･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ fuck you

"Poorly?" He questioned as Grayson let the word hang between them briefly. "Oh. Well, for what it's worth, I think you'll breakthrough eventually." He offered another smile towards the man. "You're smart. Anyone could tell that just by talking to you for a few minutes." Marshall was quiet for a few moments before speaking again. The question about his own discoveries had him blinking for a few brief seconds.

"Me? I think I'm still in the collecting questions phase of it all." He chuckled shyly. "But, hey - I can at least say I've learned I'm a pretty good bandage...er?" Another laugh rolled through him. "What is it you're looking for? With all the research and stuff, I mean. Some big project for whoever you work for? Or is it personal?" He finally asked as curiosity overtook him.

his smile lingered for another second before marshall's curiosity settled in properly. grayson let out a slow breath. “officially?” he said. “i'm trying to understand what resurrection, magic, and trauma do to the human brain. memories. perception. why some people come back... different.” he glanced down briefly, absently adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “unofficially...” the word hung there for a moment. “i'm trying to understand this city before it decides to understand me.” his eyes lifted to meet marshall's again. “every time i think i've found a pattern, something changes.” a quiet laugh escaped him. “which is frustrating for someone who built an entire career on the assumption that patterns are reliable.”

he was silent for another moment before adding, more honestly than he'd intended, “i suppose i'm looking for proof that none of this is random.” his gaze drifted ahead again, thoughtful. “if there's an explanation—even one i don't like—i can work with that.” a faint smile returned as he looked back at marshall. “besides,” he said, “you strike me as someone who understands wanting answers simply because not knowing is worse.”

He shut the apartment door behind him and tossed his keys onto the counter. If he was irritated by the apparent home invasion, it didn't show beyond a slight narrowing of his eyes. The fact that Corvath had managed to acquire both an invitation and a drink before Blade got home was being carefully filed away for future consideration. "The neighbor's seventy-three and thinks every supernatural under the age of fifty is handsome," he said dryly as he shrugged out of his jacket. "That's not security clearance. That's a demographic weakness."

The jacket landed over the back of another chair as Blade turned his full attention toward the prince. The shift was subtle but immediate. Casual observation gave way to focus. Transit logs. Discrepancy. Probably nothing. Three phrases that rarely meant anything good.

"That's three phrases that almost always end with paperwork," he muttered, crossing the room to snag the report nearest Corvath. He skimmed the first page with practiced efficiency, absorbing information rather than reading it. When Corvath made his comment about people who actually read reports before deciding they were inconvenient, Blade glanced up from the file.

"I read all my reports," he said evenly. "I just reserve the right to be annoyed by them."

The corner of his mouth threatened a smile before thinking better of it. He set the report back down and leaned one hip against the edge of the table, arms folding across his chest.

"You've been sitting in my apartment drinking my liquor long enough to develop opinions about my filing system," he observed. "Which means the mildly irritating news is almost certainly more important than the good news."

His gaze settled steadily on Corvath, completely unbothered by the prince's title, charm, or carefully cultivated diplomacy. Blade had spent too many years around politicians, generals, and monsters to be impressed by any of the above.

"So let's hear the irritating part first," he said. "And if the good news is that nobody's actively trying to kill us today, I'd like to remind you that's no longer considered good news. That's just the minimum operating requirement."

A beat passed before his eyes flicked briefly toward the amber liquid in Corvath's glass.

"And if that's the last of the bourbon from the top shelf, the transit discrepancy is about to become the second most irritating thing in this apartment."

the corner of his mouth lifted when blade mentioned the reports. “that's one of the many things i appreciate about you,” he said easily. “most people spend half their lives pretending to enjoy paperwork because they think it makes them look responsible. you openly resent it and somehow still know every line better than everyone else in the room.” he tilted his head, studying blade with quiet amusement. “it's deeply irritating. i'd ask how you do it, but i'm afraid the answer involves discipline.”

he set the glass aside then, the warmth in his expression remaining even as the conversation shifted. “the irritating news is that one of our monitored crossings has developed a very inconvenient habit of disagreeing with itself. the wardkeepers on our side logged exactly what they should have. triad's transit records did the same. individually, they're immaculate. together...” he spread a hand lightly. “they tell two different stories.” his eyes settled on blade's. “someone crossed through a space that shouldn't exist. either they found a gap neither of us knew was there, or someone clever enough to understand both our systems decided to create one.”

his smile returned, smaller this time, thoughtful rather than amused. “i've spent my entire life surrounded by people who hide dangerous things inside perfectly ordinary paperwork. it's one of the less glamorous parts of being royalty. after a while, you develop an instinct for the numbers that feel... too tidy.” a quiet laugh escaped him. “my tutors called it diligence. i called it proof that someone was lying.”

he leaned back again, posture as relaxed as ever despite the subject. “the good news is that i don't think this points toward triad, and it certainly doesn't point toward autumn. if someone wanted to make either of us look incompetent, they would've left fingerprints everywhere. instead, they cleaned the floor before they left.” amber eyes glinted with the kind of admiration reserved for worthy opponents. “i almost respect that level of arrogance.”

his fingers tapped idly against the arm of the chair before he looked back at blade. “my father's solution will be exactly what you'd expect. close crossings. tighten restrictions. question everyone until morale collapses under the weight of bureaucracy.” he smiled, equal parts fond and exasperated. “it's a wonderful strategy if your goal is convincing innocent people they've done something wrong.” he let that thought settle before the familiar roguish charm returned in full.

“personally, i'd rather leave the doors open and watch who gets comfortable walking through them twice.” his gaze held blade's, steady and confident. “clever people usually believe their own success story. sooner or later, they stop being careful.” the grin that followed was unmistakably corvath. “and besides, if we solve this quickly enough, neither of us has to explain to my father why the autumn court and triad somehow lost track of a ghost.” he reached for the bourbon again, lifting it in a casual salute. “i'm very attached to my current level of disappointment. i'd hate to give him a reason to upgrade it.”

She pushed away from the ledge and folded her arms loosely across her chest, looking out over the fractured city lights stretched beneath them. “And for the record, I wasn't posing. I was thinking.” A beat passed before she added, “Though I admit rooftop contemplation does tend to look unnecessarily dramatic.”

