Sublimecoffeefestival - Coffee In An IV, Please

you ever read a fanfic and just sit back and think…someone wrote something THIS good… and then just….published it on the internet….for free…..

HOW?! How is this SO GOOD??? I feel my heart breaking for Cassian!!!

But I'm Only Looking At You: Part One

A/N: It's officially here! Happy @cassianappreciationweek lovelies! I'm super excited to see all the amazing content that everyone will be sharing this week, and I'm extra excited to share this fic with you all. We may be stretching the prompts with this, but doesn't that make it more fun! I mean, Rhys visits Cassian in this first chapter, so doesn't that fit the Brother theme? Maybe? A very big shout-out to @separatist-apologist who so graciously gave me this prompt. This fic is dedicated especially to you, fandom-sanctioned bestie! :)

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Don’t say yes, run away now. I’ll meet you when you’re out of the church at the back door

Three Years Ago

Cassian’s eyes flit across the grass that stretches out across the meadow. The tall, green stalks sway gently in the early summer breeze, twisting and twining together like dancers moving to the melody of the wind. Purple and white wildflowers bloom in small batches, a burst of color against the blue sky overhead. A willow tree stands tall and proud beside the small creek that burbles and weaves its way around the dirt and stones, and sitting beneath it, half hidden by the drooping branches, is Nesta.

Just where he expects to find her.

He takes a moment to admire her, the sight already stealing the breath straight from his lungs, already pulling a soft smile across his face. She has her knees curled up toward her chest, a book balanced perfectly on her knees, her head bowed over the pages as she devours the words. The rays of sunlight that break through the leaves and branches of the willow cut across her in golden streaks. It leaves the braid of her hair looking like a true crown of burnished gold, and Cassian knows once he gets closer, he’ll be able to count every faint freckle that’s sunkissed across her skin too.

It’s on quiet feet that Cassian makes his way over to her, using the sounds of the water to his advantage as he follows along the creek until he reaches the willow. He curls around the trunk of the tree until he can peer down over Nesta’s shoulder, until he can watch her deft fingers turn yet another page in her book.

“Hello, Nes.”

Cassian is slightly disappointed when Nesta doesn’t jump at his voice, but when she lets out a long sigh, his smile grows wide again. He steps around and settles in the spot beside her, daring to sit close enough that his shoulder brushes against hers. Nesta doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even bother looking up from her book, but Cassian doesn’t miss the way her lips are slightly pinched.

In the years that he’s known Nesta Archeron, he’s learnt every one of her expressions, every look, every tell. He’s categorized them all and tucked them close to his heart. The long withering sigh to hide a soft, amused laugh. The pinched lips to keep away the fond smile. The way those blue gray eyes of hers will blaze and narrow at him until his heart is skipping over itself in excitement.

“Enjoying the warm weather?” Cassian asks innocently, reaching forward and tugging one of the wildflowers free from the ground.

“I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” Nesta shoots back, and though Cassian can’t quite see her face from his spot beside her, he’s sure she’s rolling her eyes at him.

“Well, then, don’t let me disturb that,” Cassian tells her, neatly tucking the flower into the braid of her hair.

“Oh, believe me. I don’t intend to.”

Cassian has to bite back a smirk at the remark. Nesta always has to have the last word. He stretches his hands back behind his head, leaning against the trunk of the willow and letting his eyes flutter shut. He counts the second in his mind, already feeling Nesta’s annoyance growing with each passing second of silence. His blood practically sings in anticipation, leaping at the chance for another round of their game.

Nesta snaps her book closed loudly. “What do you want, Cassian?”

“Can’t I just enjoy your company?”

“Last time I checked, the only thing you enjoy is the sound of your own voice.”

Cassian chuckles, but he sits up properly again. “I had my final lessons today. My boarding school days are officially behind me.”

Nesta finally turns to look at him properly, and she leaves Cassian feeling as breathless as she did the first time he met her. She’s so damned beautiful, and Cassian is so enraptured that he almost misses what she says next.

“And have you decided on Cambridge or Oxford?”

Cassian clears his throat awkwardly, dropping his gaze to his hands before he explains, “neither. My father has fallen ill, and now that I’ve finished my schooling, I’ll be returning home to learn the trade and prepare to take over for him.”

“I see.”

Cassian looks up at her again, his eyes tracking the flower that still sits in her braid. The softness to her blue eyes that he swears only he gets to see. Those constellations of pale freckles that he knows must be echoed across her skin elsewhere. A strand of hair has fallen free from her updo, tumbling down along her temple, and Cassian’s fingers twitch with the urge to brush it aside.

One day. One day, he’ll be able to, he’s sure of it. He swears it. One day, he’ll have fully taken over the family business, will have made a name for himself, and he’ll speak to her father and finally ask the question that burns on the tip of his tongue.

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Cassian asks instead.

Nesta lets out another long sigh. “And what if I don’t wish to write to you?”

“I’ll just have to write to you then. I’m sure you’ll miss our witty repartee.”

“I assure you that is not what I will miss.”

Cassian smirks, daring to ask, “my handsome face, then?”

“You are quite full of yourself, aren’t you?” Nesta snaps, clambering up to her feet.

Cassian jumps to his feet as well. He catches Nesta’s hand before she can walk too far, stopping her steps. Her eyes snap down to the contact, fingers flexing for just a moment, a pretty dusting of pink spilling across her cheeks.

“Promise you’ll write, Nes,” Cassian requests, his voice quiet.

He’s not above begging, would drop to his knees right there in the meadow for anything she’s willing to give him. His fingers slide along her wrist where her hand is still clasped in his, and he swears he can feel her heart fluttering away beneath that touch. He wonders if she knows the way she holds his.

“I promise.”

~ * * * ~

Today

Cassian rushes down the main staircase of his home just as Mrs Reynolds closes the front door with a soft snick. His heart pounds away between his ribs, pressing a lump up into his throat, but he uses all his willpower not to let his nerves show. He clenches his hands tightly into fists and plasters on his best, easy smile as Mrs Reynolds turns back around, not a lick of surprise on her face when she sees Cassian waiting eagerly.

