home for a few years of your formative years--particularly now that you were an equal and not a student.

Your schedule was regular; you were with Prof. Oobleck in the early morning, Prof. Port late morning, had some time to yourself around lunch. You could spent the few hours doing just about anything--it was one of the things you enjoyed most about your job. The freedom to specialize your already-existing skills, to research just about anything that caught your fancy.

It was...freeing, honestly. Beacon had become more of your home than it had been when you were a student.

One hour gently blurred into the next, and half the day had gone by before you knew it. Though you had been directed every which way to help out your assigned classes of responsibility, there was a lingering feeling of something that simmered within you. Something you couldn’t place, but it always slipped back into flickering images from your dream, over and over again.

It was hard to ignore and downright frustrating. The feeling of soft lips, gentle hands and a body against yours, all in the overwhelming moment of what must have been the most romantic kiss you ever felt--

--and it was a dream, dammit.

It wouldn’t make it any easier to work with Ozpin. Since Prof. Goodwitch was taking care of personal business, you were filling in for her some of her administrative duties with the headmaster. It wasn’t as if the duties were anything difficult--mostly secretarial work, really, filing away paperwork and attending a few faculty meetings to take notes when required.

No, the most difficult thing wasn’t the job, but the man himself. Ozpin had long been somewhat of a crush for you--it had started out as something silly in your last year of academics, a little fancy that you were sure would fly away the moment you stepped into a career of your own. But as fate would play with your heart, it pulled you right back to Beacon--

And the feelings were still there. If anything, what had once been silly infatuation had turned into deep admiration, a toying series of thoughts of ‘what-if’ and ‘how-so’ that made your cheeks feel hot if he so much as smiled at you for a job well done.

Damn it all.

Your fingertips barely touched the surface of the broad wooden doors when they opened, seemingly by command. Confusion filtered through your face until you saw Ozpin, hand on the doorknob and eyes falling to you. He smiled (warmth filled your cheeks) and welcomed you into his office with a gesture of his other hand.

“And here I thought you were going to miss out on being ten minutes early,” He said with a chuckle. “I think you’ll be happy to know there’s little for you today.”

You stepped inside his office, trying not to glance back at the man as he closed the door behind you (a gentleman, truly). He walked around you and back to his desk, still smiling all the while as you instinctively started to search about the room for piles of papers, folders or books to start sorting through.

Just as Ozpin had said, there’s very little set on the tables beside his desk. Compared to what you had been used to, looked to be hardly an hour’s worth of work.

Your fingertips leafed through a couple of the books before turning to glance at Ozpin. He was standing by the large window of his office, overlooking much of the campus as sunlight fell into the room. It hit him, that sunlight, in just the right way--he almost seemed to glow when he finally realized that you were looking--and those brown eyes caught the falling sunlight so perfectly that you were left frozen for a few moments.

Just...staring...at him...

You caught yourself with a sharp breath in, book pulled to your chest as you tried to brush off the awkward moment with laughter and a joke.

“I uh, guess I just expected more is all.”

Your eyes fell first to the floor, then down to the book in your arms. Despite trying to force your attention back to the pile of papers and books on the table, you couldn’t help but feel that Ozpin’s gaze was lingering on you. 

It made your stomach twist, but it  wasn’t impossible to curb the awkward feeling of butterflies with your duties--you practically tossed yourself into getting started, if only to forget that the air was still silent and tinged awkward from the moment before.

“I think it’s good,” Ozpin’s soft voice filled the room. He didn’t have to speak particularly loud for his words to carry, holding a sort of firm command that you’d expect from a man in such a powerful position. “You’ve been working hard since Glynda has been away, it’s only fair you have a break every now and then.”

The words were kind, but you couldn’t bring yourself to overcome the shyness enough to actually thank him for the thought. You simply kept to working over the books, settling them into their own piles to be further organized after you had gone through everything. A lot of teaching plans, hand-written notes and thensome, scattered between different series of books that you assumed had something to do with teaching theory and some higher academics that the professors must have used.

