#westlie

I’m my own fanartist and I require the fluff. It’s very sexy and I’m proud of myself.

Westlie and Morgan Faire POV: You have a sister.

If Westlie opened her mouth and breathed deep, she could ever-so-faintly taste hours on her tongue. A muted, earthy tang, like truffles stored in ice.

The sky was a deep pitch.

She hadn't gotten used to it, even after two years; even after near-death blowing up the sun; even after landing the Queen's final blow with her own two hands. None of it felt real.

Elijah's footsteps sounded on the stairwell and she turned as he made the final step. One mug was more carefully balanced than the other, lest it slip on his glass fingers. She took that one. They both settled against the railing.

She sipped. Elijah had made an Achlys blend of tea; dark, earthy, very familiar. She savored it. "... The sky's darker than I remember."

She couldn't see his smile behind the mug, but the skin behind his eyepatch wrinkled. "The Khanate has helped. There have been contributions."

"Contributions from you I hear."

His nose wrinkled. "Family contributions."

"Your contributions."

He ignored that, and Westlie dismissed it for another day.

"... How's Andy?"

"Brilliant." She smiled. "Still rough around the edges, but he learns quickly."

"You have an inordinate amount of patience for the most inexplicable things."

"Thank you," she sipped again. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"He needs it."

"He does."

"What about Arthur? Are you going to visit him?"

Westlie hesitated. "... Probably. At some point. I should."

Elijah hesitated, and Westlie could see the question on his face. She took another sip so she could hide behind her mug.

"Why haven't you come to London for two years?"

'Busy' was true, but it was also a lie. Westlie squinted at the stars like they would hold an answer and Elijah waited.

She admired that about him, as much as she hated it. That deep-sunken silence as she tried to reconcile her actions with words. She let her breath spiral in soft blotted clouds from the chill. "I... I don't know."

Elijah waited.

"Nothing's finished," she whispered. It sounded loud despite the noise of London. "There's so much to do- so many runs to make- we didn't finish."

"There's no sun in the sky. No throne of hours."

"Achlys-" Westlie's voice cracked; for a second she hated herself for sounding half her age. "New Winchester, Port Prosper- They took the brunt of London's invasion so we could have that chance. There isn't enough to repay them-"

She stayed quiet for a moment, hoping he'd read her mind- that she didn't want to sit. She had to do. Had to keep doing. She could help, she could fly, she was free, it was purpose, and whenever she was still there was that itch to keep pushing.

She wasn't Morgan- Gods knew where Marion and Sally and Morgan were off now to kill more Judgements- but she wanted to make things safe in the mess they were leaving. Which words said that?

"I- I just... I want to finish the job; and right now, it's not in London."

"I know." Elijah hesitated. He cleared his throat. "I mean, you have a ho- place here, if you want it. Somewhere to stay that isn't Arthur's."

"O-oh."

"I hoped you weren't staying away because of that." His voice softened a little. "I know you're not done."

"... how?"

"Your letters were happy." They'd finished their tea, so he couldn't hide the way his visible eye softened with understanding and the separation that lingered between them sometimes.

They stood there on the roof of the Fry mansion as gas lights shone through the mist and locomotives steamed to the docks.

"I missed you," Westlie blurted out. "It's not the same."

Elijah's face flushed a violent pink.

Her cheeks burned.

"I- fuck-"

"Yo- you have a home here, whenever you need-" Elijah's words were a little strangled but he managed. "I- I mean that."

oh fucking hell

In the middle of the night Elijah was still wearing his goddamn tie under his waistcoat and Westlie had parked in Wolfstack station and signed 29 pages of paperwork and after two years Elijah was still going to play dignified even though it was very, very attractive- and she dragged him into a kiss.

It was fierce and crushed and hurt, kinda, but she wanted it to hurt because she couldn't stop captaining, and there was a hole at her side where he once stood and that hole hurt, and she missed him and that hurt, and they were both gasping and red when she finally let go.

"... Ow."

"I love you." The words choked in her throat. "I love you- I will come home."

"You could have said that."

"I am- did."