“Any letter today?” Cassian asks, praying the desperation licking through his veins doesn’t bleed into his tone.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Mrs Reynolds apologizes, sympathy lining her brown eyes. “Nothing today again.”

Cassian nods, not even bothering to try and push words out. He beelines for the kitchen, quickly grabbing some food before locking himself away in his office. He falls heavily into his chair, letting out a long breath. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers getting caught in the tangled strands which only adds to the dark storm cloud brewing in his chest. He feels stupid, but there’s no stopping the way his heart twists and squeezes, betraying the emotions he’s trying desperately to shove back down.

Even worse, he can’t seem to shut up that voice that claws its way through the back of his mind. It digs in and won’t let up, dark whispers feeding into Cassian’s every insecurity. He still remembers every word, every name, he heard back when he was in boarding school, from the boys, from their mothers. It didn’t matter that his family had money, didn’t matter that his father had made a name for them, didn’t matter the factories they had and everything they produced. He would always be looked down upon by all that old money of London.

With another sigh, Cassian finally shakes himself and pulls his papers close to him, determined to get some work done and take his mind off those swirling thoughts and swirling emotions. He scratches out a reply to one of his suppliers, but as soon as Cassian has signed his name, his hand pauses, grip tightening on his pen.

His gaze dances down to the bottom drawer of his desk. Taunting him. Beckoning him.

He shakes his head and goes back to writing out another response, but he barely makes it halfway through before once again his eyes are drawn to that damned drawer. Cassian lets out a groan and tosses his pen aside. He yanks open the drawer and pulls out the letters stacked neatly inside.

Just as he’s done for the past few weeks, he pulls out the most recent one, dated a month ago. He traces over the lines and loops of the ink on the page, smiling as he once again reads Nesta’s story about her sisters. He tries to find some hint, some clue, to understand Nesta’s sudden silence, the lack of a letter since his last reply, and yet he can’t find one. The letter reads just the same as all the ones she’s been sending since he left London.

A knock at his office door finally pulls Cassian away from Nesta’s letters. He looks up, ready to call out to Mrs Reynolds that he doesn’t need anything, but before he can, the door is opening. Cassian blinks a few times in surprise, his brow furrowing.

“Rhys? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Really?” Rhys teases, stepping fully into the office and settling easily into one of the chairs opposite Cassian with all the casual grace of a Duke. “That’s how you greet me?”

“It’s not that I’m not happy to see you,” Cassian chuckles slightly. “It’s just unlike you to travel all this way. What could have possibly pulled you away from London? And without a letter informing me either.”

“I can’t simply want to come visit one of my closest friends?”

“Rhys.”

Rhys lets out a soft sigh, shifting in his seat. The serious look that takes over his face has Cassian’s stomach dropping. There’s been only a very few instances that Cassian has seen that expression on his friend’s face, and none of those times ended well.

“It didn’t feel right putting this in a letter,” Rhys begins, leaning forward and meeting Cassian’s gaze head on. “I’ve known you since we were kids in school together, and you know I see you and Az like brothers.”

“You’re starting to worry me, Rhys.”

“I care about you, Cass. And I know you. I know how you feel about Nesta Archeron, how you’ve felt about her for years, so I want you to hear it from me… she’s engaged now.”

For a moment, Cassian swears the world stops tilting beneath his feet. Everything comes lurching to a hard and painful stop, throwing him off balance and sending him spiraling down and down. There’s a ringing that takes up home in Cassian’s ears, a lump pressing into his windpipe until he feels like he can’t breathe.

“What?” Cassian chokes out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Everything he had ever built up in his mind shatters right there, right before his very eyes. The way he imagined finally going back to London this summer, courting Nesta properly and the way she deserves outside his letters. The way he planned to speak with her father to officially ask for her hand. The way he could perfectly picture Nesta here, in this house, with him.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys continues, offering a sympathetic grimace. “It was only just announced, and I had no idea she was being courted, or I would have told you sooner.”

“I guess that explains why her letters stopped,” Cassian grumbles, scrubbing a hand across his face. “So, who’s the lucky gentleman?”

“Tomas Mandray.”

The humorless laugh tears free from Cassian before he can stop it. “That prick we went to school with? And Nesta agreed to his proposal?”

“Her father did. Tomas is a Viscount following his own father’s passing.”

“I’m sure no one misses him. We all knew what type of man he was.”

“Rumor has it Tomas is the same.”

That comment has Cassian’s fists clenching, anger beginning to simmer just beneath his skin. Everything within him rebels at that idea, at Nesta being subjected to someone like the fucking Mandrays. His own soul seems to snarl and growl in agreement, instincts screaming at him to do something, to stop this, to protect her.

Cassian stands up and starts gathering all of the papers and things he’ll need to spend time away in London. “Have they already started reading the Banns?”

“Tomas has apparently put in for a Bishop’s License instead,” Rhys explains, eyeing Cassian with narrowed eyes as he moves around the office. “You’re not going to do something stupid, are you?”

“How do you feel about a party?”

~ * * * ~

The music of the string quartet stationed in the corner wafts through the ballroom, the light, lilting melody swirling amongst the sea of bodies in the room, around the crystal chandelier hanging high above their heads. It seems all of London’s best has come out to Velaris estate, all dripping in the latest fashion and practically clamoring for some gossip as much as excitement.

The newest ladies to be out in society and their mothers circle around the ballroom like sharks on the hunt, some even daring to eye up Cassian where he stands, but he only has attention for one woman tonight. His gaze sweeps across the room until he spies her, standing with her youngest sister, Feyre.

She still takes his breath away just as much as the last time he saw her, as the first day he met her. Her hair is styled in her usual braided crown, not a strand or pin out of place, but the golden brown color still glints beneath the chandelier’s lights. Her dress is a deep green color, a shade that contrasts well with her eyes, and there’s the faintest hint of rouge on her cheeks, drawing attention to the cut of her cheekbones.

