Something’s bothering Aaron. Ciar can see it, plain as day. There’s some...leftover worry that it’s about the talk they had earlier. Maybe Aaron’s finally gotten around to mulling over the idea that his significant other isn’t totally a boy, and maybe it’s finally bothering him now. Still, Aaron doesn’t mince words or pull verbal punches. So Ciar trusts that when he knows what he wants to say, he’ll say it.
It makes the moment, lazily sprawled in bed together, Ciar’s head under Aaron’s chin, a little tenser. Anticipation mars the gentle brush of fingers through Ciaran’s hair, but only just.
Aaron’s thoughts, however, are miles away from however the hell Ciaran wants to identify. The only way something like that is important to Aaron is insofar as it’s important to Ciaran. It doesn’t have an actual effect on him. Ciar is Ciar, and Aaron loves him. And it’s not just the teenage hormones that make him sure he always will. For some reason or another, Aaron can’t stop thinking about Ciar playing with those rabbits. It nags at him relentlessly. He hadn’t said the terrible things just to be a dick, either. He was (and still) genuinely confused as to why Ciar bothers so much with the animals knowing full well that Aaron is going to slit their throats when they reach the right age.
Aaron is brought back to himself for a moment when Ciar shifts against him, pulls the blanket up over them. Aaron watches while the muted light of the bedside lamp casts long shadows over Ciar, sighing heavily as he finally finds the question he wants to ask. Well, not the question. But a question, at least.
“Does it bother you that I’m going to kill those rabbits?”
It’s clearly not the question Ciar is preparing for, and Aaron thinks he might see Ciar actually relax a little more. A careful glance is thrown at Aaron.
“It would bother me if I thought you liked doing it.”
Fair.
“I would tell you if I had a problem with it,” Ciar continues, stretching lazily.
Aaron knows he would, and the witch feels more uncomfortable now as he gets just a little closer to what’s bothering him.
“Why --- play with them? Love them?” He doesn’t know if Ciar loves them, but he gets the impression that Ciar loves life in general. Aaron respects it, but Ciar seems to love it. “You know they’re going to die.”
“Isn’t that all the more reason to love them?” Ciaran asks. And that’s when Aaron’s pretty sure that Ciar is onto him. Whenever Ciar starts answering questions with questions, Aaron knows he’s being too transparent. But whatever. He might know what’s happening, but sometimes the leading questions help. It doesn’t hurt to let Ciar lead him there.
“I don’t know. It’ll hurt you when they die, won’t it?” Aaron doesn’t want to hurt Ciar.
Too smart for Aaron, Ciar stays quiet and presses a kiss to Aaron’s palm. They both know, now, where the conversation’s going. Part of Aaron wants to let that be enough; he doesn’t want to have to say it. That makes it too real.
A kiss on a beach, new and shaky. Ciar in his lap, knowing they’ve reached the end of the road. Once, when they didn’t have time for even that.
“I’m going to die.” And is loving him worth it knowing that? Aaron closes his eyes for a second, surprised at the sudden stinging. He shouldn’t have said it. “I just…”
“Mo shíorghrá,” Ciaran hushes, quiet but firm.
But it’s a second too late to stop the question. Can you lead a horse away from water?
“Why? If you know I’m going to die, why stay?”
There’s no good, easy answer to that question. It’s too late, and they’re too young.
“I want to be here,” he tells Aaron, and there’s no room for argument. “So I’m staying.” A kiss is pressed gently to the corner of Aaron’s mouth. “It’s worth it. Now, sleep.”
an overdue, long ass drabble. intimate coven moments, an embarrassing petname, and quite a bit of blood.
Aaron is about as useless in a confrontation as he said he was just a couple weeks earlier. His talents lie in careful planning and sabotage, not a firefight. Not a split second decision or a moment of truth. But what he can do is help the ones who are. Help the ones who know how to fight. Well, very few of them actually know how to fight, but there are some more equipped and able than he is. What he can do is keep an eye on them.
For all the irony that it is Aaron doing this, he can protect them in some measure. He’s working on the wolf now. Well, one of them. Jace’s wolf was the only one willing to be part of this stage. Ash’s face screws up, probably at the smell, as Aaron draws in surprisingly clean circles on the back of his hand.
