No Beta - Tumblr Posts
Wrote a Mass Effect Andromada short fic.
None of the doors on the Tempest could be slammed shut. Sara hadn’t encountered a manual door since being on Earth, which made sense because why would they waste wood on a door that couldn’t keep out the kett? But she missed the feeling of grabbing the edge of a door and swinging it shut with all her might. Maybe it would have made her feel a little better as she stormed into her room.
Tann was being an ass, asking her for more than she could do. Addison had made a quip about her needing to keep earning her title. Eos was apparently experiencing earthquakes which meant they had to take a break from the ongoing negotiations with the angarans and their efforts on Voeld even though they were so close to rescuing Moshae Sjefa. Sara’s heartrate was uneven, according to Sam, and he wouldn’t leave her alone about it. Jaal was angry. Liam was being moody and wouldn’t talk to her. Scott still hadn’t woken up. Peebee refused to sleep in a proper bed, remaining in the escape pod. Gil and Kallo were fighting, again. Vetra was hiding something. Lexi was worrying over the burn on Sara’s side even though it was fine. And apparently something on the ship was eating their supplies.
There was barely time to breath, let alone sleep or eat. Despite this and the criticisms from the Nexus, Sara thought she was doing alright. Until Cora started talking about the asari ark again. About how they needed a real Pathfinder. Well, maybe that wasn’t how the woman had put it but that was how it sounded every single time she opened her mouth and talked about the asari or Alec.
Sara could feel her throat slowly closing, like a hand around her neck starting to squeeze. She knew that feeling intimately now, after getting a little too up close and personal with some kett. Whenever one got ahold of her, she’d stick them with her omni-blade. She wished she could do that now. Jab forward, attack, make something else gasp for air. Writhe in pain. Feel what she felt for just one fucking minute.
“Pathfinder, I’m detecting higher than normal stress levels.” Sam spoke up, startling Sara enough that it made her gasp and forced air into her lungs.
Right. Sam. The only one who could feel what she felt. Who was actively feeling what she felt. Sara’s eyes stung so she closed them and covered them with her hand, blocking her view of Sam’s node in the corner. As if it did anything to hide from him. “Sam.” Sara’s voice cracked. She sounded rough, scratchy. She cleared her throat, mentally making a note to be careful not to speak near Lexi without taking a drink first. Last thing she needed was the medic thinking she had a cold. “Sam.” There, better. She dropped her hand away to “look” at Sam. “Who did Dad want to be Pathfinder?”
She hadn’t meant to ask that. But there was no hiding from an AI that lived in your head.
Sara expected an immediate response from Sam. She’d asked this question before and he’d answered before. He should have given her the same bullshit immediately. But this time he paused. Hesitated. Like a person unsure of what to say and not wanting to lie. It was evidence that Sam was changing. And Sara couldn’t decide if that made her mad or not.
“Your father certainly seemed to intend to pass the position of Pathfinder to either you or your brother.” Sam finally stated. His voice still held no inflection, that hadn’t changed yet. But Sara was starting to be able to read him. Maybe it was exposure, constantly having to speak to him. Or maybe it was the link. It didn’t matter.
“Sure. But which of us did he think should be Pathfinder?” Sara pressed. Her neck was burning. Pinpricks travelled down her back, sharp little prickles that felt like needles being rapidly jammed into her skin. Her right leg was jumping but she couldn’t move, the rest of her body locked in anticipation of the answer. Sam hesitated again and Sara couldn’t stand it. “Sam!”
“Scott.”
The answer should have felt like a blow. She wanted it to hurt like one, a sharp ache that she could focus on. But she’d known already, hadn’t she? She’d known since the moment she woke up with Sam’s voice in her head. It was never supposed to be her. So instead of a blow she got a spread of heat through her body as she finally accepted the truth. She scoffed. It turned into a laugh.
“Wow.” She breathed out, turning away from the physical representation of Sam on her table. Her legs worked again, letting her slowly walk a few steps away. “So even my own father didn’t think I could do this.” Sara laughed again, looking up at the ceiling of her room as her eyes stung once again. “Great. That’s just great.”
“Your father believed that you had the most experience needed for Pathfinding. But he believed Scott more capable of making hard decisions.” Sam said. And then, probably trying to lessen her pain, he added, “I believe he wanted to spare you some hardship.”
“But he didn’t want to spare Scott?” Sara questioned, spinning on her heel to look at Sam again. He was silent however and she turned away again, started pacing. “No, of course not. Sara’s too emotional but Scott? Scott I never let have emotions so he’s perfect for the job!” Sara laughed again at her poor imitation of her father’s voice. Though she thought she captured his self-righteousness.
Sam had no physical body so there was no body language to tell Sara he was uncomfortable. But she knew. “Sara—.”
“He thought I was weak. That’s what that means. He thought I was weak.” Sara said. Her pacing was getting faster but she couldn’t stop or slow down. There was too much in her now, she felt like she was vibrating. If she didn’t pace she was going to explode. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d done everything to be the next Pathfinder, he never would have given it to me if he hadn’t had to.” Her arms swung out grandly, harshly. Gesturing to nothing. “I was never good enough for him. Scott was never good enough for him. You probably weren’t even enough for him, Sam! No one was ever enough for perfect Alec fucking Ryder!”
The box she kicked across the room was filled with tech bits. Mostly broken and damaged items she tinkered with when she couldn’t sleep, then whatever tools she kept with them. A wrench flew out of the box and hit the floor with a clang before sliding towards the couch. She heard things break as they slammed against each other as the box hit the wall. A few loose bolts had also come out of the box and she watched them hit the floor before her attention was drawn up by the door opening.
Drack took a few steps into her room before stopping, only coming in far enough to let the door shut behind him. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move besides breathing, and his face gave away nothing. Sara had only ever seen him that still when they were sneaking up on kett, pausing to not get caught. Now he was doing the same thing to her. Waiting to see what she would do. If she’d attack.
Sara had probably already been shaking. But now she felt the trembling in her hands. “He never fucking believed in me, Drack.” Sara said. Her voice was shaking too. She hated it. Hated herself. Alec had been right, she was too emotional. “He wanted Scott to be Pathfinder, not me.”
Drack’s expression didn’t change but he titled his head slightly.
Sara tried to keep the tears building in her eyes from falling but the second she blinked they started falling with no hope of her stopping them. She was still burning, still vibrating, but she was locked in place again. She couldn’t pace with Drack looking at her, couldn’t gesture and yell and kick at things. Maybe, maybe, one of the others but not Drack. She didn’t want him to think she was erratic. That she was too emotional. “How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to deal with all of this when I know if he was here he’d be questioning everything I did? Disapproving of every choice I make?” The sob that escaped her throat caught her by surprise but she didn’t try to stop it. She never had been able to reign herself back in when she got this way. “I mean, he never approved of anything we did. Never. Except when we joined the Initiative. So you’d think I wouldn’t care.” That would make sense. If she just didn’t care. “I shouldn’t care.” Alec was an asshole. Had been for so many years. She shouldn’t care. “Why do I still care?”
Drack probably only just understood what she said as her voice gave out around her last words. Nothing more than a squeak came out of her mouth, though her lips still formed the words. Sara let the next sob come without saying anything else. Then the next. Slowly, she curled in on herself. Wrapped her arms around her waist and looked away from the krogan she desperately wanted approval from. She wouldn’t have it now. Not acting like this.
But when Drack finally spoke, it wasn’t to chastise her. “From what I’ve heard, Alec Ryder was a real piece of work.” He said, calm as can be. As if Sara wasn’t breaking apart in front of him. “Didn’t take him for the nurturing type. Didn’t think he was this bad though.” There was disgust in his voice. For a brief moment, Sara thought it was directed at her. But one glance up told her otherwise, Drack was looking at Sam accusingly. She didn’t understand why but at least he wasn’t disgusted with her. Drack turned his attention back to her and came forward, reaching but not touching. “Come on kid, you need to sit down for a bit.” He said and gestured towards the couch.