Cassian has to swallow hard as he watches her across the room. His heart thunders away in his chest, and he can feel the way it wants to lurch right into her waiting hands, can feel the tug right between his ribs drawing him into her. He quickly glances around, but there’s no sign of Tomas Mandray, so with a deep breath to try and calm his fraying nerves, Cassian strides across the ballroom to the only woman he’ll ever want.

“Hello, Nes.”

Nesta’s attention snaps to him at his greeting, her eyes widening for a moment before she schools her expression back into cool indifference. Imperceptibly, her spine straightens, her chin raising that small bit higher, almost in defiance, but Cassian catches it all. Another of her many looks that he’s cataloged, a refusal to back down.

“Cassian,” Nesta offers coolly, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “What are you doing here?”

“Rhysand and I are good friends, if you’ll recall. Are you that surprised he extended me an invitation?”

“You traveled all the way to London for a House Party?”

Cassian chuckles, not bothering to bite back his smirk. “What can I say, sweetheart? I love a good party.”

Cassian doesn’t miss the way her lips pinch slightly together, the flare that sparks through her blue eyes. A tell tale sign that she’s fondly annoyed with him. It has his grin growing, but just as soon as that expression graces her face, it shutters away. He can practically watch as she stacks every icy brick back into place, as the mask slides firmly back on.

“Well, I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening,” Nesta tells him, grabbing Feyre’s elbow and turning them both away.

He’s losing her. She’s going to walk away, vanish amongst the others in attendance, and Cassian knows he won’t see her again. This is his one chance before she slips through his fingers like smoke. His mind scrambles for something to say, something to keep her here, to keep her talking to him, to keep her eyes on him. His eyes land on her wrist.

“Your dance card,” Cassian blurts out before he clears his throat and finds his voice again. “I see your dance card is not yet full for the night.”

Nesta blinks a few times in surprise, glancing down to her own wrist. She tries to pull her arm out of reach, but Cassian is faster, fingers curling around the small booklet. He unfolds it carefully, scrawling his name along the first empty line he sees.

“I’m sure you don’t mind,” Cassian continues, releasing the booklet and daring to let his fingers brush against Nesta’s in the process. “It will give us a chance to catch up.”

“Nesta. Feyre. Where have you two been?”

The cool, clipped tone has Cassian finally tearing his gaze away from Nesta and meeting instead the strict and pinched expression of Eleanor Archeron. Cassian can’t say he’s ever been a big fan of the Archeron matriarch, especially with the way just her presence has Nesta’s spine straightening that inch more, has her fingers curling imperceptibly into the skirts of her dress.

The feeling is clearly mutual. Eleanor’s eyes sweep over Cassian’s frame with clear distaste, not even bothering to hide the way her lip curls. To her, he’s nothing more than a brute, but he refuses to let her ire get to him.

“Lady Archeron,” Cassian greets politely, dipping his chin in a bow.

She doesn’t show him the same courtesy, doesn’t even acknowledge that he said anything at all. Instead, the fingers of her hands curl around Nesta’s and Feyre’s elbows, and Eleanor leads her daughters away without so much as a backwards glance. Cassian can’t help but let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. At least, the night is still young.

At least, he still has his dance with Nesta to look forward to.

Though, it’s agonizing for Cassian to wait for his turn. Especially, since Nesta spends most of the dances partnered with fucking Tomas. It boils his blood watching the way Tomas’s fingers curl possessively into the fabric of Nesta’s dress, the way his hand sits dangerously low along her back, just toeing the line with what’s proper. Even worse is the Viscount’s expression, the knowing glint in his eyes, the smirk tugging up his lips. It’s all savage, male pride, and Cassian’s fists clench hard enough that his nails bite into the palm as Tomas twirls Nesta around the ballroom.

Nesta has always been the best damned thing that ever happened to Cassian. Those stormy, blue eyes had haunted his dreams from the moment they snapped to his gaze, burning with a fire that almost brought him to his knees right then and there. She never backed down from anything he threw at her, going toe to toe with him in a way that only served to further thrill and excite him, that always left him itching to go another round of their back and forth. He lived for every scoff, every eye roll, every haughty jab.

But even more so, he lived for every smile, every laugh he was able to draw out of her. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first time he ever made Nesta laugh, the way the air was stolen straight from his lungs at that light, melodic sound. He craved it like a starved man after that.

Craved her.

It was Nesta that drove Cassian to study as hard as he did at school, to devour every book and every lesson. Her that drove him to work as hard he did after his father passed, to build up the factories and his family name. To build up himself into the type of man, the type of gentleman, that deserved her.

Unlike Tomas Mandray.

Nesta is the best damned thing to happen to him too, and the bastard clearly doesn’t even realize it, doesn’t appreciate it. He certainly isn’t the type of man to deserve her.

The music of the string quartet comes to an end, and finally, Nesta and Tomas pull apart from one another, Nesta dipping into a polite curtsey. When she straightens again, her eyes scan around the room, landing right on Cassian. Just as it always does, his heart gives a longing pang deep in his chest, and he just hopes it’s not too noticeable on his face.

Rhys and Az have always teased him for the way he tends to wear his heart so plainly on his sleeve. And his chosen brothers have certainly teased him for the way he tends to become a fumbling idiot wherever and whenever Nesta Archeron is concerned. But he’s determined not to fuck it up this time. Determined not to fuck things with her up. This is his chance, and he prays it won’t be his last.

With slow, careful steps, Cassian makes his way across the dance floor of the ballroom, not taking his eyes off Nesta’s face for a moment. When he’s standing before her, he holds his hand out between them, palm up and waiting. Nesta slides her hands into his, and that one simple touch has sparks skating up Cassian’s arm. He gently curls his fingers around hers, relishing in the warmth and weight, in the rightness, of having her hand in his. His other hand slides along her waist to the small of her back, fingers flexing almost subconsciously. He swears he can hear Nesta’s breath hitching in her throat when he tugs her closer, but any sound is drowned out by the string quartet beginning the next song.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Cassian says as he begins to lead them through the steps of the dance with ease. “On your engagement.”