A minute passed and, eventually, you fell back into the soft, familiar headspace of busy-bee work. It wrapped around you like a blanket, helping you get through the tedious motions from one book to the next and opening a folder to take note of what was within, then find a temporary home for it.

In fact, you were so caught-up in your head that you hadn’t heard the footsteps behind you, nor the question in the air. It wasn’t until there was a hand on your shoulder that you realized Ozpin had been trying to get your attention. When he did, you practically jumped, quickly turning around and--

His face was so close.

His eyes looked into yours, soft and brown and deep with things you couldn’t begin to wrap your mind around. You caught such minute details of him as you stood there, breath held and body frozen in a confused, embarassed heat. 

The way his glasses fell just a hair too low, falling down Ozpin’s nose. How his messy hair fell over his eyes, only mildly obscuring them from sight. How his lips looked soft, slightly parted with unspoken words behind them.

You couldn’t pull yourself away from the intimacy of the otherwise silent moment.

“...You’ve been acting odd the last couple days,” Ozpin whispered, words falling slowly from his lips (but he didn’t pull away). “Is...everything alright?”

“Yes!” The word burst from you like an explosion. “Absolutely, totally alright--I mean why would you ask that? Quite good.”

It was like some kind of defense mechanism, the spilling words making so little sense as you tried to take a step back--

--only to find you couldn’t. The table was directly behind you, halting the motion. It took only another heartbeat for you to realize how close it put you to Ozpin, how he looked at you, how you could just lean forward and...just...

...

...

You didn’t know what came over you. Impulse was a horrible beast, and it took the sharpest hold over your thoughts, your sense of direction and desire and forced it all to the forefront of your being. It was like seeing something shiny and yearning to grab it, catching sight of small animal and wanting to pet it, the urge to fall to the grass and stare up at the moonlit sky.

It could be called whatever you liked, but you didn’t stop yourself as your face moved, pressing forward just fast enough to press your lips to Ozpin’s.

It was only a peck, lasting barely half a breath before you felt the hard stone in your stomach, the realization coming back to your rebooted thoughts.

You kissed him.

Your eyes blinked and your breathing started to quicken. Leaning back, surprise was obvious in the man’s eyes, blinking and looking at you with a look you couldn’t hope to decipher while dealing with the current situation.

You. Kissed. Ozpin.

What had felt so lovely quickly fell into cold fear. Words of apology fell from your lips like rushing water.

“I’m--I’m so sorry sir, that was horribly inappropriate--I don’t know what came over me I uh--I’ll just see myself out and come back later to finish the--the uh books--I’m so sorry for doing--”

You would have rambled more, tried to slip away and hurry out the doorway of the office back out to the hall. You would have done a million and a half things, but it all stopped cold for a second time when you felt lips upon yours again.

This time, it was Ozpin who leaned forward, Ozpin who kissed you, Ozpin whose hands reached up and gently pressed to either side of your face to hold you still. Though your heart hammered against your chest and blood rushed through your ears, you couldn’t help but lean into him.

“You’re not good at hiding your feelings,” the man murmured against your mouth. “Do you want this?”

Your breath caught, heart skipping a beat as you found the thought available to make the simple answer of a hurried ‘yes’. Just after the sound left your lips, Ozpin’s stole them again, just as soft and ginger as he had been before.

His hands moved as you settled against his body. So warm, so comforting--you could feel as his palms slid down your body, finally stopping at the top of your hips. He held you still, held you close, pressing your body against his with such a sweetness that it almost felt hard to breathe.

Though it felt like an eternity, the second kiss only lasted for several seconds. It was passionate, surprisingly so, and it absolutely took your breath away as Ozpin finally pulled his face away enough to that you could look at him properly.

Fire burned at your cheeks as harshly as the butterflies felt in your stomach, the sensations all so new and powerful that your thoughts were no more than scattered fragments to the wind. It took several long seconds to collect them, all spent gazing into the other’s dark eyes that never left your own.

“Ozpin, I--”

“If I wasn’t correct,” The man said, interrupting you with a slight hurry to his tone. As if he was trying to say it before you said something--before you might say something that would hurt. “If I....misinterpreted something, I deeply apologize for my rash actions.”