Meanwhile, Ash really is wondering how the hell blood that has clearly been sitting out for at least the thirty minutes he’s been in this clearing with them hasn’t started getting clumpy and weird yet. And it inexplicably stays crimson red when it touches his skin and dries there. He looks anywhere but at the mean, pale boy that’s touching him. That’s way, way grosser than the blood. It smells like rabbit. Well, mostly rabbit. Ash’s gaze rests on Solana for a second, still trying to wrap his mind around what exactly her role in this is. Aaron’s not exactly forthcoming with information, but if Ash understands it right (and he probably doesn’t), the bloody sigils will keep Aaron --- connected to them. Somehow? And Solana, god bless her, is willing to dig around in Aaron’s stinky, evil brain so she can keep everyone else updated? It seems covert and way over the top to Ash, but Jace and Rose aren’t arguing, so why should he?
Aaron’s distracted while he works on Ash. He knows Ash doesn’t like him, and frankly, the feeling is mutual. Aaron’s fine with the quiet dislike they’ve got going on, and he’s got other things to think about. This moment (the moment that’s stretching near half an hour) feels like deja vu. Aaron’s like is filled with little moments like that. Moments that feel familiar. More often than not because he’s lived them before. A nagging, gnawing feeling makes Aaron pessimistic. Someone could very well die today. And the markings Aaron is painstakingly making on their skin ensures that he will know the exact moment it happens.
“Done,” he says tersely, leaving a final mark in the center of the wolf’s palm. Aaron doesn’t exactly want something bad to happen to this guy, but he also doesn’t offer him any words of caution. Not a ‘good luck’, either. It’d feel insincere, and Aaron doesn’t exactly believe in saying things just to make people feel better. Either he means it sincerely, he wants something from you, or he isn’t going to say it at all. Those are the three options, and Ash has exactly nothing that Aaron is interested in.
Next on the roster is Rose, and Aaron is actually sort of dreading this one. He’s feeling a little bit of guilt (and, honestly, who knew he was even capable of feeling guilt?) about the words he threw at her a week prior. She always looks a little sad, is the problem. And that’s probably exactly why she and Jace don’t get the piss taken out of them very often around here.
Being too lovable and vulnerable isn’t a hardship Aaron knows, thank the gods.
Rose is...surprisingly alert as she watches what Aaron does. Unlike Ash, she has at least some knowledge of what he’s doing, even if it isn’t her specialty. It’s hard to tell whether it’s curiosity or mistrust that motivates her shrewd gaze.
Jace is inspecting Ash’s markings now, and it’s not hard to guess what motivates him.
For a moment, Aaron considers offering Rose an apology for the way he acted the last time they were in this clearing together. But the fact of the matter is that Aaron isn’t sorry. He knows he should have been more restrained, but he still thinks he was right. While he works on her, he contemplates the balance they create. Rose doesn’t exactly subscribe to the same ideas as he does. Aaron’s brand of paganism isn’t about evil or reverence for black magic or anything like that, but more so that there is a necessary evil. That for every witch like Rose, careful and good and connected only with the bright light of what they do, there must be Aaron too. Ideally, they would both keep themselves in balance, but within a coven it works well together.
Rose offers a symmetry that Aaron can use to justify the things he does or says sometimes.
“Keep it to a minimum,” are Jace’s first words when he sits down across from Aaron a few minutes later. There’s an unspoken ‘asshole’ in there somewhere, but Aaron ignores it. He doesn’t have room for being petty when he’s working.
“That’s a funny way to say thanks for trying to keep me alive, Aaron.” Okay, maybe there’s a little time for being petty while he’s working. Jace narrows his eyes, falling into stony silence.
It’s not from the goodness of his heart that Aaron is trying to keep Jace and the rest of them alive, Jace is sure. And he’s probably not wrong. As much as Aaron hates to admit it, he needs them. Jace must stay alive because, without him, without any one of them, it all falls apart.
