𝜗𝜚 objection, your honor! he’s insufferable! 𝜗𝜚 (dda!markcallanxclumsy!reader)
summary|| you and Mark slip into something that feels almost like a relationship, built through quiet acts of care, shared lunches, stolen kisses, and growing tenderness. but when Tyler shows interest in you, Mark’s jealousy and fear of not being enough push him into self-sabotage, leading to a painful fight where you finally admit you want him—and he still lets you walk away. wc: 4k
warning|| SFW; workplace romance, jealousy, possessive tension, unwanted flirting, emotional self-sabotage, romantic angst, insecurity, argument, fear of abandonment, workplace gossip, kissing/making out; no smut yet, heartbreak.
Chapter Five: A Brief Recess for Emotional Catastrophe
Somewhere between the fire-alarm kiss and the third coffee Mark silently placed on your desk without ever asking how you liked it, the two of you slipped into something dangerously close to a relationship.
That territory stayed suspiciously uncharted. No official talks, no labels, no 'what are we?'. Yet, by week two, Mark had memorized your breakfast order by heart, and you started stashing protein bars in your bag so he wouldn’t starve until late afternoon.
“You’re enabling him.” Evelyn eyed you as she watched you slip a turkey sandwich into your purse. One she knew you were planning on dropping by Mark’s office between hearings.
“He had pretzels for breakfast.”
“He’s a grown man.”
“He’s a prosecutor,” you corrected. “That’s basically the same thing as a raccoon digging through survival supplies.”
Evelyn pointed at you accusingly. “See? This is exactly how it starts.”
“What starts?”
Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely wrong.
The thing about Mark Callan was that he loved quietly, not with speeches or grand gestures, but with small, careful acts that slipped beneath your skin before you even realized they mattered.
What you never saw was how deeply these acts cost him, how each gesture was the product of a dozen silent decisions.
Mark’s mind spun constantly around you, cataloging your preferences and making quiet promises to himself that he would notice, remember, protect.
He never said it out loud, but every morning, every gently placed coffee, every watchful glance in a crowded hallway, was Mark’s way of telling you what he didn’t yet know how to say.
Like the way he automatically moved you away from crowded hallways with a hand on your lower back, or how he’d started leaving sticky notes on your desk attached to coffee cups.
Eat lunch with me today.
You forgot your scarf.
Don’t climb anything while I’m in court.
You kept every single one, which felt equal parts romantic, pathetic, and maybe a touch concerning for your mental health.
Until one Tuesday morning, when Rita walked into records and saw Mark setting a blueberry muffin beside your keyboard.
“Oh, so we’ve entered domesticity.”
Mark barely looked up. “Good morning, Rita.”
“You brought her breakfast.”
“She skipped it yesterday.”
Your mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”
Mark finally glanced at you.
“That’s not important.”
The terrifying thing was, he genuinely meant it.
Of course, he noticed things like that, as if it mattered by default. Your chest warmed painfully.
Rita looked between both of you, her expression that of a woman witnessing the slowest courtship in human history.
“You two are one shared grocery list away from retirement.”
“We are not together,” you protested weakly.
Mark handed you your coffee without even looking away from the file in his hands. You stared at him in betrayal while Rita physically wheezed.
She wasn’t entirely wrong. Over the next few weeks, your routines quietly tangled—dangerously so.
You started eating lunch in Mark’s office because pretending you didn’t want to see him was harder than you thought. At first, it was by coincidence, then it became normal.
You'd walk in, balancing takeout containers and iced coffees, while Mark sat buried beneath case files at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Every single time, the second he saw you, something in his face unknotted, eyes softening with a glow that belonged only to you. Without fail, a small, unguarded smile would break through, and your heart would thud with giddy affection.
God, you loved being the reason he smiled.
You realized it one mortifying Thursday, when Mark smiled at something ridiculous you said over cafeteria soup, and your whole chest ached with something softer, deeper than affection.
You began noticing the little things, too.
The way he pushed his coffee toward you automatically when you reached for it absentmindedly.
How he remembered which pens you liked because you “complain dramatically” about the bad ones.
The way he silently moved dangerous obstacles out of your path after witnessing enough of your accidents to lose faith in your survival instincts entirely.
After days of slipping into routine, you stepped into his office one rainy afternoon, shivering from your dash through the parking garage, umbrella forgotten.
Mark looked up from his desk, noticed you shivering, and immediately stood, concern evident on his face.
“You’re soaked.”
“I noticed.”
“You didn’t bring a coat?”
“It looked sunny earlier.”
“That was six hours ago.”
“Time is fake in this building.”
Mark sighed softly like a man carrying an unbearable burden. Then he shrugged off his suit jacket and walked toward you. Your heartbeat instantly stumbled.
“You’ll freeze.”
“Mark—”
“Take the jacket.”
You stared at him helplessly as he settled the jacket around your shoulders himself, his hands carefully draping the fabric and smoothing it down.
The jacket was warm from his body and smelled like dark coffee, cologne, and him.
Your pulse hammered, wild and unfair, as his hands lingered by your collar, fingers warm and close, heat prickling along your skin. He was always too close now, close enough for your heart to trip and your breath to catch.
His eyes dropped to your mouth automatically, then back to your eyes.
Silence filled the office, heavy and familiar, the kind that always ended badly for both of you.
“Tell me,” you whispered softly, “that you’re thinking very respectful thoughts right now.”
Mark looked genuinely offended.
“I’m a prosecutor.”
“That is not an answer.”
His mouth twitched faintly. Then he stepped closer, and your breath caught immediately.
“You’re standing in my office wearing my jacket,” he murmured. “I’m doing my best here.”
Heat flooded your entire body.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said quietly, “you keep coming back.”
Your heart folded painfully in on itself because he still sounded almost bewildered, as if he couldn’t quite grasp why you wanted him.
Warmth climbed up your throat as you reached up—almost without thinking—to straighten his crooked tie, your hand trembling with tenderness.
Mark went completely still, the intimacy of the gesture striking you both at once. When your fingers accidentally brushed the warm skin of his throat, his breathing shifted—subtle, but enough.
“Careful,” he said softly.
You looked up. “Why?”
His eyes darkened immediately.
“Because I haven’t kissed you all day.”
Your stomach dropped; your hands turned sweaty and hot.
The room seemed to shrink, every sense narrowing to him. Suddenly, you needed air and more of him all at once.
You barely had time to inhale before Mark’s hand slid along your jaw and he kissed you.
It started restrained. Careful. A soft press of his mouth against yours like he was still pretending he had self-control left.
Then you kissed him back harder.
Mark made a low, rough sound in his throat that sent heat spiraling straight through you, and suddenly the carefulness cracked.
He guided you backward until the edge of his desk pressed against your hips, his hand firm at your waist now, fingers tightening just enough to make your breath catch.
The kiss deepened fast after that.
Hotter. Messier.
Like weeks of tension had finally found somewhere to go.
Your fingers slipped into his hair instinctively, and Mark swore softly against your mouth before kissing you deeper immediately, like that tiny pull unraveled the last thread keeping him composed.
His mouth moved against yours with growing urgency, slow enough to savor but rough enough to leave you dizzy, and every shallow breath you managed to take tasted like coffee and him.
A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it.
Mark’s reaction was immediate.
His hand slid higher along your waist, thumb brushing beneath your shirt as his forehead knocked briefly against yours, both of you breathing unevenly now. His eyes stayed half-lidded on your mouth like he was trying very hard not to lose the remainder of his restraint.
“You are so much trouble,” he murmured against your mouth.
“You kissed me first.”
“You fixed my tie.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It should be.”
You let out a breathless laugh. Mark smiled against your lips and kissed you again—slower this time, gentler, drawing out the moment.
The office door suddenly rattled.
“CALLAN!” Evelyn shouted from outside. “If you’re emotionally compromising each other again, your witness is waiting.”
You covered your face at once. Mark braced a hand on the desk and laughed, helpless and warm enough to make your chest ache.
After a moment, he looked at you again, and the smile faded into something quieter, fonder, dangerously real.
“You should probably go before I forget I have a job to do.”
Your heart did a painful little flip, and the worst part was that you didn’t really want to leave either.
—𝜗𝜚—
Mark Callan did not get jealous easily. Mostly because Mark Callan did not allow himself many things easily. Anger, sometimes. Exhaustion, constantly.
But jealousy was new to him, dangerous and tucked away, like something sharp hidden quietly behind his ribs.
You noticed it for the first time on a Wednesday afternoon. A subtle shift: a new investigator from downtown lingered too long near records, smiling at you. His name was Tyler Greene.
Pretty in an aggressively polished—expensive watch, perfect suit, the kind of man who leaned in too close when he talked, assuming women enjoyed that kind of thing.
You were only being polite.
Mark knew that.
Unfortunately, Tyler apparently mistook basic human kindness for encouragement.
Mark saw the whole thing from halfway down the hallway.
The investigator leaned casually against the records counter. You laughed nervously at something he said—not real laughter, just your polite one.
Mark could tell the difference now; God help him, he knew all your different laughs.
Tyler smiled wider anyway, then he touched your arm—briefly, casually, but enough to make something sharp move beneath Mark’s skin.
Rita noticed immediately from her desk. “Oh boy,” she muttered.
Mark didn’t answer, but his jaw clenched once—nothing more.
He kept walking, maintaining his professional, controlled, untouchable facade, but ten minutes later, while reviewing witness statements, he realized he’d missed an entire page—Tyler Greene’s laughter from records still ringing in his ears.
Absolutely pathetic.
He hated how his attention kept drifting,hated the irrational irritation crawling under his skin.
Most of all, he hated the ugly little thought that kept whispering beneath it all.
He can give her things you can’t; time, ease, normalcy, a life that didn’t revolve around homicide trials and emotional exhaustion.
Mark forced himself back to work, but his focus only lasted approximately twenty minutes.
Then, when he walked into the break room for coffee, he heard Tyler’s voice around the corner.
“…I’m telling you, she’s adorable.”
Mark slowed automatically. Another investigator laughed quietly. “The records girl?”
“Yeah. Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Something possessive and immediate twisted low in Mark’s chest at the phrase ‘records girl’. As if you weren’t a person, just something soft to point at.
“Bet you she blushes if you say literally remotely sexy to her.”
The other man snorted.
“What, you trying to ask her out?”
“I mean…” Tyler laughed. “Maybe. If Callan doesn’t murder me first.”
Mark went still, and the second investigator laughed harder.
“Oh come on. They’re not actually together.”
“Still,” Tyler replied. “Guy looks at her like he’s one inconvenience away from putting somebody through drywall.”
They laughed again.
Mark should’ve walked away; he knew that.
He was a prosecutor, an adult man; this was ridiculous, but then Tyler spoke again.
“She’s probably worth the trouble, though.”
Instantly, something in the wording hit wrong—not admiration, but assessment, like Tyler was talking about winning a prize rather than a person.
Mark felt his irritation sharpen, turning cold and precise—the same controlled anger he channeled in court.
Without giving himself time to reconsider, Mark stepped around the corner.
Both investigators straightened at his approach, Tyler’s smile fading first.
“Callan.”
Mark looked at him evenly.
“You have work to do?”
The other investigator vanished instantly. Coward. Tyler recovered slower. “Just grabbing coffee.”
Mark nodded once. Then quietly:
“Then grab coffee.”
The silence afterward felt suffocating. Tyler shifted first. “Look, man, I wasn’t—”
“She works here,” Mark interrupted calmly. “She’s not entertainment for bored investigators.”
Tyler’s expression tightened slightly. “I was just talking.”
“You were talking about her like she wasn’t standing ten feet away.”
The younger man looked uncomfortable now—which was good. Mark stepped closer; not threatening, but somehow worse.
“You want to ask her to dinner?” Mark said evenly. “Do it respectfully. You make comments about her with your friends again, we’ll have a different conversation.”
Tyler stared at him.
“…Are you her boyfriend?”
The question landed squarely in the center of everything Mark had been trying not to think about. Technically, no—you weren’t his, even if his entire body reacted to you as though you already belonged there.
Mark’s jaw flexed once before he answered, careful and measured.
“No.”
Tyler relaxed slightly. Big mistake.
“But,” Mark continued quietly, “you should still be careful.”
The younger man swallowed.
“Right.”