It took a second for Sara to process the suggestion but she followed it, walking slowly on shaky legs until she could collapse onto the leather. The couch was barely worn in, she hardly ever got to spend time in her room long enough to lounge on it. The most time she’d spent on it was when she had accidentally passed out on it while trying to fill out a report to Tann. Sara curled into the couch, looking away from Drack so she could focus on forcing her breathing back to normal. On calming the sobs shaking her chest.
Drack didn’t sit down, couldn’t on this couch, but he stayed close to her. “You know, I never met your old man. But I don’t think I would have liked him.” He said when her breathing had evened slightly.
Sara shook her head. “You would have.” She managed to say. Drack was smart, he knew how to pick allies. He would have gotten along with Alec if it meant helping his granddaughter and the other krogans.
“Really?” Drack grunted. “Only good thing I know about him is that he helped start the Initiative.”
The noise Sara made was meant to be a laugh but it just sounded a lot like another sob. “You should talk to Cora. She knows more about him than I do.” Sara reached up and wiped at her cheeks but they were so wet that it did nothing. “She knew how he wanted to die. I didn’t even know his favorite color.”
“Bet that stings.”
She loved Drack. She loved his bluntness, his willingness to push even when he probably shouldn’t. Because it gave her the excuse she needed to finally vent. To say things she’d refused to voice before then. She couldn’t be blamed for what she said, how she felt, if Drack had practically invited her to talk about it. “It hurts.” It felt good to say that. To finally admit that Cora was hurting her, whether intentional or not. Sara uncurled slightly, turning back towards Drack. “Everytime she talks about him. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. And I want to throw up. Just hearing her say his name.” Sara shook her head. “It’s like she’s talking about a completely different person. He was my dad. Mine. But she knew him better. Liked him better.”
Sara spotted an unopened bottle on her coffee table and uncurled fully to grab it. She gripped it tightly in both of her hands, almost cradling it to her chest. She didn’t drink much, which was why when she did she always went over the top. But holding something made her feel better. Made it easier to hide her shaking hands.
“And you know, I really hate hearing her say she misses him. That he should be here.” A hint of disgust creeped into her voice and she felt an immediate rush of guilt. It wasn’t Cora’s fault Alec was a bad father. “I hate when anyone says that.” She corrected, staring at the coffee table now. “I know it’d be better if he was here. That things would be easier. But it hurts. It’s like they’re saying they wish I was dead. That he should have let me die so he could be here instead.” Her grip tightened on the bottle. “Maybe he should have.”
Honestly, she hadn’t meant to say that. But it slipped out. And she couldn’t take it back.
There was a lot of silence around her. Some of it heavier than the rest, coming from Drack. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t lift her head or even move her gaze from the table to anything else. Just waited for the disparaging remarks to come.
“No.”
Sara flinched. Drack sounded angry. Now she couldn’t look at him.
“You think your dad could have done half the shit you do?” Drack questioned.
That didn’t make sense. Had Drack misspoke? “He…He was the Pathfinder, Drack.” She swallowed and let her eyes dart to Drack’s legs then away again. She’d been certain Drack knew about most of her duties but maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t understand that Alec had made the job, that he had been perfect for it. “He knew what to do. In-In any situation, he knew what to do.”
“So he would have been able to handle the angara? Would have understood their whole feelings thing?” Drack pressed.
Sara wanted to immediately say yes but she hesitated. Alec thought she was too emotional. What would he have thought of the angarans? How long would he have been able to hold out until he snapped at them for not approaching things logically enough?
“What about the team?” Drack continued. Sara finally looked up at him, took in the scowl on his face. Not an ounce of his anger seemed directed at her but it was there in the set of his shoulders and the roughness of his voice. “You listen to us, kid. And you don’t try to fix things when you can't. You respect these people. Care about what they’re going through. Would your old man? Think your team would do well with him?”
That was easier to answer. No, the team would not have done well under Alec. Not personally. Professionally, they’d be as efficient as the Tempest. But every last one of them would be suffering, forced to keep their worries and opinions to themselves. Alec wouldn’t have cared about why Liam was moody so long as he got the job done. He would have told Jaal to get over his anger because it was a distraction. He’d threaten Gil and Kallo with replacement if they didn’t stop fighting. He’d make Vetra tell him whatever she was hiding, even though it seemed personal, because he didn’t want any secrets on his ship. Suvi would be patronized for her beliefs. And Peebee? Alec probably wouldn’t have ever let her on board.
The idea of her team being treated like that reignited her anger. It wasn’t as strong as before but it burned away some of the tightness in her chest.
Drack wasn’t done. “And Eos? Would Alec do favors for those people? Put necklaces on cliffs?”
No. No he wouldn’t. If it wasn’t important to the mission, he wouldn’t have done it. “He would have—He wouldn’t have done anything that didn’t pertain to the mission. Even research. If it wasn’t pertinent or promising, he’d leave it to someone else.” Sara admitted.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have been better than her at the job. He was Alec Ryder.
Drack nodded but she could tell by the look in his eye he didn’t trust her. That he knew she was still doubting. “See? And if that isn’t enough for you, know I wouldn’t have worked with him.” The krogan declared.
This time, Sara’s laugh sounded a little more like an actual laugh. Startled and disbelieving but a laugh. “Really?” She doubted. She wasn’t sobbing anymore but the tears were still slowly falling. She was running out of them but for now they kept sliding down her cheeks and dripping off her chin onto her hands. One tear hit the bottle’s cap, making it glimmer.
“Like you said, if he was here you’d be dead. And I’m not working with a man who chose his own life over his kid’s.” Drack said. Sara couldn’t even look for a lie. There was nothing about him that allowed her to doubt him. Drack never would have worked with Alec.
Sara tried to imagine the team without Drack but couldn’t. He was integral to how they functioned. He could work with anyone else on the team, fighting alongside them seamlessly. And even if he didn’t, he was so important to making sure the krogans got a voice. Having him on the team meant Tann had a harder time speaking badly about the krogans and excluding them from future plans. Khash got heard much easier with Drack on the Pathfinder team. Drack needed to be on the team and he wouldn’t have worked with Alec.
“I—.” Sara swallowed. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to say thank you. She wanted to tell Drack she was sorry for unloading on him. She wanted to admit that she’d been afraid of him rejecting her. She wanted to tell him she wished she could have seen him meet Alec, just so she could revel in the disgust the krogan would have felt for the man. All of it made her feel guilty. It manifested in her body as a curling feeling in her stomach. She wanted to tell Drack she felt guilty. Wanted to tell him that Alec hadn’t been bad at all when they were kids, that she and Scott had actually felt loved back then. She wanted to defend her dad and condemn him too. But instead, all she said was, “Okay.”
Drack reached out and, in a gesture that had to be the gentlest he’d ever been, pet her head. “I’m proud to work with you, kid.” He told her.
If she hadn’t already been crying, Sara would have burst into tears. “Thank you.”
She couldn’t say anything else. Thankfully, it seemed like Drack was satisfied enough to let the conversation die. He pulled his hand away, which made her miss the contact but gave her room to breath. Sara let herself relax back into the couch, allowed herself to appreciate how comfortable it was. She focused on breathing, on evening herself out. Drack stayed by her for a few moments, watching her calmly, before turning away. She expected him to leave but he didn’t. Drack started picking up the box she’d kicked. Sara watched him, eyes dropping, wondering why he was doing it but not having the energy to ask him. She could hear him humming. Felt the bottle in her hands slip to the floor and heard it hit with a dull thunk.
