Nessian Week 2024 - Tumblr Posts

My Hand Was The One You Reached For (ao3)

Happy @nessianweek! Here's a teeny little one-shot for day 2 ❤️ In the midst of war, Nesta Archeron bandages an injured General's wrist, and as Cassian lets Nesta tend to his wound, he realises there's not a thing in the world that could make him pull away. (ACOWAR fix-it).

********

You’re hurt.

Two little words, whispered at the edge of a battlefield.

Blood— screams and mud, the clouds above threatening rain. A dismal backdrop to those two tiny little words, so small and so simple, and yet so loaded with meaning they were heavy off her tongue, significant enough to turn Cassian’s world upside down the moment they left her lips. 

You’re hurt, she’d said. 

Like a fool, he’d gazed at her in silence, too stunned to speak and unable to do anything but take her in with widened eyes, studying the loosened braid that he’d watched her pin tightly into place that morning, outside the tents when she thought nobody was looking. Except Cassian was always looking when it came to Nesta Archeron. Always searching for her in a crowded room, always making his way towards her.

Even now, with his wrist held stiffly against his side, he’d found himself walking towards that little circle of logs around a fire pit, instead of towards a healer.

You’re hurt.

He hadn’t said a word to anybody, and not even Rhys had noticed the way Cassian had cradled his injured wrist a little closer to his chest than he should have as he approached one of those logs, close to the flames. It wasn’t the worst injury he’d ever had— not by a mile. The skin hadn’t even broken. But it had twisted too far, throbbing now, a sprain that needed to be iced and wrapped but was far from his top priority when his men lay dying in tents nearby, bleeding from injuries so much more lethal than his own.

And then she had spoken.

The fire had cracked, his eyes had lifted. And now here they were, Nesta Archeron standing with the firelight reflected in her eyes, her lips parted and her braid so perilously close to coming undone it looked as though someone had just plunged their fingers right into it. And gods— Cassian wished the situation was different. Wished that he could plunge his fingers into her hair and make her so undone. 

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes fixed on him, like the world around them had ceased to matter.

“Nothing,” Cassian quipped, wanting to keep her eyes on him— never wanting to feel the lack of her attention. 

Softly, Nesta snorted. Her hand reached out, lithe fingers curling around his battered wrist, and he couldn’t fight the hiss of pain that escaped his clenched teeth as he moved. A frown creased her perfect brow, and as she lifted her head to look up at him with those mercurial eyes…

There was an order in the way she looked at him. A question, too. And if there was one thing Cassian knew how to do - had been taught to do since before he could even fucking speak - it was follow godsdamned orders. 

He didn’t need her to tell him to sit down.

Silently, Cassian sank down onto the nearest log by the fire, hardly tearing his eyes away from hers for long enough to make sure the log there was empty. Concern flickered in those eyes, but with his hand in hers, her fingers wrapped around that bruised wrist, Cassian had forgotten to feel the pain. Had forgotten entirely what it was to hurt the moment she’d touched him. 

The Mother only knew how she’d been able to tell he was hurting when nobody else had.

“How do I fix it?” Nesta asked quietly, tracing her fingers lightly across his skin. It didn’t hurt— her touch was so light he barely even felt it, and he might almost have convinced himself that he was imagining it, if not for the way his nerves tingled where she touched him, burning as if to remind him that it was real— that Nesta Archeron stood before him, despite the shadows beneath her eyes that said all she wanted to do was fall down and sleep.

“It’s a sprain,” he said gently. “I just need to ice it before wrapping it—“

She was already reaching for the bandages, pulling out a roll of gauze. 

Cassian wasn’t a fool. He knew that Rhys and Feyre were watching with dumbfounded stares as Nesta’s eyes flicked up, her gaze catching against his for a moment. Cassian held her stare for far longer than he should have, swallowing thickly as Nesta dragged her index finger across the back of his hand, a touch so tentative it was as though her fingertips were only drifting across his skin. 

His eyes closed.

His heart was beating loud enough that he was sure she’d hear it, but Nesta only held his wrist in one hand, her palm smooth against his callouses as she started to lower herself to the ground. He heard the rustle of her dress, the shifting of her feet, and snapped his eyes back open. Logically, he knew that if she sat before him, she’d have a better angle for wrapping his wrist. Logically, he knew there was nothing in it.

And yet he knew, too, that he couldn’t bear the sight of her kneeling before him.

Not now— not yet. If either of them were to get on their knees it would be him, and it wouldn’t be to wrap her fucking wrist.

“No,” he said, his good hand catching her by the waist, his fingers landing on her middle just firmly enough to give her pause. Confusion flashed briefly across her face before Cassian offered her a wry smile. “Let’s not dirty that pretty dress, hm?”

She rolled her eyes as his good hand fell away, opting to sit beside him on the log instead. She didn’t bother to point out that the dress was plain enough, and already mud-stained at the hem, and Cassian didn’t bother to mask the soft smile when she sat beside him, her thigh pressing against his, her scent encompassing him. He twisted to face her, his wrist barking at the pressure as she pulled it across and into her lap, but it didn’t matter. How could it?

She began to wrap the bandage tight around his wrist, and Cassian winced. But Nesta didn’t waver and didn’t hesitate, meticulous in her work as she was with everything else. Only once did she pause, her eyes darting up to his face before falling back down again. 

“Your face,” she whispered as she continued to wrap, her eyes landing on his cheek.

Cassian frowned.