You blinked, biting at your lower lip as Ozpin’s eyes finally fell down and to the side; you’d never seen him, the headmaster of Beacon, look legitimately nervous before. It was a rather cute look on him, the pink on his pale cheeks so obvious and sweet.

“...If I didn’t....misinterpret...this relationship,” he continued, cautiously going over each word. “Then I would...like to make it known the feelings are more mutual than you might have assumed, dearest.”

You aren’t sure if it’s the confession or the petname that does it, but you feel your head spin with a feeling of sweet elation at the sound regardless. Is this what love felt like? The returned, sweet, innocent sort of love that you had dreamed and wondered so dearly for?

It was a feeling like none other, still held by Ozpin’s hands against the table behind you, his body so tall and warm against your own. 

A smile slowly worked its way over your lips and, after a few moments after, you regained your voice, if only as a whisper.

“I...like the way that sounds when you say it.”

“When I say what?” Ozpin questions in equal quietness.

The smile grows wider on your lips.

“When you call me ‘dearest’,” 

The feeling of joy in your chest is barely contained as a hand of yours reaches up to the man’s face, palm pressed against his warm cheek.

Ozpin looks at you, then presses his face into your touch.

“...I...can’t remember anything before getting shot,” You start with a murmur. “I can’t remember my family, my place of birth--I don’t even know if I have friends waiting for me somewhere out there in the Mojave or, hell, somewhere else in the wasteland.”

You take in a slow, shuddering breath, half-expecting the man to find something to say, perhaps even a quote from that holy book of his. 

But Joshua says nothing; he gives you the respect of silence while you find the words to say, the will to speak, the energy to confess the feelings bound up within your mind.

“Nothing ever seems to go right around me--It’s like....I’m cursed. I’m surrounded by death and violence and bloodshed--who was I to want this life? I’m.....I’m scared of ever learning who I was before this, especially since the only information I have about me--before everything--was The Divide. It--”

Emotions welled up in your throat, choking away the words and leaving you gasping for a new breath of air. It was hard to speak so openly, even if it was Graham you were confessing to--you fought hot tears in the corners of your eyes when you felt one of his hands press gently to the top of your head, something between a mere touch and a gentle caress over your hair in a motion that only meant to say ‘I’m here’ without actually saying it.

“I am familiar with the events of that place,” he said softly. “You need not recount it to me if you don’t wish to.”

It calmed you, his assurance, his soft words by the firelight. It helped you get yourself together again, cobbling thoughts and words once more to achieve a coherent voice.

“I just...” You weren’t sure how you could put it all together. “The wasteland, the Mojave...it....it makes me feel so hopeless sometimes. Like there’s nothing to live for, nothing to wake up and see--sometimes I wake up in the morning all alone in the desert after camping out and the realization--” Breath. Breathe slow. Breathe gently, that’s it.... The words whispered on the soft breeze, so soft that it took you a moment to realize it was Joshua saying them to you. “--the realization that I live in this shithole is too much to handle, you know? I can only get shot and nearly bleed-out so many times before I just--I just wish that Benny’s shot would have killed me months ago. It would have done me a favor.”

And then you were silent, so silent, but breathing gently and staring up to the wide, open night sky. You didn’t let your thoughts begin stewing again, so you quickly took up the impossible task of counting out the stars one by one. By the time you had gotten to the second dozen and lost count twice, your companion finally spoke.

His hand never left where it settled on the top of your head, his fingers gently rubbing into your scalp.

“We’re all put on this world for a purpose,” Joshua whispered, his voice so low and gentle that it worked like a lulling purr. You simply closed your eyes and listened to him, the calming tones of his words and wisdom in his thoughts. “We will never know what that purpose is--some of us may never know even after we pass on, but there is a purpose in our lives.”

His hand moves, gently cupping one of your cheeks so his fingertips gently brushed the underside of your jaw. 

“You saved the Sorrows and Dead Horses from what could have been a force to wipe them out, and helped stayed my anger in a time that I needed a hand of kindness most of all. Though I cannot begin to speak of events and places beyond Zion, I know well enough that you are a person of great kindness and love beyond yourself--You are important, Courier. You mean a great deal to me, to everyone here.