Sara fell asleep, forced into unconsciousness by the exhaustion her breakdown had caused. Drack noticed after he’d put the box and its lost trinkets back in their place. “Hey Sam.” He spoke out to the room. He didn’t like to address the thing but sometimes it was necessary. Didn’t mean he had to look at the little hologram of him in the corner. “Give the order that no one’s to bother Ryder for awhile. Kid needs her sleep.” He told the AI.
Drack grabbed a pillow and all of the blankets off of Sara’s bed. He wanted to put her on the bed but was worried she’d wake up and not go back down. So he carefully lowered her to lay down on the couch, putting the pillow beneath her head before it touched the cushions. Then he threw the blankets over her. He didn’t know how tightly he should put the blankets around her, humans were fragile but the room felt warm enough. So he let the blankets hang loose over her. Finally, he gave her another gentle pat, this time on her shoulder, before exiting her room. He needed a workout. Something to get out the anger he wanted to unleash on Alec Ryder but would never get the chance to.
INK 'N' PETALS | THE RAVEN
Solana's reserved a musty room at a local motel and waits as she was originally instructed. The room is pungent of cigarettes. Both the bed sheets and the carpet are plagued by irregularly-shaped stains she dares not attempt to identify. Even so, it's not the room's critical state of hygiene that has her pacing back and forth, nibbling her fingernails.
Mentally, she's reciting some sort of prayer - not that she's ever been instructed as to how to do a proper one. It's more pleading than prayer, than reverence, she'd say. Begging for everything to go as planned, to go smoothly; no hurdles, no set-backs, no losses. All at no cost, of course, like a favor from the heavens. They are known for their grace, are they not?
A little too easily, and quickly, her prayers are answered with a sequence of taps on the door.
Her pacing stops. She draws in a breath and waits out for another tap, to verify she'd not imagined it.
Peering through the peep-hole on the room door, a raven head of curls comes into view, bent to gaze at the ground. The knocker has a pale arm propped against the solid door.
Solana unhooks the chain from the door, twists the lock and the knob, swinging it open to meet Yoongi.
Her gaze rakes his complexion - no wounds - then skitters down to the duffel bag in his clutch, stuffed beyond its limit.
Hurriedly, Yoongi transfers its weight into her hold.
She staggers because of its weight, employ the efforts of her other hand at hoisting it up.
Yoongi's dark eyes steadily bore into hers, as if it's the last good look he'll get of her. As though he's snapping a mental picture in the hopes of preserving what will easily be lost in a matter of minutes.
In a swift motion, he brushes his warm lips with her forehead, and gently squeezes her cheek with his hand.
She barely mutters a hurried greeting, or inquiry as to what's in the duffel bag, when he beats her to it.
"No time for questions, Ana." His cheeks are flushed the way a runner's are after jogging a number of miles, nostrils flaring. Every other second, he glances over his shoulder, chest heaving. "You just have to trust me."
"Blindly," she affirms with a nod.
Stammering for a breath, he proceeds, "Alright, there's a train that leaves at 7 AM. Minstowe East station. Ticket is in the bag. You hop on. You avoid contact with strangers. You keep running." He pauses, gaze dancing between hers, allows the instructions sink in.
"Whatever you do," he continues, "you don't look back. Hear me?" He licks the sweat collecting at the bow of his upper lip.
Solana nods.
Anxiously, he shits his weight off the doorframe, onto his sore legs that threaten to buckle beneath him, then leans back onto the frame. He presses his forehead against hers one last time. "Ana, this is it. A chance at a new life. Promise me you won't look back."
Solana stalls, slow to acclimate, unable to conjure even half as much determine courage as him.
She rolls her bottom lip inward into a fine line.
Around Yoongi, for the years she'd known him, she'd never been strong. Rather, she'd always crumble, bear herself vulnerable, because at some point early in their journey she'd learned he was worthy of her trust. He'd never done, or would ever do, anything to hurt her.
Tears collect on her lash-line.
"What about you? What will happen to you, Yoongs?"
"Don't worry. There's at least seven lives left in here." He gently claps her cheek. "Promise?" Lifts his weight off the frame, decidedly this time, like ripping a band-aid and committing to tolerating the discomfort; or pulling a decayed tooth by slamming a door with a string attached to its handle.
Apprehensively, she responds "I promise," knowing that's the only thing he's waiting for to disappear. Part of her wants to object, just so he'd stay.
Yoongi's frame dwindles in size as he jogs across the vacant parking lot, into the mist of dawn.
Before he's completely out of sight, she calls one last time "Hey, Yoongs?"
He slows but doesn't turn. Can't bear to look back at her. Doesn't want the last view of her to be that of tears.
"Thank you..."
Conversation dwindles into a tranquil cadence; the kind that rises out from the comfort of each others' quiet presence; the kind that wraps about two figures as they partake in their individual projects while in each others' constant company - one writing away on their laptop, the other reading the last 50 pages of a book.
“I missed you, Yoongs,” she hums and nuzzles her nose into his neck for added comfort. Even with being able to hold him flush against her, and feeling his chest rise with a rhythmic breath, Solana finds it hard to believe. Through the dim night, she blinks at the sight of him, the silhouette of his relaxed face, as though it is a mirage that could vanish with a gush of wind. “I thought I’d never see you again. Had mentally prepared myself to live that version of reality.”
The latter presses his lips into her temple, extinguishing any doubt about his presence. "Can't get rid of me that easily, Sol."
She smiles at the certainty in that statement. As reliable as a law. Yoongi would always be there. Always. Like a moon to its planet, or a planet to its sun, unified in orbit, though at times imperceivable.
“I did something bad,” her voice trembles unsteady, thinking back to their parting, the things she'd wanted to confess to him back then but felt robbed by the urgency of the conditions they'd found themselves in. Her grip tightens around the fabric of his tee shirt, clings to it like a lifeline on the side of a hill.
Solana knows that nothing she could confess would drive Yoongi to abandoning her. Her hold on him is desperate, though. A fearful child clinging to its comfort plush to wait out the deceiving night.
“I know,” he hums, “we all do at some point.” He wraps a sturdy hand around her head laying her cheek over his chest, presses his cheek over her crown and holds her safe. “It’s what you do from there on that matters.”
“Was running the right thing?”
“Sometimes it is,” he responds. “You are safe, that’s all what matters. You did the right thing fleeing. Sometimes fear can surprise you. It can be powerful like that. Protective.”
Her soft voice comes out as a mumble over his creased shirt, “I don’t want to live the rest of my life on the run. So scared - I’m so fucking scared of what will happen when it catches up to me-”
“-it won’t,” his tone is firm, voice stable, unlike hers. She clings to it like the gospel truth. Lets it wash her clean of her sins. Steps into a new life with firm believe in those two words. “You won’t have to keep running. You don’t have to.”
“What do you mean?” She tenses, grip over his shirt loosening. Starts to withdraw, considering the dreadful possibility flying through her mind that this could be a trap; that the one who knew all of her intimacies could betray her.
Solana he rises to her elbows, untethered hair billowing over his chest like thick stage curtains.
“It’s over,” he adds. “War is won.”
He cups her chin, the whispers soft, “Stop. Running.” Draws his thumb along the sharp lines of her jaw. Risks getting sliced open. She's worth the shed of a tear or drop of blood, he thinks. No one else he'd take a bullet for.
It's frightening, the overwhelming sense of protection that has flourished through the years. He doesn't fight it though.
There is a blotchy raven tattoo on the dorsal side of his pasty hand. Solana often would call it "the melted raven who flew too close to the sun" given its appearance.
“It’s what I came to tell you.”
"How about you? Will you stop running, too?"
"Honey, I’m a track star."
Solana erupts into a guffaw, head thrashing.