The amusement in her voice deepened when he accused her of lecturing him about situational awareness. “You absolutely would receive that lecture,” she informed him. “A long one. Potentially with diagrams. You've spent your entire life wandering directly toward suspicious circumstances because they looked interesting enough to investigate.” Her eyes flicked pointedly toward the cup in his hand. “You bought a drink from a vendor you've never met at midnight and then forgot it existed. You're making my argument for me.”

The city hummed below them, distant and alive, while the wind tugged lazily at the edge of her cloak. When Corvath admitted he hadn't been looking for trouble, Lyric laughed outright. “That might be the most concerning thing you've said all evening.” She shook her head and moved to lean against the low wall a few feet away from him, close enough for easy conversation. “Every time someone says they aren't looking for trouble, the universe interprets it as a challenge. And considering your particular history, I'd say there's a very strong possibility trouble spotted you several blocks ago and is currently debating whether to arrive dramatically or make a speech first.”

The smile lingered for another moment before softening. She looked back out over the skyline, watching the glow of the city reflect off broken glass and distant windows. “Though if it helps, you're not the only one it keeps finding.” Her voice had quieted slightly now, thoughtful rather than teasing. “I came up here because I wanted somewhere quiet to think.”

Her gaze shifted back toward him, warmth flickering briefly through the bronze-green of her eyes. “Instead, I found you.” The words were simple and matter-of-fact, offered without ceremony. Then the smile returned, saving them both from lingering on it too long. “Which, admittedly, isn't much quieter,” she said dryly. “But it is usually more interesting.”

he took a cautious sip, immediately grimaced, then looked at the cup with genuine disappointment. “i've made a terrible mistake.” the expression only lasted a second before his attention settled fully on her again, the easy grin returning. “and i'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about this. i'm trying very hard to cultivate an image of competence.” he gestured vaguely with the cup. “i feel this undermines years of careful work.” his smile lingered as she described the inevitable lecture she'd have given him, and he found himself shaking his head with quiet amusement.

“diagrams?” he echoed. “that's how i know you've been a general too long. normal people threaten lectures. you threaten visual aids.” he leaned his forearms against the low wall, looking out over the fractured city below. lanternlight shimmered across rain-dark streets, and somewhere in the distance music drifted upward on the wind. “though you're not wrong,” he admitted after a moment. “i've always had a bad habit of walking toward interesting problems.” a thoughtful smile touched his mouth. “my father spent years insisting it would get me killed.” his eyes drifted sideways toward her. “i kept insisting the alternative sounded unbearably dull.”

his gaze followed hers back across the skyline, and for a while he simply stood there, comfortable enough to let the quiet exist between them. there weren't many people he could do that with. lyric had always been one of them. when she admitted she'd come looking for somewhere quiet and found him instead, something softened almost imperceptibly in his expression. “well,” he said, warmth threading through his voice, “i'd apologize for ruining the solitude, but i have a feeling neither of us would believe it.” his eyes lingered on the city for another moment before returning to her. “besides, if the autumn court's general disappears onto a rooftop in the middle of the night looking thoughtful, i think it's technically my responsibility to make sure you're not planning something reckless.” the corner of his mouth lifted. “and before you object, yes, i understand the hypocrisy of that statement.” the grin that followed was unmistakably corvath. “the difference is that when i'm reckless, everyone expects it.” he tipped his head toward her with quiet affection. “when you're reckless, i start wondering just how serious the problem must actually be.”

Rory swallowed hard, emotion hitting so suddenly it almost stole her breath. "You idiot," she whispered, and the words weren't angry. If anything, they sounded heartbreakingly fond. Her eyes burned and she looked away for a second, shaking her head as a quiet laugh escaped her. "You absolute idiot."

Because how was she supposed to be angry at him when he was standing there looking at her like that? How was she supposed to protect herself from this? From him? From the terrible, wonderful certainty that had followed him back into her life? When she looked back at him, there were tears gathering in her eyes. Not falling. Just there. Honest. Unhidden.

"I spent so much time trying to hate you." The confession slipped out before she could stop it. A small, broken smile touched her mouth. "Not all the time. Not even most of the time. But every once in a while I'd get angry enough. Angry enough to remember the empty space you left behind. Angry enough to remember all the questions I couldn't answer. Angry enough to tell myself you didn't get to do this to me. That you didn't get to leave and still matter."

A tear slipped free and she wiped it away immediately, annoyed at herself. "And the worst part?" Her voice cracked around a laugh. "It never worked." The truth settled quietly between them. Rory looked down at their hands. At the way his hand covered hers. At how natural it felt. How unfair it felt. How right.

"I moved on," she said softly. "I did. I loved other people. I built a life. I raised our daughter. I wasn't sitting around waiting for you to come back." Because that mattered. Because she needed him to understand that. "You weren't some unfinished chapter I kept rereading. You were the whole damn book I finally put back on the shelf because I thought the story was over."

Her eyes lifted to his. "And then you came back." Rory laughed shakily. "And now every time I look at you, I feel like I've spent years trying to convince myself I forgot how to read." A car rolled through the parking lot somewhere behind them. Neither of them looked. Rory's gaze never left his.

"You know what really makes me angry?" she asked quietly. "That if you'd walked up to me tonight and told me you were leaving again..." The words caught in her throat and she pushed through them anyway. "It would've broken my heart." There it was. No armor. No jokes. No way to take it back. Her fingers tightened around his just slightly. "Because I don't think I ever stopped loving you."

The confession wasn't dramatic. It wasn't grand. It sounded tired. Like a truth she'd been carrying for so long it had become part of her bones. A fresh tear slipped down her cheek. This time she didn't wipe it away. "God, I wish that wasn't true," she said with a watery laugh. "It would make my life significantly easier."

The smile that followed was small and ruined and beautiful. "But every time I try to talk myself out of it, my heart looks at me like I'm stupid." A breath escaped her. Then another. And suddenly she was smiling through tears.

Because somehow, despite everything, he was standing here. Because somehow, despite everything, he was still looking at her the way he always had. Because somehow, despite everything, she wasn't alone in this.