Mark held his gaze for another second before stepping away—conversation over, control restored. Or so he told himself. Yet his chest felt tight for entirely different reasons, because the question lingered:
Are you her boyfriend?
No, not officially.
Suddenly, that realization bothered him far more than it should have.
By the time Mark made it back to his office, he was thoroughly exhausted with himself. Of course, that was precisely when you appeared in his doorway with two coffees and a paper bag.
At the sight of you, his entire nervous system relaxed—an infuriating response he couldn’t control.
“There you are,” you said. “You forgot lunch again.”
Mark stared at you for a second too long. You noticed instantly.
“…What?”
In that moment, he looked tired—not with the usual courtroom fatigue, but with something deeper. You slipped into the office quietly and set the coffee on his desk, your movements gentle in response to his mood.
“Hey.”
Mark leaned back in his chair slowly, watching you.
“You flirt with everyone like that?”
Your eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“The investigator.”
Realization flickered across your face, and to his horror, a gentle smile appeared—not mocking, but softly amused.
“Oh,” you said quietly. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Mark exhaled through his nose. “I dislike him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
You moved closer slowly, warmth flickering in your eyes now, and somehow that made it worse.
“You know,” you murmured, “you get very broody when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You look one minor inconvenience away from prosecuting somebody emotionally.”
“That’s my normal face.”
You laughed softly, and the sound made Mark’s chest ache; in that moment, all his irritation melted away, replaced by something far more dangerous: affection—deep enough now to terrify him. You stopped beside his desk, standing close.
“Mark.”
His eyes met yours immediately, and that unbearable pull between you surfaced once more.
When your fingers brushed lightly against his tie—a tiny touch, yet still enough to unravel him instantly.
“You know I only bring lunch to one grumpy prosecutor, right?”
The jealousy vanished so quickly it almost embarrassed him, replaced in an instant by something warmer. He let his hand settle gently around your wrist, the gesture instinctive and tender.
“You shouldn’t say things like that during work hours.”
Your heartbeat stumbled at the low roughness in his voice.
“Why?”
Mark looked at your mouth. Gone. Absolutely gone.
“Because I’m trying very hard to behave.”
—𝜗𝜚—
The fight began because Mark Callan loved you enough to suddenly believe someone else could make you happier.
Which, unfortunately, was the worst thing to say to a woman already halfway in love with him.
It happened on a Friday—of course it did. Fridays at the courthouse were always strange: everyone was exhausted, emotionally frayed, and surviving on caffeine and bad decisions.
You were already struggling when Tyler Greene intercepted you near the elevators.
He didn’t physically corner you, but strategically positioned himself between you and the exit, that too-smooth smile in place again.
“Hey,” he said easily.
You adjusted the files in your arms. “Hi.”
Tyler shoved one hand into his pocket. “Listen, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to grab dinner sometime.”
Your stomach sank—not because he’d asked, but because you already knew this would get complicated.
Reaching for gentle honesty, you replied carefully.
“That’s nice of you, but—”
“C’mon,” he interrupted with a grin. “One date.”
You shifted slightly. “I’m actually not really looking—”
“Is this about Callan?”
Your expression gave you away at once, and Tyler caught it, his knowing smile appearing immediately.
“There’s nothing happening there, right?”
The question hit harder than expected, because technically, what was happening between you and Mark? Stolen kisses, shared lunches, hands lingering a moment too long; he looked at you like you mattered. Still, there were no labels, no promises, nothing solid enough to explain.
Sometimes you wondered if you were making it all up in your head, if all those unspoken moments could really add up to something real.
You wanted to ask, to pull the words into the open, but fear kept you silent: fear that putting a name to whatever this was would break the fragile, lovely tension or turn it all into something casual.
Longing twisted quietly in your chest for something you could point to, something you could call yours—something more certain than coffee and glances you almost understood.
Your hesitation lasted just a beat too long, and Tyler’s expression softened slightly.
“Then let me take you out.”
Before you could respond, the elevator doors slid open behind Tyler, and Mark stepped out. The timing might have been funny if your life weren’t in the process of unraveling.
Mark’s eyes found you first, then Tyler, then the unmistakable tension between you both.
Instantly, something shuttered behind his expression.
“Callan,” Tyler greeted casually.
Mark’s gaze stayed on you. “Everything okay?”
You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”
Tyler leaned back slightly. “I was just asking her to dinner.”
A heavy silence fell, and your pulse spiked instantly. Mark glanced at Tyler, then at you—and for one horrible second, you caught it: that flicker of hurt, almost immediately buried beneath professionalism.
His jaw tightened once before he nodded.
“That seems reasonable.”
Your stomach dropped.
Tyler looked surprised; you, devastated. Mark didn’t seem to notice either reaction—or maybe he saw both and chose to keep going anyway.
“She should probably say yes.”
The words hit like a physical impact and you stared at him.
“What?”
Mark finally looked directly at you. He was calm, too calm.
“Tyler seems nice.”
Betrayal bloomed slowly, hot and sharp beneath your ribs.
Tyler glanced awkwardly between the two of you, suddenly realizing he’d stumbled into something dangerous.
Then it was just you and Mark, stranded near the elevators in terrible silence.
Your chest hurts, actually hurts, because suddenly, every soft thing between you felt humiliating.
Every lunch, every kiss, every moment, you’d started believing maybe this was becoming real.
Mark lowered his voice carefully. “You deserve someone who can give you more than this.”
“There it is.”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“The self-sabotage thing you do whenever something starts to matter.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” Your voice cracked slightly despite your best effort. “Because you kiss me in your office, you look at me like— like I matter to you, and then the second someone asks me out, you tell me to go?”
Mark looked stricken instantly.
“You matter too much.”
“Do you hear how insane that sounds?”
The hallway fell unnaturally quiet around you, people nearby pretending not to listen—cowards. Mark stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.
“I’m trying to be realistic.”
“No,” you said softly, hurt blooming wider now. “You’re trying to decide for me.”
His jaw tightened.
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is pushing me away every time you get scared.”
The words landed hard, and you saw the impact immediately—because beneath Mark’s composure was a man held together almost entirely by guilt and exhaustion.
A heavy, terrible silence settled between you—because you were right.
Mark looked away first, and that hurt worst of all.
When he finally spoke, his voice was tired.
“People like Tyler don’t come home at midnight carrying every verdict they couldn’t save, and closing arguments still bleeding through their teeth.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“They don’t cancel plans because a witness disappears. They don’t cancel dates or spend night sleeping in their office.”
“Mark—”
“You want honesty?” His laugh came rough and joyless, the sound scraped raw from somewhere inside him.
There was a long, fragile beat before he continued, and when he finally spoke, his words faltered, thin as glass.
“Fine. I like you enough that I notice every time you enter or exit a room. Enough that hearing another man talk about you makes me irrationally angry.”
Mark swallowed, struggling for the right words, his gaze dropping to the floor as if ashamed.
"Sometimes it feels like everything in me is wired wrong—like loving you is a test I'm always failing even when I try."
He forced himself to look back at you, every defense peeled away, voice trembling now. "And I still think you’d be happier with someone easier to love."
The ache in your chest turned unbearable because he believed it completely. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself.
“You don’t get to decide what makes me happy.”
Mark looked wrecked now. Utterly wrecked.
“You say that now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means eventually this stops being charming.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
“Wow.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious too,” you shot back. “Why would you do this to me? You say that you care and then act as if it wouldn’t matter. That you’d rather go out with Tyler Greene?”
Something in Mark’s expression cracked at that, as if hearing it out loud wounded him.
Good—you were hurting too.
“You think I want easy?” you whispered. “I want you.”
An enormous silence followed. Mark stared at you, as if he couldn’t breathe, as if your words had physically wounded him. For one horrible moment, you thought he might finally say it too—but instead.
“You shouldn’t,” he said it quietly.
That was the breaking point—pain flashed hot across your face before you could hide it, and you stepped backward at once.
“Wow, got it.”
Mark’s expression changed instantly. “That’s not what I—”
“No,” you interrupted softly. “I think maybe it is.”
The hurt in your voice embarrassed you instantly.
You hated that he had this power over you—and hated, too, how miserable he looked.
Neither of you moved.
Finally, you shook your head once.
“I can’t do this today.”
You turned before he could stop you.
“Wait—”
But you kept walking—quickly enough that he couldn’t see your eyes burning or hear the tremor in your breath.
You stepped into the elevator alone, jaw clenched tight, throat burning. For the first time since falling for Mark Callan, he didn’t follow.
Each second he stood there settled like a cold weight in your chest.
By the time the doors slid shut, you pressed your back to the mirrored wall and let a silent tear slip down, furious at yourself for wishing he stoped you from going, even now.
The ache was sharp and absurdly hopeful—that maybe, just maybe, he’d still come after you.
𝜗𝜚 objection, your honor! he’s insufferable! 𝜗𝜚 (dda!markcallanxclumsy!reader)
summary|| a late-night fire alarm pushes you and Mark past weeks of tension, leading to your first kiss in the records room. after getting caught by Rita, Evelyn, and security, courthouse gossip explodes, forcing you and Mark to finally talk honestly about what you mean to each other—and what risks come with wanting more. wc: 3k
warnings|| SFW; workplace romance, public embarrassment, courthouse gossip, fire alarm, accidental fall/tripping, intense kissing; no smut yet, emotional vulnerability, workplace relationship concerns, anxiety, romantic tension.
Chapter Four: Counsel for the Defense Has Completely Lost His Mind
The first time Mark Callan kissed you, it happened because of a fire alarm. That seemed fitting, given what you and he had become—chaotic, overdue, and always on the verge of falling apart.
It started late Thursday evening, after most of the courthouse had emptied, leaving only exhausted attorneys, overworked clerks, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights.
The faint shuffle of footsteps echoed down the marble hallway, mingling with the distant metallic rattle of a custodial cart. The air smelled strongly of toner and a hint of floor polish.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the records room, surrounded by transcrip files, terrible vending machine coffee, and the deeply uncomfortable realization that you were hopelessly in love with Mark Callan.
Then the doorway darkened, and there he was. His tie was gone, sleeves rolled up, dark hair a little messy, and exhaustion clear on his face.
He looked so drained that a sharp concern twisted in your chest, but when his eyes met yours, relief eased across his face, and affection softened the exhaustion.
The mix left you feeling seen and unexpectedly hopeful.
“You’re still here,” he said quietly.
“So are you.”
Mark glanced toward the pile of files surrounding you. “How long have you been sitting on the floor?”
You looked around vaguely. “Time has lost all meaning.”
“That’s concerning.”
“I had a system.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“That feels judgmental.” He stepped inside with two coffees, and when your fingers brushed as he handed you the cup, that familiar spark moved between you again.
“You brought me caffeine?”
“You looked half-conscious three hours ago.”
“That’s just my face.”
Being around Mark had become easy now—dangerously easy. The silence that followed didn’t feel awkward anymore. Instead, your nerves tingled with the sense that something was changing between you.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
You noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way he absently rubbed his wrist.
“Your hand bothering you?” you asked softly.
Mark glanced down like he’d forgotten he was doing it.
“Old injury.” He said it quickly, as if the explanation should be enough, but you caught the way his eyes darted away for a moment, distant and shadowed.
Sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, you had seen him flex his left hand over and over, like he was testing its memory against something that once hurt much worse.
Whatever it was, you sensed that pain still lingered, more in his mind than his body.
“You should rest.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. “You say that like it’s an option.”
“It should be.”
When he looked back at you, the room shifted in that sudden, unbearable way it always did between you, and your chest tightened with anticipation.
“You worry about me a lot,” Mark said quietly.
“You make it very easy.”
Before either of you could say anything else, the fire alarm screamed overhead.
You jolted up too quickly and caught your foot in your bag strap. Mark reacted on instinct, one hand grabbing your wrist and the other steadying your waist.
Unfortunately, this still sent you crashing directly into him, coffee spilling forgotten onto the floor as you found yourself pressed against his chest, his hand firm at your waist, red emergency lights flashing across his face.
Neither of you moved.
Your heart thudded wildly with fear of what might happen and desire for something you’d wanted for so long. You could feel his hesitation in the way his hand stilled, unsure whether to let go or hold on.
The alarm blared around you, but all you could focus on was Mark’s warmth, his slow, slightly uneven breathing, and the way he looked at you like every careful wall inside him had finally started to crack.