Laughter contagious like the flu, Yoongi finds himself caught in a fit of chuckles, cheeks burning sore, abdomen flexing without relent. It has been so long since he has felt that sort of happy - the kind you preemptively feel sorry about losing. The kind you feel you don’t deserve. The kind that makes you suspicious that life is only dangling it in front of you to snap it out of your grasp as soon as you start getting your hopes up. The kind that feels too good to be true, your hands quaking as you hold it, fearful you might drop it.
Her slap to his chest begs a genuine response.
They sit in silence, wherein he is pensive, nibbling on his lower lip while gazing up through the condensed glass ceiling. The moonglow halos him angelically.
She could watch him forever, the way you'd watch a relative peacefully sleep, so adoringly caught up you neglect the passage of time. The way its unspeakably comforting to watch the ones you love rest in safety.
He takes an inhale, conclusive, mind settled on the words he has chosen. Then holds it in apprehension. In fear that echoes that pre-emptive sadness that shades everything a shade of blue in its wake. Happiness is so close, it grazes his fingertips, and yet he knows on some deep, primal level that a graze is all he’ll ever be allotted. Fears it so much that it is practically a fact.
Still, he takes the leap. A graze being worth it enough. He musters the courage to voice, “I don’t know. Do you think this sob town, with its organic juice shops and yoga centers, is ready to accept me?"
To which she responds by linking her arms around his torso and bringing both their bodies collapsing over the sheets sprawled over the floor. “I’ll convert you into my flower boy. We will have to do something about that persistent brooding face of yours, though.” Her hand travels up to cup his cheek in the dark. "Can’t have you scaring away potential customers.”
Yoongi responds, "So far your only customer is Lico, and I’d say she likes me - or my lap, at least."
They fall asleep in each others' arms.
Yoongi's taken up an affinity towards clementines ever since Ana brought home a net of them with the intent of propagating.
The bearing of fruit would take two-to-three years, at minimum, if the propagate were to survive through to fruition, so Ana had explained. Yoongi isn't really the patient-type. He's been living in survival mode much too long, living in the tomorrow instead of the now. Hasn't known anything else, because when you are born into a burning home, you expect to see the rest of the world up in flames, or something like that.
It's a warm Saturday morning. Yoongi and Ana weave through a market strip, the former, clutching two nets of clementines in his left grip.
An effervescing chuckle responds to the sight of him - his stoic figure, clad in shades of black, neck craned amidst the pop-up stalls, turning over items on the display tables, carefully reading the ingredients on the back of items. Ana recognizes she's successfully converted him into a farmer's market boy. A flower boy, with his rose-like thorns. Her flower boy, as she'd originally promised.
Despite holding the item in proximity, he squints his eyes into half-moons, always plagued by poor vision. He has a recipe in mind he wants to cook tonight.
Ana's light touch grazes the surface of different farming books stacked over a display table.
She's got one split to the table of contents, skimming the ink with pensively pinched brows when a hand encircles her cheek, clasps her mouth with suction.
Her heart rate quickens, pounding against her sternum.
And despite standing there paralyzed by fear, her hands start sweating, ready to take any measure that would ensure survival. A swing behind her head, perhaps? A quick swivel and a knee to the groin? A bite to the delicate flesh pressed to her lips?
When her eyes flutter down to gauge just how much space and freedom she has to proceed with the third option, blotchy black ink in the lose figure of a raven taking flight comes into view.
Instantly, her tense shoulders relax, and she sinks back against Yoongi's torso. Feeling inexplicable relieved.
Peaking over her shoulder at his furrowed countenance, she attempts to voice her questions with incoherent mumbles. Her flighty eyes round and gauging the ripple of thoughts on his gradient of micro-expressions.
His hand relaxes and slides from your mouth to rest on your shoulder. He lifts his other hand to press a pale finger to his lips.
Ana quips a brow but obliges, nonetheless. The fear in Yoongi's ebony eyes is jarringly palpable. She dares not underestimate it.
Again, her heart rate quickens, ears and cheeks flushing hot this time. Even with the erratic rhythm of her heart circulating, a dizzy spell befalls her.
Yoongi's strong hold anchors her weight but, in the process of cradling her unsteady body, the net of clementines tears against the jagged edge of the table.
A flurry of orange unfolds, spilling abundantly over the ground, all thumping and loud and indefinitely rolling in tangential directions. Beckoning attention. Impossible to ignore.
"Fuck," Yoongi breathes against her temple, dotted in summer sweat.
He links his calloused hand with hers and takes flight, in a nature entirely practiced and his own.
Ana doesn't stall to ask what, or who, exactly they are running from. She'd started suspecting as soon as she met the familiar hue of fear on his face, the focused squint of his eyes, the flare of his nostrils in response to adrenaline.
They are prey on the run from the same predator that has chased them to the edges of the forest.
If either of them get caught this time, chances are there won't be any hope reuniting from thereon. The effects would be grave and permanent. That's all she needs to know to match her strides with Yoongi's.
So much for a safe haven.
₊˚♬ Slow Dancing in a Burning Room - John Mayer
Mist hovers the street and in the faint orange of early morning it's as if the heavens have collapsed. A rendition of a fragmented sky collecting at her feet.
In an attempt to preserve heat and subdue a shiver, Solana hugs the hoodie Jeongguk had lent her, after having stripped her of her own appropriately-sized garments and scattered them across his bedroom floor the night prior.
She leaps off the elevated side-walk, onto the faded pavement markings of a pedestrian crossing.
Hopping onto the opposing side-walk, she cranes her head, squints her eyes to peer through the fogged windows of her store.
No lights are on. Stagnant shadows are cast over the front desk and the few flower arrangements she'd managed to set out last night before Jeongguk greedily claimed her attention.
A crisp whistle tears through the silent streets, its echo rising over her head.
She hops to face the street, back turned to her dormant shop.
The tattoo parlor across also sleeps, its neon sign shut off. She lifts her gaze to the windows of the floor above the parlor. A figure leans over the windosill, smiling, toothy, dimpled at the corners, eyes twinkling like those morning stars that refuse to be put out by the radiance of the sun.
Blushing, Solana's nervous gaze rakes his slept-in look - tussled curls, wrinkle tee. Even here, a street away, she can still feel the warmth of his skin on hers.
He motions with his hands for her to step into her store. Doesn't allow himself to hop in for a shower until he's sure she's inside, safe.
Despite her arrival, indicated by the jingle of a bell above the swinging door, the store continues to sleep undisturbed. No one comes running to greet her. She quickly assumes Yoongi's still asleep; that he'd stayed up far later than he'd realized working on his prose only to miss his rise alarm - if he'd even remembered to set one.
His absence, however, is far less questionable than that of a familiar furry tail wrapping around ankles.
Solana coos "Lico?" a number of times, starting at a whisper, rising to a song-like tune.
"Hun?" She bends to seek the tri-colored creature in the spaces beneath furniture. Opens and closes door worried she might have locked him somewhere yesterday without noticing.
Her pulse starts to quicken, thumbing muffled in her ears, such that she doesn't hear the storefront door open.
Having scoured the upstairs kitchen and found no trace of the kitty, her feet clap down the stairs.
"I can't find Lico, Yoongs." She braces her unsteady weight by clasping the railing of the stairs and looks towards the entrance. Fixes her gaze at the back of Yoongi's raven head, wishing for him to turn with Lico in his hold.
With hunched shoulders and a square build, Yoongi works on the number of locks of the door, turning them with a symphony of clicks. Any other day, she would have instantly read him as a red flag, as someone who is hiding something, but today, she can only frantically cry for the stray kitty she'd developed an affinity for.
Yoongi doesn't have to turn to imagine the way horror has stretched her face, widened her eyes, drooped her lips into a frown. He's seen fear in her too many times in their shared life to not have the scarring image seared into memory.