Rory shook her head softly, disbelieving, and took a small step closer. Not much. Barely a step. But enough. Enough that she didn't have to raise her voice. Enough that the rest of the world felt very far away.

"I don't know what happens next," she admitted. "I don't know how we do this. I don't know what your father does. I don't know what tomorrow looks like." Her eyes searched his. "But for the first time in a really long time..." Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. "...I think I'd rather find out with you than without you."

his thumb continued its slow, absent path across her knuckles. “you know what i hear when you say all that?” he asked quietly, a faint, bittersweet smile touching his lips. “i hear a woman who kept living.” his gaze never left hers. “you fell in love again. you built a home. you raised livvy into someone i'm proud to know.” he shook his head almost imperceptibly. “i don't hear betrayal in any of that, rory. i hear proof that you're exactly who i always knew you were.” his eyes softened, regret settling plainly across his features. “the only part that breaks my heart is that i wasn't there to see it.” he laughed once under his breath, though there wasn't much amusement in it.

“do you know how many times i've imagined this conversation?” he admitted. “hundreds. maybe thousands. in some versions you slammed a door in my face. in others you told me to go to hell, and i generally agreed you had a compelling argument.” a crooked smile appeared for the briefest moment. “not once—not once—did i let myself imagine you telling me you still loved me.” the confession she had made lingered between them, and for perhaps the first time in his life, corvath blackthorne seemed entirely incapable of hiding what he felt. wonder. relief. grief. love. all of it lived plainly in his eyes. “you should,” he said softly when she wished it weren't true. “you should wish it were easier.”

his voice caught slightly before he continued. “because if you'd stopped loving me...” he smiled sadly. “i would've understood.” his free hand lifted almost without thought, brushing a loose curl back from her face before his fingertips settled lightly against her cheek. there was nothing hurried about the gesture. nothing possessive. only reverence, as though he were reminding himself she was real. “i don't deserve that kind of love,” he murmured. his smile returned then, quieter than before, carrying the familiar warmth she had always managed to pull from him when no one else could. “fortunately for me, you've never been particularly interested in giving people what they deserve.” he shook his head with a soft, disbelieving laugh. “you asked me once, a while ago, what i'd choose if nobody else got a vote. no court. no crown. no duty. just me.” his eyes searched hers. “i didn't have the courage to answer you then.” his thumb brushed gently beneath the tear still resting against her cheek. “so let me answer you now.”

he removed the remaining distance between them, close enough that the rest of the parking lot seemed to disappear beneath the hum of the pharmacy lights. “i choose you.” the words weren't dramatic. they didn't need to be. they were simply true. “i choose livvy. i choose whatever impossible, complicated, infuriating future comes with the two of you.” a small smile tugged at his mouth. “and if that makes me a disappointment to my father...” he exhaled softly. it didn't matter what his father thought, he'd be taking care of that problem soon anyway. “it's about time i became something else instead.” his forehead rested lightly against hers for a heartbeat, giving her every chance to pull away if she wanted to. when she didn't, the last of the distance disappeared. he kissed her gently. not with the reckless urgency of the young man who had fallen in love with her all those years ago, but with the certainty of someone who had spent far too long knowing exactly where he belonged and finally, finally finding his way home.

"Forgive the mess. My niece convinced me to pray turn our compound into a neutral territory, though I admit that I have not moved with any particular sort of rush in organizing my personal effects." The hybrid explained and moved across the room to dial down the volume of the music. "Klaus Mikaelson." He introduced himself with a small nod. "I do not believe we have met."

when the music softened, the quiet settled differently between them. it wasn't silence exactly. there was still the distant pulse of the city beyond the balcony, footsteps on the street below, the faint rustle of canvas against easels whenever the breeze wandered through. somehow, it made the paintings feel even more present. she inclined her head in return. “isla calloway,” she replied warmly. “curator at the museum.” a hint of amusement touched her expression. “which probably explains why i have opinions about stories finding their way into art.” her gaze drifted once more toward the impossible skyline beyond the balcony before returning to him.

“i think you're right,” she said thoughtfully. “we've seen the courts, but seeing and understanding aren't the same thing.” her fingers rested lightly against the balcony railing. “i've spent years studying history, and one thing it teaches you very quickly is that places are almost never what they first appear to be. you can memorize every date, every map, every family tree...” she smiled softly. “and still know nothing about how it felt to stand there.”

her attention settled on the unfinished painting again. “maybe that's what you're waiting for,” isla suggested gently. “not another visit to a court... but the moment one of them surprises you.” the corner of her mouth lifted. “the sort of moment you couldn't have planned for, and couldn't leave out if you tried.” she looked back to him then, curiosity quiet but unmistakable. “can i ask you something?” she said. “when you paint... are you trying to remember what you've seen?” her eyes flicked to the canvas before returning to his. “or are you trying to understand it?”

His gaze found Isla near the window, sunlight catching the edge of her profile and turning the silver locket at her throat briefly luminous. He noticed the clipboard, the carefully straightened display card behind her, and the expression of someone already halfway through negotiating with her responsibilities.

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“I would never presume to interfere with such important work,” Elijah replied, voice warm with unmistakable amusement as he approached. His eyes flicked to the clipboard. “Though I confess, your argument is compelling.”

He came to a stop beside the nineteenth-century portrait she had been tending moments earlier and regarded it thoughtfully.

“Then again,” he added, glancing toward the painting, “it would seem you've already restored one wounded dignity today. Surely the paperwork can survive a brief period of neglect.”

His attention returned to her, lingering a second longer than strictly necessary. Not intrusive. Just present.

“I've always suspected museums and paperwork exist in a perpetual struggle against one another,” he continued. “One preserves wonder. The other attempts to catalogue it.”

The corner of his mouth curved slightly.

“I can never quite decide which is winning.”

For a moment, his gaze drifted beyond the window to the impossible skyline outside before settling back on her.

“Though if I'm being entirely honest,” Elijah said, lowering his voice just enough to feel conversational rather than formal, “I didn't come here to rescue you from paperwork.”

A beat.