When his gaze dropped to your mouth, your entire body reacted with nervous anticipation and hope, and you saw the exact moment he realized you had noticed his internal struggle.
“Mark,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened with restraint, as if holding back a storm of feelings, but when you whispered his name, something in him finally broke free.
His hand rose to your face slowly, almost carefully, his thumb brushing your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear.
“You have no idea,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady, “what you’ve done to me.”
The honesty of it ruined you.
You leaned into his touch, just barely, a silent confession of your feelings, and that was enough to send relief and urgency through you.
Mark exhaled sharply, a breath full of pent-up longing and fear, then kissed you like he had been trying not to for weeks, desperate and finally unrestrained.
At first, the kiss was careful, almost hesitant, as if both of you feared what this meant, but when you made a helpless sound against his mouth, relief and overwhelming desire deepened it.
The courthouse, the alarm, the spilled coffee—everything faded away.
There was only Mark, his hand cradling your face, his other hand tightening at your waist as he kissed you with all the intensity he usually kept buried beneath professionalism and restraint.
His mouth was warm against yours, firm at first, almost careful, like he was still trying to be good, still trying to hold back even as every part of him gave away how badly he wanted this.
He tasted faintly of coffee and peppermint, sharp and warm and impossibly him, and when his thumb brushed along your cheek, the tenderness of it made your knees feel dangerously unreliable.
You clutched the front of his shirt, feeling the crisp cotton twist beneath your fingers, and Mark responded like the touch broke something in him.
His mouth moved deeper over yours, slower now, more deliberate, like he was learning the shape of you, memorizing the way you softened against him.
He kissed you once, then again, each press of his lips a little less restrained than the last, his breath unsteady against your mouth when you made a small, helpless sound you couldn’t swallow.
The low sound he made in return nearly undid you completely—rough, quiet, and pulled from somewhere deep in his chest.
His hand flexed at your waist, drawing you closer before he seemed to remember himself and loosened his grip just enough to make it careful again.
That only made it worse somehow, the restraint, the way he kept trying to be gentle even while kissing you like he had been starving for this. Like he had spent weeks imagining your mouth and still wasn’t prepared for what it would do to him.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads nearly touching while the alarm still screamed overhead.
Mark looked stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened; anxiety flickered through his wide eyes, mixed with a kind of amazed vulnerability that left him uncertain how to react.
“That was a terrible idea,” he murmured.
You stared at him breathlessly. “You say that after kissing me like that?”
For a heartbeat, a sharp ache of uncertainty filled your chest. Fear and insecurity flared as you worried that this moment might ruin everything between you.
Mark was stubborn and flawed, but his quiet kindness, the way he made you laugh even on the worst days, and the rare gentleness in his touch remained in your mind.
He listened when you spoke, remembered the smallest details, and made you feel safe, even when the world felt impossible. Wanting him was terrifying, but the chance for warmth, laughter, and steady affection felt like a risk worth taking.
You stared at him, feeling both exposed and brave, and told him he had no right to say that after kissing you like that.
“You should not look that pleased right now,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry,” you said, still dizzy, still smiling helplessly. “I think my brain melted fifteen seconds ago.”
A helpless laugh escaped him, and then he smiled—really smiled, relief and joy breaking through his usual guardedness, making your chest ache with happiness and affection.
Then the records room door slammed open.
Rita burst in with Evelyn and two courthouse security officers, and you and Mark sprang apart so violently it looked criminal.
Silence fell, long and horrifying, as Evelyn looked from your flushed face to Mark’s, then down at the overturned coffee on the floor.
"Oh," she finally said, her tone stuck somewhere between shock and delighted suspicion, while Rita clutched her chest like she had just witnessed the most important moment of her life.
For a split second, Evelyn's eyes widened, her mouth opening as if to say something before she pressed her lips together to hide a dawning grin.
Rita blinked twice, caught between gasping and beaming, she looked back and forth between you and Mark, her excitement almost impossible to contain.
—𝜗𝜚—
You quickly learned there were almost no dignified ways to recover after being caught making out with Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan during a courthouse fire alarm, especially when Rita and Evelyn were the witnesses—the two women immediately became unbearable.
“You know,” Evelyn said the next morning while pouring coffee in the break room, “most people wait until at least the second date before violating municipal safety procedures.”
Without missing a beat, you shot back, “We’re just overachievers. Some of us like to make a good impression with the fire marshal.”
Evelyn waggled her eyebrows. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”
You buried your face in your hands. “Please stop talking.”
Rita looked delighted beyond reason. “No, no, let’s really unpack the fire alarm aspect. Symbolism matters.”
“It was not symbolic.”
“You literally kissed under flashing red lights.”
“Accidentally,” you argued weakly.
Evelyn nearly choked on her coffee. “You accidentally tongue-kissed a prosecutor?”
You felt like you could die from embarrassment.
Across the room, Simon from intake whispered, “Tongue-kissed?” to another clerk with the urgency of a man receiving state secrets.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
The rumors spread through the courthouse before noon, and they were not subtle.
By lunch, someone had anonymously left a tiny fire extinguisher on your desk with a note reading: For future workplace passion emergencies.
You wanted to die from embarrassment, mortification burning under your cheeks. Rita, meanwhile, was on another level.
Not content with merely enjoying the spectacle, she kept sneaking pictures of your horrified face every time Mark’s name was mentioned, already scheming about the perfect photo collage for your as-yet-nonexistent wedding.
Every time you caught her eye, she grinned even wider and mouthed, "You’re welcome," like she had orchestrated the whole thing.
When someone walked past your desk with a knowing look, Rita would lean over and whisper outrageous ideas about T-shirts and group chats, all with the delight of someone who lived for this kind of drama, her loyalty always taking the shape of relentless, infuriating cheerleading.
Meanwhile, Mark Callan had become impossible to look at directly because now you knew what his mouth felt like, how his hands tightened when he kissed you deeper, and the rough sound he made when you touched him back.
Your brain replayed it constantly like a cursed movie trailer.
Unfortunately, Mark seemed equally unsettled, the memory of the kiss flickering in his eyes and a tension clinging to him that matched the electric nervousness you felt inside.
You noticed right away when he walked into records that afternoon, looking composed—too composed, the kind of composed that screamed barely holding it together inside.
His tie was perfect, his suit immaculate, but his eyes found yours instantly, and suddenly the entire room felt too warm.
Nobody spoke, mostly because the entire records department was openly pretending not to watch.
Mark cleared his throat once.
“I need the Benson files.”
Rita handed them to him immediately without breaking eye contact with either of you.
“Thanks,” Mark muttered.
A heavy silence settled between the two of you because neither knew how to act normally anymore.
Not after last night, not after he kissed you like he was starving.
You tucked your hair nervously behind your ear.
Mark’s gaze followed automatically, dropping to your mouth before snapping away, sending your heartbeat into public health concern territory.
“Can I talk to you?” He finally said.
The room instantly erupted into fake coughing, and you glared at everyone while Mark looked one second away from prosecuting somebody personally.
You followed him into the empty conference room beside records, your pulse hammering violently, and the second the door closed, silence swallowed both of you whole.
Neither of you moved, and there was a brief silence until you spoke simultaneously.
“I’m sorry—”
You both stopped.
Mark exhaled sharply through his nose. “You first.”
Your stomach twisted nervously. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.”
He stared at you like you’d said something incomprehensible.
“You think you’re the problem here?”
“I mean…”
He took one step closer, not enough to touch, but enough to make breathing difficult.
“You are the only easy thing in my life right now.”
Your heart broke instantly because he sounded exhausted, honest, and completely defenseless as he dragged one hand down his face before continuing quietly.
“I’ve spent two weeks trying not to cross lines with you.”
You swallowed hard.
“I know.”
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think you do.”
His eyes met yours fully, dark, intense, and completely wrecked.
“You smile at me, and my entire day changes.” His laugh came rough and tired. “You trip over air, and somehow I still think you’re the most beautiful woman in every room.”
Heat flooded your chest so painfully it almost hurt as Mark stepped closer again, still careful, always careful with you.
“I hear your voice in hallways before I see you,” he admitted quietly. “I know the sound of your footsteps now.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And last night…”
He stopped like he didn’t trust himself to finish the sentence, and when you finally spoke, your voice came out tiny.
“Last night what?”
Mark looked at you in a way that completely unraveled your nervous system.
“Last night I kissed you,” he said softly, “and realized I’ve been wanting to do so for a lot longer than I realized.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly, because there it was again—that terrifying sincerity, no games, no smooth charm, just honesty—and you stepped toward him before fear could stop you, making Mark go still immediately.
"You know what the worst part is?" he whispered.
“What?”
“I think it started when you covered my files in coffee stains.”
A startled laugh escaped you, warm and doubtful.
“You have terrible judgment.”
“So I’ve been told.”
That look crossed his face again, the one that made him seem emotionally doomed, as his hand lifted slowly toward your face and paused halfway there like he was still asking permission.
“You tied my shoelace…”
“You nearly concussed yourself on six separate occasions.”
“…and you caught me every time.”
You leaned into his touch immediately, and the relief in his expression nearly destroyed you as his thumb brushed softly across your cheek, his forehead resting briefly against yours until both of you simply breathed, quiet and close, like the world outside the conference room didn’t exist for a minute.
“You scare me a little,” he admitted softly.
Your heart squeezed painfully. “Why?”
“Because I like you enough to ruin this.”
You pulled back slightly to look at him properly.
“Mark.”
“I mean it.” His eyes searched yours. “This courthouse— my job— people talk.”
“People already think we’re one workplace incident away from marriage.”
A helpless smile tugged at his mouth before fading again.
“I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”
For a split second, you thought about all the ways this could go wrong—the courthouse rumors already out of control, HR policies neither of you had bothered to look up, the real possibility that one or both of you could get written up or worse if anyone decided to make an issue of it.
It wasn't just gossip, it was jobs and reputations and the countless ways people you barely knew could have power over your happiness.
The weight of it pressed against your chest, sharpening your worry, but even knowing the risk, the thought of not taking the chance with Mark felt even scarier.
The tenderness of that almost undid you, because even now, he was worried about you, and you touched his wrist carefully.
“Hey.”
His eyes lifted immediately.
“You’re allowed to want something good too.”
Something in Mark’s expression cracked at the words, like nobody had ever told him that before.
When his mouth found yours, it wasn’t desperate or consuming—it was soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that asked you to stay instead of trying to take anything from you.
You melted against him before you even realized you were moving.
He exhaled quietly into the kiss, forehead leaning against yours afterward, his nose brushing yours once in a way that felt almost shy.
Then a knock slammed against the conference room door.
“CALLAN!” came Evelyn’s voice from outside. “If you’re done secretly making out again, your witness is here.”
You covered your face instantly while Mark closed his eyes in visible defeat and actually laughed, full and helpless, and somehow hearing that sound mattered almost as much as the kiss itself.
As the sounds of laughter faded and the world outside pressed in again, you felt something new settle in your chest—a cautious, hopeful certainty that this was only the beginning.
No matter how complicated tomorrow might be, you found yourself smiling, heart open and eager for whatever came next, ready to see where this would take you.
Icl rookie being a spy/traitor all along would've been a crazy plot twist..
I was lowkey thinking this while writing but like, then i’d actually have to write that and im lazy, i like my fluffy idiots and angst when i can be bothered
𝜗𝜚 objection, your honor! he’s insufferable! 𝜗𝜚 (dda!markcallanxclumsy!reader)
summary|| Mark tries to avoid you, but the tension only grows stronger when he finally admits you distract him more than he wants to confess. between archive-room honesty, courthouse gossip, cafeteria tenderness, and one very public hand-touching moment, it becomes clear that neither of you can keep pretending this is harmless. wc: 3.3k
warnings|| SFW; workplace romance, emotional tension, mutual pining, anxiety, avoidance, accidental touching, romantic jealousy/gossip, mentions of violent crime cases, work burnout, family/financial stress hints, public embarrassment, unresolved feelings; no smut yet.
Chapter Three: Motion to Dismiss Your Feelings
After the hallway incident, Mark Callan began avoiding you.
Not in an obvious way. That would have been easier.
No, Mark avoided you subtly, almost carefully, with the precision of a man trying desperately to remain professional while failing at it internally.