I can’t heal your lost memories. I cannot bring back what family you may have somewhere across the wasteland, but know that you are always a friend and member of my family--I cannot change the cruelty of the wasteland, but I can offer the same hand of warmth and kindness that you had done for me.”

His words are raw and genuine. Whenever Joshua speaks, there is a level of power and meaning behind it--he doesn’t say something without meaning, doesn’t speak without consideration, so the soft words hit you deep in your chest. They’re so kind, so open--it’s more than you can say about a lot of what’s out there in the same world that’s ready to kick you down, steal your caps and leave you for dead.

Tears start to well up and trail down the sides of your face as you finally move, shifting into a fetal position but closer to Joshua’s sitting form, close enough so that the top of your head is almost nuzzling against his hip.

He comforts you all the while, a hand always on your face or brushing through your hair, a voice gently cooing and murmuring soft comforts and assurances as your emotions crack away at the lead wall you’d built up since waking up in Goodsprings. It feels good to let it out for once, even a little, in the comfort and protection of someone who feels as though they can just....protect you for once, keep your shattered pieces from falling apart long enough while you find the energy to glue them back together.

You’re not sure how long you spend the night like that, how long you cry, how long Joshua continues to murmur to you--all you know is that eventually the evening ends with the fire put out, the night sky bright, and your body laying next to him with his arms carefully wrapped around you.

The gesture, the man--it makes you feel safe, cared for, and genuinely wanted in the world.

The man tilts his head and breaks the trance of the moment. Suddenly you can breathe again, though your arms yet wrap tight around his body--and he does not move away.

“Did I hear you right?” The Ascian murmurs, just a touch too soft to be scathing. “Because I could have sworn I heard a voice call out ‘please don’t go!’ as if one was calling for their own parent.”

A moment passes, and so your grip lingers. Your eyes fall away from the Ascian’s gaze but you make no attempt to speak--those had been your words but moments ago, when you feared that Emet-Selch was about to leave your presence in a vortex of shadow.

You were terrified if you’d ever see him again after that.

You were horrified by the idea of the man, this Ascian, never once showing up again in your life. No snide remarks, no play of words or wit--it was more than just losing a familiar thorn pricked deep in your finger, but of someone you’d come to be comfortable around.

Someone who, despite it all, felt familiar to your very soul, though you could hardly place why.

With no answer forthcoming from you, the man seemed happy to fill it with the sound of his own voice, still as soft as before--a noticeable difference from how he tended to talk.

“Is that what you are now, dear warrior? Do you so prize the company of a being who has tried to kill you and your friends--so much that you may cry out with such fervor when I decide to take my leave?”

The words are painful but the tone lacks a bite, as if drained of venom. Hollow. When they fall upon the air they sound more like a challenge than an accusation.

So you hug him tighter. Emet-Selch feels warm against you, warm and strong and broken in some of the same ways you are. You can’t ignore the way you feel when he’s close to you--the buzzing deep in your chest, as if your soul can’t help but try and reach out to his.

Lonely, almost lost to the eons of empty time.

But you hug him. You hold him tight. Your fingers dig into the leather of his jacket and you can’t find the ounce of will to release the grip.

“...Yes,” the word spills from your lips, beginning a gentle torrent that can’t be staved or filtered quick enough. “Because I know you don’t want to leave.”

You hear the softest catch in the man’s breath.

But suddenly Emet-Selch scoffs and shakes his head lightly, as if to rid himself of even the idea itself.

“What gave you such a stupid notion?”

You tilt your head so you can look into the man’s eyes again. Though the words would have pushed a notion of the man’s growing agitation, their tone revealed the Ascian’s expression before you finally caught sight of it.

He looks confused.

“Perhaps your soul is more broken than I assumed. Fragile and foolish and.....”

It’s only then that the Acian seems to lose his words. They trail off into silence, one that lingers for several heavy seconds until, at last, all the man has for you is but one word:

“Why?”