Something in his chest squeezes tightly. A sharp pain piercing him, leaving him staggering for a steady breath. He'd promised to never see that look again; to never have her subjected to fearsome conditions again.
More and more, it seems like every effort at keeping her safe is met with exceeding danger. He can't keep up. The promises falling hollow.
In a voice barely above a whisper, he informs her Lico was involved in a hit-and-run right outside the shop. Tells her he just returned from the animal hospital. "There's not much they could do..."
"What?" Solana's steps thud heavy in approach, behind him. Her quaking hand anchors itself to the sleeve of his shirt. He continues to face the door. Hasn't moved a step since he arrived. Can't bear to look at her.
"You were supposed to be watching him," her voice quivers, on the precipe of shattering. She needs him to tell her it's a cruel joke. She needs him to turn around and have the kitty sleeping soundly in his hold how it so often does.
"I was," he admits. Clears his throat, a heavy lump materializing there, making words hard to form. "I was watching him-"
"-then, what happened?" She angrily tugs at his sleeve, forcing him to turn and face her. Her destroyed gaze demands an explanation, some sort of justification, though none could suffice. Not even from the lips of Yoongi, who she blindly trusts with her life.
An angry red clouds his right eye, so angry that his eyelid is swollen shut. Crusted blood stripes his brow above the assault.
Instictively, Solana stumbles back, mouth handing slack and vacant of words. She rakes her look across him, scans the rest of his body for signs of injury. An abrasion on his lower lip.
Knuckles of his hands a similar shade as his eye, only the flesh is worn and eroded down.
Slowly, she draws near, lifting a hand to gently cup his cheek. "Wh-who did this to you?" Some part of her already knows the answer to that, still, she wants to hear it from his lips. The same lips that would assure her everything would be alright at the end of the day. The lips that always knew the right response.
"I shouldn't have ever come, Ana." Yoongi shatters into a fragile boy she'd never met. Tears stream down his cheeks, mingling with blood, sweat, dirt. In the ten years of calling Yoongi a friend - family - she'd never once seen him shed a single tear, and she'd seen him do horrible things just as many times as she'd seen horrible things being done to him.
"They know."
She pulls him into the tightest embrace her trembling hands can secure, cradles his head over her chest despite his stature.
Her voice barely above a whisper against his temple, "They know?"
Ana's cried so much this night that her cheeks now feel tight and crusted with her tears, frozen into a painful frown. Her hands are clasped over Yoongi's chest, tight, as if he might disappear otherwise. His heart drums lightly but consistently beneath her palm.
"I'm sorry, Sol," his voice cracks, though it's been hours since he arrived and delivered the news. Hours of trying to sit in the grief over the hardwood floor and numb himself to it long enough to regain composure. "I'm sorry for what happened to Lico..." Tears wet the inner sides of her forearms, his cheeks nustled against them. "I'm sorry I guided them here and now it's all ruined."
Ana nuzzles her nose into the crown of his raven head. Inhales his scent. Mumbles into his hair, "You're not ok, Yoongs." It shatters her voice the way it shatters her heart that she failed to protect either of them.
"Please," she begs, "come with me. Let's leave, just us two, like always. We'll change our names, our appearances. We'll keep on the run until we find another safe place to land. You're not safe. I can't lose you, too."
"Ana, I'm so tired...so tired of running..."
They sit in silence. Streaks of warm sunlight pour in through the drawn blinds of the store; Ana had shut them shortly after his arrival, just as she'd twisted the sign to display "Closed." Later today, she'd send out apologies instead of her regular newsletter; offer compensation for the inconvenience in the form of discounts and BOGO offers.
The curtains aren't long enough to touch the ground, so a slight sliver above the ground offers them vantage through the glass of the front door. Shoes march across the side-walk, some march up to the store door and halt before turning away with muffled conversation.
Though it's broad daylight, they haven't been able to turn away from the door. Danger obeys no laws, and would surely neglect the "Closed" sign to collect its debt.
If it had arrived to assault Yoongi last night, what's to say it wouldn't show up whenever, unannounced. It knows their location now. There's no hiding.
"I hate that history's repeating itself," Yoongi remarks in a drained tone, just barely above a whisper, "but you have to leave, Solana. I tried so hard against it. I really did."
"Why won't you come with me?" Her hands grip the collar of his shirt. "It's not a matter of 'can't' because you can. You simply won't. Why?"
"I'll stay and lure them off your trail. It's best this way." "What if they hurt you?"
He doesn't respond. He can't imagine anything hurting more than now.
"You know that Jeon kid," he says, neglecting the subject is only a number of years younger, not an entire decade. He persists to call him that from his youthful appearance. Kid looks like he's never grieved a day in his life. "I think it's time you come clean with him. You've started a life here, ana. Started to cultivate some sense of happiness. You deserve that. Don't give it up."
Ana shakes her head and though Yoongi's not facing her, he can feel her body shake with objection. With fear.
"He doesn't know what I did," her tone's solid, no longer quaking now. Slices firmly through the silence. "Doesn't know me, not the real me, the ugly me I try so hard to shove down, to bury."
Yoongi folds forward, warmth departing from your chest. Swivels in his seat to face her.
She averts his knowing gaze, eyes growing glossy in the faint light.
"I'm scared he won't want me when he finds out." Her lips tremble. "Scared whatever that's growing between us is so fragile that it could end in an instant, with a single confession." Shutting her eyes to tame her emotions, a string of glass-like tears descends her cheek.
Yoongi cups Solana's cheek and wipes the stray tear with his thumb. "It's impossible to not want you."
⊹❤️🔥₊ what are your thoughts on solana x yoongi dynamic? you likey? (i am kind of obsessed with them, tbh)
⊹❤️🔥₊ i swear this is supposed to be a fic where jeongguk's endgame (yoongi has other plans, apparently)
⊹❤️🔥₊ this post will be expanding indefinitely as I concoct scenes involving solana x yoongi so make sure to check back frequently and save the post for future reference :)
⊹❤️🔥₊ this is also cross-posted up on my ao3 profile. to access, click here
narcissus this, narcissus that! he's so egotistic. so self-absorbed, blah blah blah
but like, slow down to actually think about the symbolism of the myth. of the mirror he so persistently holds up to every action, every gesture and facial expression. I think it reveals an awful lot about the human nature, past the self-absorption.
for starters, consider that homo sapiens are one of the few creatures with self-awareness - as in they can peer into a mirror and recognize what they see as a reflection of the self. whereas, other creatures perceive the image as some other being.
perhaps narcissus only represents that transition from our animalistic ancestors to this higher functioning existence of self-awareness, of consciousness - that extends to encompass the benefits and the punishments of it.
as a human, it's awful to be so self-aware at times. but sometimes it can be a gift.
idk. u get me? i just think it's awfully poetic? misrepresented myth, honestly.
anyways, im going to bed or whatever.
maybe i'll just lie in bed staring at the dim ceiling contemplating my existence and its meaning - something i probably wouldn't preoccupy myself with if I were a creature without self-awareness.
-penned by j. m. medna (2024)
Day 1: Kate being Kate (Menace)
Anthony Bridgerton was not hiding. He was the Lord of Aubrey Hall and if he so happened to choose to spend his afternoon seated in his office rather than greeting the arriving guests, that was his prerogative. And he really did have work to get done, which was probably why his mother had only put up token protests at his planned absence.
Of course, he was not actually working, but he was not hiding, either, and that seemed the most important point. It honestly wouldn't have mattered if he'd tried. Where could a man hide from his own dreams? There was no escaping his unconscious-- no settling his mind or body because Kate Sheffield was…
Walking in the gardens right outside his window. Of course she was; an apparition made real before his very eyes.