He stopped lingering in records. Stopped finding excuses to “coincidentally” appear wherever you were working. Stopped looking at you for more than a second at a time.
Somehow, that hurt far more than it should have.
By Monday, your mood had become so visibly pathetic that even the courthouse security guard paused while checking IDs and gave you a sympathetic look, as if even he could sense your disappointment.
“You okay?” Rita asked, eyeing you slumped over your keyboard.
“No.”
“That bad?”
“I think he regrets me.”
Rita made a face immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“He’s avoiding me.”
“He’s trying not to fall in love with you in a government building.”
You dropped your forehead onto the desk, overwhelmed by helplessness.
“That is not helping.”
“Honey, that man looks at you like you personally invented hope.”
You groaned into the wooden surface, but unfortunately, Rita’s encouragement stopped working around lunchtime.
When Mark walked into records looking devastatingly handsome and emotionally unavailable, which, honestly, should have qualified as workplace harassment.
He was wearing a charcoal suit with his tie slightly loosened, the circles beneath his eyes looked deeper than usual.
The exhaustion was unmistakable, etched not just in his face but in the way his shoulders slumped, weighed down by case files and the impossible expectations of the DA's office.
The second you saw him, your heart ached with a terrible mix of worry and longing.
You wondered if it was only the mountain of trial prep draining him, or if something heavier was pulling at him from outside the courthouse walls.
Once, you'd caught a glimpse of a crumpled envelope peeking out from his briefcase, its corner marked with a bank logo and handwriting that did not look like his—hinting at a complicated family relationship.
Sometimes, late in the day, you heard him on tense phone calls, his voice tight, layered with the kind of worry you recognized from experience.
Occasionally, there would be a reluctant mention of his brother or flashes of half-finished sentences about someone 'back home' before his voice dropped to a low murmur the second anyone passed by.
“Callan,” Rita greeted casually.
“Rita.”
His eyes flicked toward you automatically, then away too fast, as if even making eye contact cost him something vulnerable, exposing feelings he was not ready to share, and the thought sent a sharp, anxious ache through your chest that made it hard to breathe for a moment.
“I just need the Davidson files,” he said.
“I’ll grab them,” you offered too quickly.
Mark hesitated.
“Okay.”
The word came softer than expected, so you disappeared into archive storage, desperate to escape before your humiliation became impossible to hide.
Naturally, the Davidson files were on the highest shelf imaginable, because even fate—or God—seemed personally committed to targeting you in your moment of vulnerability, and you climbed carefully this time, muttering under your breath as you reached for the box.
“Okay,” you whispered. “No falling. No humiliation. We’re evolving.”
The box caught awkwardly, so you tugged harder.
Three additional binders immediately slid off the shelf directly toward your face.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me—”
One hand caught a binder midair while the other grabbed the ladder before it could fall, and when you looked down, of course, it was Mark, because apparently the universe had officially typecast him as your personal emergency response team.
“You know,” he said dryly, “most people retrieve files without entering combat.”
“I was ambushed.”
“By office supplies.”
“They moved first.”
His mouth twitched faintly despite himself, and you climbed down carefully this time—which meant, naturally, your shoe caught on the final rung.
Mark steadied your waist automatically before you could stumble, his hands lingering for barely two seconds, but the brief touch still sent a jolt through your body, rattling your nerves and leaving you dizzy.
Then his hands dropped immediately, like he had remembered, he wasn’t supposed to touch you anymore.
The realization stung more than it should have, leaving you feeling foolishly exposed as you quietly handed him the Davidson files.
“Thanks.”
Mark nodded once, and then silence settled between you—awkward, heavy, and instantly unbearable. You hated it, hated how thick the air felt now, how it seemed to amplify every uncomfortable emotion twisting inside you.
“I haven’t seen you much,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Mark’s expression shifted subtely.
“I’ve been busy.”
The answer was technically true, which somehow made it worse, and you stared at him for a second too long, unsure what to do with the uncomfortable honesty sitting between you.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Straight to jail.
Your soul left your body the moment the words escaped, and Mark looked genuinely startled—not offended, but caught.
The room went painfully quiet before he finally exhaled once through his nose, like he was trying very hard not to react.
“Yes.”
Your heart sank, a cold heaviness settling in your chest as disappointment took over.
“Oh.”
Mark’s jaw tightened immediately. “That’s not—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I do, actually.”
The intensity in his voice pulled your gaze up, and your stomach somersaulted with nervous hope.
Mark ran one tired hand across the back of his neck before speaking carefully.
“You make this difficult.”
Your pulse stumbled painfully, the reality of his words stunning you into silence.
“…What?”
His gaze locked onto yours fully for the first time in days, and suddenly, all the oxygen disappeared.
“You walk into a room,” he said quietly, “and I stop thinking about everything else.”
Your heart skipped a full beat, and Mark looked almost frustrated by his own honesty now, as if the words had slipped out before he could pull them back.
“You smile at me, and I forget what I’m saying mid-sentence.” His laugh came rough and humorless.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is for a prosecutor?”
You stared at him in complete silence, because surely this was a stress hallucination.
“I spent three hours yesterday rereading the same witness statement,” he continued quietly.
“Because I saw you in the hallway and my brain stopped functioning afterward.”
Heat flushed through you so suddenly it was almost unbearable, a dizzying rush of shock and hesitant yearning, because Mark Callan looked wrecked, as if every honest word had cost him something he had not meant to give away.
“And that,” he said finally, “is why I’ve been avoiding you.”
The ache in your chest shifted, softening into a tenderness so sharp it made your eyes sting, because he sounded scared—not of you, but of wanting you too much.
In that moment, your own fears pressed in alongside his, twisting through every part of you. Some old memory flickered beneath the surface, the familiar echo of a love that unraveled when you let yourself hope a little too much, the disappointment of trusting someone who promised to stay but chose to leave instead.
You wanted so badly to believe in the hope shining in his eyes, but under it pulsed the old, familiar panic: What if you reached too far? What if you rushed everything by hoping for more than he could give?
The vulnerability felt impossible, like standing at the edge of something breathtaking and terrifying at the same time. But still, you couldn’t let go of the hope that maybe he was just as afraid of losing this as you were.
When you finally spoke, your voice came out softer than you intended, trembling at the edges with nervousness and an honesty you could no longer hide.
“You make me nervous, too.”
Mark went still.
“I know.”
That admission hit hard, sending a rush of relief and vulnerability through you, because of course, he knew. Mark noticed everything.
Silence stretched between you then, thick with all the words neither of you knew how to say properly, heavy with feelings too fragile to name, until finally, softly, you whispered.
“Mark…”
Your phone rang, and you nearly screamed as the noise shattered the tender moment, jolting you out of your feelings and back into reality.
You fumbled it from your cardigan pocket while mentally apologizing to every known deity, and Mark actually laughed under his breath—warm, helpless, and dangerously fond.
You answered the phone too quickly. “Hello?”
Rita’s voice blasted through immediately.
“WHY IS CALLAN STILL IN RECORDS?”
You closed your eyes in mortified horror, feeling embarrassment boil over. Across from you, Mark looked genuinely delighted for the first time all week.
“I hate everyone,” you whispered into the phone.
“Evelyn says you two have been missing for fifteen minutes, and she’s taking bets now.”
“Oh my God.”
“Also,” Rita added cheerfully, “if you kiss him in archive storage, I need at least twenty dollars from somebody.”
You hung up immediately, and silence fell for one suspended second before Mark laughed—really laughed, low, helpless, and completely devastating.
You stared at him, stunned, your heart skipping at the sound, because there it was again: that rare, unguarded version of him, beautiful enough to make your chest physically ache.
“You know,” he said once he recovered slightly, “your coworkers are terrifying.”
You smiled helplessly. “You should hear what they say when you walk by.”
His eyes softened instantly at your smile, and suddenly it felt as if your hearts recognized each other all over again, the room quieting as the laughter faded and the air thickened between you.
Mark looked at you for too long, and you looked back, neither of you moving until he finally spoke.
“We should probably get back.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
Neither of you moved, the tension pulsing quietly between you as you lingered on the edge of something more again.
Mark’s gaze flicked briefly toward your mouth before he caught himself, sending your heartbeat into catastrophe, and then he stepped back first—always first—but this time, before he fully turning away, you spoke softly.
“For the record…”
You swallowed hard.
“You make it difficult, too.”
He walked out of archive storage shaking his head, leaving you standing there alone with a heartbeat that felt like a full legal confession.
—𝜗𝜚—
After the archive storage incident, the tension between you and Mark became unbearable—not awkward, but worse, mutual. It lived in lingering eye contact, unfinished sentences, accidental brushes of hands that left both of you silent afterward, and the way Mark started appearing beside your desk with coffee you never technically saw him buy.
It was in the way you began memorizing the sound of his footsteps without meaning to, and it was becoming a problem, a huge one, because now the entire courthouse watched the two of you like a live television drama.
There were whispers in the break room, knowing glances exchanged in the halls, and suddenly every late afternoon coffee or shared smile felt like it might end up as the next headline of courthouse gossip.
At moments, you caught your supervisor watching a little too closely or heard your own name paired with Mark's in a low-voiced conversation that quieted the second you appeared.
There were protocols against workplace relationships here, or at least enough unspoken rules to make your cheeks flush every time an email popped up from HR. Just existing in the same space with him felt riskier now, as if the next slip could turn rumors into real consequences neither of you wanted to face.
“Morning, lovebirds,” Simon from intake greeted Tuesday morning.
You nearly dropped your bag.
Mark, standing beside your desk reviewing a file, didn’t even look up.
“Good morning, Simon.” He said.
Simon blinked. “Wow. Didn’t deny it.”
Mark calmly turned a page in the file, and your soul left your body.
“Oh my God,” You whispered.
Simon physically clutched his chest. “OH MY GOD.”
“Get out,” Mark said dryly.
Simon fled immediately to spread destruction elsewhere.
You turned slowly toward Mark in horror. “You cannot do things like that.”
Mark finally looked up.
“What things?”
“You just— you—”
“I answered a greeting.”
“You answered it like that.”
A tiny flicker of amusement appeared in his eyes.
“You’re blushing.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he replied calmly, “you keep talking to me.”
Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again, but nothing came out.
Mark looked unbearably pleased with himself for approximately two seconds before professionalism settled back over him, which was deeply unfair.
“How’s the Wilson transcription going?” He asked.
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Are you pretending to be normal right now?”
“I’m always normal.”
Yesterday, he’d stared at your mouth for six full seconds while you explained copier issues.
“Sure.”
Mark’s gaze softened for the briefest second before his expression shifted, and you noticed immediately.
“Wait,” You said slowly. “You look awful.”
He blinked once, as if the statement surprised him. “Thank you.”
“No, I mean—” You lowered your voice. “Have you slept?”
Mark looked away, and your chest tightened at once, because there it was—the answer was absolutely not.
“You’ve been here all night again, haven’t you?”
“It’s trial prep.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Something frustrated and tender twisted painfully inside you, because he said things like that so casually, as if exhaustion was normal, as if running himself into the ground didn’t matter, and you stood before you could overthink it, making Mark look immediately wary.
“That expression concerns me.”
“You need food.”
“I eat.”
“You had pretzels for lunch yesterday.”
“You remember my lunch choices?”
“You remember my near-death experiences.”
“That’s because there are so many.”
You ignored that. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“The cafeteria.”
Mark stared at you like you’d suggested armed robbery.
“I have work.”
“And you’ll still have work after consuming one vegetable.”
“I’m not sure the cafeteria legally counts as vegetables.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You dragged me away from a homicide file.”
“You prosecute murders better when your organs function properly.”
Something warm flickered across his face—quickly gone, but there all the same—before he sighed and finally set the file down.
“Five minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“You negotiate literally for a living.”
“And I’m excellent at it.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself, and of course, Mark noticed. His expression softened instantly in that dangerous, quiet way that always made your heartbeat feel suddenly unstable.
“Seven,” you agreed softly.
The courthouse cafeteria was mostly empty at that hour as you carried your tray carefully toward a corner table, Mark walking beside you with black coffee and what looked suspiciously like an actual sandwich. It was progress.
Unfortunately, the second you sat down, your sleeve caught the edge of your plastic fork, sending it flying dramatically across the cafeteria.
A woman at another table ducked.