It’s not easy to give him an answer, since you are balancing on the edge of impulse and instinct. But the words must be somewhere in your heart already, for they bubble up unscathed and untangled against your tongue and teeth that threaten to rattle with nervousness.

“You’re lonely too,” you murmur. “I...can feel it. I felt it. You don’t want to leave. You can stay here with me--help us make the world a better place.”

“And you think it would be that easy?”

“Of course not,” you argue gently, growing bold as your body catches onto the man’s material realness--his body heat, his gentle pressure. “But it’s better than hiding in some corner of a forgotten Shard.” Your brows knit together. “You told me not to forget--to remember you and your people. That you existed. Why not join us and keep their history alive by your actions?”

It’s hard to keep Emet-Selch’s gaze for longer than a few more seconds, as his silence begins to feel heavier and heavier upon your shoulders until it’s more than you can handle. It’s then that the shame and worry start to creep in, that perhaps you’ve let instinct go too far, that your words are foolish idealizations.

You worry for what feels like an eternity of its own.

But then it’s suddenly warm, your body, and the realization almost overwhelms you of arms slowly wrapping around your body. They hold tight, matching the power of your grip, until it hurts and you let out a soft noise of discomfort--

--and then they loosen. Just a little. Apologetic. Learning.

“...perhaps you are worthy to inherit what my people have left behind,” the Ascian finally murmurs, though the words feel more like feigned cover for something deeper behind them. “If you are yet so willing to keep me nearby, then I will take amusement in it. For now.”

And he hugs you in return. He hugs you in a way that feels awkward and new, like he’s yet to figure out the pressure to apply around your shoulders. He speaks like there’s eons of emotions beneath his words, thousands of lifetimes of thoughts and hopes and dreams.

He feels lonely in the same way you do deep inside, and yet his arms are firm and his gesture is honest.

Worry creeps up into your words as you speak despite the desperate efforts to keep the tone even.

“W-what....did you say, r-radiant brother M-Magnai?

Surprise fills your veins and keeps you frozen in place, eyes wide as the moon as the man approaches you. A look of fire burns in his gaze as he stops at last, but a stride or two in front of you, keeping a distance though he looks like a predator readied to pounce.

“My Nhaama,” the leader repeats, tone firm and as unyielding as the rest of his being.

The word is more familiar in mind than upon your tongue, for it is a Xaela word for a Au Ra belief.

You blink, trying to let the thoughts catch up to you, recalling the significance of what the Xaela call the Dusk Mother--Nhaama--and how it ties so intricately with the Oronir tribe. 

How Magnai, believing himself to be the mortal-born Dawn Father, known as Azim to the Xaela, searches endlessly for his lover--his equal and destined Nhaama.

To hear him accuse, no, to question if you are such a one as that...

You know not what to say. But the silence at least is not long-lasting, for the leader of the Oronir is quick to speak.

“For years have I wondered if my Nhaama would be born outside of the Steppe, less so outside of the Xaela--but after many sunfalls of thought, such sense does it make at last!” 

Magnai’s words are filled with such warmth and energy, an excitement that mirrored that of a child--you can't help but feel a heat across your cheeks as you listen and look upon the man, rising slowly to your feet to but come barely to his chest.

“Just as Azim took on the form of the Xaela, so too might the sun’s own fated one be of the Raen--a union of Dusk and Dawn, of Sun and Moon. An ethereal maiden of healing as if blessed by the Dusk Mother herself--I have seen how your gentle touch has already healed the brave warriors who follow the Sun.”

The words, spoken with such flourish and care, leave you without a single sound in your throat. All you can do is stare at the man, still frozen, still silent, taking in all he has to say.

“You have found your way home at last, into the warm embrace of the Sun’s court, for the Oronir--for the heavenly Sun himself--have been waiting for you. My sweet, beloved Nhaama.”

From around the Dawn Throne’s land, people approach. Young and old step into the open area, if only to explore the commotion of noise of their leader’s booming voice, for Magnai did naught to keep his confident declarations of love quiet.