Nesta’s hand tightens minisculely in his, but she gives no other sign that his words have struck a chord, that mask of hers still firmly in place. “Yes. Thank you.”

“How curious that you never mentioned Tomas in any of your letters.” Cassian keeps his tone light, his comment almost idle, but knows he’s hit his mark from the way her mask starts to slip, the way a flame sparks within her eyes, her mouth pinching down in a frown. “So, tell me, what is it you love about him?”

“Excuse me?” Nesta asks, her steps stuttering for just a moment.

Cassian doesn’t let it deter him, continuing through the steps of the dance as he continues speaking. “The Nesta I remember used to swear that she’d only marry for love, just like the women in her books.”

“That was a fairytale.”

“So, you don’t love him then?”

“How dare you,” Nesta hisses, stopping her steps abruptly and stepping out of Cassian’s hold. “How dare you come back to London after all these years and think you know anything.”

Cassian steps closer again, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing anymore attention to them. “I know more than you think, sweetheart.”

“You know nothing.”

That fire is blazing in her gaze now, but before Cassian can say anything more, she turns on her heel, stalking away. Cassian is quick to follow her, not giving up that easily. He follows her out the large, french doors of the ballroom and onto the terrace. The moon shines bright and full in the sky above, wispy streaks of silver blanketing some of the stars. The floral scent of the gardens floats to them on the evening breeze, the strands of Nesta’s hair blowing gently around her face.

“I know nothing?” Cassian laughs humorlessly. “Fine. Correct me, then. Tell me how much you want this marriage with Tomas Mandray.”

“You should go home, Cassian. Go back to Glasgow.”

“Not until you look me in the eye and tell me this is what you want. Not your father. Not your mother. You.”

The request hangs in the air between them, each second of silence that ticks by stifling. The music from inside pours out through the opened french doors and onto the terrace, but all Cassian can hear is his own heart thundering away, the blood pounding in his ears. He tries to will Nesta to understand, to realize that all she needs to do is say the word, that he’d do anything for her. He’d burn the world and place the ashes at her feet if she asked him to. For a brief moment, an emotion that looks dangerously like grief passes across her face, but just as soon as it appears, it vanishes, that mask sealing back firmly in place.

“Go home, Cassian.”

Nesta brushes past Cassian and back into the party, leaving him standing there alone on the terrace. He turns to watch her go, to watch her melt into the moving bodies of those dancing and mingling about. As she vanishes out of sight, he wonders if she knows she’s taking his heart with her, bloodied and bruised and straight from his chest.

He turns back toward the gardens and leans his hands against the railing that borders the terrace, fingers curling against the stone as he tightens his grip. He closes his eyes as he lets out a stuttering breath, tipping his head up toward the sky as if the stars may provide the answers he’s looking for.

She never answered his question, never fulfilled his request to declare that Tomas was what she wanted, and Cassian doesn’t think he’ll ever get that moment, that brief flash of anguish marring her face, out of his mind. He’s sure he’ll see it every time he closes his eyes. And it’s with startling clarity that Cassian knows. He knows that there will never be anyone else for him. He knows that he’d go to the ends of the earth for Nesta.

He knows that he’s about to do something very, very stupid.

—

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HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ACT NORMALLY RIGHT NOW?

“Go to sleep Nesta” I am DEAD!

But I'm Only Looking At You: Part Two

A/N: Happy happy day two of @cassianappreciationweek! Nothing says Gentle like (checks notes) crashing the wedding of the woman you love, right? Right? What can Cassian say, sometimes love makes you do crazy things! Anywho! Hope everyone enjoys :) Also, fun fact! The words Cassian says during the ceremony are historically accurate!

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Cassian watches from the shadows as a carriage pulls up in front of the church. The footman steps down and pulls open the doors, Elain and Feyre stepping out first. Both of Nesta’s sisters are wearing dresses of a pretty, pink color, their hair pinned up with flowers tucked into the golden brown strands.

Lord and Lady Archeron follow their youngest daughters out of the carriage, Eleanor turning back to say something. From this distance, Cassian can’t hear what’s said, but from the dip of Eleanor’s brows, the pinch of her lips, it appears to be some sort of reprimand. The look just has Cassian’s resolve hardening, a scowl of his own twisting across his face.

Finally, Nesta steps out of the carriage and into the afternoon sun. Despite the other ladies of London preferring yellow for their special day, Nesta has opted for a pale blue dress that looks almost silver beneath the sun’s rays. The style is simple but elegant, exactly what Cassian would expect for Nesta, and while he can’t quite see her face beneath the lacey veil she’s wearing, she looks beautiful.

With a steadying deep breath, Cassian straightens and rolls his shoulders back. He takes a moment to tug at the cuffs of his sleeve, combing his fingers through his hair to ensure the strands fall neatly around his face. A sigh from behind him has Cassian pausing before he steps out of the alleyway, and he just barely swallows down an eyeroll.

“Are you sure there’s no talking you out of this?”

Crossing his arms across his chest, Cassian turns around to face his chosen brothers, Rhys and Az each leaning against the brick walls of the buildings on either side of the alleyway. Rhys looks at Cassian with blatant exasperation as he waits for the response to his question, an expression he’s been wearing since Cassian first informed him of his plan the night of his House Party. Not that it made a difference then. Nor, does it make a difference now.

“No,” Cassian answers matter-of-factly, almost daring Rhys to try his argument tactics again. They didn’t work all week and they certainly won’t work now. “Did you ensure my request arrived?”

Rhys sighs again, rolling his eyes, but he doesn’t look particularly surprised at Cassian’s response. “Yes. I pulled a few strings and was able to make sure the Bishop sees your request as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Cassian nods his head, turning back toward the church. He can no longer see the Archeron family, which means they must have gone inside and the countdown has officially started.

“There’s no going back from this you know,” Azriel finally pipes up. “She honestly might hate you for this.”

