The glare she shot him would have stilled a charging bull, let alone a solitary cripple. Just as quick, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around Ravel’s good hand, stopping his stupidity in its tracks.
“Wait.”
Without the shock of failure looming over her, Elizabeth was quick to act. As always, practicality hastened her steps. A lap of the room yielded clean towels and bandages, which she dumped on a nearby table. Then she returned, taking him firmly by the shoulders and steering him to the chair.
(Though not before removing the cushion from its seat. Her overarching concern right now might’ve been his welfare, but that didn’t mean she’d sacrifice a perfectly good piece of furniture for him.)
“Sit. Floor be damned, if you pass out on me, I’m not picking you off the ground,” she explained reproachfully. “Now you may continue…”
Her glare could’ve given Medusa a run for a money. Ravel was barely able to contain the instinct to drop his gaze before her fingers caught his uninjured hand, just about to yank the knife free.
A single word stilled him. Iron-like grip around the hilt of the knife, he watched her gather practicalities he couldn’t have bothered thinking about. The first thing he would always do would be to isolate and remove the threat. The consequences would come later.
Elizabeth steering, he found himself sitting down, stretching now so that his hand was still fixed in its position, pinned by the knife. He figured he looked like a fool: Both arms above his head, teeth grinding together, sweat starting to coat his brow-
“You will,” he said, flashing her a pained smile. “No one can resist a hurt puppy. No one.”
Turning away from her, Ravel pulled the knife, immediately dropping his hands to his lap, lest blood spray the rest of the wall. Air hit the wound, a hiss escaping his lips, turning into a laugh at the last minute.
“ why can’t things just go back to normal? ” ( heyyyy i wanna try anton again )
ANGSTY RELATIONSHIP STARTERS
“What is normal, Anton?”
He’s nursing his third drink, sweating in the godawful afternoon heat. The whiskey tastes bitter, but maybe it’s his words.
“The trenches? The live-tonight-and-die-tomorrow missions? The blood, the sweat, the tears?” Ravel grins, humorlessly. “Normal is an illusion. Chaos runs deep, and you best believe it.”
send me five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses kissed || accepting
i. the hibernian cinema, 2009.
the fight with tesseract leaves them all tickets to dr. kenspeckle’s. every breath ravel takes makes him feel like he’s about to have a heart attack, every movement causing a wince and a shudder of pain to run through him.
broken ribs. the good doctor admonishes him when he says he needs to leave, that corrival will undoubtedly want to hear about this. “i’ll be fine, dr. grouse. thank you.”
the doctor grumbles, moves away to attend to someone else, and ravel takes stock of his friends: they’re all visible, except valkyrie- and just to prove to himself that she’s alive, he twitches aside the curtain.
there is she. neck-deep in healing sludge, bruised and banged up, but certainly alive. he’s about to leave her when her eyes open, and she gives him a tired smile.
“you should listen to dr. kenspeckle, you know.”
“corrival needs to know. and so do the other sanctuaries.” he steps closer, letting the curtain fall behind him. “a little travel won’t hurt.”
“you never know.”
he blows her a kiss, but she calls his name as he turns to leave- and when he turns back, she blows him one of her own.
ravel humors her: catches it in one hand, pretends to put it in his breast pocket. but it feels like it’s a real, tangible thing- the whole day, ravel thinks he can feel its weight, hear its little beat, just a note louder than his own heart.
ii. the requiem ball, 2011.
it starts with a joke: ravel pulling her away from the dead men, whispering, “i really don’t want to talk to these people.”
it starts with the orchestra striking up another song, something he remembers from the previous requiem ball; with one hand on her waist, the other holding her left; with them moving closer and closer until they’re pressed against one another, swaying together with the music.
her head rests on his shoulder, and over the top of her head, he can see skulduggery coming over for the next dance.
ravel kisses her before skulduggery reaches them, on the cheek, a gesture that lingers a moment too long.