"Gentler next time." But he was teasing now in his dry manner with the subtle up-quirk of the lip.

"Fine." Westlie waited for him to collect the mugs and face her again before she grabbed his tie.

She

gently

with

emphasized slowness

-pulled him down into another kiss that she did make softer that time because she was almost crying with relief. She didn't pull away at the end, and he rested his forehead on hers.

"I'm sorry," Westlie whispered, "for making you worry."

"Come home to me, Wes."

‘Relief’ was the wrong word to describe how Westlie felt after a week of living with Lizzie on their own. A weight had been lifted from her chest, but now she was seeing for the first time too. It was like she’d put on magic glasses and the world was suddenly full of roses with thorns. She was still stuck walking through the briars. But she could touch them. She could see them. There was no Arthur trimming off the flowers whenever she got close; no Mary to tease her about every invisible cut and tear. When she scraped a thorn, she bled- and she could feel the pain now, watch the blood run down her arm, feel the determination course through her to reach the rose again. Challenges didn’t seem like they’d be freeing, but she was making the choice to chase them, she was the one in control; the world had moved on from the events of last week and she was left a changed woman in an unfamiliar city; the chains were gone, she was just… Westlie.

The first day of her new job, Westlie woke up, dressed, and started to pull up her hair up from habit when her arms hesitated. There wasn’t a mirror in the little apartment, but she could imagine herself as she stared at the wall: slender, pale, nervous, a curl of red hair over her right cheek; the vest, the skirt, the defiant chin; frightened eyes, sister-less, a guardian, a runaway; free. She wasn’t Westlie from Fairweather anymore and she didn’t want to look it. Free. Westlie’s arms ached a bit, but she didn’t move, just holding the word in her heart.

She was free, wasn’t she? That thing, that word she’d worked to secure for Morgan her whole life- that dream she’d fantasized for Lizzie- she was free to decide whether they should stay or move, free to work for Jamison or any other company, any other goal. She could be a navigator if she wanted. She had the license. She could do it. She could try.

Old-Westlie, the woman in the mirror with the long curls, the hand with the hairpins, with the practiced, ruthless efficiency- that was the person she had been. Westlie made her way over to her carpet bag in a haze. She had a little travel sewing kit with thread scissors. She took them out and raised them to her hair, chopping a curl off at neck length before she could process what she was doing. 

She immediately saw herself in the mirror again, caught in the act, scissors raised like a shield, lop-sided, frightened, new. Like a sculpture she couldn’t see the final form of, even in her mind’s eye. She didn’t want to be the same, but it was terrifying to change. Old-Westlie was a coward, she thought to herself. Old-Westlie might still be with Arthur if she hadn’t run with Lizzie; angry, sulking, bitter, but there. It was Morgan who bought their freedom this time. ... Where was Morgan? Westlie hacked at her hair until it was all the same length and she looked in the imaginary mirror again.

Short, curly, red, pale; brown eyes, chewed lips. … she didn’t feel free now, she just felt… she felt… Not-Westlie, and she didn’t know if that was good, or bad, or wrong, or right, or if she was just a woman trying so hard to grab the roses she saw, she didn’t care how many thorns cut her skin.

Arthur would say she looked unprofessional. Westlie swallowed and tucked a curl behind her ear. Arthur would say she wasn’t worth the work she did. … But Arthur wasn’t here, was he? He was gone and the no-longer heir to Fairweather was left standing in shoes she didn’t know how to fill. She could do it though. Westlie whispered confidence to herself in the imaginary mirror, trying not to think of the shoddy apartment and the stench of honey she’d never be able to get out of her nose. She could do it because she had a new job and a new employer, and she would find Lizzie a new apartment and she was going to make it wonderful because Lizzie should be free. And it started here; it started now, with New-Westlie.

New-Westlie took a breath, softly tapped Lizzie’s nose while she slept in, and stepped out into the musky, London briars to gather some roses.

-=-

Short and unedited because I’m sleepy but I needed seratonin. Not sure if this happens in London after Westlie realizes she can’t give Lizzie to the London orphanage or in Port Prosper right after Part 1 when they’re waiting for Morgan to arrive. 

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