Frankly, though, Aaron’s more worried about Rose. From a strictly logical standpoint. She’s more likely to die first, and if she dies, then it’s all over. God, there are moments like this that he hates this life they have. Tangled up in the lives of people they don’t much like, always waiting for the day a sweet, vacant girl drops dead. Aaron’s thoughts are distracted and erratic while he works on Jace. It’s better than concentrating on the point where their skin touches, too intimate a moment between them.
Have they despised each other in every life, Aaron wonders.
When he’s done with Jace’s sigils, he can feel the thread between them that ties him to almost every other person in this clearing now. Just to be a dick, Aaron gathers his attention to he and Jace and tugs on the connection just to watch the way Jace jumps in his seat a little. “Done,” Aaron announces, watches with a bored expression as Jace walks off.
There’s no way to act bored and unaffected for the next part, though. Last among them, Ciaran carefully folds his legs as he sits on the ground across from Aaron. He stretches his arms out for Aaron, palms up and resting on Aaron’s knees.
The witch’s hands are stained red now, and he wishes he had done Ciaran first now. So he could put clean hands on him first, draw him close and feel the beating of his heart for a second. Too intimate for the others here, but he would have done it just the same. Because Ciaran’s heartbeat isn’t guaranteed by Rose’s life the way Aaron’s is.
Aaron must look as sick as he feels for Ciaran to take mercy on him in front of the others like this. Ciaran’s hand fits warm and comfortable on the back of Aaron’s neck, and their foreheads press together as Ciaran shifts to his knees.
“Be safe,” Aaron says, hushed. Reese, Ash, and Solana’s shoes must all come untied at the same time, because they’re suddenly all occupied with that, and everyone else looks around the clearing like there’s something vitally interesting in the trees.
Aaron knows, of course, that this is too much to show them. It is one thing to keep a hand on Ciaran always, but it’s another entirely for them to know the way that Aaron’s throat closes at the thought that something could happen.
Slowly, Ciaran sits back on his haunches again, lets Aaron begin the work on the pale skin of his inner arms. For a while, he’s indulgent. Let’s Aaron paint for more sigils on his skin than he could ever need. Aaron needs this, needs to feel like he can do something to protect his heart and soul when he can’t be there.
Long minutes pass before Ciaran speaks. “Little king,” he chastises when Aaron moves to start another marking, almost out of skin to use. In any other situation, Aaron would have died on the spot from embarrassment at having been called that here.
But Ciaran says it quietly enough, and Aaron is raw right now.
“I-” Aaron doesn’t know what to say. He feels the gentle press of words he’s said before at the back of his throat, but to say them would be too much. Damning. He presses a kiss, light as air, to Aaron’s cheek before he rises fluidly to his feet.
Aaron stays seated, looking up at him for a few seconds. Ciaran pulls the same stunt that Aaron had a few minutes prior, tugging on the tether between them with practiced ease. But it’s reassuring, not jolting, the way Ciaran manages it.
Finally, Imari clears his throat, and the moment is gone.
Ciaran’s head snaps up at the tone, eyes narrowed. He can’t quite see Aaron from this vantage point, though, so he swings his legs back down, replaces them with his arms so he can face him.
“Oh, much more so than yours.”
Actually, she wore it in a severe up-do that made it impossible to tell how luxurious it was. Just for the record.
“I don’t know what your problem is, but I was going to tell you that she’s convinced he’s using fae to brainwash his thugs.”
The way Reese talked about her–they would not have reached out if they thought there was an alternative, and as admirable as Ciar found her, he can sympathize with that. of course, the woman has to be fae herself, and is by default powerful and unsettling.
His head is beginning to thaw. His phone is suddenly a notable weight in his pocket, so he turns it on out of instinct.
Oh. Missed calls, texts–was he really gone that long? Oops.
Aaron is usually the one for actual confrontation instead of a pointed cold shoulder. The pissy silences are Ciaran’s forte. But Aaron is going to take a page out of his book this time. He watches with a sneer as Ciaran takes his phone from his pocket, then turns his attention away, back to the large tome on the table in front of him.
Pale fingers mark the word he left off on. “That seems like something Jace should know.” Aaron writes down a word he can’t translate off the top of his head now, frowning deeply. As he sets to pulling up a few search engines on his computer, he speaks again.