“I came because this is one of the few places left in the city that still feels willing to have a conversation with history.”

His eyes softened then, carrying that quiet attentiveness he reserved for people rather than politics.

“And because,” he added with gentle candor, “I suspected the company might be considerably better than the exhibits.”

The faint warmth in his expression made it clear he wasn't referring to the artifacts.

her attention returned to him, her smile softening almost immediately. “i like that,” she admitted after a moment. “that museums have conversations with history.” her gaze drifted around the gallery—the worn frames, polished cases, the little imperfections left by decades of careful hands. “most people think they're places that preserve the past.” she shook her head gently. “i've never believed that. i think they remind us the past is still speaking. we're just deciding whether to listen.”

she stepped toward the window again, leaving enough room beside her that the invitation was effortless rather than deliberate. outside, the impossible skyline shimmered beneath skies that no longer belonged to one world alone. “the city changes so quickly now,” isla continued quietly. “sometimes i come in here just to remember that not everything has to become something new to matter.” her fingers found the edge of the silver locket at her throat, the familiar gesture unconscious. “there's comfort in being surrounded by things that have already survived impossible times.”

his final admission drew her eyes back to his, and for just a heartbeat she looked almost caught off guard. not by the compliment itself, but by the sincerity with which he'd offered it. the warmth in her expression deepened. “well,” she said, a touch of playful lightness returning to her voice, “for the record, i think the exhibits would be deeply offended to learn they've been outshone.” her eyes flicked toward the portrait she'd straightened moments earlier. “especially him. i only just restored his dignity.” another quiet smile followed. “but i'm very glad you came anyway.” she tilted her head slightly, curiosity settling easily into place. “tell me,” isla asked, “when you walk into a place like this... do you come looking for the stories you already know?” her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful and open. “or the ones you haven't heard yet?”

A smile pulled at his mouth as he approached from behind, quiet enough that the crash of the waves covered his footsteps. By the time she spoke, he'd already closed the distance. A low laugh escaped him. “Only now, princesa?”

Without much thought, and with the easy familiarity that had become second nature between them, Saint slipped his arms loosely around her waist from behind and settled against her. The embrace wasn't demanding or possessive; it was simply comfortable, like he'd found his place and decided to stay there. His chin brushed lightly against the top of her head before he turned his attention toward the ocean stretching endlessly before them.

“The pretty scenery's only part of it,” he said. “I think the ocean's doing most of the work. Hard to stay stressed when you've got that constantly reminding you how small everything is.”

The breeze rolled in off the water, carrying salt and sunlight and tugging loose strands of her hair across his cheek. He didn't bother moving them. If anything, his hold tightened just slightly as he rested his chin against her shoulder instead.

“Honestly, I think they're cheating,” he continued. “I came looking for you twenty minutes ago.”

A beat.

“Then I saw you standing here.”

Another.

“And somehow forgot why I was looking.”

The confession came easy, wrapped in amusement but carrying enough truth that he didn't bother hiding it. His hands remained linked loosely over her stomach as he looked out over the cliffs below.

“Though, to be fair,” he added, turning his head just enough that his voice dropped lower near her ear, “I don't think that's entirely Summer Court's fault.” His smile deepened as his gaze drifted from the ocean to her profile. “I've noticed I get distracted pretty easily when you're around.”

There wasn't a trace of embarrassment in the admission. Saint had never been particularly good at pretending indifference when it came to her. He simply held her a little closer and looked back toward the horizon.

“So now I've got a problem,” he mused. “Because the Court's trying to distract me with all this.” He nodded toward the sunlit water. “And you're standing here making a very strong argument for me never leaving this overlook again.” His thumb brushed absent circles against the back of her hand. “Honestly, mi cielo, Summer Court never stood a chance.”

there wasn't much teasing in it. just warmth. her gaze stayed on the ocean, watching sunlight scatter across the water until it became impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. “i think that's what i like about this place,” she admitted after a moment. “it doesn't ask you to earn the quiet. it just... gives it to you.” she exhaled slowly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing against her back. “i spend so much time trying to anticipate what's next that i'd almost forgotten what it feels like to simply stop.” his last words drew a soft laugh from her, and she turned her head just enough to catch his eyes from the corner of her own.

“that's a very dangerous thing to tell me,” élodie said, amusement threading through her voice. “because now i know i've got competition.” she nodded toward the glittering coastline below before looking back at him. “apparently i have to outperform an entire court.” her smile lingered, quieter now. “although...” she paused, studying him for a heartbeat that felt longer than it was. “i'm not actually worried.” her fingers intertwined with his completely, no hesitation left in the gesture. “because i don't think you forgot why you were looking for me.” her voice had softened almost to the rhythm of the waves below. “i think you found it.” for a long moment she simply stayed there, letting the silence breathe around them. “so,” she said finally, leaning back just a fraction more into his embrace, “if we're going to let the summer court distract us...” a small, contented smile tugged at her lips. “i can't think of anyone i'd rather get distracted with.”

A warm breeze caught loose strands of dark hair and pushed them across her face. She brushed them back absently, eyes lingering on the waves crashing against the cliffs below. “I spent the first couple days here convinced there had to be a catch. Still not entirely convinced there isn't.” The corner of her mouth twitched faintly. “Though if there is, they're committed to it. At some point you start wondering if the flowers are mocking you personally.”

Her gaze shifted toward Élodie then, really looking at her for the first time instead of the scenery. There was something familiar there. Not in a way that made sense, not in the way of shared memories or previous meetings. It was deeper than that, something old sitting quietly beneath the surface. Rosalie had spent her entire life carrying the weight of the Anselson name, hearing stories about bloodlines and legacies and people long dead whose choices still echoed through the present. Maybe that was why she noticed things like this.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, turning back toward the ocean, “my brother always says people stare at things when they're trying not to stare at themselves.” Her voice held the faintest hint of amusement. “He's annoyingly right about most things, which is terrible for his ego.”