“the next ball,” he says, as valkyrie turns away to smile at skulduggery, gently letting go of him. “i get to lead, alright?”
her laughter stays with him the whole night.
iii. roarhaven, 2013.
the meeting does not go smoothly: arguments about the power the supreme council holds above the other sanctuaries fly back and forth, about the power of the accelerator, and all ravel wants to do is to crack open the english elders’ skulls.
it seems too long until it is over. he’s more than pleased to watch everyone file out of the meeting room, waiting to be the last, to say something he’s been wanting to say for some time-
“valkyrie,” he calls. she’s the last to leave the room, behind skulduggery.
his brother looks at her. words, quiet, are exchanged, before she turns and joins him at the table. “is something the matter?”
“skulduggery told me. happy birthday, valkyrie.”
she flashes him a smile, a cheeky, “so, where’s my present? it better not be a sti-”
ravel leans in and kisses her. it’s a long kiss: her lips are warm, pleasant, and he’s faintly aware of her fingers in his hair, his hand on the small of her back.
and when he pulls back, gently, he’s pleased to see the color flooding her cheeks. “i love you. does that count as a birthday present?”
the punch she gives him is worth it tenfold.
iv. roarhaven, 2013.
he’s sitting by the wall, when skulduggery hauls him up by the collar of his shirt.
“since you liked using the accelerator so much,” his once-brother says, dragging him towards the machine. “you’re going to help us shut it down.”
no. the color drains of out ravel’s face, and he struggles to free himself of skulduggery’s iron grip, but he’s too weak, too disorientated to function properly. “no, no, no-”
“what are you doing?” valkyrie, at skulduggery’s shoulder, one hand on the detective’s arm. “skulduggery, stop, no-”
the accelerator needs a soul to shut it down. willing or not is a matter that does not concern it. nor does it concern skulduggery, it seems.
(your penance. this is your penance.)
ravel’s hand slaps weakly against skulduggery’s cheek. “you’re a goddamn hypocrite, pleasant. you’re a goddamn-”
“shut up.” what a voice. what a cold, cold voice. “it’s what you deserve.”
ravel’s gaze meets valkyrie’s, as she tries to slow skulduggery’s stride. between the three of them, he knows she will pick skulduggery. they may be in love, but skulduggery is something even ravel himself cannot match up to.
“valkyrie, stand back,” skulduggery says, calmly, and ravel knows he can’t get out of this.
“let me at least hit him.” her voice hardens, but there are tears in her eyes.
skulduggery stops, for a moment, and valkyrie pulls ravel from him, so that they’re standing behind him. she slaps him. of course she does.
but she kisses him after, quick enough to be inconspicuous, quick enough that ravel barely has time to kiss her back, to mouth ‘i love you’-
and then skulduggery’s hands are on him again, and he’s being dragged towards the accelerator-
i love you, ravel thinks, as he is pushed into the accelerator. light blooms, unfurls, and everything is so bright.
i love you, i love you, i love you-
v. roarhaven, 2014.
after the funerals, they go down to the memorial wall, conjure up the holographs of the dead, the lost, the murdered.
ghastly’s serious countenance, frozen in time. anton’s calmness peering out from a space in time they cannot reach.
she waits until the others leave, tells skulduggery that she’ll be out in a minute, that she needs some time to herself.
“i’ll be waiting by the bentley,” he says, squeezing her shoulder, moving off.
she waits. she can afford to wait, until his footsteps have receded, until the silence of the sanctuary seeps into her bones and waits there. it’s only then does she make the other holographs vanish.
it’s only then that she makes him appear.
(some argue he shouldn’t be on this wall, for what he did. but the remaining dead men wanted to preserve him as he was, as he should’ve been.
the hatred remains, but memories cannot be overwritten. a child can tell you that.)
he’s gazing stoically into the distance, that easy grin on his face. it’s almost as if he’s waiting for her to turn around, to see the same wonder he’s seeing, the next big adventure.
valkyrie wants to reach out. wants to touch him, to feel something tangible in her grasp for once. wants his laugh to ring out, clear as day, for him to suddenly spring to life and say, “come on, i’ll buy you lunch if you skip meetings with me.”
she steps back instead. she moves away from him, walks towards the steps, willing herself not to look back, not to look back, don’t-
at the very top of the stairs, she does.
the holograph is still there. he is still there.
i love you, he told her. my warrior princess, my summer delight.
“i love you, too,” she whispers, and blows him one last kiss.
(he doesn’t blow one back.)
turning away, valkyrie takes that final step out into the weak sunshine.
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