Mark closed his eyes briefly, as if asking the universe for patience and e none.
“I genuinely need scientists to study you.”
“I’m having a hard day.”
“You threw cutlery.”
“It was accidental.”
Mark laughed quietly into his coffee, and there it was again—that impossible warmth, the kind that still startled you every time.
You watched him take a bite of his sandwich, exhaustion lingering heavily beneath his eyes, and without the sharpness of the courtroom or the constant noise of the courthouse halls around him, he looked different sitting there.
Softer.
Lonelier somehow.
Enough to make your chest ache unexpectedly. You had the sudden urge to reach out, to find the right words that would lift the heaviness from his shoulders, but all you could do was sit with the ache in your chest and hope he felt less alone just from your quiet presence.
For a moment, you almost whispered something honest—a small confession about wanting to help, about how hard it is to see someone you care about struggle and not know how to fix it—but the words caught in your throat, fragile and unspoken. Still, you lingered there in the hope that he might feel it anyway.
“What?” Mark asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re staring at me.”
Mortifying.
You looked down instantly. “Sorry.”
Mark was quiet for a second.
Then:
“Don’t apologize for that.”
Your heart absolutely folded in on itself, and suddenly the cafeteria felt too small, too warm, too full of things neither of you were saying.
Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with those unbearable dark eyes, as if he could hear every frantic thought your face was trying to hide.
“You know,” he said quietly, “most people are intimidated by me.”
“I am intimidated by you.”
“No,” he murmured. “You’re nervous around me. Different thing.”
Your pulse stumbled.
“You cross-examine murder suspects for fun.”
“I do not do it for fun.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
A reluctant smile tugged briefly at his mouth before it faded, the exhaustion returning so visibly you could almost watch him retreat back into it in real time.
“How long have you been doing this?” you asked softly.
“Too long.”
“That’s not a number.”
Mark looked down at his coffee for a moment before answering.
“Eight years in the DA’s office.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“You ever think about stopping?”
His eyes lifted slowly back to yours, and suddenly something deeper moved beneath his expression—something tired, aching, and far too honest to hide.
“I don’t know how.”
The honesty of it hit hard because he didn’t sound dramatic; he sounded sincere, as if somewhere along the way work had consumed everything else.
Your chest ached painfully for him, and before you could think better of it, you reached across the table and touched his hand, just lightly, warm skin beneath your fingertips.
Mark froze instantly, his eyes dropping to your hand before lifting slowly to your face. You should have pulled away, absolutely should have, but instead your thumb brushed once against his knuckles, the smallest movement imaginable, and still enough to change the entire atmosphere.
Mark inhaled sharply, not loudly, but enough to make your heartbeat turn catastrophic as the cafeteria noise faded into something distant and meaningless.
His gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made breathing difficult, and then he said quietly, rough around the edges, “You really need to stop doing that.”
You swallowed hard. “Doing what?” His voice dropped lower.
“Touching me like it doesn’t affect you.”
The words landed somewhere deep and dangerous because he sounded like he was barely holding himself together, and maybe, horrifyingly, so were you. Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“It does affect me.”
Mark looked wrecked, absolutely wrecked, and his hand turned slightly beneath yours before he could stop himself, like instinct, like he wanted more contact. Your breath caught, and then suddenly, Rita’s voice rang across the cafeteria.
“Oh my God.”
You jerked apart instantly as Rita stood there holding a salad and the expression of a woman witnessing live theater. Behind her, Evelyn Price looked one second away from screaming.
“You two are insane,” Evelyn informed both of you, while Mark leaned back in his chair, visibly resigned, and you considered immediate death.
Rita pointed aggressively between you. “Hand touching in public? During business hours? In this economy?”
You opened your mouth weakly. “It wasn’t—,” but Evelyn cut in with,
“What are you, a Jane Austen protagonist?”
Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can either of you behave professionally for one minute?”
“No,” both women answered immediately.
You buried your face in your hands, but across from you, Mark looked dangerously close to smiling again, and somehow, that made everything worse.
You peeked between your fingers, your embarrassment still prickling, and caught the hint of warmth softening his features.
For a split second, it felt like it was only the two of you at that table. Despite the chaos around you, something hopeful settled between you.
Mark glanced away with the trace of a secret smile still hiding in the corner of his mouth, and you couldn’t help wondering if this was the start of something neither of you had enough courage yet to name.
𝜗𝜚 objection, your honor! he’s insufferable! 𝜗𝜚 (dda!markcallanxclumsy!reader)
summary|| jealousy and courthouse gossip begin to close in as Mark’s protective side becomes harder to hide. between whispered rumors, near-falls, accidental touches, and overheard confessions, both of you are forced to face the truth: whatever is happening between you is no longer harmless. wc: 3.6k
warnings|| SFW; workplace gossip, jealousy, mild possessive/protective behavior; no smut yet, unwanted flirting, mentions of violent crime cases, emotional tension, anxiety, near-fall/stair accident, accidental eavesdropping, romantic angst; no smut yet.
Chapter Two: The Rumor Mill Finds You Guilty
You told yourself you were not jealous.
That would be insane.
You barely knew Mark Callan. Technically, your entire relationship consisted of workplace disasters, emotional whiplash, and one deeply upsetting blueberry-jam incident.
You had no claim to jealousy.
And yet, Friday morning, you found yourself standing behind the records counter, pretending not to notice Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Price talking with him, while leaning against the office doorway, with the kind of ease that only came from familiarity.
She was beautiful.
Of course, she was.
She was tall, elegant, composed—the sort who never tripped over cords or stapled her sleeves to a documents.
Meanwhile, you were still haunted by the memory of walking into a glass door last month—an embarrassment that made your cheeks burn every time it resurfaced.
“You’re staring,” Rita warned under her breath.
“I’m observing.”
“You look like a Victorian woman dying of tuberculosis.”
You tore your gaze away. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Unfortunately, Rita was right.
You were staring because Evelyn was laughing softly at something Mark had said, and he was smiling—a real smile, not the tiny, almost-smiles you usually got, but something relaxed and comfortable, as if it happened often.
Something sharp twisted unexpectedly beneath your ribs, jealousy and disappointment flaring up, and you hated how quickly it hurt.
‘Maybe they’re dating,’ your brain whispered unhelpfully.
You tried focusing on work instead.
Keyword: tried.
Unfortunately, your emotional stability was already hanging by a thread, which meant the universe naturally chose that exact moment to make it worse.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You looked up automatically and immediately regretted it.
Brandon Pike from clerical support stood at the counter, grinning at you.
Brandon was handsome in a loud way. Too much cologne, too-wide of a smile, the confidence of someone never humbled.
He flirted with literally everyone, usually harmlessly.
Today, however, after everything, you suddenly found him exhausting, your patience worn thin by your own swirling feelings.
“What do you need, Brandon?”
“Ouch,” he said dramatically. “No good morning?”
“It’s nine-thirteen.”
“Still counts.”
He leaned casually against the counter. “You doing anything tonight?”
Rita made a noise suspiciously close to a snicker.
You narrowed your eyes at her before looking back at Brandon. “Probably reorganizing my life after repeated public humiliation.”
“So dinner’s a maybe?”
“Dinner’s a no.”
“You wound me.”
“You’ll recover.”
Brandon grinned wider. “C’mon. One date.”
Before you could answer, a voice cut cleanly through the room.
“Pretty sure she already said no.”
Every nerve ending in your body recognized Mark instantly.
Mark approached slowly, case file tucked beneath one arm. His expression was calm, too calm, which somehow felt worse.
“She answered you,” Mark said evenly. “That should’ve ended the conversation.”
Heat flooded your face, as a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude battled inside you as everyone watched.
Brandon laughed awkwardly. “Jesus. Didn’t realize she had a bodyguard.”
Mark’s eyes didn’t leave him.
“She doesn’t.”
The silence afterward felt dangerous, not dramatic, just sharp enough to cut.
Brandon cleared his throat first. “Right. Okay.”
Then, apparently deciding self-preservation mattered, he backed away down the hall.
As soon as he disappeared, everyone in records became very invested in their paperwork.
Cowards.
You looked up at Mark, who was already looking down at you. Suddenly, your heartbeat became a real problem—nervousness and anticipation rippling through you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly.
“Yes,” he replied, without hesitation. “I did.”
The certainty in his voice startled you, a flutter of relief and hope catching you off guard.
Something vulnerable flickered across your face before you could hide it, and you were sure Mark had noticed it.
“You looked uncomfortable,” he added, quieter now.
“I could’ve handled it.”
“I know.”
The words should not have affected you as much as they did. He wasn’t dismissing or belittling you, he was simply saying he hadn’t liked seeing you cornered—and somehow, that was worse, much worse.
Your chest felt painfully tight all of a sudden, anxiety and longing mixing until you could barely breathe.
“Thank you,” you said after a moment.
Mark nodded once, but he still hadn’t moved away, and neither had you.
The room suddenly felt too small, too warm.
His tie was loosened, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms. He looked tired in that beautiful, devastating way—as if exhaustion was part of him.
“You shouldn’t let people talk over you,” he said quietly.
You blinked. “What?”
“Men like him.”
His jaw tightened faintly.
“You already said no,” he continued. “You don’t owe anyone softness after that.”
Your heart ached unexpectedly because there was anger beneath his calm—anger that surprised you, because it wasn’t possessiveness or ego, but something protective that touched you and left you shaken.
You studied him carefully. “You sound experienced.”
For the first time since walking in, Mark looked away. A tiny movement that was barely noticeable, but there.
“I prosecute enough cases,” he said flatly, and suddenly you felt heavy with understanding, a sadness settling across your shoulders.
The ache in your chest deepened.
Sometimes you forgot what his job was beneath the suits and sarcasm.
He spent every day seeing the worst in people, no wonder he looked tired all the time, no wonder he carried himself like someone permanently braced for impact.
“Mark—”
“CALLAN!”
Evelyn’s voice echoed from the hallway.
You physically watched the walls go back up around him again, so fast it left you dizzy.
Mark stepped back, professional distance restored.
“I’ve got court.” he said.
The softness vanished so fast you almost wondered if you imagined it.
Then his gaze dropped, and you glanced down—your shoelace was untied, again.
Before you could react, Mark crouched.
Your entire brain stopped functioning.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll trip.”
“That is statistically fair, but—”
His fingers moved quickly, looping the lace neatly.
The records room had gone silent again.
You could feel Rita vibrating somewhere behind you.
Mark tied the knot, then looked up, and somehow that was worse.
Something about a man on one knee looking up at you with tired dark eyes felt catastrophically intimate—especially when his expression softened, and he quietly said, “There.”
Your heart genuinely stuttered.
Mark stood immediately afterward like nothing unusual had happened, as if he hadn’t just altered your brain chemistry.
Then he picked up his case file and walked toward the door.
Halfway out, he paused. Didn’t turn around, but you heard it anyway.
“Try to survive the rest of the day.”
Then he disappeared into the hallway.
There was silence, long, heavy silence.
Then Rita slowly emerged from behind a shelf.
“Oh,” she whispered.
You stared blankly ahead. “I think that was the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done to me.”
Rita placed a hand dramatically over her heart.
“Honey,” she said, “that man is in trouble.”
—𝜗𝜚—
The problem with Mark Callan was that he kept doing things that were romantic without realizing they were romantic.
Which somehow made it worse.
If he had flirted openly, you might have been able to handle it. Possibly. Maybe. Fine—not really, but at least then there would have been rules.
Instead, Mark lived in a gray area, tying your shoelaces with courtroom focus, then leaving like he hadn’t just undone you completely.
You spent the whole weekend thinking about it, which was humiliating.
By Monday morning, your brain had become completely unusable.
“Okay,” Rita said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with a coffee. “You look haunted.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just typed his name into a witness transcript.”
You froze. Slowly, horrifically slowly, you looked down at your computer screen.
Halfway through a burglary deposition, the sentence read:
The defendant entered the residence at approximately Mark Callan—
“Oh my God.”
Rita burst into laughter so violently that she nearly spilled her coffee.
You dropped your forehead onto the desk. “I’m quitting.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’ll become a shepherd. Move to the mountains. Never know love again.”
“You’d trip over a sheep.”
“That feels unnecessarily personal.”
Unfortunately, Rita was still laughing when Simon from intake appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, records need the Ellis trial exhibits delivered upstairs.”