Kate was facing away from him, walking-- marching, really-- toward his mother's flower garden like it was her job. She never glided or moved at a sedate pace like other women of his acquaintance. Kate strode with purpose. Even without her signature dark, thick curly hair and the soft curve of her waist meeting her bottom (the memory of squeezing said bottom being a favorite to torture himself with), Anthony knew he would have recognized her from her gait alone.
Did he know Edwina's walk?
The thought came unbidden to his mind and Anthony frowned momentarily. He had walked with her on several occasions and yet he could not say for certain how she moved. Gracefully, he supposed, as the incomparable must. Probably at a benignly moderate pace befitting a genteel woman of her height. Which was about a half of a head shorter than Kate.
Like clockwork his mind was back on Kate again. He couldn't even see her any longer, she'd made it into the no garden near the tulips. Kate was very fond of tulip style sleeves; he wondered absently if she was also partial to the flowers.
Another unbidden thought came into his mind (did Edwina have a preferred style of sleeve?) but he squashed it ruthlessly. That way led to madness. There would be time aplenty to learn all the intricacies and minutiae of his future bride once they were married.
Anthony stood, suddenly restless. It was no good being cooped up indoors when the weather was so fine. A walk through the gardens would be just the thing. And if he happened to run into Kate, the more the better as it would provide him another opportunity to press his suit.
His mind flashed to the memory of Kate pressed against him and he shook his head emphatically in an attempt to clear it from his mind. Anthony was pursuing Edwina Sheffield not her stubborn, belligerent, appealing menace of an older sister. (The irony that he had decided to quite literally pursue Kate out of doors was not lost on him.)
Still, it was with supreme confidence that Anthony exited Aubrey Hall and stepped into the sunshine-- the kind of confidence peers of the realm always seemed to be in possession of. He would conquer whatever hold Kate Sheffield had over him and marry her perfectly nice, perfectly bland sister simply because that was what he had decided to do.
He just had to find her first...
Day 2: Kate and Edwina (Sisterhood)
Kate sighed quietly as she slipped into the room in the boarding house she shared with her sister, Edwina. It has been a particularly long day spent in her apprenticeship, trying to work out the stitching for the bonnet she was meant to finish this week. It was murder on her hands but the pay was good and they needed the funds if they were going to survive in London.
London. Kate closed her eyes for a moment. They should have never come here-- should have never had to come here. But Somerset was a small village with no theaters and Edwina….
Edwina had real talent. Not even sixteen and she was already appearing in Romeo and Juliet. As a background actress, admittedly, but it was still impressive. Her natural beauty shone on stage and Kate was certain it was only a matter of time before she won a lead role.
Of course that was the problem-- time. Kate and Edwina had lost both their father, who had already been sick for several years, and Mary much more suddenly to a terrible flu one year earlier. Kate was barely eighteen then and it had been a terrible shock. Lord Sheffield, their father's older brother and the only living relation who acknowledged them, was too deep in debt to take them in.
They visited their uncle for a spell as they sold what little they could for capital and then made their way to London in search of reliable employment. Thankfully, their father's former steward was able to help Kate find an apprenticeship at a family run milliner's shop. It was not easy and she was the first to admit she didn't take to it naturally, but she worked hard and that was enough to keep her employed. For now.
Day 3: Kate and Newton (Menace)
Kate is interviewing a dog walker. Anthony helps.
Or, for Kate, denial is not just a river in Egypt when it comes to her beloved Newton.
Day 4: Kate and the Bridgertons (Mallet of Death)
Katharine Sheffield walked down the street like she owned it. She was a tall woman-- the heels she wore had her standing easily over six feet. With dark, intelligent eyes that never missed a beat and darker curly hair framing her face, she was striking. Not beautiful exactly but there was something about her.
Colin only met her once but she'd made a strong impression. Judging by the wary look Anthony was giving her, he wasn't the only one who thought that.
"Bridgertons," she nodded once in greeting, "it's been a while."
When Anthony didn't pick up the thread, Colin slapped an obviously fake grin on his face. "Kate. Nearly five years since you testified against me."
Kate smiled back, all sharp edges. "Well, you did steal a painting insured by my employer for several million dollars."
"Allegedly," Anthony interrupted, ever the lawyer.
Kate's gaze jumped to the older brother and narrowed, eyes ice cold. "Allegedly," she repeated dryly.
They stared at each other unblinking for a long moment. "Well, isn't this just a happy reunion..." Colin said in a soto voice.
"Colin," Anthony snapped in a warning tone. He looked back at Kate. "You called for a reason?" he prompted.
Looking a bit like she'd smelled something rotten (and that something was them), Kate nodded. "My company, ARTE Generali, insured a hundred million in non-government Japanese bearer bonds."
Colin whistled. "Samurai bonds. Nice." Two matching glares snapped to his face and he held up his hands innocently. An illusion neither was buying, especially when he decided to ask: "That's a hundred million in yen or U.S. dollars?"
"Dollars," Kate confirmed with an unamused eye roll. No one was calling the FBI over a hundred million yen-- that was pocket change for a company like ARTE Generali.
Head tilted thoughtfully, Colin couldn't help asking, "And what's your cut if you recover them?"
Kate smirked. "Two percent." Colin resisted the urge to whistle again. "Which I only see if we find them, so…" She pulled a manila folder from her bag and handed it to Anthony who immediately flipped it open. "The truck was hijacked in transport, and I think the bonds are somewhere here in New York."
All of the earlier tension seemed to have dissipated as Anthony focused on the business at hand. "Danbury said you believe Nigel Berbrook is involved."
Kate nodded distractedly, something nearby catching her eye.
Anthony handed Colin the file to flip through-- it held pictures of the missing bonds, the truck, Berbrook. "Big international real-estate guy," Colin commented absently as he skimmed the man's biosheet. "He can move them without raising flags."
Kate's sharp gaze cut back to him for a moment. "Yes, he can." She offered another grin that could cut glass. "Excuse me for a moment."
Colin watched as Kate spoke quietly with the valet before glancing surreptitiously at his brother. Anthony looked… well, honestly, Colin wasn't certain what the expression on his brother's face meant. When he turned his gaze back to Kate, she was accepting the keys to an incredibly expensive looking car.
A man in a suit rushed out to the street. "Hey! That's my car! What the hell--?"
"Mr. Hartside, listen to me," Kate said in a confident, no-nonsense tone, "you can change the vin numbers, you can change the grill, the paint-- it's still an Aston Martin Victor. I know because you did not change the electronic vin behind the steering wheel."
The man's face was turning the most interesting magenta color. "You're crazy! You're stealing my car!"
"No, you stole it. I'm taking it back." Hartside reached into his jacket but Kate was faster. She pulled out a baton and made quick work of him, landing her final blow to the shin. Colin winced-- that had to hurt. "You are more than welcome to file a complaint with the FBI," she added, nodding toward them.
Hartside looked at Anthony who was already flashing his badge. "Special Agent Bridgerton, FBI."
The man, whose complexion had made a startling turn from red to white, tried to hurry away despite having been rather effectively hobbled. "This is obviously a misunderstanding. I should…"
Anthony pulled out his cuffs. "You should stop walking and keep your hands where I can see them."
"Yeah, running just annoys him," Colin told Hartside, flashing a charming smile toward his brother. He walked over to Kate who was now leaning against the car watching the arrest with mild interest. "So you're basically a high-class repo person."
Kate's predatory smile returned. "I prefer white-collar bounty hunter."
"Pithy," Anthony grunted as he wrangled Hartside. "Damn it, Kate, do you always have to go for the shins?"
With wide innocent eyes no one who'd witnessed the last five minutes would ever believe, Kate shrugged. "It was my only defense." There was something hard in her tone that hadn't been there before and Colin didn't miss his brother's responding grimace.