You can see them all as they grow nearer, some trying to hide their curiosity behind the edges of nearby tents, and others yet who cared if they were seen watching with crossed arms and quirked brows. Buduga and Oronir warriors alike, all watching in a slowly-gathering crowd, gazes fixed upon the grand Xaela warrior at its center, and the small Raen healer who he stood in front of in but a grand display, arms outstretched and tail lashing behind him in that same child-like excitement.

The beat of your heart is rapid. It hammers hard in your chest, making your blood rush and your head feel dizzy. Thoughts come too rapidly for you to catch. Like sand through loosely-bound fingers, they slip through. All you can do is stand and behold Magnai in all of his show, his burning attention upon you and you alone.

Despite it all, your eyes remain locked with his. You heard his words, yes, but they scarcely pierce through your swirling emotions. For as many experiences you’ve held close to your chest, for as many near-deaths, fears, hopes and dreams that you’ve clutched in the years since birth, never once did you feel an emotion quite like the one filling your chest now.

It feels warm. It feels radiant. It feels comforting and familiar.

Like a switch, a button, something flipped inside of your heart. A revelation crashed through your mind like an ocean of water, threatening to swallow you whole, to drown you in its never-ending pressure. One of your hands reached up to your own chest, fingertips digging into the cloth that lay over your heart as if you had to keep it from jumping out.

And still you met Magnai’s gaze.

Without meaning to, you take a step forward.

You take another, and then a third. 

Magnai is still as you approach him, closing the last few strides of a gap between your forms, until he is close enough to reach out and touch. He makes no move nor shift. Though he could all but reach out and grab you the man keeps himself still, as if but the slightest motion may scare you away.

The warmth in your chest only grows as you get close to him, getting hotter until it’s a burning radiance of emotion you can but barely describe, of which the Oronir leader is the undeniable source. 

Careful. Cautious. Unsure.

You reach a hand up, fingertips shyly brushing across the side of the man’s face. Though you struggle for a few moments to reach him comfortably upon the tips of your toes, Magnai wordlessly leans down enough that you can lay your palm flat over the curve of his cheek, fingertips against the texture of his obsidian scales as black as night.

And then, you feel compelled to speak. A deep instinct bubbles within your chest. It is primal, the feeling, and one you cannot stop.

“You are my Sun.”

It feels as natural as breathing. 

"My...Azim."

If not for how you looked so closely upon Magnai’s face, you might have missed the way his eyes widen, glimmering golden in the light of the sun above. You might miss how his lips tremble or his body shakes. The man’s brows knit tight above his eyes in a range of emotions untrained or simply unprepared, the words a key to an ocean of raw feelings he too was not ready to feel.

And all the while, to the outside world, the two of you stand in silence. 

Magnai finally reaches a hand up to your face. His fingertips lightly stroke across one of your horns, as if committing the shape and texture already to his memory.

“You are the most beautiful thing ever to grace the vision of the Sun.”

His words are a whisper, spoken soft and intimate for only the two of you to hear. After a moment longer you feel the man’s hand shift, cupping one side of your face against his palm; the touch is warm, fingertips calloused from years of training and battle. 

Your heart sings for the simple gesture.

“I...” you start, heartbeat beginning to race again as you take in the moment. “I don’t understand what’s going on....why I feel this way...”

“Worry not, my Nhaama, you will learn the details of your journey to me in time.” Magnai reaches his other hand out to cup your face completely, thumbs gently rubbing over the curve of your cheekbone, as if tracing the lines of your scales. “Know only that you will be loved and cared for in all of your years under the embrace of the Sun. I have found you at last.”

At last his hands move, arms reaching around your body to tug you against him--you offer no rejection, just a soft noise of surprise as you feel your form press flush to his. Your face instinctively nuzzles against where it reaches of the man’s chest before your eyes peer up to meet Magnai’s own once more.

In but one breathless moment he pulls you up and into his arms, lifting you off your feet enough so that neither he nor you have to strain to reach eachother’s lips. 

There is no hesitation in how your mouths meet, and neither is there issue with the shape of your horns and his. It is truly an exhilarating thought, a revaluation, your bodies and faces and lips meeting as if you were truly crafted to be with one another. 