“I know,” Cassian answers quietly. And he does. He knows exactly how disastrously this is probably going to go. “But I love her.”

And that truly is the crux of it. He loves Nesta, and he refuses to watch the woman he loves marry a man like Tomas Mandray. He refuses to watch her become just like Lady Mandray, growing pale and thin, wearing long sleeves even in the warmer months, being prone to ‘sudden illnesses’ that keep her out of the public’s eye for weeks. He refuses to watch her curl into herself and lose that fire he loves so much under the words he used to hear Tomas spew when they were at school. And if that means throwing himself into the firing line in order to do that, then so be it.

“We all know exactly the kind of man Tomas Mandray is,” Cassian continues, glancing over his shoulder at Rhys and Azriel one last time. “And even if she hates me forever, at least she’ll be safe.”

“Then go get your wife,” Azriel tells him, smirking slightly.

Cassian chuckles and shakes his head, walking across the road to the church. He wastes no time jogging up the front steps and through the door, but he pauses just inside the atrium. The large, wooden doors that lead into the nave loom before him, taunting him. Everything he’s ever wanted is right there on the other side, and once he steps through them, he won’t be able to take it back.

He takes a slow breath in, holding it for a few moments before he lets it back out. It’s all quiet in the atrium, almost eerily so. Cassian tries to strain his ears for sounds, for voices, beyond the doors, but the wooden doors and the stone surrounding him are too thick. He supposes there never really is a good time in a wedding ceremony for this type of thing.

“I’m sorry, Nes,” Cassian mutters to himself before he pulls open the doors.

The wood of the doors creaks and groans, and the metal hinges give a high pitched whine, the sound echoing loudly along the vaulted ceiling of the church. Cassian winces slightly, but it does have the required reaction. All sets of eyes in the church snap to him, but he doesn’t even bother looking anywhere else. Not at Lady Archeron who he’s sure must be sneering and glaring at him. Not at Elain or Feyre who he’s sure are staring with shock. Definitely not at the Mandray family…

Instead, Cassian keeps his attention firmly on Nesta, on where she’s standing at the front of the church, her hands clasped neatly with Tomas’s. Her hands that decidedly do not yet have a ring on them. Beneath the lace of her veil, her blue eyes are wide, and she shakes her head almost imperceptibly.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Rector asks, frowning down at Cassian.

“Forgive me, Father,” Cassian begins, continuing down the aisle and closer to the altar. “But I cannot lie, cannot continue on with this secret. Not under the Mother. I must be honest, must confess.”

“Then confess, son,” the Rector encourages.

“I have already had Miss Archeron.”

For a moment, the whole church is deathly silent, his words slowly but surely sinking in. And then gasps and murmurs break out, a cacophony of sounds and alarm. It’s with sick satisfaction that Cassian watches Tomas drop Nesta’s hands like he’s been burned, watches him step back and away from her with a disgusted scowl on his face.

“I beg your pardon?” the Rector asks, clearly trying to calm the rising emotions swirling around the church.

“I'm sorry, Father, but it’s true. I have laid with Miss Archeron. I know what a grave sin it is, what a dishonor I’ve committed for us both, but I’m prepared to right this wrong. I’m prepared to take her hand in marriage myself.”

“What are you doing?” Nesta seethes, storming over to him and shoving hard at his chest.

“I’m sorry, Nesta,” Cassian tells her, and he prays she can see the truth in his eyes, hear it in his words. He prays that she knows just how much he means it, how sorry he is for all of this. “But we cannot pretend any longer, cannot lie to everyone here including your betrothed. It’s not right.”

“I should have known you’re no better than a common whore,” Tomas sneers, tone dripping with cold cruelty.

His words have Cassian’s anger flaring red hot through his veins. He lets out a quiet growl and takes a step forward, his fist already clenching and his knuckles practically itching to collide with the Viscount’s face. It’s only Nesta’s hand settling firmly on his chest, stopping him, that has Cassian holding himself back.

“Tomas,” Nesta pleads, whirling back around to face the Viscount. “Please. It’s not like that. Just… just give me a moment. I’ll sort it out.”

Nesta’s fingers curl around Cassian’s wrist, her grip tight enough that her nails dig into his skin. From the glare she settles him with, the pain is clearly intentional. She all but drags him out of the nave and back into the atrium, leaving the still shocked wedding guests behind. She drops his wrist once the doors close behind them, but it’s only to shove at his chest again.

“I cannot believe you,” Nesta snaps, shoving hard enough this time that Cassian stumbles back a few steps.

“Nesta—”

“Seriously. What is wrong with you?”

“Nesta, please—”

“We have never laid together.”

“I know.”

Nesta finally pauses in her assault to his chest, blinking a few times as she takes in his words, before she lets out a sardonic, almost hysterical laugh. “So, you just decided to lie? To ruin me? To ruin my sisters.”

Cassian lets out a quiet breath, reaching for Nesta’s hand but she yanks it away and out of his reach. He tries not to let the gesture sting as much as it does. “Nes, please. You have to understand that I—”

“Go back in there and tell them you lied. This instance.”

“I can’t,” Cassian tells her, his voice quiet and mournful.

“Cassian!” Nesta pleads, her voice tinged with desperation.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Cassian steps closer to her, his hands coming up to cradle her cheeks. He hates it. He hates seeing the pain in her eyes, the water that’s started to line them. He hates that he's the reason for her tears. “I can’t let you marry him. I can’t lose you. If this is the only way, then so be it.”

“You have already lost me,” Nesta whispers coldly, knocking his hands away from her and taking a pointed step back. “I will never forgive you for this.”

“Nes…”

Before Cassian can finish his thought, those large wooden doors swing open again, Eleanor Archeron stalking through them. Cassian braces himself for her ire, for the cutting, choice words he’s sure she has for him, but her narrowed gaze isn’t pinned on him. It’s her daughter that she’s glaring daggers at.

“You insolent child,” Eleanor seethes, smacking the back of her hand hard across Nesta’s cheek.