Kate pushed herself off the car and pulled a card from her bag. "When you want to talk about that painting, call me." She pressed the card firmly to Colin's chest until he took it but her gaze was on Anthony. "Bridgertons." The corner of her mouth ticked upwards. "Hartside."
She walked around to the open car door, slid inside like she belonged there and drove off. Colin let out a long exhale, relieved she'd left. There was something too perceptive about Katharine Sheffield. She was dangerous.
Day 5: Kate and her 3 parents (Watercolors)
[TW: dying parent (canonical) and the grief that causes]
Kate did not paint portraits. Watercolors were a notoriously tricky medium and getting a person's likeness was no easy task. She'd really only tried once.
Her father had been ill for several months. He wasn't confined to bed (that would come later) but his movements were no longer smooth and graceful. He would get winded easily and often spent much of the day reclined.
It was hard to see him like that. Miles Sheffield had been strong-- vibrant and active and full of energy. The illness had taken that from him.
But it hadn't taken his smile. It was obvious to Kate that her father was in a great deal of pain but his eyes still twinkled and his laughter was filled with mirth as he teased his wife and daughters.
The doctors had warned that he would only get worse and Kate wanted nothing more than to capture that smile before it was gone. Only she couldn't seem to get the likeness right. It was lifeless and muddled and the colors blurred before her eyes.
"Kate." Mary's voice cut through her gaze and she looked up from her easel in confusion. "Oh Kate, what is the matter?"
Dimly, she realized the room was still blurry, that she was crying. "I--" The words caught in her throat. "I am trying--" she choked, "not to forget."
Mary embraced her. "Oh Kate, you will remember him. I promise you will."
"But I have already lost--" Kate cut herself off, eyes wide with horror. The words my mother hung unspoken between them.
Mary only held her closer, hands rubbing soothing circles around her back. "I know, sweetheart. I know."
Storms aside, Kate did not cry. Not when she fell and skinned her knees, not when being punished for misbehaving, not when their beloved corgi Kepler passed. Just this once, she indulged herself.
After a spell, her gasping breaths calmed to sniffles. Kate pulled away from Mary and wiped her eyes. "Sorry, I just… I cannot let him fade away too." Her aching heart couldn't take it.
Mary took her hand and squeezed. "Never apologize for loving someone, Kate. It's a beautiful gift."
Her throat felt dry and Kate had the distinct feeling that, if she let herself, she might crumble. So she straightened her spine and pulled her hand back. "Thank you, Mary." She truly meant it but the words didn't sound right.
"Of course, darling," Mary replied, voice tinged with lingering sadness. "What will you do with the painting?"
Kate pulled it from the easel-- ironically dry because Kate's face was wet-- and folded it. Rather than answer, she said, "I believe I shall return to landscapes for the time being."
Recognizing the obvious subject change, Mary nodded. "Somerset is lovely this time of year."
"It is," she agreed, unable to keep the obvious relief from her face.
They spoke for a few more minutes about nothing of import until Kate excused herself. She went to her room and placed the still folded failed portrait on her dressing table. Part of her wanted to destroy it (she'd captured her father so poorly) but something inside her chest squeezed in protest at the thought.
She placed the folded paper into her trunk instead. It felt right, sat next to her other special keepsakes. She ran a hand over it one final time. Perhaps someday she might even be glad she'd painted it.
Day 6: Kate and Anthony (Menace)
After returning Edwina to her chaperoning mother, Anthony was quickly waved over to the refreshments by his younger brother Colin. Standing beside him was a tall dark haired woman Anthony had not met before.
"Brother!" Colin grinned widely-- generally a bad sign for Anthony. "Miss Sheffield and I were just speaking of you."
"Miss… Sheffield," he repeated slowly.
"Edwina is my younger sister," she said stiffly.
Though she stood a head taller and had more angular features, he could see a familial resemblance around the eyes and nose area. "Ah, yes. The gatekeeper."
This was quite obviously the wrong thing to say. Miss Sheffield's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Excuse me?"
Never one to retreat, Anthony instead doubled down. "Your sister did say she would not marry without your approval, did she not?"
Miss Sheffield raised her brows. "So in this scenario, the gate I am keeping is for becoming betrothed to Edwina?"
"I suppose, yes," Anthony agreed with all the arrogance of a (future) member of the peerage.
"Hmmmph." Somehow Miss Sheffield managed to imbue quite a lot of disapproval into the sound. (It reminded him a bit too much of Lady Danbury, an elderly matron known for speaking her mind freely, wielding a cane with deadly accuracy and whom most of the ton had a very healthy fear of.)
"Brother," Colin spoke up, reminding Anthony he was still standing there, "I have promised Miss Sheffield the next dance. Unfortunately I have just now realized I also promised the dance to Miss Featherington."
Anthony was not feeling particularly charitable at that moment and smiled insincerely in response. "Shall I find Penelope to act as substitute?"
"Nonsense!" Colin waved the suggestion away. "Miss Sheffield is here-- take her to the floor and I shall handle Miss Featherington."
"I am certain the future Viscount is quite in demand," Miss Sheffield sniffed, injecting a remarkable amount of disdain into what should have been a complementary sentiment. "I release you of your obligation."
"No, that will not do!" Colin's charm was out in full force. "I would feel simply terrible if you were forced to sit out because of my inexcusable error."
"Really, I--"
That was enough for Anthony. He actually was quite in demand but being refused by this impertinent chit was raising his hackles. "Come Miss Sheffield," he interrupted, taking her arm none too gently and steering her toward the floor.
When they reached their spot, he turned to face her. Miss Sheffield smirked up at him. "You are going to regret this decision."
"Oh?" Anthony raised his brows. "I am not known for having many regrets."
"Yes, well," she looked away and he might've thought her bashful if she were not standing quite so straight, "I hope you wore thick boots."
Anthony waited until she met his gaze again to respond. "You would not dare."
She smiled a bit ruefully. "Honestly, I could not prevent it if I tried. I am a notoriously terrible dancer."
That startled a laugh from him. "Well then I shall hope my boots are sturdy enough indeed."
As it happened they were not. Oh, they handled Miss Sheffield's missteps well enough but when she stomped on his foot at the close of the dance it was all he could do not to swear aloud. He had, admittedly, baited her but such a juvenile response was shocking.
Anthony did not escort her from the dancefloor. In truth she swept off before he could offer-- not that he would have after such a display but it still irked him. Instead he limped to where his parents were standing, both looking perplexed, as Colin practically cried with laughter.
"Did you even dance with Penelope?" Anthony demanded in lieu of a greeting.
Colin couldn't seem to catch his breath, he was wheezing as he nodded.
Violet tutted at the younger brother, while Edmund pulled Anthony toward him. "Is everything all right, son?"
"Fine," he all but growled. Catching his father's startled expression (Anthony rarely had such fits of pique in his presence), he forced himself to take a deep breath. "Fine," he repeated in a calmer tone. He caught sight of Miss Sheffield and felt his neck heat in anger again. "But that woman is a menace."
Edmund spluttered, clearly trying to suppress a laugh of his own. Anthony gave it up as a bad job and excused himself to head to his club. He had had quite enough of the ton for one night.
Day 7: Kate and her future (Nothing but sweetness and light)
Kate was not an early riser by nature but every once in a while her eyes would pop open after the first light of morning when everything was quiet and fresh and new. When the future felt endlessly full of possibilities. When she could have or be or want and no one would know. The stillness held all her secrets.
Sometimes she would think of Edwina, of her prospects and future, both so bright. Before they'd come to London there were no specifics but as suitors made themselves known, Kate would imagine living her spinster years on their generosity, helping Edwina with her children.
It never felt quite right. None of these men were for Edwina, she was certain (especially not Lord Bridgerton). Her sister would make a wonderful match, a love match if possible. Kate would make sure of it.