“So what are we going to do? Can she break that sort of brainwashing? Can Solana?” he asks, eyes not lifting from the computer screen. He’s still so mad ( or maybe it’s more like scared ) that his hands have a fine tremble to them, but his voice is steady.
If Ciaran doesn’t see the problem with being gone for half a day without bothering to contact Aaron while they all try and figure out how to deal with a threat that incapacitated a goddamn werewolf, and put up enough of a fight to leave Ciaran bruised not long ago...
Well, that’s Ciaran’s business. He can figure that out on his own while Aaron sniffs haughtily.
It’s past spring now, actually warm enough that Ciar could stand to be in the open air for longer than ten minutes. In Boston, no less, where he admittedly has trouble enduring regardless of what temperature it is outside.
He doesn’t take note of whatever Aaron is doing when he breezes through the front door, past the foyer, to fall leisurely onto the sofa. His bare legs hang over the arm of it, head perfectly cushioned by a conveniently placed pillow, the picture of ease.
It doesn’t occur to him that his phone has been off for roughly eight hours, and he and Reese didn’t tell anyone else where they were going. He is totally unbothered by any confusion/frustration/worry that might have happened as a direct result.
“Reese introduced me to a very interesting woman today. She thinks she might be able to help us with our…thingie, whatever.”
It’s bizarre, the lingering effect of her presence. He almost recognizes it, the unnatural aura of unaffected bliss, wearing off slowly. It’s a pheromone, engineered to lure and snare prey. He might be dead if she wished it, and isn’t that exciting?
“Definitely not human. She pulled off…the most incredible amber necklace, you should have seen it.”
Is he really -- ??
Aaron’s brain practically short circuits for a few seconds here, because he was almost sure Ciaran would come in on the defensive already. He hadn’t forseen having to explain why he was upset. The fucker just...disappears for eight hours during a very, very volatile time, and just waltzes back into their house like it was nothing.
He’s the goddamn definition of relaxed, and Aaron is almost as tense as he’s ever been. It’s not that he doesn’t think Ciaran can take care of himself, of course, but...but Jesus. It’s just a lot to handle right now with the stakes running as high as they are.
And also fuck Reese for not letting Aaron know they were alive too. Is basic goddamn courtesy dead now? It must be. That’s the only explanation.
“ Oh, I’m sure she was just divine. Tell me, elskan, just how luxurious was her hair? ”
Being in love is a dangerous thing.
It makes you vulnerable and captivated and angry while you wear his name like a tattoo on your heart, like a burn in your veins. A mouthful of apologies carefully tucked behind the bleak row of hungry teeth. He will become your prayers and your sins and when people tell stories about how Lucifer fell because he loved god the most, you better prepare for the fall.
Because love will strip you to your bones.
Love destroys you.
What a mournful creature this is. Alaric lets the pitiful fox bury its face against his neck while it makes gut-wrenching sounds. This is not the same creature that has spent years weaving between Alaric’s ankles when it was least convenient. This is not the same creature, sometimes human, who preened while Eden plaited his long, tawny hair.
Alaric must smell close enough to her to be some sort of comfort, because Ephram has never let another witch even lay a hand on him with any kind of grace. But now he won’t get off of Alaric, won’t let him leave the room without making pathetic noises that even he can’t ignore.
He whispers the soothing words, French for some reason, that he’s heard her say a thousand times, but there’s a selfish part of him that wants to mourn alone. Ephram has lost his witch, and Alaric has lost his sister for the third time. Surely it cannot be Alaric’s duty to comfort him, but the duty has fallen to him regardless. About half an hour ago, Alaric had coaxed him into human form for enough minutes to drink a tea that should put him to sleep for a few hours of blissful nothing.
But the force of his grief is making it a longer process than normal. Eventually, though, he crawls into Alaric’s lap and whimpers there for another five or ten minutes before it turns into a quiet sort of sniffling that means he’s asleep. Alaric rests a tired hand on the nape of its neck, closing his eyes and feeling the full weight of his own grief threatening to settle on his shoulders.