Fire roars through Cassian’s veins, burning molten until his hands tighten into fists. He’s moving before he can even think twice about it, eyes glued to Nesta. To the way she has her face turned away, her hand cradling her cheek, a tear slipping free to slide down along her skin. He stalks closer and gently curls his fingers around Nesta’s wrist, tugging her behind him, placing himself firmly between her and her mother.

“I would appreciate it kindly if you did not put your hands on my wife.”

“She is not your wife yet, you filthy factory rat. I should have known when you were always sniffing around as a boy that you’d dare to lay your hands on my daughter. Not better than your disgusting father.”

“Mama,” Nesta starts to argue, but Cassian gives her wrist a gentle squeeze. There’s no reason for her to step into the firing line and certainly not for him.

“I’m staying with the Duke, Rhysand, while I’m in London, until the Bishop’s License arrives,” Cassian explains, keeping his voice calm, polite, refusing to rise to whatever bait Lady Archeron tries to dangle in front of him. “Nesta is of course welcome to stay there as well, until the wedding.”

“You truly are a fool if you think I’m going to let you whisk her away like that,” Eleanor snorts derisively, her fingers curling roughly around Nesta’s bicep and yanking her daughter to her. “She is still my daughter until the registry is signed.”

Cassian swallows hard and tries to calm the way his blood has started to simmer. “I’ll call on her—”

“You will not.”

The clear dismissal has a scoff tearing free from Cassian before he can squash it back down, but before he can argue, the doors to the nave swing back open. The Viscount comes striding out, his mother’s arm looped through his. Neither even looks in Nesta’s or Cassian’s direction, keeping their gaze straight ahead as they exit the church. If it weren’t for the way Tomas’s lips are pressed together, the way his brown eyes are darkened with clear annoyance, Cassian would almost say he looks the picture perfect of indifference.

“My lord,” Eleanor begins, her tone oozing with a courtier’s charm that Cassian has certainly never been on the other end of.

The Lady Mandray lets out a harrumph, the sound quiet but no less contemptuous, the only acknowledgement that she even heard Eleanor. Tomas and his mother continue down the front steps of the church and toward their carriage, the members of the wedding guest list there to support the would-be groom following behind them, each expression directed their way more judgemental than the next. It has Cassian taking an instinctual step to the side, blocking Nesta from those snide looks, shielding her.

He chances a glance over his shoulder, but it’s Eleanor’s gaze that meets his. With Tomas and his mother no longer looking, the placating smile has dropped from her face, that irritated scowl and glare returning and pinned right on Cassian. He can’t find it in himself to care for the look she’s settled him with, not when her hand is still curled around Nesta’s arm, fingers gripping tight enough that the skin has started to turn red.

Cassian opens his mouth to say something, but there’s more scuffling from the nave. He turns his head back around just as Elain and Feyre step into view, both of their faces still bewildered as their eyes dart between him, Nesta, and their mother. At least Feyre offers him a small, almost sympathetic smile.

“I’ll go get the carriage,” Elain offers quietly, rushing out of the church and tugging Feyre along with her.

“I’ll be sure to have a settlement drawn up for you to review and sign,” Nesta's father says, stepping out of the nave and over to Cassian, his face surprisingly impassive despite the day’s turn of events.

“Of course. Whatever terms are most favorable for Nesta,” Cassian agrees with a nod, earning a quizzical look in response from Lord Archeron.

“The carriage is ready,” Feyre declares, walking back up the church steps.

With her message delivered, Feyre turns on her heel and heads back down the steps, her parents side-stepping around Cassian to follow their daughter. It’s Nesta that takes up the rear of their party, her arms wrapped around herself even as she holds her shoulders back and her head up high. It’s a mask if Cassian’s ever seen one, and the sight sends a crack shattering clean through his chest.

“Nesta,” Cassian calls out to her, soft desperation and pain coloring his tone.

“Nesta,” her mother’s clipped voice cuts in.

Despite the clear order hidden in her mother’s request, Nesta’s steps do pause. She turns back to look at Cassian, and that crack in his chest explodes into a throbbing ache at the betrayal burning in her blue eyes, her lips pinched into a cool, hard line. She opens her mouth, words clearly poised and ready on the tip of her tongue, but then she merely shakes her head, turning away from Cassian and joining her family.

She leaves him standing there alone, nothing to do but watch her walk away from him, watch her leave. A lump presses in around his throat, his lungs burning and chest aching despite his attempts to swallow around it. He lets out sound somewhere between a scoff and a self-deprecating laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face and along his jaw. He tries to remind himself why he’s doing this, to remind himself that when it’s all said and done, it will have been worth it.

Even still, Cassian can’t help but tilt his head up, sending a silent prayer to the Mother and just hoping that he’s doing the right thing.

~ * * * ~

It takes a week before the Bishop’s License is finally signed and in Cassian’s hands. Unsurprisingly, Nesta’s family wants everything to move quickly and quietly. Cassian can’t say he minds. It means the sooner he can see her, can talk with her just the two of them privately. The sooner he can get the both of them out of London and away from all the prying eyes, the whispering gossip and judgemental looks of the ton, the better.

The Archerons are already waiting at the church when Cassian arrives with Rhys and Azriel. It’s Elain and Feyre, standing with their father, that greets him as he steps inside the atrium. Despite the fact there’s about to be a wedding, there’s a solemn air that clings inside the walls of the church, heavy and pressing in. Neither sister is smiling, even Feyre not quite able to meet his gaze. Instead, her attention is pinned to her right, lips tugged down in a frown.

Brows furrowing in confusion, Cassian turns his head, following Feyre’s gaze to where Nesta is standing with her mother. Eleanor has her head tipped down, practically right in Nesta’s face as she hisses something too quiet for Cassian to hear.

“Eleanor,” Lord Archeron calls out, drawing his wife’s attention.