A quiet laugh escaped her as she rested her chin briefly on her folded arms. “For what it's worth, though, you looked peaceful when I walked up. Not pretending to be peaceful. Actually peaceful.” She glanced sideways at Élodie, moss-green eyes softer than they usually were around strangers. “That seems kind of rare these days. So whatever the Summer Court's selling, it appears to be working.”

at the mention of peace, her expression softened into something thoughtful. “i don't know if i'd call it peaceful,” she said after a moment, voice gentle. “maybe... quiet. there's a difference.” her gaze drifted from the horizon to rosalie, warm and open. “the noise in my head just isn't louder than the ocean right now, and i think that's enough.” a faint smile returned. “your brother sounds observant, though. maybe he's right. maybe sometimes we look at something beautiful because it's easier than sorting through everything we're carrying.” she glanced back toward the sea, sunlight dancing across the waves. “either way, i'm not in a hurry to argue with the summer court while it's winning.”

"I find myself in a peculiar state. It has been ages - centuries - since our family has been afforded the opportunity to merely exist; to simply 'be'. Even the years of what was to be the future were shadowed by the ever-present specter of Triad's ceaseless machinations. These weeks since the fog has been rather tranquil." Klaus sighed softly.

"Triad appears to have elected to fall silent. Whether that augurs some insidious plotting against our communities, or they are merely licking their wounds, I cannot say. But, I must confess that the tendrils of peril seem to uncoiled themselves from around us for the time being. I find myself at a loss with what to do with myself." Klaus explained honestly. He smiled once more as she placed her confidences in his abilities.

she rested her forearms against the railing beside him, letting the music from inside drift around them. “maybe triad is planning something,” she admitted with an easy shrug. “or maybe they're not. either way, we'll deal with it when we have to.” her gaze found his again, warm and steady. “but i don't think they deserve today just because they might deserve tomorrow.” a quiet breath escaped her as she looked back toward the unfinished painting.

“you asked me how i was.” her smile returned, softer this time. “part of why i'm okay is because i've been watching everyone remember how to live again.” she glanced back at him. “beckham chasing piper around. family dinners that aren't interrupted by emergencies. you painting because you want to instead of because you're trying to outrun something.” her shoulder brushed his lightly. “i think that's worth protecting too,” élodie said. “not just the people... but the ordinary moments they fought for.” a hint of amusement returned to her eyes. “and if you genuinely don't know what to do with yourself...” she nodded toward the abandoned canvas inside. “i know a painting that's been waiting very patiently for its artist to stop overthinking it.”

"While I do not claim to be a changed male of any sort, I will confess that I hold less contempt towards these mortals than I did when they first arrived with you and the others in tow." The Summer Lord admitted.

“but i have never believed my title should keep me behind palace walls.” her voice remained soft, though conviction settled beneath every word. “if i ask my people to walk these streets without fear, i should be willing to do the same.” she glanced back at him, warmth undiminished. “and i have every confidence that if i truly needed protecting, half this neighborhood would beat my sentinels to it.” a quiet laugh escaped her then.

“as for apollo...” the affection in her voice was impossible to miss. “my husband knows me well enough not to mistake trust for neglect. if he knew i was here—as i suspect he already does—he would simply assume i'd wandered off because someone needed kindness, or because i found a sunrise too lovely to ignore.” she smiled to herself. “he has become remarkably accepting of both.” her attention returned to ronán as his admission settled between them. “that is no small thing,” she said sincerely. “changing one's mind rarely is.”

she folded her hands loosely before her once more, sunlight catching the delicate embroidery at her cuffs. “you needn't love this city to understand it,” gwendolyn continued. “nor abandon your court to appreciate another's resilience. sometimes all that is required is the willingness to look again after deciding you had already seen enough.” her eyes found the children once more as the ball bounced wildly into a flower bed, prompting groans followed almost immediately by fresh laughter. “i've found that hope is much like that,” she murmured. “it has a habit of appearing where pride insists it cannot.”

The moment she rested her head against his shoulder, something in him eased further. The city carried on around them—lanterns swaying in the cool night air, distant laughter drifting from somewhere farther down the market street, merchants packing away the last traces of their day—but Apollo found himself paying less attention to any of it and more to the familiar comfort of her beside him. He pressed a brief kiss into her hair without interrupting the quiet between them. “Good,” he murmured when she admitted she would have abandoned whatever plans she'd had. “I'd hate to think I was the only one neglecting my responsibilities tonight.”

When she told him this was her favorite version of him, Apollo's expression softened almost immediately. He looked away first, not out of discomfort but because her words always seemed to find the places inside him built long before crowns and courts and expectations. His gaze lingered on the lantern light dancing across the cobblestones as he absorbed what she'd said, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a quieter honesty. “That's unfair,” he said softly. “You know I have absolutely no defense against compliments like that.”

His hand found hers where it rested on his arm, fingers threading through hers with practiced ease before bringing her hand into both of his. “I think that version only exists because of you,” he admitted. “The High Lord exists because he has to. The diplomat because people need him. The man buried beneath reports because apparently paperwork breeds when left unattended.” A faint groan escaped him. “I'm convinced those reports multiply when no one's looking. I've never found evidence to the contrary.”

Then he looked back at her fully, warmth and devotion unmistakable in his eyes. “But this version?” His thumb brushed slowly across her knuckles. “The one standing in the middle of the city drinking terrible coffee and pretending not to think about work? He only shows up because he knows you'll find him.” There was no dramatics in the confession, only truth. Apollo leaned down until his forehead rested gently against hers, his smile returning in full. “And yes, for the record, the reports finally lost the argument. They fought bravely. They mounted a respectable defense.” His nose brushed hers lightly as he laughed under his breath. “Unfortunately, they were competing with the possibility of finding you out here. They never stood a chance.”

she felt his thumb sweep across her knuckles and answered by turning her hand in his, lacing their fingers more securely together. there was something quietly sacred about it, this simple act of choosing each other again in the middle of an ordinary night. crowns had witnessed their vows. courts had celebrated them. but it was moments like this—coffee growing cold, the scent of fresh bread drifting through the air, his laughter close enough to feel—that reminded her why they had made those vows in the first place.

“don't give me credit for creating this version of you,” she said gently, lifting one hand to smooth an absent crease from the edge of his scarf. “he was always there.” her fingertips lingered briefly against his jaw, impossibly tender. “i've simply had the extraordinary privilege of watching the world fall away long enough for him to breathe.” her gaze searched his for a quiet moment, as though committing the sight of him to memory all over again.