No. There’s not time for that right now; there probably won’t be time for that. He stands now, cradles the animal in his arms and goes through the too empty house to look for Ciaran. The halls are usually bustling, filled with renegades and fugitives, bastards and orphans. But things have gotten increasingly quieter. Slowly, silently, Alaric lets him into the room where Rose’s child sleeps. Predictably, Ciaran is keeping watchful vigil over the sleeping infant.
He puts Ephram into the bed next to the child, watches wordlessly as these two tragic beings cling a little closer. Trusting the potion to keep the fox asleep and knowing the child sleeps like the dead (its late mother, though, can attest that the dead don’t sleep), he doesn’t bother to lead Ciaran out of the room so they can speak freely.
Alaric kneels in front of the chair where his love sits, accepts the warm hand on the back of his neck gratefully. He allows himself one soundless sob, just a spasm of his chest. He moves Ciaran’s hand wordlessly, holds it so he can press an intimate kiss to the thin skin of his wrist.
“They took her body.” He can only assume this is retribution for the wolf that died screaming as the blood boiled in his veins and pushed out through his pores. They must know that to take Eden is an act lacking any honor, and that it’s something that Alaric can’t allow. It’s nothing less than suicide, nearly as sure as the necromancers, to go attempt to find what remains of her, but…
“You’re leaving.” Alaric can’t tell if Ciaran sounds angry or resigned.
“You know I have to.” He is already working the beginnings of a spell before he leaves, one that will allow him to send Eden’s corpse away, and one that will leave his own body a posthumous maker of nightmares. They will have to return him, or they will have to burn him themselves. Alaric’s soul is already invariably bound to the earth, but he will not have it be bound here in a tormented kind of limbo too. Won’t allow that for Eden.
He’s too lost in his own thoughts to even register when Ciaran leans forward in his seat, but the kiss to the corner of his mouth feels like a benediction. There’s another spasm of his chest, and he nearly chokes. He mindlessly rests his hands on Ciaran’s face now, pulls desperately until his familiar sits in his lap on the ground. His thumb brushes the sharp line of a cheekbone as Alaric looks his fill a final time.
It should be impossible, but Alaric thinks he must love Ciaran more this time than in his other lives. His fingers pass through Ciaran’s dark hair gently, and then he presses a kiss to the freckle that’s been on the line of his jaw as long as Alaric can remember.
When he feels the press of Ciaran’s lips against his own finally, it’s almost surreal. All of these years, and it is still unbelievable that this beautiful, noble, caring creature would give him this. Alaric did not say that enough, did he? Next time, he promises himself. Next time he will tell Ciaran all of this endlessly.
Alaric searches for words uselessly. “I love you,” he offers, a poor attempt.
The sentiment is given back to him in another kiss with whispered words in Ciaran’s native tongue. Alaric is going to miss him. While his soul resists rest, he is going to ache to be here, to lay next to Ciaran in their bed and feel that warmth.
Next time, next time, next time. There will be more next time.
“Be safe, Ciaran. I could never want a life without you.” That’s a little better.
Ciaran is grateful that Aaron seems open to other options, because while he’ll aid him in any way that he can regardless of how much he disapproves, he’d really rather not prioritize a plan that could make him a target.
The problem is that they don’t have time. Or they might have time, but it’s impossible to know, impossible to predict when these creatures will strike again. It could be tonight, it could be a year from now–there’s no way to strategize comfortably under that pressure.
Yes, he managed to dispatch four of them, and they managed to actually injure him in their death throes, they managed to distract him and almost kill the child he was responsible for. That should not have happened. How would he do against ten of them, twenty of them?
Imari is home again. Maybe that’s the advantage they need.
“It’s yours,” clipped, because he knows what he’s doing, “I borrowed it.”
What Aaron doesn’t know is that Ciaran is already warming to him again, and will probably return to their room–if not tonight, then tomorrow, depending on how things go. They don’t owe each other an apology, it’s just the odd impasse in judgement that happens once in a while.
“I’ll talk to Solana and see if she can help–that seems more up her alley, anyway. But that’s a contingency plan, Aaron. I think we should try and coordinate with the wolves.”