Lady Archeron takes in Cassian standing there and straightens, striding over to her husband’s side. She doesn’t even acknowledge Cassian as she passes him, but he doesn’t miss the sneer still ever present on her face. It’s only when she realizes Rhys is standing behind him that her disdainful expression drops away, surprise taking over before that courtier smile returns.

“Your Grace,” Eleanor offers, dipping into a polite curtsy.

Rhys doesn’t say anything, merely dips his chin in a nod of acknowledgement, and Eleanor continues to her husband’s side. She slips her arm through Lord Archeron’s, and they head into the nave of the church, their daughters trailing behind him. Rhys claps his hand against Cassian’s shoulder and does the same, Azriel offering a small, sympathetic look as he too follows Rhys inside.

It leaves just Cassian and Nesta still standing in the atrium as they wait for their cue to walk down the aisle, for their lives to be forever bound together.

Nesta finally walks over to him, but she keeps her eyes downcast, seemingly glued to his kilt. The attention has him resetting his stance, has his hands reaching down to smooth out the fabric along his thighs. He rarely wore it when he was in school. He already heard enough from his peers, from the ton, about his family’s new money status. He hadn’t wanted to add fuel to their fires by flaunting his Scottish heritage too, practically handing over the insults and jabs on a silver platter. But now, with Nesta’s eyes on him, he finds himself more nervous than he ever was back then, his heart beginning to stutter between his ribs.

“After today, you’ll wear my colors too,” Cassian explains quietly.

The comment has Nesta’s gaze finally snapping to his, and Cassian’s heart squeezes tight enough it sends pain ricocheting through his chest. Even through the lacy fabric of her veil, Cassian can tell the way all the color seems to have leached out of her cheeks, the dark circles clinging to the skin beneath her eyes. And her eyes. Cassian doesn’t think he’s ever seen them so dull, more gray than blue and not even a hint of that spark he loves so much.

He takes a step closer to her, eyes sweeping over her accessingly. She’s wearing that same pale blue dress as her almost wedding to Tomas, but despite it only being a week, the fabric seems looser in places. Cassian has to swallow hard around a lump forming in his throat before he’s able to find his voice again.

“You look pale. Have you not been eating? Or sleeping?” Cassian asks gently, reaching a hand up beneath her veil to slide his knuckles against her cheek, but Nesta jerks her head away.

“Don’t touch me,” Nesta snaps, readjusting the veil draped over her face. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Cassian’s hand hangs in the space between them before he drops it back down to his side. The words are certainly a blow, but all Cassian cares about is that the fire has returned to Nesta’s eyes, the blue of them practically blazing up at him. He’ll take it. He doesn’t care if he’s on the other end of her ire, as long as he can keep stoking that fire, as long as he can finally make that lifeless expression vanish, as long as she gives him something.

So, Cassian scoffs and shakes his head. “Just what every gentleman wants to hear on his wedding day.”

“You brought this upon yourself. Or have you already forgotten your utter stupidity?”

“I wish you would just understand that I did this for you.”

“How dare you lie to me,” Nesta seethes, shoving him hard for extra good measure. “You did this for yourself, you selfish, insufferable idiot.”

“Careful, Nes,” Cassian taunts, catching her wrists and tugging her closer still while he dips his head down toward her. “Is that any way to speak to your soon-to-be husband?”

“I hate you.”

Cassian drops Nesta’s wrists and takes a step back from her at her words. For a moment, he swears he sees something flicker across her face, but she quickly turns her head away before he can begin to decipher it. Closing his eyes, Cassian takes a moment to breathe deeply. He holds out his arm for Nesta to take, and pointedly pushes down the hurt when she hesitates.

Arm in arm, they make their way through the church and to where the Rector is standing and waiting for them. The Rector has them turn to face one another and then the ceremony begins. Cassian can still see the exhaustion that clings to Nesta’s frame, but with the light spilling through the stained glass, she’s still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, still takes his breath away. Still has his heart beating in time with her name, Nesta Nesta Nesta.

By the time Cassian is taking Nesta’s hand in his, sliding the band on her finger, his own is trembling. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

Following the Rector’s instruction, Nesta takes Cassian’s hand in hers, sliding his own ring on as she repeats the same words. Something unlocks deep in Cassian’s chest, deep in his soul, in that moment. It’s a final piece falling into a place, a key turning in a lock, a golden thread binding them together just as surely as the rings on their fingers. It fills Cassian with warmth, with a sense of rightness, with a sense of home.

With the rings exchanged, Cassian and Nesta step forward to sign the parish registry. The wedding guests in attendance rise to do the same, but with so few of them, it doesn’t take particularly long. The ink has barely dried from Feyre signing her name before Eleanor is striding toward the doors to exit the church, shooting an expectant look over her shoulder to her youngest daughters.

“I’ll have the footmen move Mrs MacLeod’s trunk to your carriage,” she finally addresses Cassian. “I’m sure it’s quite the long journey back to Glasgow.”

Cassian has to grit his teeth, has to bite back and swallow down the harsh words he wants to fire back at her blatant dismissal. No longer is she Nesta, no longer her daughter, but Mrs MacLeod, the factory rat’s wife. And there would be no celebrating this fact, no wedding breakfast to honor the newly married couple. It has Cassian’s blood boiling, his fists clenching at his side until Nesta’s palm slides along his wrist. It’s the first contact she’s initiated, the touch soothing, but just as soon as it’s there, it’s gone again.

“Thank you, Mama,” Nesta offers politely.

Nesta side steps around Cassian, and he can do nothing but follow behind her, nothing but watch as her trunk is secured to his carriage, her whole life seemingly packed away in that one box. At least, Nesta’s sisters each give her a hug goodbye, but her mother still offers only contempt. It takes all of Cassian’s willpower to keep his face neutral, not to glare at the Lady Archeron, instead focusing on offering a hand and helping Nesta to step inside the carriage. He turns back to give a final nod to Rhys and Azriel, his chosen brothers offering a wave and a salute respectively, before Cassian steps inside and takes the seat opposite Nesta.

“Nesta,” Cassian begins once the carriage jerks into motion.