Rita pointed at you. “Perfect. She can take them.”
You lifted your head slowly, fixing Rita with an accusing look. “Why do you hate me?”
“Character building.”
“It’s emotional warfare.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
Ten minutes later, you found yourself carrying two heavy exhibit boxes through the courthouse halls, muttering threats under your breath.
Naturally, the elevators were full, which meant you had to take the stairs.
“This is how I die,” you whispered dramatically while climbing.
Halfway up the second flight, one of the boxes slipped against your hip.
You adjusted awkwardly. Then your shoe caught the edge of the stairs and time slowed.
“Oh no.”
The box tipped, papers burst into the air, and your body pitched forward with the terrible certainty that you were about to die in the most humiliating way possible—until one hand caught your arm before impact and another caught the box.
You gasped sharply as your momentum slammed you directly into a solid chest instead of concrete stairs.
For one dizzy second, all you knew was warmth. Strong hands and the sharp scent of dark coffee and cologne.
Then Mark’s voice above you:
“…Every time I see you, gravity appears suspiciously aggressive.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Please let me die here.”
“That wouldn’t be fair.”
You realized very suddenly that one of his arms was still around your waist. Not casually, firmly, he had grabbed you hard, as if the thought of you falling had scared him.
Your pulse stumbled violently. Slowly, you looked up to find Mark already watching you—much too close, his gaze intense.
The courthouse stairwell suddenly felt unbearably quiet.
His chest rose sharply beneath your hands because, apparently, in your panic, you had grabbed his suit jacket.
Your fingers loosened. “Sorry.”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly to your hands, then back to your face.
“You okay?”
The softness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.
You nodded too fast. “Yes. Totally. Thriving.”
Mark’s mouth twitched faintly. Still, he didn’t let go immediately, and you couldn’t stop noticing things.
The warmth of his hand at your waist, the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the slight looseness of his tie as if he had been working too hard again—every small detail made him feel dangerously real, and far too close.
“You really need safer hobbies,” he said, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated.
You swallowed hard, nervous. “I didn’t realize carrying boxes counted as an extreme sport.”
“With you involved? Apparently it is.”
You laughed weakly despite yourself, and there it was again—that dangerous look he got whenever you laughed, as if, for half a second, he forgot he was supposed to keep himself guarded.
Then voices echoed from above, and the moment broke instantly.
Mark stepped back first. The loss of his warmth was intant and painfully unfair, but before you could embarrass yourself further, he bent to gather the scattered exhibits.
You crouched automatically to help, heart still stumbling over the space where his hand had been.
“Careful,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“You almost just fell down a staircase.”
“That was five seconds ago.”
“Yes,” he replied flatly. “A traumatic five seconds.”
Something unexpectedly tender bloomed in your chest, soft and unwanted, and you tried to ignore it only to fail spectacularly.
As you gathered the papers beside him, your fingers brushed once.
Then again, tiny, accidental touches that somehow felt louder than conversation.
You reached for the same photograph at the same time, and Mark’s hand settled briefly over yours and both of you froze.
The air shifted, thinning into something fragile and dangerous as his eyes lifted slowly to meet yours.
You stopped breathing.
There it was again—that impossible tension, building quietly between you without permission, without warning, as if neither of you knew how to stop it and neither of you were brave enough to name it.
When you finally spoke, your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
“Mark…”
He looked wrecked suddenly, not visibly, not dramatically, but something in his expression tightened like he was fighting himself.
Then—
“Callan?”
A man in a gray suit appeared at the top of the stairs, and Mark pulled his hand away immediately.
The warmth vanished with him.
In an instant, Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan returned—controlled, professional, untouchable, as if whatever had passed between you had never happened at all.
“We’re waiting on you for pretrial,” the man said.
“I’m coming.”
The man nodded once before disappearing again.
Silence settled between you afterward—awkward now, fragile in a way it had not been moments before.
Mark stacked the final exhibits carefully into the box, his movements precise and controlled, as if order could undo whatever had just passed between you.
Then he stood.
You rose too and lost your balance again because, apparently, God had taken a personal interest in humiliating you.
Mark caught your elbow with frightening speed.
For one suspended second, you just stared at each other.
Then, to your absolute horror, he laughed.
Not politely, not under his breath, not with that careful restraint he wore like armor.
An actual, helpless laugh.
“You cannot be real,” he said under his breath.
You covered your face. “I hate this building.”
His hand lingered on your arm one second too long before he let go. When you looked up again, something in his expression had softened completely—not amusement, not irritation, but something worse: affection, real and unmistakable.
Your heart did something violent and painful inside your chest. Suddenly, the possibility became terrifyingly real: Mark Callan liked you—actually liked you. Not in passing, not by accident. Judging from the look on his face right now, that realization scared him almost as much as it scared you.
He stepped backward first, always first, like he didn’t trust himself standing too close.
“I should go.”
You nodded even though disappointment struck.
“Right. Court.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moved, the silence stretched, then Mark glanced at the stairs beneath your feet.
“…Do you want me to carry the boxes upstairs?”
Your heart melted so fast it was humiliating.
“You already saved my life.”
“You tripped carrying paper.”
“It was a near-death experience emotionally.”
For the first time today, Mark smiled openly, small, tired, and beautiful enough to ruin you entirely.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
And before you could recover, he lifted both exhibit boxes effortlessly and started up the stairs beside you.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
—𝜗𝜚—
By Tuesday morning, the entire courthouse had apparently decided you and Mark Callan were having an affair.
You discovered this when a bailiff winked at you in the hallway and said:
“Morning, Mrs. Prosecutor.”
You nearly walked directly into a water fountain.
“WHAT?”
The bailiff laughed himself into another dimension while you stood there in horrified silence, clutching a stack of transcripts.
This was somehow Rita’s fault; you could feel it.
You stormed into records to find her humming cheerfully as she organized files.
“What did you do?”
She didn’t even look up. “You’ll need to narrow that down.”
“People think I’m dating Mark!”
Now she looked up, and the woman had the audacity to grin.
“Oh,” she said. “So it’s spreading.”
You stared at her in betrayal. “Spreading?”
“Honey, the two of you have the subtlety of a hospital fire.”
“We are not—”
"You look at him like he hung the moon."
“I do not.”
“And he watches you, like you might accidentally kill yourself if left unattended.”
“That feels unfairly specific.”
Rita pointed a pen at you. “He carried your boxes upstairs yesterday.’’
“He was helping.”
“He glared at Greg from evidence for asking if you were single.”
This could not be happening. You were not workplace-romance material. You were workplace-workers-compensation material.
Unfortunately, your humiliation only worsened around noon, because you were delivering signed affidavits to the litigation floor when you heard voices drifting from one of the partially open conference rooms.
“…seriously, Callan?”
You slowed instinctively, not intentionally. Okay, maybe a little intentionally.
Inside the room, Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Price leaned against the conference table with crossed arms while Mark stood near the window reviewing a file.
“You’re imagining things,” Mark said flatly.
Evelyn laughed softly. “Am I?”
“You are.”
“Then why did you nearly bite Brandon Pike’s head off last week?”
Your entire body froze. Mark didn’t answer immediately, which somehow felt louder.
Evelyn tilted her head knowingly. “That’s what I thought.”
“This conversation is inappropriate.”
“So is staring at the records department every twenty minutes.”
You physically stopped breathing.
Inside the room, Mark looked profoundly exhausted.
“Evelyn.”
“Oh relax,” she said. “I’m not judging you. Frankly, it’s nice seeing you care about something besides work for once.”
Something complicated flickered across his face then, left too quickly to fully understand.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Evelyn’s expression softened slightly.
“I know you haven’t looked at someone like that in years.”
Silence. Heavy silence.
Then Mark said quietly:
“She deserves someone less complicated.”
The words hit you directly in the chest—not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. They sounded honest, painfully honest.
You stepped back on instinct before they could realize you were standing there. Your heartbeat thudded too fast, too heavy, as if it had forgotten how to breathe.
You should have left, you absolutely should have left, but instead, like the emotionally intelligent woman you very much were not, you shifted your weight at the worst possible moment, and the affidavits slipped from your arms.
Paper exploded across the hallway floor.
Inside the conference room, silence fell.
“…Oh my God,” you whispered.
The door opened, and Mark stepped out first. His eyes found you kneeling among scattered paperwork, then flicked to your face, your guilty expression, and something in his own changed instantly.
“Were you standing here long?”
“No,” you lied terribly.
Evelyn appeared behind him, looking openly delighted.
“Well,” she said. “This is awkward.”
You wanted to die, preferably swift.
Mark crouched automatically to help gather papers. “You should’ve said something.”
“I was leaving.”
“You were eavesdropping,” Evelyn corrected.
You made a wounded noise.
Mark picked up several affidavits before speaking quietly without looking at you.
“You heard that.”
Not a question.
You swallowed hard. “Some of it.”
The hallway suddenly felt much too small.
Evelyn looked between both of you before sighing dramatically. “I’m going to go before this turns into a slow-burning legal drama.”
Neither of you acknowledged her.
She left anyway, muttering something about emotional constipation.
You stayed kneeling on the floor beside Mark in painful silence.
“You think you’re complicated?’’ You ask softly.
Mark exhaled slowly.
“You shouldn’t have heard that.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
His hands paused briefly on the paperwork. Then he looked at you—really looked at you—and something in his expression shifted.
He seemed worn in a way you hadn’t seen before: not just physically, but emotionally.
“I work seventy hour weeks,” he said quietly. “I miss holidays, birthdays, most nights I sleep in my office.”
You tried speaking, but he kept going.
“I prosecute violent crimes. Half the things I see follow me home.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And people around me…” He paused once. “Eventually, they get tired of coming second to the job.”
Your chest hurt because none of that sounded arrogant. It sounded lonely, painfully lonely.
Mark looked down at the papers again. “You deserve easy.”
The words came out rougher than intended, and somehow that hurt even worse, because it sounded like he had already decided he couldn’t be what you needed.
“Who said I wanted easy?” You said before you could stop yourself.
Mark went very still, and the air shifted dangerously. His eyes lifted slowly to yours, and there it was again, that unbearable tension, like both of you were standing too close to something neither of you knew how to describe.
Your pulse hammered painfully as Mark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
You noticed
God, you noticed
Then footsteps echoed at the end of the hall, and the moment was shattered.
Mark stood first, retreating behind professionalism with visible effort as he carefully handed you the last affidavit. His expression controlled again, but not quickly enough to hide what had almost happened between you.
“Our hearing starts in ten minutes.”
You stared up at him from the floor.
“Right.”
But neither of you moved, not yet, not while the air between you still felt too fragile to disturb.
Then Mark did something that completely destroyed what little remained of your emotional stability.
Very gently, almost absently, he reached down and fixed the crooked collar of your blouse, his fingers brushing your shoulder with a tenderness that felt far too natural, far too instinctive, as if some part of him had moved before the rest of him could remember he was supposed to be careful around you.
Your breath caught hard.
Mark seemed to realize what he had done at the exact same moment you did, and his hand withdrew.
The look on his face afterward was almost alarmed, as if touching you had become dangerous, as if the softness he kept letting slip was beginning to frighten him more than anything else.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away down the hall, leaving you kneeling there with a stack of papers in your arms and a heartbeat that no longer felt survivable.
𝜗𝜚 objection, your honor! he’s insufferable! 𝜗𝜚 (dda!markcallanxclumsy!reader)
summary|| a coffee spill makes one ordinary intern impossible for Mark Callan to ignore. what starts as an embarrassing accident turns into ruined muffins, falling files, nervous laughter, and unexpected romance. wc: 3.5k
warnings|| SFW; teasing banter, embarrassment/social anxiety, workplace/courthouse setting, mention of a murder case file, mild injury risk/falling, food and drink spills, romantic/jealous tension; no smut yet, mention of a past fiancée/relationship ending badly.
Chapter One: The People v. Your Dignity
The first time you met Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan, you'd spilled your coffee across a murder file.
Not cutely, and not in the delicate, rom-com sort of way where a few drops landed near the corner, and everyone laughed because it’s meaningless.
No, you managed to knock over an entire cup of scalding hot, overpriced courthouse coffee right across Exhibit B, three witness statements, and the sleeve of Mark Callan’s perfectly pressed white shirt.