More often on these quiet mornings, Kate would imagine her own future life. Not the one she was confident would come to pass (her spinsterhood and continued poverty) but the one she could scarcely allow herself to hope for. A future where she had a family of her very own.
There was always a husband but he was a faceless, nebulous sort of creature that surely existed but had very little impact. It was the children she felt fill her heart. Perhaps a boy with her sharp features but lighter hair and eyes or a girl with her wild curls and chubby cheeks.
She sometimes rested a hand on her flat stomach and thought about all the ways they would change her. Mary's confinement had been fascinating to Kate, watching as her belly grew and grew until one day a squalling Edwina emerged as if by magic.
It was magic, Kate decided, and one of the few powers men did not hold. Only women could bring life into the world.
Eventually, she would sigh and put her fantasies away. It might be a woman's power to create life but it was one Kate knew she would never hold. She would not be a mother no matter how she wished for it because that faceless, nebulous husband did not exist, not for her. (And if there was a face that had begun to appear in her mind's eye, well, no one needed to know but her.)
The bright light of day held no space for impossible dreams. Kate saw the future with clarity-- in a few months, she would return to Somerset with Mary after ensuring Edwina made an exceptional match. She would be the best aunt her sister's children could hope for and it would be enough. Her family, small and full of so much love, was enough.
Day 1: Riding before dawn
She couldn't keep him. Kate knew that.
or
Kate and Anthony have morning sex with a side of angst.
Day 2: Lillies
Kate has a very specific theme to the gifts she gives Anthony. These are five times the Bridgerton siblings noticed said gifts (and the time that started it all).
Day 3: Don't Leave
It was so, so late. Anthony should have been home hours earlier, but he just... couldn't. Kate was already in bed, curled away from his side. His limbs felt clumsy as he tried to quietly undress.
"It's okay, you know." Her voice cut like a knife through the oppressive silence in the room. "You never made me any promises. You don't owe me anything."
It felt like there was a vice in his chest squeezing impossibly tight.
"This is your home," she continued, clearly oblivious to his misery, "I never want you to feel like you can't be here. I can always stay with Ed or Mary--"
"No," it sounded as strangled as he felt. "You don't have to leave."
Kate let out a quiet huff. "I know that I don't have to, but I--"
Anthony cut her off again. "Please don't. I… I want you to stay."
The silence stretched out between them for an impossibly long time.
"Okay," she said finally but something was off in her tone. "Now come to bed. It's late and we both have early mornings."
Anthony did as he was told but the vice refused to loosen. Sleep was elusive that night.
Day 4: He is YOUR dog
Suddenly Hyacinth was in front of him, tugging his sleeve. "Anthony, there is a dog!"
"Hmm?" His eyes followed her pointing to a rotund corgi on a lead that was held by… Miss Sheffield. As if his mind had conjured her.
Anthony swallowed reflexively. Her head was tilted back, allowing the sun to warm her face. She was wearing deep purple today and was, naturally, as striking as ever.
"Please may we say hello to the dog?" Hyacinth asked eagerly. "Please, please!" Gregory appeared more interested in the owner than the dog but Anthony decided not to dwell on that, for both their sakes.
There was nothing for it. He'd have no peace either way but at least if they said hello he wouldn't have sullen children on his hands, too. "I think that is a question better directed to his owner. Shall we ask Miss Sheffield?"
That was all the encouragement the young Bridgertons needed. They raced off enthusiastically with Anthony and Nanny following quickly behind, the latter scolding them to walk like ladies and gentlemen. (A bit of a tall order given their ages.)
By the time Anthony arrived, his siblings were foisting a truly spectacular amount of attention upon Miss Sheffield's corgi. He nodded his greeting and she returned it with a curtsey. "Did they at least introduce themselves?" he asked, expression doubtful.
"I believe they were overcome, Mr. Bridgerton." She smiled indulgently toward the youngsters and he had the terrifying thought that she would make a wonderful mother someday. Her expression became tense when she looked at him again. "They are your..?"
"Siblings," he confirmed.
Only Gregory acknowledged him, waving shyly. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sheffield," he said politely, flushed.
"And I yours, Mr. Bridgerton," she replied kindly.
Face now fully pink, Gregory muttered something and turned toward the dog. (Overcome indeed.)
There was a long stretch of silence between them that was not precisely comfortable as the pinched look had returned to Miss Sheffield's face. Anthony cast about for something to say that wasn't inane smalltalk. (He had never had the patience for that.) Looking again at his happy family, inspiration finally struck. "Will you not introduce me to your companion?"
She let out a startled laugh. Well, it was more of an amused huff but Anthony was pleased all the same. "If you wish. This is Newton." The corgi, who had been on his back accepting belly rubs, perked up at his name. The corners of her mouth lifted into a fond smile. "He is an excellent judge of character."
Anthony suspected he had a very similar look on his face. "So he is."
Day 6: Viscountess
"I was going to ask you to marry me."
Kate stopped breathing. "What?"
"I was going to ask for your hand. I even picked out a ring– it's in my quarters but I can get it if you–"
Kate shook her head. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why were you going to propose?"
Anthony frowned. "Because it makes sense, I suppose. You need money for Edwina's season, I need a wife. We have good conversation, shared values, undeniable chemistry. And I have every confidence you will be an excellent Viscountess."
"What about love?"
"I never planned on marrying for love and neither did you."
Kate felt her heart shatter into a million pieces. The straightforward manner in which he spoke told her everything she needed to know. While she had been falling in love with him, he had felt none of those feelings.
Day 7: Aubrey Hall
Seeing Aubrey Hall brings into sharp relief what a lady author meant in her descriptions of another great estate.
Day 5 (super late): Do you want me to reconsider?
"When all's said and done, all roads lead to the same end. So it's not so much which road you take, as how you take it." - Charles de Lint
or
Four conversations Kate and Anthony did not have and one they might've.
Kate Sharma x Lucy Granville (because self-realized women are awesome)
"Do you need assistance with your clothes, Miss Sharma?"
Kate shook her head, cheeks warming. She had needed help not so long ago. Her clothes had been slightly outdated but well made; now they were hardly better than rags.
She took the clothes from Lucy but the other woman did not move away. Instead she brushed Kate's curls back from her face. "You have remarkable features. It's why I suggested you model in the first place."
"Th-thank you?"
"I speak only the truth."
Still she did not move away. "Lady Granville, I have to change…"
"Please, call me Lucy." Kate nodded. "And I may call you Kate?" She nodded again. "Kate… do you know what happens here in the late hours?"
Kate shook her head, eyes wide.
"We are bohemians, Mr. Granville and I. We take pleasure as we wish– but only as it is offered freely. Do you understand?"
Kate shook her head again.
"I like you, Kate. You are beautiful and different, and I should like to kiss you," Kate inhaled sharply, "but only if you should also wish it. Should you not, we need never speak of this again. Your invitation here is secure regardless of your choices tonight– or, indeed, any night." A sensual smile formed in her lips. "The goal is pleasure for all involved."
"But will I not be… fallen?" Kate hated the timidity in her voice but her virtue was all that remained of her former life.
"Perhaps in the eyes of some but it is not for them to know what we do here. And the act men of God speak of– the one that results in children– requires at least one man be present." Lucy placed a hand on her cheek. "The kiss, dear Kate, would be just for us."
"Okay."
Lucy smiled and it warmed her whole face. She placed Kate's clothes on a nearby chair and then moved close again. Tucking another stubborn strand behind Kate's ear, she leaned close and brought their lips together.
"Because fate has a funny way of mending things back together. I mean you are here and I am here, and we’ll find each other again, that is, if that’s the way it’s supposed to be." - R.M Drake
or
What if Anthony didn't return after he was spooked by Kate? A TVWLM second chances modern AU.