“apollo, i have watched you carry kingdoms without complaint. i've watched you stand between fear and your people until they forgot they were afraid. i've seen you give pieces of yourself away so freely that others mistook it for inexhaustibility.” her thumb brushed lightly across his cheek. “but this...” she smiled, eyes bright with affection. “this is the man i fell in love with. the one who stops to watch strangers laugh. who remembers the baker's name. who buys flowers because he likes the color, not because anyone expects the gesture.”

she leaned forward, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips before resting there for just a heartbeat longer. “the high lord belongs to the dawn court,” she whispered when she drew back only enough to meet his eyes. “the diplomat belongs to every alliance we've ever forged.” another gentle smile. “but you... you belong nowhere except wherever your heart is allowed to be at peace.”

her hand rose to cradle his face, the gold glow of the lanterns reflected in eyes that had loved him across centuries. “so let the reports wait until morning,” she murmured. “let someone else solve the world's problems for one night.” her smile turned quietly playful. “i intend to steal my husband for the rest of the evening, and i have yet to meet a stack of parchment important enough to object.”

Piper, apparently delighted to be included in the conversation, threw both arms into the air and immediately tipped sideways into the blanket pile. Beckham pointed at her without looking away from Nix. “Exhibit A. No regard for workplace safety.”

His hand loosened automatically when she stole the rag, letting her take it without protest. The grease disappeared from his cheek beneath her touch, and for a moment his eyes stayed on hers instead of the truck or the open garage door. “Felony scale, huh?” he murmured. “That’s usually not a great sign.” The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Depends on the felony.”

When the rag dropped back against his chest, he caught it absently and shoved it into a back pocket. “The engine and I are currently in negotiations,” he answered, nodding toward the truck. “I wouldn’t call it winning. I’d call it a temporary ceasefire.” His gaze drifted toward the abandoned socket wrench under the lift. “That was its latest attempt at intimidation.”

Behind them, Piper made an outraged sound because the stuffed wolf had somehow ended up upside down. Beckham sighed dramatically. “And no, she hasn’t unionized yet, but I think we’re getting close. Yesterday she refused to nap, threw her rabbit at me, and then screamed until I figured out she wanted a specific book.” He shook his head, still mildly offended by the memory. “Not just any book. The book. Apparently I was supposed to know that.”

Piper finally abandoned the wolf altogether and began the determined crawl toward a toolbox she absolutely was not allowed to investigate. Beckham tracked her progress automatically, the way someone watched weather moving across the horizon. Ready if needed, not interfering unless necessary.

“She’s running the place already,” he said, softer now, fond despite himself.

His attention returned to Nix. Really returned. Whatever joke he’d been about to make faded when he got a better look at her face. The exhaustion around her eyes. The tension she’d carried in with her. The way she’d relaxed a little after walking through the door.

Beckham reached out and caught a loose curl near her shoulder, winding it briefly around his finger before letting it fall. “Alright,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

There was no rush in the question. No attempt to solve it before she answered. Just concern and patience and the simple certainty that he was listening.

“Because anybody measuring their day in potential felonies probably has a story.” His mouth curved faintly. “And I’ve got coffee, a stubborn engine, and at least ten more minutes before my assistant figures out how to hotwire something.”

the humor faded gradually as beckham's question settled between them. she shifted piper's weight against her hip, eyes lingering on the concrete floor for a second before lifting again. “ran into someone this morning,” she admitted. “one of those people who wakes up looking for someone smaller to make miserable.” she let out a slow breath through her nose. “he decided i was a good target. followed me three blocks, got louder every time i ignored him, started throwing around insults just to see which one would stick.” her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “he never touched me. never crossed the line enough that anyone around us felt like stepping in. he just... kept pushing. smiling the whole time like he enjoyed seeing whether he'd finally get a reaction.” she shook her head once. “i didn't give him one. i walked away.” a beat. “which was probably the right decision.” another beat. “i've been annoyed about making the right decision ever since.”

she crossed the last bit of distance between them, free hand finding beckham's without hesitation. “that's the part i hate,” nix said quietly. “not that he was an asshole. the city's full of those. it's that he got to be one, and i still had to be the bigger person because the consequences would've landed on me instead of him.” her thumb brushed across the back of beckham's hand. “i've spent the whole day carrying around everything i wanted to say and couldn't.” then she smiled again, smaller this time but genuine as she looked between him and piper. “coming here helped.” she squeezed his hand once. “hard to stay angry when i've got the world's smallest shop steward trying to unionize your garage.”

The smile that followed made it clear he was enjoying this far more than he should have been.

At the mention of his shift, he let out a quiet laugh and leaned one hip against the counter. "Depends on your definition of rough. Nobody got stabbed, nobody started a supernatural turf war in my bar, and only one guy cried into his whiskey for three consecutive hours." He paused. "Actually, now that I'm saying it out loud, maybe my standards have gotten concerningly low."

His eyes followed hers to the lantern hanging overhead. He studied it for a moment before narrowing his gaze at it suspiciously. "I don't trust it." The declaration came with complete confidence. "Look at it. That's not the face of a light fixture trying its best. That's the face of something that's realized it has power over people."

Then he glanced back at Maggie and immediately lost any chance of maintaining the bit.

"Though, to be fair, if I had to choose between arguing with a possessed lantern and watching you accidentally create tiny golden fireflies every time you get frustrated, I'm not sure the lantern's actually the most interesting thing in the room."

The compliment slipped out easily, carried by the same effortless charm he used on difficult customers and nervous strangers alike. The difference was that this time he actually meant it.

He took another sip of coffee, eyes briefly closing in appreciation. "Okay, first of all, this is ridiculously good. Second of all, I feel like I should point out that asking me for moral support is dangerous. Once people realize I'm willing to stand around looking helpful while contributing absolutely nothing practical, they start expecting it regularly."

His gaze drifted over her face for a second before settling back into something teasing and familiar. "And if we're being honest, I think you've already got the lantern beat. It's been mocking you for twenty minutes and you're still smiling." A corner of his mouth lifted. "I'd have declared war by now."