For one terrible second, the world stopped. Mark looked down in disbelief, and the paralegal beside him made a sound of pure despair.
You clutched your notebook to your chest like it might shield you from prosecution, and the devastating reality of his stare.
“Oh, my god. I am so, sorry.”
When Mark Callan looked back up at you, it was determined that he was the kind of handsome that seemed almost unfair.
Sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, and a mouth that looked like it never smiled without good reason. His hair was neat, his tie was straight, and his expression was the kind you’d expect in court right before something life-altering happened.
For a ridiculous moment, you forgot how to breathe. Up close, Mark was both intimidating and enticing.
You, on the other hand, wore a sweater with ink-stained cuffs and had, on more than one occasion, committed a caffeine-based felony.
“This is the People’s case file.” he said calmly
You winced. “I can see that.”
“It is no longer legible.”
“I can also see that.”
His gaze dropped to the spreading coffee stain. “…and now it smells like hazelnut.”
“That part might be my fault.”
“Really?” he asked. “I was about to blame the defendant.”
You blinked, then, because you were nervous and apparently possessed absolutely no survival instincts, you laughed—a small, terrified sound that slipped out before you could stop it.
Mark didn’t laugh, but something shifted in his eyes, something that wasn’t quite warmth but came dangerously close, like the smallest crack of light beneath a door he usually kept locked.
“I’ll fix it,” you blurted. “I’m a scribe—well, I’m interning with records, but I type fast. I can redo everything. I’ll stay late. I can—”
“You can start by not touching anything else.”
Your hand froze midair, and God help you, because Mark Callan had looked at you like you were going to be his newly appointed, biggest problem.
Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What’s your name?”
You told him it. He repeated it once, as if he were filing it away under future liability.
When he left, coffee dripping from the edge of his file folder onto the courthouse floor, leaving a path for you to follow as he walked down the hall.
You should have felt relieved. Instead, your stupid heart gave one hard, humiliating kick from inside your chest.
—𝜗𝜚—
The courthouse had its own soundtrack: ringing phones, shoes striking marble, muted arguments leaking beneath office doors, and the steady hum of overworked officials trying to hold the justice system together with nothing but caffeine and spite.
You’d only been there exactly twelve days, and somehow, in less than two weeks, you had already earned a reputation.
It wasn’t terrible, but it was enough that when you entered the records office Monday morning carrying three folders and a blueberry muffin, someone immediately looked up and said, “Careful, Callan’s in the building.”
You groaned. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Rita said from behind a stack of deposition transcripts. “You’re too sweet. Honestly, it’s irritating.”
You dropped your purse into the chair with a dramatic sigh. “He still hates me.”
Rita snorted. “Deputy District Attorney Mark Callan hates everyone.”
“That is not comforting.” You left your coffee and phone on your desk as you shrugged off your coat.
“That’s because you’re young enough to still want comforting.” She turned back to her laptop and placed her glasses back on her face, getting back to whatever Brenner had asked from her.
“You sound like a woman who’s seen things.” You said, and began unwrapping your muffin.
“I’ve worked in this building twenty-two years,” Rita replied. “I have seen things. Including Callan making a defense attorney cry in open court.”
You paused before getting up. “Seriously?”
“She deserved it.”
You appreciated her honesty.
“That’s… weirdly reassuring.” She shrugged, “He’s good at his job,” she said simply. “Too good, honestly. Men like him are pretty much robots, surviving on legal pads and self-loathing.”
You tried not to think about that for too long, but unfortunately, your brain betrayed you immediately, because now you were imagining Mark late at night in his office, sleeves rolled up, jaw shadowed with exhaustion, rubbing tired eyes over stacks of files beneath dim lamplight.
You didn’t even like him, not really. You liked the idea of him; there was a difference. A tragic one, admittedly, but still a difference.
“Earth to disaster girl.” You turned around and blinked. “What?”
Rita grinned knowingly. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?” You asked.
“The staring-into-space-like-you’re-in-a-period-drama thing.”
“I do not do that.”
“You absolutely do.”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself and, with devastating timing, walked your muffin directly into the edge of the filing cabinet.
It launched from your hand, and Rita screamed, but you screamed louder.
Blueberry filling exploded across the floor just as someone stepped around the corner. Polished black shoes, stopping mere inches from the scene of complete pastry destruction.
Silence fell.
Slowly, your eyes traveled upward—dark slacks, an expensive-looking belt, strong hands holding a trial binder—and finally landed on Mark Callan himself, staring down at the murdered muffin between you with disbelief. He had expected many different types of disasters that could happen this morning, but somehow, not this.
“…Again?” he asked.
You wanted the ground to open beneath you. “Okay,” you said weakly, “in my defense—”
“I’m fascinated to hear this.” He raised his eyebrows at you.
“I forgot the cabinet existed.”
“The cabinet has not moved.”
“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”
Rita had physically turned away so he wouldn’t see her laughing—Traitor.
Mark crouched before you could stop him, picking up the surviving half of the muffin with a napkin from his pocket. His motions were surprisingly careful. Mark’s hands were large, veined, precise; everything about him seemed controlled. Even annoyed, he never wasted energy.
“Here,” he said, standing again and handing you the least destroyed half.
You blinked up at him. “You salvaged it?”
“It seemed important to you.”
“It was blueberry.”
“That explains the emotional attachment.”
Your lips twitched before you could stop them, and for the first time, Mark almost smiled.
It was tiny, gone in less than a second, but it changed his entire face. It made him look younger somehow, less severe, and less like a man permanently braced for impact.
You turned away first. Big mistake, because as soon as you moved, your elbow clipped the stack of folders on your desk, and paper exploded everywhere.
“Oh my God.”
Mark closed his eyes as Rita fully burst into laughter.
You dropped to the floor in horror, scrambling to gather loose witness statements before they slid under desks. “I’m quitting,” you muttered. “Actually, I’m fleeing the country.”
A page drifted past Mark’s shoe; he bent automatically to help.
“You don’t have to—”
“You’ll only make it worse.”
“That is so rude.”
“It’s also statistically likely.”
You glared up at him from the floor. He looked back down at you, and suddenly the space between you thickened.
Your knees pressed against cold tile as you fell to your knees to gather the half of them.
His hand brushed yours as he reached for the same page. It was warm, just barely, but still enough to send heat racing embarrassingly fast up your arm.
Heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it. It was ridiculous, humiliating even, how one accidental touch could undo you so quickly, but your body reacted before your pride could catch up.
Your pulse jumped hard beneath your skin, and suddenly the courthouse felt too quiet, too small, too aware of the two of you crouched there on the floor together.
Mark stilled, his eyes lifted to yours. They were dark brown, tired, and intense in a way that made you feel seen right through.
For one awful, suspended second, neither of you moved. Then someone shouted for “CALLAN!" from the hallway.
Mark stood first, expression locking back into place like a door slamming shut. He handed you the papers without another word and stood up. He walked away, leaving you with the lingering warmth of his fingers and the sudden ache of his absence.
You stayed kneeling on the floor long after he disappeared down the hall, and Rita slowly leaned over her desk. “…Well,” she said.
You stared blankly ahead. “I think I just died.”
A smile broke out across her face. “Yeah,” Rita replied. “That’s usually how it starts.”
—𝜗𝜚—
By Wednesday, you had developed a system.
Rule one: avoid carrying beverages near Mark Callan.
Rule two: avoid carrying food near Mark Callan.
Rule three: avoid carrying literally anything near Mark Callan; Sadly, this left very few options for functioning as a human being.
As it turned out, the courthouse required carrying things constantly; files, boxes, coffee, evidence binders, and your rapidly deteriorating sense of stability, and for some reason, Mark was always there to witness the worst moments.
You were beginning to suspect he appeared only when your dignity was in danger.
And, right on cue, the evidence presented itself.
“Why…” Mark Callan said slowly, “…are you on a ladder?”
You froze halfway up the records room ladder, balancing a storage box against your hip, and looked down to find him standing below you with the exact expression a man might wear upon discovering a raccoon in his office.
The ladder wobbled violently; you tightened your grip instantly, and Mark closed his eyes for one long suffering second.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“I’m fine.” You said, though the breathless little laugh that followed didn’t make you sound very convincing.
“You are visibly not fine.” He added.
“I do this all the time,” you reasured, but the words came out too soft, like you were comforting yourself more than him.
“You shouldn’t admit that out loud.”
You scowled down at him. “You’re weirdly bossy for someone who isn’t my supervisor.”
“And you’re weirdly committed to workplace injuries.”
Your soul left your body as the box slipped, but Mark moved faster than your brain could process. One minute, the files were falling. The next, he caught the box against his chest with a sharp grunt while his hand shot out toward you, and before you could even process the danger of nearly falling, his palm closed around your ankle, firm and warm even through your tights, stealing the breath straight from your lungs.
The room went dead silent as you looked at each other, both of you frozen in sudden, dramatic stillness, neither one of you moving.
“Oh,” you said faintly. His hand loosened immediately, like he’d realized what he was doing.
“You were about to fall.” Something flickered across his face. It was not embarrassment, but something worse, awareness.
“I was.” Your thoughts jumbled wildly, heart thundering in your chest, skin prickling everywhere his hand had touched.
“You still might.” The air between you felt different now, stretched tight and trembling, as if every molecule in the room was waiting to see what would happen next.
“It’s possible.” You suddenly felt exposed, like he'd pulled back every layer of defense.
“You should come down.” A flush crept higher on your cheeks as you struggled to keep yourself steady, heat washing over you in a dizzying wave. In that moment, you could almost sense his pulse matching yours.
“You’re very close to my leg right now.” The silence felt thick, hushed, and you were certain Mark could see the commotion behind your eyes.
His gaze tethered you, sharp and questioning. You wondered if he felt it too—the silent, undeniable pull just beneath the surface.
Mark broke first. “Get off the ladder.”
You climbed down with all the grace of a newborn deer, which was to say, none at all, and the second your shoes touched the floor, one heel caught awkwardly against the tile.
Mark caught your elbow before gravity could finish humiliating you again, and for a breath, all you could do was stare at him while he stared back with the exhausted expression of a man slowly losing a battle inside himself.
“This cannot keep happening,” he muttered.
“Don’t think I’m doing it on purpose.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
You shouldn’t have noticed how close he was. You definitely shouldn’t have noticed how good he smelled: clean soap, coffee, and a hint of expensive cologne under all that courthouse fatigue. Most of all, you shouldn’t have noticed his hand still on your arm.
Unfortunately, your brain had become deeply unhelpful lately.
His fingers flexed once before he let go.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
Mark nodded once. Then his gaze dropped to your face properly for the first time all morning. He was not distracted, not irritated, just... looking.
Your stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation.
There was something risky about being watched by someone who spent his life noticing people’s weaknesses. Mark Callan seemed to catch everything: your nervous habits, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how you pressed your lips together to hide a smile, and probably even your racing heart.
His gaze lingered briefly —his jaw flexed, and you caught the quick rise and fall of his chest before he refocused, looking almost as if he was fighting to contain his own expression.
It made you wonder, wildly and against your better judgment, if maybe you weren’t the only one struggling to keep your feelings at bay.
You suddenly became very aware of your heartbeat, your breathing, and his eyes that had not yet left yours.
“You missed a spot,” he said quietly.
Your brain short-circuited. “…What?”
He lifted one hand slowly toward your face, and you stopped breathing entirely. His thumb brushed softly beneath your lower lip, wiping away a tiny streak of blueberry jam from breakfast.
A rush of heat went through you so quickly it was embarrassing. Mark looked at the smear on his thumb, then at you, and suddenly the air between you felt too thick to breathe.
The records room door slammed open.
“You still alive in here—” Rita stopped dead.
You jerked backward so fast you nearly hit the filing cabinet.
Mark stepped away immediately, expression snapping back into professional neutrality with terrifying speed.
Rita’s eyes moved between both of you, then downward, then upward again.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Mark picked up the box of files as if absolutely nothing had happened.
“Your intern needs safer hobbies,” he told Rita.
Then he walked out, leaving you standing there red-faced and internally combusting.
Rita waited exactly three seconds before shrieking.
You buried your face in your hands. “Don’t.”
“He touched your face.”
“It was jam.”
“He touched your face because of jam.”
“I’m quitting.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m moving to another state.”