Though you feel a gentle pressure of his horns sliding against your own, there is nothing to stop him from claiming your lips with tongue and teeth, from growling into the kiss in a manner that only vaguely reminds that you have an audience of Oronir and Buduga still watching the union before their very eyes.

Before you could think to pull away, Magnai has long-since felt the subtle change in the pressure of your lips. His face pulls back just enough, though your foreheads still touch, breaths mingling delicately across one another’s skin.

It takes time for you to recover, and time still for your friends to make sense of what happened. But they move on and, slowly, so do you--for the longest time, it’s truly as if Emet-Selch had actually died at the climax of the battle between you both. The Exarch is alive and well, Norvrandt is saved from destruction and you, your soul, are whole and hale once more in every manner of being.

When the dust settles, when the people begin their rebuilding of the world one brick and board at a time, you find yourself wondering when you’ll see the Ascian’s face again. For the first while you think he is merely waiting for the opportunity to ruin all the good that’s been done. 

But it doesn’t happen.

For the next while you wonder if he’s simply given up on the First entirely, opting to join back upon the Source and wreck havoc upon a situation already standing on the precipice of chaos.

But it doesn’t happen.

At last, many weeks later, you find yourself wondering if you should merely forget about the Ascian and continue on with your life--the twelve only knew how much you already had to worry about. But even then, even when the other Scions have all but chalked the soul up for dead and for bigger things to worry about, you still find yourself plagued by thoughts of the Ascian and his final words to you:

Remember our history.

Remember us.

You certainly don’t think you even can to begin with, the memories all but etched into your soul. Of places and beings and worlds and lives lived years upon years before the earliest creatures of the First even walked. Eons ago. 

So you keep your promise to him: you remember. You let your mind run free in the evenings, when there is naught else to hear but the sound of your own thoughts, when memories become real once more behind your eyelids, old words a whisper in your years. It’s like the lives of eons past are but a show within your dreams--it’s as if you’re connected to something, someone, and you are privy to their most intimate recollections of a life they yet longed to have again.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize to whom the memories and feelings of yearning belong to

In fact, the very man visits you several nights after they begin.

You’re worried at first, when Emet-Selch enters your quarters. You are ready to fight in little more than a shaken breath, heart pounding in instinct alone long-since driven into your skull, before the man but gestures with his hands in an open admission of peace.

“For once, I assume, a visitor in your quarters late into the evening has no desire to kill you,” Emet-Selch says, before his eyes shift to the side and his lips purse in a moment of thought. “...Unless you have other sorts of people who come to you in the evenings with no warning. Regardless I am here for neither, you’ll be happy to know that I would likely perish if I even attempted it--and, as we both know from the fact that I am talking to you, well...I’m still trying to figure out why you let that happen.”

It takes a long time for you to even let your guard down, let alone take your eyes from the man in the center of the room. It takes longer still for you to move back to your bed. Emet-Selch talks throughout the entirety, curious about the things you had seen of him. Of his memories. Of his thoughts. Though ancient, he is curious to know what you think of them.

And thus creates the first evening of conversation between the two of you. From enemies to cautious partners of conversation, the days came and went with the Ascian visiting you every couple of nights, always with a wry smile on his lips and a biting wit to his tongue. He would come to you and talk--sometimes he would be the only one doing the talking--playing out a facade that he couldn’t keep very well hidden. 

You could feel how lonely he was. And he knew it.

Perhaps it was the echo. Perhaps it was because of your last-moment mercy. Perhaps still it is simple fate, the entwining of souls, the will of a power much larger than yourself. Perhaps it’s all of those things and yet still perhaps it is none. 

But there is no denying that, of all the people that Emet-Selch could have connected to, he doesn’t seem to dislike your company.

In fact, as the weeks and months begin to go by and the Ascian never fails to visit, when you begin to see flickers of darkness at the corner of your eyes in heated battles--ones that down the enemy with no source of the blow, when you begin to put all the pieces of your new sense of normal together into one cohesive picture...

Well, you might see Emet-Selch as a friend.