Lifting his good hand, he brushed his fingers across his cheekbone, his fingers coming away red.

A small cut— tiny. He hadn’t even felt it.

“It’s fine,” he said.

She nodded, winding the bandages tight about his wrist.

“Will it scar?”

Cassian smiled softly. “Worried, sweetheart?”

She snorted gently, shaking her head in a way that was almost indulgent— endearing in a way that had Cassian forgetting all about the chaos around them; the fact that they were still dealing with the bloody aftermath of battle was so far from his mind it was almost laughable. All that mattered to him now was the woman before him, and gods, he hoped that roll of gauze never ran out. Hoped she might sit there with her hands on him forever. 

“Don’t you find my scars dashing?” he added, tilting his head and offering her his most cocksure smile, a suggestive quirk of one brow. 

Nesta’s silver eyes caught his, the air between them tightening— unbearably, impossibly. His heart stumbled, like just looking into her eyes was enough to have him tripping over himself, and as she finished her work on his wrist - tying off the bandage with a neat little bow - she sat back a little, as if preparing to leave. And suddenly Cassian felt like it would be the worst thing in the world - the most painful wound he could imagine - to have to watch her walk away.

He felt her fingers slide away, her touch retracting, retreating, and before he paused long enough to think it through, Cassian’s hand darted out, grasping hers. Tightly, he held her. So tightly, like he might convey in that one gesture all the words he didn’t know how to say yet, all the things he didn’t know how to voice. His thumb brushed along hers, tracing along the scar at the base of her thumb; the evidence of her own tortured past.

And when Cassian looked into her eyes, he swore the entire world was held there.

Still, she looked to the cut on his cheek. Warmth took root in his chest— because she cared, and she worried, and even though Cassian loved every member of the family Rhys had given him, the scars of his own childhood ran too deeply, and the notion that someone else gave a damn about him still made something twist deep inside him, made him want to weep.

He didn’t care if the cut scarred. If the battle left a mark on his skin.

It had led to this moment, and how could he ever regret that?

Distantly, he knew they were being watched, that conversation had fallen into stunned silence on the other side of the fire. If he looked up, he knew he would be met with Rhys’ startled violet gaze and Feyre’s slack-jawed surprise. But Cassian didn’t look up. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t look anywhere else but at her, like she was the most wondrous thing the universe had ever seen fit to create.

Slowly, he linked his fingers through hers, twining them together in a way that said he didn’t want to be apart from her just yet. Nesta blinked, her eyes heavy.

“Thank you,” he whispered, nodding to his bandaged wrist.

She didn’t answer— like she couldn’t find words. Cassian brushed his thumb across her hand again, and felt the way her breath caught. He gripped her hand tighter, and felt her do the same, clinging to him in the midst of the chaos, like the peace they had curated in this small corner was more precious to her than anything.

Footsteps sounded, breaking that peace. A familiar tread cut through the mud, and when Cassian looked up, Mor lingered by the edge of the circle, the firelight glimmering against the armour she still wore. Her blonde hair was pushed away from her face, her braid lying idle over one shoulder, and as he watched she stopped short, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her. And then they narrowed— her face tightening with suspicion and disapproval as she looked at the way Cassian’s fingers were twined with Nesta’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but Cassian looked away, looked to Nesta.

“You look like you need to sleep for a week,” he said gently, taking in the weariness that she was wearing like a cloak about her shoulders. With his free hand, he swiped at the dirt that had smeared her perfect cheek. Nesta raised a brow.

“I’m not the one that just fought a battle.”

Cassian smiled wryly. “No, you’ve just been dealing with the aftermath.” He nodded to the bandages. “Hardly an easy feat.”

She rolled her eyes, and Cassian’s heart beat faster at the sight. He could hear Mor speaking— Rhys, too. It didn’t register. 

“Come,” he said, rising to his feet.

He didn’t drop her hand.

Mor’s eyes fixed on their interlinked fingers, and as Cassian turned his head, he saw Rhys’ mouth parted with surprise, and Feyre’s eyes were alight as her attention bounced between him and her sister. He refused to let it change anything— refused to let the moment he yearned for be lost. Once more, Cassian squeezed her fingers.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said firmly. 

“If that’s your attempt at seducing me, it’s woefully inadequate.”

He grinned. “One step at a time, princess. One step at a time.”

Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he led her away from that circle of logs around the fire. Only when they reached her tent did he draw away, putting some small amount of distance between them, even though it made his soul ache. Nesta sighed, like the weight of the past twenty-four hours had suddenly come upon her in a wave, and it was all Cassian could do to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her cheekbone, skating down to her jaw. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, nodding at the flaps of the tent where, from inside, a golden fae-light was glowing. “And in the morning…”

His throat began to close as he pulled away, wondering if this was a one-time thing. A moment fostered by intense emotion— the fear and adrenaline that came with a battle. What if, in the morning, Nesta woke and regretted every tender touch? What if, when the sun was high in the sky, she wished she’d never been so vulnerable?

“In the morning?” she asked.

Cassian reached out for her again, flattening his hand against her cheek. When she turned her face into his palm, he swore his heart hammered against his ribs so hard, he thought it might have bruised.

“Come find me, sweetheart,” he said, and he didn’t know whether it was an offer, a request, or a plea borne of desperation.

Nesta looked up, met his eyes.

“Okay,” she whispered.

And as she slipped away, her eyes already heavy with sleep, Cassian thought that single word might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in all his life.

Okay.

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