Straightening slightly, he nodded toward the stool she'd been standing on. "Go ahead. Continue your battle. I'll stay here and provide emotional support, questionable advice, and occasional compliments whenever morale gets low. I feel like that's a pretty solid contribution."

A beat passed before his grin widened.

"Besides, if the lantern wins, I want to be close enough to witness history."

her attention drifted back to him just in time to catch the compliment. she blinked once before a grin spread slowly across her face. "careful." she pointed at him with her coffee mug. "you keep handing out compliments like that, and people are going to start expecting emotional vulnerability from you." she took a sip of her own coffee, entirely too pleased with herself. "you've got this whole mysterious bartender thing going. don't ruin the brand." at his offer of emotional support, she hummed thoughtfully, as though weighing the proposal with the utmost seriousness.

"let me make sure i've got this straight." she began counting on her fingers. "your qualifications include making good drinks, standing around looking handsome while contributing absolutely nothing practical, distrusting innocent light fixtures, and providing compliments whenever morale gets low." another finger went up. "that's less a résumé and more the dating profile of a golden retriever." before he could protest, she held up a hand. "don't." the grin tugging at her lips grew. "i mean that affectionately."

she climbed back onto the stool, reaching up to wrestle with the lantern again. "besides, somebody has to supervise while i heroically defend this café from the terrifying menace of... basic electrical maintenance." the bulb clicked into place, and she flicked the switch. nothing. maggie stared at it for a long, dramatic moment. then she looked back at dawson. "okay." she nodded decisively. "i've changed my mind." her expression was perfectly serious. "i think we burn the building down and tell everyone the lantern won."

Her teasing softened as she followed Maggie's gaze around the café. The string lights, the records stacked behind the counter, the mismatched furniture that somehow made the place feel more intentional instead of less. It felt lived in. Loved. Like someone had decided the world was worth making comfortable despite everything.

“I don't think it's weird,” Elli said quietly, tracing her thumb along the side of her mug. “I think people need places like this. Everybody's so busy surviving the city that they forget they're allowed to just exist in it sometimes. This place reminds them.” Her eyes lifted back to Maggie, warm with a sincerity she rarely bothered hiding around her best friend.

Then the spark appeared.

Ellington watched it float lazily between them. Maggie stared at it. The spark continued existing with the confidence of something that had absolutely no intention of helping either of them save face.

A long silence passed.

Finally, Elli took another sip of coffee and nodded solemnly. “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Never seen anything. Nothing happened.” The spark drifted closer. She narrowed her eyes at it. The spark seemed equally determined to maintain eye contact.

“Well, this is awkward,” she murmured before reaching out and gently poking it with one finger. It bounced upward immediately.

“There it is,” she said, pointing at it like she'd just proven a theory. “That's a personality. You cannot convince me otherwise.” A laugh escaped her then, warm and easy. “Congratulations. Your magical mood lighting is evolving. Give it another week and it'll start demanding a name and employee benefits.”

Leaning against the counter, she cradled her mug and watched the tiny spark drift through the warm café air. “Honestly, though? Tiny floating fireflies are a massive improvement over some of your previous magical incidents. If your accidental magic is creating cozy ambiance instead of opening portals or bonding itself to household objects, I'd call that personal growth.” Her gaze flicked back to Maggie, fond amusement written plainly across her face. “Steve seems harmless enough.”

she looked up at it. "i'm on your side, by the way." the spark gave what looked suspiciously like an offended little flicker. "don't encourage it," she warned immediately, pointing between elli and the floating light. "that's exactly how the teapot happened. one person validates the weird thing, and suddenly i've got enchanted kitchenware developing opinions." her expression turned dramatically serious. "i draw the line at unionized ambiance." she watched the spark drift another lazy circle above them before sighing through a smile. "and his name is absolutely not steve."

the spark bobbed once. "..." maggie's eyes narrowed. "don't listen to her." another bob. she looked back at elli. "see? this is why i can't have nice magical manifestations. they spend five minutes around you, and suddenly they're developing identities." despite herself, she reached up, cupping her hand beneath the little light. it settled into her palm without hesitation, glowing softly against her skin. her smile softened in a way it only ever seemed to around people she trusted completely. "i guess you are right about one thing, though." she glanced between the spark and her best friend.

"i'd much rather accidentally make these than accidentally open another portal." a beat. "or animate another household appliance." she grimaced. "i'm still getting passive-aggressive messages from that mirror." looking back up, the familiar grin returned. "although..." she tilted her head thoughtfully. "if this one starts demanding employee benefits, i'm making you its manager." without missing a beat, she gently flicked the spark toward elli. "congratulate steve on the promotion."

“First of all,” she said, falling into step beside her, “that record was suspicious. You looked at it three separate times like it was about to reveal a hidden message if you stared hard enough.” Her fingers tightened lightly around Riley’s where their hands had settled together. “And second, I absolutely resent how accurately you just described me.”

The market flowed around them as they walked, vendors calling out deals and bits of magic flashing unexpectedly from neighboring stalls. Roxy barely paid attention to any of it. Her focus kept drifting back to Riley, to the easy familiarity of her presence, to the way being around her made the world feel less demanding somehow.

When Riley mentioned her growth, Roxy rolled her eyes toward the sky with theatrical suffering. “Seven seconds,” she corrected. “Maybe six and a half. I’m evolving.”

Her gaze flicked toward the glittering explosion from earlier just in time to watch another shower of sparks drift harmlessly through the air. The sight earned an immediate look of distrust.

“See? This is exactly why I don’t trust this city when it’s acting friendly.” She gestured vaguely toward the chaos. “It lulls you into a false sense of security with cute markets and overpriced pastries, and then suddenly a candle is sentient.”

Still, she found herself smiling again almost immediately.

The morning light caught in Riley’s hair as they moved through the crowd, and without thinking, Roxy lifted her camera halfway before stopping herself. The motion was automatic. Reflexive. She caught it at the last second and lowered it again with a quiet shake of her head.

“There it is,” she murmured.