Alright, then. Olive branch redacted. You look like shit, and it’s a terrible shirt. Except not even Aaron’s that petty, so he lets it slide. Ciaran looks nice, and is also not in the mood for compliments apparently. Probably not in the mood to get checked out either, so Aaron will refrain from that for the rest of the evening too.
He nods when Ciaran mentions bringing in Solana. It does seem like the sort of thing she would have a better idea about, but it’s no secret that Aaron words better and more effectively with Ciaran. Aaron’s got no real problem with Solana, at least. She’s not Reese, but more importantly, she’s not Jace. It’s a middle ground that he can live, and work, with.
Contingency plan. Which means they need an actual plan to start with. Aaron gives a thoughtful sort of noise, eyes fixed on the counter as he tries to consider this from the different angles. It worries him, obviously, that even a handful of who this man has working for him were dangerous enough to get Ciaran that banged up; he’s got a strange myriad of pieces in this game he’s playing, and they work together a lot better than their coven.
He’s reminded of their fight of a few months ago, when Aaron had suggested killing that witch’s familiar to end the confrontation for good. There’s got to be a heart of this matter to cut to. A way to avoid a brawl that would end up in need of any sort of contingency plan. Actually, if he thinks about it for a few seconds, he thinks that maybe Jace is the heart of this. If Jace was gone, would there be a point? It’s impossible to know for sure, and even Aaron isn’t actually contemplating killing Jace to end this. Well, no more than he usually thinks about killing Jace.
“We just need to get to him. If no one’s paying those people, then I can’t imagine they’re going to fight for him.” How much is he paying these people? Aaron couldn’t buy off all of them, but he might be able to buy off one of them for the information that could cut straight to Dick.
“I’m...not saying it’s a bad idea to coordinate with the wolves, but I think it’s a long shot. And maybe another contingency plan. But shouldn’t the real plan be to avoid an actual...fist fight?” Which sounds kind of hypocritical considering just thirty seconds and two strawberries ago he was trying to find a way to funnel more power into an actual fist fight. But Ciaran’s got Aaron thinking, bless him, and there’s no harm in a few plans, right?
Ciaran ultimately decided that confronting Aaron regarding his scene the other day would be as pointless as the little outburst itself–he knows Aaron is a little shit, and he can try and curb some of his darker tendencies but there needs to be a line drawn, too. Some things are just essentially him, and CIaran wouldn’t want to change that even if he could.
The accusation in itself wasn’t wrong, necessarily–it was only the delivery that needed work. Still, he has no sympathy whatsoever for Aaron’s wounds, harmless as they are. It’s kind of funny, really.
“I wouldn’t say you’re useless,” he pulls the gray carton of strawberries from the back of the fridge, after a lot of rooting, “I think your strength is in sabotage, and nobody’s going to blame you for sitting it out.”
Nobody ever does. They all have their strengths and weaknesses, and he likes to think they work around that pretty well. At least, until they all die.
He hoists himself up on the marble counter and lets his socked feet kick gently against the cabinet under him, because Viktor would pop a blood vessel if he saw him doing this and Ciaran likes the idea of that. He eats his first strawberry, leaves and all.
“Of course I’m going to help you,” that much won’t change, ever, “but aren’t you worried about leaving yourself vulnerable?”
“I would blame me, ” Aaron says impatiently. Besides, he doesn’t point out that Rose is still alive, and that means he’s just fine. Probably. Hypothetically he could...drench himself in more blood than usual and zap things from a distance. Palpatine style.
Or if they have some actual warning about when and where and how this is going down, then Ciaran’s right. He could come up with a dozen ways to sabotage. It’ll just depend. And this is a good option to have in his back pocket. “Maybe. It’s just an option I want to have.” He wouldn’t do it in the middle of a fight; he’s not a moron.
Plus Ciaran will probably be able to conceive of a way to do this without blood. Aaron’s default is always blood because it’s easy and natural and intimate; it just works for him. But it’s not always the most practical, and haha literally who is going to trust him with their blood right now anyway?
He reaches across the space between them and steals a strawberry from the carton, avoiding the leaves when he eats it because he’s not a heathen.