He reaches forward to take Nesta’s hands in his, but she flinches back, holding her hands close to her chest and turning her head to peer out the window, to watch as London fades away. Cassian sighs softly, dropping his hand to the skirts of her dress, his fingers curling against the fabric.

The rest of the carriage ride is painfully quiet, Nesta’s attention never straying from the carriage window. Cassian’s always loved her stubbornness, the way she never backs down from what she wants, but just once, Cassian wishes she would look at him. He wishes they could properly talk now that it’s just the two of them.

Hell, as the hours and miles continue to tick by, as the sun continues its stretching path across the sky, Cassian would give anything for Nesta to yell at him. To fight with him. For anything other than the suffocating silence. It chokes him from the inside out, his heart twisting and squeezing until he presses his free hand against his chest, rubbing like that will somehow alleviate the ache.

He feels like he’s going insane. After the first hour of stilted silence, Cassian had tried again to talk to her, to draw her attention back to him, but he’d only earned a quiet harrumph for his troubles. After the second hour, he had tried to tease her, tried to spark a reaction from her the way he had earlier, but he had even less success with that. It has Cassian wondering if Nesta really did mean it when she said she’d never forgive him. When she said she hated him.

By the time they're pulling into a coaching inn just outside of Birmingham, Cassian has never been more grateful. He clambers out of the carriage and takes a deep, heaving breath of the cool, evening air, relishing in what little soothing balm he can get. He turns back toward the carriage and holds out his hand in offering, but Nesta pointedly ignores it, stepping down on her own. She hikes up the skirts of her dress and strides forward toward the door of the inn without even a glance back, so Cassian tilts his head up toward the sky, sending a mental plea to the Mother for strength before he jogs after his wife.

“Should I expect silence for the rest of our marriage then?” Cassian mutters as he holds the door open for her.

That comment at least earns him a sharp look from Nesta before she walks through the door and inside the inn, Cassian stepping in behind her. He goes to speak with the landlord, who hands over the key and directs him up the stairs, and Cassian tries not to grimace at the fact they’ll only have the one room.

Thankfully, Nesta doesn’t say anything when Cassian unlocks the door for them to both step inside. Although, he half wonders after the hours of silence if a reaction would have been preferred. Instead, Nesta grabs the pitcher of water for their room and heads straight for the bathing chamber, closing the door behind her. With a soft huff, Cassian sits down on the bed, taking the time to peel his boots off and toss them aside. He rests his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The exhaustion of the day’s travel, of the past few weeks, burrows beneath his skin, carving space into his bones until he feels completely weighed down by it.

The soft snick of a door opening has Cassian practically leaping to his feet. He whips around just as Nesta steps back into the room, dressed now in only her shift. For a moment, Cassian is struck dumb. She’s wearing her hair down, the soft, golden brown waves falling around her shoulders and down her back. His fingers twitch at his sides with the urge to run through those strands, to tangle there as he holds her close. She’s beautiful, just like this, hair down, the faintest dusting of pink smattered high on her cheekbones.

“Where do you want me?” Nesta asks, fidgeting almost nervously with the cotton fabric of her shift.

“What?” Cassian somehow chokes out, shaking himself out of his staring.

“I presume on the bed. Perhaps a better question would be how do you want me?”

Cassian blinks a few times, his mind finally following what she’s asking. “Nes…”

Nesta lets out a frustrated huff, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m not one of those simpering girls. I know what happens on a wedding night.”

“Do you still hate me?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I won’t touch you until you ask me to, until you want me to.”

“You’ll be waiting forever then.”

“I suppose I will,” Cassian shrugs, grabbing one of the pillows and tossing it to the floor at the foot of the bed, intent on sleeping on the floor.

“That makes our marriage a sham then. I’ll go back to London and tell all of society.”

Cassian doesn’t bother biting back his taunting smirk as he lifts his attention back to her. “Did you forget that they already think I’ve had you? Everyone knows and believes that. But go ahead and try.”

That fire is a full blaze in Nesta’s eyes now, her mouth twisting into a scowl. She storms over to the bed, and Cassian half wonders if she intends to clamber over the mattress just to get to him, just to shove him and sink her claws into his chest. But she merely stops on the other side, hands clenched into fists at her side as she continues to glare at him.

“You’ll never have heirs.”

Cassian laughs dryly, cocking his head. “You think I care about that?”

“All men care about that.”

“I guess I’m not like most men, sweetheart.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at that, her tone dripping with derision when she says, “what do you care about then?”

“You,” Cassian practically shouts. “Haven’t you figured that out yet? I care about you, unlike that man you were going to marry before I stepped in.”

“Stop doing that. Stop speaking to me as if I’m stupid. As if I did not know exactly the type of man Tomas Mandray is.”

“Yet you were going to marry him anyways? What, better to marry a cruel man with a title than some factory brute?”

The silence hangs in the air between them, clearly answer enough. Cassian tries not to let it sting, but his chest already feels cut and splayed open, his nerve endings already raw and exposed. He swallows hard and turns away from her, extinguishing the candle and plunging the room into darkness. He settles down onto the floor, knocking his fist against his pillow for extra good measure, but the gesture doesn’t help the cold ache that gnaws at him the way he had hoped.

“Cassian…”

“Go to sleep, Nesta.”

—

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Free Elain from the charges she's only obsessed with a man.

Engagement ring? Off.

Necklace? Returned.

Solstice gifts? Unacknowledged.

She does not care, is not pining.

AH NO WAIT

“Careful, Nes,” Cassian taunts, catching her wrists and tugging her closer still while he dips his head down toward her. “Is that any way to speak to your soon-to-be husband?”

— But I'm Only Looking At You

If you didn't already think that @krem-does-stuff is one of the best things to happen to this fandom, I hope you do now that she's blessed us with this god among men! I said how about Regency Cassian for a commission, and she said alright bet, and came back with the hottest man I've ever seen. Do you see his big hands? His hair? His slutty little open shirt? It's a very happy @cassianappreciationweek indeed! 🥵