The words escaped before she could stop them.

“That thing you do.”

Her expression softened as she looked at Riley.

“The reason you’re in half my photos.”

She didn’t elaborate right away. Just watched her for a moment longer, eyes warm and unguarded.

“You always look like you belong wherever you are,” she said quietly. “Even when you don’t know what you’re doing. Even when the whole city’s being ridiculous.”

The admission sat between them for a second before Roxy inevitably ruined the sincerity.

“Anyway,” she continued, clearing her throat and gesturing toward a nearby stall covered in strange trinkets and questionably enchanted objects, “we should probably keep moving before I accidentally become emotionally vulnerable in public.”

Her shoulder bumped Riley’s lightly as they walked.

“And because if you let me stand here any longer, I’m absolutely buying something cursed.”

at the movement of the camera, though, she felt it. she watched roxy stop herself halfway through the familiar motion, and something in riley's expression softened before she could hide it. then came the explanation. riley looked away first. not because she didn't want to hear it. because she did. too much. “that's... objectively a terrible quality in a person,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand. “you make it sound like i have my life together.” she laughed quietly under her breath. “which is wild, because last week i spent twenty minutes looking for my guitar pick before realizing it was in my mouth.”

still, she couldn't quite meet roxy's eyes. compliments always sat strangely on her shoulders. especially ones that saw past the leather jacket and sarcasm. “i don't belong everywhere,” she admitted after a moment, voice quieter now. “i just got really good at pretending i do.” finally, she looked back at her girlfriend. “guess i never had to pretend with you, though.” the words slipped out simply. no grand declaration. just truth. then, almost immediately, riley ruined the moment herself.

“absolutely not,” she said, steering them away from the suspicious trinket stall by gently tugging on roxy's hand. “i have seen how this city operates.” she nodded toward a display of oddly glowing necklaces. “you're not allowed to buy anything described as 'probably enchanted,' 'mostly harmless,' or 'has only cursed, like... two people.'” a beat. “especially because i know exactly how this ends.” she looked sideways at roxy, one eyebrow lifting. “you buy the cursed thing because it's 'artistically interesting.'” “i spend the next week trying to convince a haunted teapot that we're not its sworn enemy.” her smile tugged wider. “and somehow,” she added, “i'm still the dramatic one.”

“You know,” he said, his voice carrying that dry amusement that always seemed to appear whenever Riley started digging herself deeper into an argument she was actively losing, “most people would hear themselves say something sounded better and simply accept the victory.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the guitar resting against her thigh before returning to her. “You somehow turned it into a personal betrayal.”

The accusation about ancient guitar-whisperer rituals only made the amusement in his expression deepen. “I could tell you,” he replied solemnly, “but then I'd have to spend the next six hours convincing you I wasn't actually communing with the spirit of some dead musician living inside the wood.” The seriousness lasted all of two seconds before it cracked entirely. “It was a tap, Riley.”

His attention shifted toward the guitar as the last notes she'd played seemed to linger in the room even after they'd faded. There had been a difference. Not perfection. Not some miraculous transformation. Just honesty. The kind that only happened when somebody stopped trying so hard to force a thing into becoming what they wanted and allowed it to become what it already was.

When she pointed the neck of the guitar at him and insisted she wasn't chasing it, Damien raised an eyebrow. “Right. You're not chasing it.” His gaze dropped deliberately to the instrument and then back to her face. “You're just cornering it in an alley and aggressively negotiating terms.”

A laugh escaped him then, low and brief. The sound felt surprisingly at home in the otherwise quiet room.

The mention of everyone being right whenever they told her to stop forcing things drew a thoughtful hum from him. “That might be because every time you force something, it starts feeling like work.” His voice softened slightly as he glanced out across the empty seats beyond the stage. “Music's supposed to breathe a little. People too.”

For a moment he simply stood there, listening to the distant hum of the amplifiers and the creaking of the old building around them. Then his eyes found hers again.

“Nobody's going to remember whether one note was slightly off,” he said. “They're going to remember how it felt standing in the room when you played it.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Which is unfortunate for you, because that means the thing you've spent years trying to control is the part people actually like.”

The look she gave him was immediate and predictable.

Damien grinned.

“And before you say it, yes, I know that's inconvenient for your personality.” He pushed away from the amp, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Almost as inconvenient as the fact that you just admitted I was right.” The grin widened despite himself. “Honestly, I think that's the bigger tragedy here.”

He took a step back before she could decide the guitar was suddenly an acceptable projectile and tilted his head slightly. “Don't worry, though. Your reputation's safe. I'll only bring it up every chance I get for the next several decades.”

his alley comparison earned an offended scoff. “aggressively negotiating terms is called setting healthy boundaries.” she rested the guitar across her lap again, fingers idly brushing over the strings. “if a chord refuses to cooperate, that's on it.” another pause. “see? this is why i don't talk to people before a show. suddenly i'm in a philosophical debate with a guy who taps guitars for emotional support.” she shook her head, though she was smiling now. “unbelievable.”

his comment about people remembering how it felt settled somewhere she didn't want to examine too closely. riley looked out across the empty room, the rows of seats waiting to be filled, the stage lights still dim enough that they hadn't become intimidating yet. “yeah...” she murmured. “that's the part that scares me.” it came out before she could stop it. she sighed immediately afterward. “great. awesome.” her head tipped back dramatically. “now i've admitted two things today.” she looked back at damien with visible suspicion.

“i don't know what kind of supernatural manipulation you're using, but i don't appreciate it.” still, she couldn't quite bury the honesty this time. “it's never the notes i'm worried about.” her thumb traced the edge of the guitar's body. “it's whether people walk away feeling nothing.” the words hung in the quiet between them. after a second, riley cleared her throat like she'd said entirely too much. “anyway.” she clapped her hands lightly against the guitar. “if you're planning on bringing this up for the next several decades, i'm legally obligated to become so insufferably good that nobody believes you.” a smirk returned, familiar and sharp. “i'll tell everyone you hallucinated the whole conversation.” she tilted her head. “old building. weird acoustics.” a beat. “possible carbon monoxide.” her grin widened. “honestly, i think a jury would side with me.”