“Thank you for your help,” he adds preemptively. He might not have any inclination to apologize for a few days ago, especially because it had literally nothing to do with Ciaran, but he also knows acting maybe a touch more appreciative might move Ciaran back into his room sometime in the next week and a half. “Is that a new shirt?” he asks because he’s gross. “Looks good.”
Aaron is well aware that Ciaran is still being icy with him. It’s very hard to misread how he’s very deliberately sleeping in ‘his’ room. A room that he’s used maybe a dozen times total. Usually Aaron even enjoys their little post-fight game. It’s fun, and he might just indulge a little more later, but they also have more important things to talk about.
The bruise on his jaw is starting to yellow around the edges, and Aaron presses his fingers to it lightly. Fuck Jace and his incredibly sharp elbows. And his righteous fury or whatever. And that goddamn bite on his forearm. Seriously, who the hell bites during a fight?
“So. We all know I’m useless in a real confrontation,” Aaron starts, leaning against the kitchen counter while Ciaran goes through the fridge. “But it’s not like this is something I should sit out. This is a big deal. So I want you to help me figure out how to...funnel energy into other people.” Which sounds sort of nice, but it’s his pride more than anything. Aaron refuses to be so useless in this matter that people comment on it.
“You know I do these things that gather energy, the sacrifices or whatever. But if it comes down to a fight, I need to be able to give that to other people. Will you help me?”
Oh, this is not good. The tension is palpable in the night air, making the trees shake and the wind blow cold past their ears. Everyone is in their respective little groups because they’re factious as fuck, and Jace isn’t helping that when he reaches out to bring Rose in closer, just reinforcing it. It doesn’t feel like a gathering–it’s a brawl.
He should have known his peace with Aaron would be short-lived, because now Aaron is glowing with health and contempt once more. He’s the only asshole alive who can look Rose in the face and talk to her that way, no conscience whatsoever. Aaron is also one of the only cases in which Jace can definitively say his bark is worse than his bite.
Ciar stands rigidly behind him like he always is, resting bitch face but otherwise almost impossible to read. You could tell by his body language, though, that his heart really isn’t in it and Aaron is probably gonna get a mouthful later. Ciar is scary as fuck and mean as a spitting cat sometimes, but Rose is Rose.
He feels Ash shift at his shoulder, hitting him with a fresh wave of anxiety, regret, something like nausea. Like two seconds in and he’s realizing that he shouldn’t have brought him. To a more intimate gathering, maybe, with just Imari and maybe Reese or Ciar–not to a full blown thing where Aaron is already swelling, ready to lash out. Never bring a wolf to a witch fight.
Jace makes a desperate sort of eye contact with Imari, always the voice of reason. If anyone can diffuse this, it’s him. But being the voice of reason also makes him infuriatingly neutral sometimes, and Aaron hasn’t done anything yet to merit intervention.
“Two years,” it’s the truth, so why is he shaking like it isn’t?, “He found me after Artemis died.”
It’s a struggle to meet Aaron’s eyes when he says that. His story needs context, needs that to show how vulnerable he was, how easy it was for Dick to latch onto him and collect whatever it was he still wants from Jace. That doesn’t make his tragedy any gentler to bear. That doesn’t mean he isn’t without fault in this. It’s a really fucked up situation where nobody wins, the ongoing theme in his life.
“I didn’t know they were the same person. He-he stole memories from me or something, so I don’t–I thought he was just a man.”
That’s where he hits the part that can’t be relevant, the part about the man lying and manipulating him, giving him sedatives and leaving him alone in unfamiliar places, beating him up when he got frustrated. There are memories that aren’t memories, of kneeling in chains and singing in a voice that wasn’t his. They hurt his head when he tries to think about them.
Dick is teasing him, still.
Aaron can feel a sort of tenseness from Ciaran at his side; he knows he’s going to get chewed out later for snapping at Rose like that, but he still thinks he’s got a point. It’s just that they’re a big, weird group, and...well, Aaron’s said it before. Getting a straight answer out of the Navarros is like herding cats. Sometimes you’ve got to snap a little, and everyone can just fucking calm down. Still, the strange feeling of static in the air prickles against Aaron’s skin even more uncomfortably when Jace pulls Rose closer. And he can see the way Ash’s jaw clenches.
The only person actually on Aaron’s side in this is Ciaran, but that’s more for show than anything. Ciaran isn’t bristling with the same anger; sometimes, even still, he is an entirely incomprehensible creature to Aaron. But God, Aaron wishes someone were angry too. That someone could see just how absolutely ridiculous this whole situation is. But Jace and Rose are lovely and fragile, and maybe no one else can be angry at them. Fragile, yes, but they’re not fucking children. Why he’s expected to walk on eggshells is beyond him.
Aaron’s blood is rushing loud in his ears, an angry, crashing wave through him. There’s a shred of him, somewhere, that feels bad for Jace a little. He can maybe understand how losing Artemis had put Jace in that kind of position; it would probably fucking kill Aaron, but that doesn’t change the fact that it went on for two years. And now there are things here that could kill them as soon as look at him. There’s the heavy, crushing feeling in Aaron’s chest that he’s about to watch them all fucking die again. Because this thing...it’s got to be insurmountable, right? This is heavy; this is the kind of firepower that can easily hospitalize a werewolf. And Jace might be the goal for whatever reason, but that doesn’t mean someone else isn’t going to get caught in the crosshairs. Someone already has.
He’s quite potentially started something that none of them are equipped to stop. And Rose and Ash stand around him, wounded and protective. As if they aren’t to blame too.
“Two years,” Aaron repeats slowly, tense line of his jaw twitching. “How could it possibly go on for two years?” he demands, voice remarkably quiet for all the fury and fear in him.
Ash gives an incredulous, indignant sound at that, looks around as if he’s waiting for someone to meet his gaze, to share his disbelief. “Do you --- like actually have ears? Dick was fucking with his memories or something.” It’s not Ash’s place to talk here, and it’s definitely not his place to detail all the fucked up shit Dick did to Jace, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to sit here and let some kid that looks like death pin the blame on someone who was, undeniably, the victim here. “He’s a messed up guy.”
Aaron blinks, looks genuinely surprised that Ash is even speaking to him. The biting, cold fury turns the taste in Aaron’s mouth to copper. It’s just so fucking ridiculous that Ash can even dream of opening his mouth, as if his two cents worth means shit to Aaron. As if his two cents worth means shit to this coven.
Remarkably, Imari is silent. The voice of reason or not, sometimes that means letting this sort of thing hash itself out. He’s not playing favorites; Aaron and Jace and Ash and Rose are all children, and if someone always intervenes, they won’t ever learn how to deal with each other. That’s the reasoning, at least. After Reese, Imari doesn’t play favorites.
“No, I get that,” Aaron finally says, eyes fixed on Ash now. “I’m not blaming Jace.” The words sound wrong in his mouth, because that is kind of a lie. Part of him blames Jace, but it’s not the rational part, and Aaron at least has the sense to know that. “I’m just wondering how the fuck someone who cares about him so much didn’t notice. What’s the excuse there?”
He gestures vaguely in Rose’s direction. “I’m just going to guess that you were --- what? So stoned for two years straight that you couldn’t keep an eye on your own cousin?” When she flinches, he turns to Ash now. “And you must not have actually paid attention at all, if it didn’t raise any goddamn red flags. Or maybe you think so little of him that you just...assumed there was a better chance he was off playing side-piece with some asshole than actually in danger.”
Jace last.
“What says something worse about the three of you, do you think? That they were too busy to notice two years of this, or that they just don’t care about you enough, that they thought so little of you?” Because whatever’s worse, let the three of them think on that. “As far as I’m concerned, this is on them too.
Aaron doesn’t know if the silence from Rose and Ash means that he’s succeeded in actually clueing them in, but he’s thankful for it regardless.
Rose’s fingers instinctively clench at Jace’s shirt, but her eyes go to Ash, looking for the same sudden, overwhelming guilt in his face that she feels. But then she remembers that she’s clinging at Jace, and she doesn’t have a goddamn right too. Mean and nasty and friendless and unlikable as Aaron is, he has a point. The desperate look at Ash’s face confirms that he absolutely knows it too; when he meets her eyes, he looks miserable and tired. Rose’s hand drops to her side, and Jace’s arm around her feels too heavy and undeserved.
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