Rita leaned against the desk, grinning like a delighted menace. “Honey, that man hasn’t flirted with anyone in this building in three years.”
Your hands slowly lowered.
“…What?”
“Oh yeah,” Rita said casually. “Ice king routine. Doesn’t date. Barely sleeps. Eats vending machine pretzels like a divorced father of two.”
For some reason, that made your chest ache.
“Why?”
Rita’s smile faded slightly. “Work mostly. He had a fiancée once, years ago. Didn’t end well.”
Something uncomfortable twisted low in your stomach.
You hated how quickly curiosity bloomed, hated it even more because beneath it was something softer, something far more dangerous.
Before you could ask another question, Rita pointed toward the doorway dramatically.
“Also,” she added, “he absolutely likes you.”
You made a strangled sound.
“He does not.”
“He touched your mouth.”
“There was jam!”
“Men don’t touch women like that because of jam.”
Your face burned hotter, and though you wanted to argue, wanted desperately to deny it, your stupid heart had already started doing something far more terrifying: hoping.
—𝜗𝜚—
You spent the next two days avoiding Mark Callan with the tactical precision of a fugitive, which would have been easier if the courthouse itself had not apparently decided the two of you were part of some deeply unfunny cosmic experiment.
Every hallway led to him, every elevator opened to him, and every innocent coffee run somehow ended with Mark standing six feet away, looking tired and devastatingly handsome while your nervous system collapsed like wet cardboard.
It was ruining your life, and worse, Rita had noticed.
“You’re spiraling,” She informed you Thursday morning.
“I am not spiraling.”
“You alphabetized sticky notes yesterday.”
“That was organizational.”
“You labeled your lunch.”
“It got stolen last week.”
“You wrote ‘Property of a woman on the edge.’”
You looked down at your yogurt. “That was emotionally honest.”
Rita snorted into her coffee.
You tried focusing on your transcription work instead.
Unfortunately, your mind was no help.
Every sentence turned into thoughts about Mark: the way his voice dropped lower when irritated, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the rare moments where amusement slipped through before he buried it again, and the way he’d touched your face, almost like it surprised him too.
Which was ridiculous; you were reading too much into it. Men like Mark Callan did not look twice at women like you. He was composed, intelligent, and brutally competent. You once tripped over absolutely nothing while carrying soup.
These were different species of people.
“Hey.”
You looked up too fast. Mark stood in the doorway of records holding a legal folder, and your stomach jumped.
“Hi.” Very smooth, very normal, definitely not the voice of someone seconds away from cardiac arrest.
“I need the McAllister deposition transcripts.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.”
You stood up too quickly, your chair rolled backward, directly over the hem of your cardigan.
The cardigan yanked tight against your throat as the chair wheels locked, and you made a horrible choking noise.
Mark stared.
Rita physically had to turn away.
You untangled yourself, trying to act like this sort of thing happened to everyone.
“Here,” you squeaked, grabbing the wrong folder entirely and shoving it toward him.
Mark glanced down. “…This is a cafeteria inventory report.”
You closed your eyes. “Perfect,” You muttered. “Great. Love that for me.”
For one terrible second, silence hung between you. Then a sound escaped him, it was small, rough, and almost disbelieving.
Your eyes snapped upward. Mark had turned slightly away, one hand covering his mouth. His shoulders moved once.
“…Are you laughing at me?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
His composure cracked completely.
It wasn’t a big laugh, Mark didn’t seem like the type, but it was real, low, helpless, and startlingly warm.
And God, it changed him; the tension in his face eased, his eyes softened a little and for a second, he looked less like the intimidating deputy district attorney and more like someone who hadn’t let himself relax in a long time.
Your own breath caught, and suddenly, you understood something dangerous.
Mark Callan was beautiful when he smiled, absolutely breathtaking. The realization hit you so hard you forgot how to function.
Mark recovered first, clearing his throat and straightening again, but the damage was done. You had already seen it now and realized you never stood a chance.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” You accused weakly.
“You handed me lunch inventory.”
“I’m under pressure.”
“We’re standing in records.”
“You’re very intimidating.”
That flicker of amusement returned briefly. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“You spilled coffee on me the first day we met.”
“That was an accident.”
“You nearly concussed yourself with a filing cabinet yesterday.”
“That was also an accident.”
“And you climbed unstable scaffolding.”
“It was temporarily unstable.”
Mark looked at you for a long moment. Then he shook his head once, like you exhausted him in some fundamental way.
“I’ll come back later for the transcripts.”
“No, wait— I can get them.”
“You seem one minor inconvenience away from a full systems failure.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“You’re holding the yogurt upside down.”
You looked down as blueberry yogurt slowly dripped onto your shoe.
“Oh, come on.”
Mark laughed again—actually laughed this time, quiet but unmistakable—and before you could stop yourself, you laughed too.
The sound seemed to startle both of you.
Something shifted in the room after that, softening at the edges, as if the space between you had become a little less careful and a little more familiar.
Then Mark looked at you again with that dangerous, steady focus, and just like that, the air changed.
Your laughter faded first, but his eyes stayed on yours a second too long, long enough for your pulse to stumble and the courthouse noise outside to feel suddenly, impossibly far away.
“You know,” he said quietly, “most people are nervous around prosecutors because we can ruin their lives.”
You swallowed hard. “And me?”
His gaze dropped briefly to the yogurt dripping sadly onto your shoe, then returned to your face.
“You look at me like you’re trying to outlast it.”
The words landed directly in your chest. Hard, because the worst part was that he wasn’t wrong. Before you could answer, a sharp voice cut through the hallway outside.
“CALLAN!”
Mark looked away first, jaw tightening slightly like he’d been pulled back into himself.
Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Price appeared around the corner with a case binder tucked against her chest. She stopped the second she saw you, her gaze flicking from your face to Mark’s, then back again.
Something in her expression shifted almost too subtly to catch, but neither surprise or recognition.
“Oh,” she said slowly.
Mark’s entire demeanor cooled by several degrees.
“I’m coming,” He told her.
Evelyn’s eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary before she turned away.
Something uncomfortable twisted in your stomach when Mark glanced back at you once before leaving. He was not cold, not distant, just unreadable.
You watched him disappear down the hall beside Evelyn Price, both of them talking quietly about trial prep and witness scheduling. Professional, Effortless, like they belonged in the same world.
Rita appeared beside you silently.
“…You okay?”
You stared down at the yogurt on your shoe, which somehow felt less embarrassing than the ache blooming unexpectedly behind your ribs.
“Who’s Evelyn Price?”
Rita grimaced instantly.
“Oh boy.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you should maybe not overthink it.” Rita said carefully
Maekar: Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers till the day I die. And it was my mace that dealt the fatal blow, I have no doubt. The only other foes he faced in the melee were three Kingsguard, whose vows forbade them to do any more than defend themselves. So it was me. Strange to say, I do not recall the blow that broke his skull. Is that a mercy or a curse? Some of both, I think.
Duncan: I could not say, Your Grace. You swung the mace, m'lord, but it was for me Prince Baelor died. So I killed him too, as much as you.
part one here rookie masterlist
roommate!rookie!reader x lt ghost (a lot of price this chapter), hurt/comfort, implied intentional starving (to themself), mentions of physical abuse , happy ending
————————————-
You seem fine, he thinks. It’s breakfast and you’re talking to Kyle about whatever and you haven't actually been acting strange at all. In fact, it’s like you’ve bounced back completely, if not just with probably a few more sore muscles because of those crappy cell beds.
“Like a boomerang, aye? I thought she’d be at least a bit more shaken up after everything that happened..” Johnny murmurs to him as they sit opposite you, thankfully with enough space that you wouldnt hear them.
“Yeah..” Ghost nods in agreement, eyes flicking over to you occasionally. “Still, we’ll have to deal with that second lieutenant accordingly.”
You laugh at something and they both snap back to the conversation, intrigued to know what had gotten both of you so giggly. Everything was going perfectly fine since you were announced innocent by the 141.. until it just wasn't.
——
It all started the day after, when you returned to training with your group.
“Oh, you’re joining us today? Sergeant Mactavish said you might take a break.”
“They tried to make me but I knew i’d be bored out my mind. It’s okay, I want to train.” You give a forced smile as if your cheeks will hide the eyebags before starting your warmups like everyone else. One of them claps you on the back, giving you a grin and mentioning how they missed you for the time you had been gone.
Even training goes well too, like you never left. At one point you had almost frozen up when you were beaten by your opponent, but your instinct kicked in immediately and you scrambled backwards. The Second Lieutenant loved to see you writhing.
Whatever the circumstances, you swore you’d act like everything was okay. The last thing you wanted was to cause any more trouble for the 141.
“Good round, kid.” Your teammate helps you up, grasping your hand to pull you to your feet. “You lost a bit of weight on that course..” He raises a brow at you and then awkwardly pats your shoulder. “Anyway, you did good, and you look stronger too!”
Stronger? Is that what the torture of that course had really done to you?
“Hey— you okay? You look like you’ve seen a gh—“
“Forgot I had to run an errand straight after training. I need to go.” You pull out of his worried grip, his hand left awkwardly in the air as you grab your bag hastily and leave the room with the door thudding shut.
Your chest is tight, like you’re feeling the result of six weeks of abuse all in one moment because of one stupid comment. How did it make you better? It was hell, it was unfair, everyone there turned against you and—and—
“Mactavish— have you done the work I asked you to do?”
There’s about three seconds before you get caught and you dash into the electrical closet, holding the handle so abnormally tight that the red marks start to bloom across your palm.
Dont come in here, dont come near here. Please dont see me— please dont—
You only let out a sigh of relief when they finally turn down the corridor, chest heaving as you struggle to come to terms with it all.
————-
It’s been a day or so since that.. happened. But still lunchtimes were always more dreadful. Especially since you still aren't let out of that forsaken team who really doesn't want you around. To be fair, they’ve been less vocal about their opinions on you recently, or maybe it’s because you just let any fight you had left die out altogether.
“Wow.. you actually lost a few kilos? I never thought I'd see the day.” One of them mutters, but only a few snickers pass around compared to the usual. It wouldn't typically bother you, and you didn't explicitly react anyway. Yet something in you just stilled for a moment, bile churning in your stomach at the thought.
This is what you had wanted—to be approved by them.
So why did it feel so wretched?
You know why— deep down you do. It’s because the Second Lieutenant is the reason for this. Because he picked on you and ostracised you, kept your portion sizes one fit for weak prey and not predators like everyone else is supposed to be. He forced this on you.
How could you even complain? Not when they’re smiling in your face, praising the change about you, the obedience in your actions, the quick reactions.
Even if you’re unworthy, even if you were just forced to adopt all of those traits because that's only what the situation allowed for. Would they shame you if they knew the truth? Would they call you weak for thinking you’re the victim?
You swallow down the bite harshly, so much so you can feel the edges cut against your throat as you force it down. “I didn't do it on purpose.” is all you can say, a weak defence. Then you stand, dumping the scraps and leaving the mess hall.
——
The gym is thankfully empty and you’ve been waiting all week for it to be. It reminds you of all the nights you stayed up, trying to perfect your technique, trying to be accepted for once.
No matter how hard you push your limits, your muscles still cry out in pain, just as your head is consumed by flashbacks of those weeks. Still, you keep pushing to just fight back even a little, to prove you’re enough despite it all. That you’re not weak, and you can handle it, certification or not.
“Drink a little, catch ye breath before the next set.” Soap stands before you as you come up from a curl up, shocking you so much that you fall back against the mat. “Oops— didn't mean to scare ye.” He reaches down quickly to pull you back to sitting up before sitting on the bench nearby.
“S-sorry, I was thinking and you just.. caught me off guard.” Before you can ramble on any longer, you chug down half your water bottle instantly, making him raise a brow.
“Dont worry about it, bon. Just making sure you keep yourself healthy.” He flashes a grin at you, and you nod quietly to his words. Healthy. Not strong.. not thin or in good shape— Healthy.
You part your lips, wondering if you can really ask for this, if he’ll laugh in your face and say he’d beat you in seconds. What if he’s busy too?
“Y’need something?”
“N-no, it’s alright. Was just hoping you hadnt caught me doing too easy of a set, it’s only warmups i promise.” You joke and he laughs, shaking his head.
“Don’t know what yer talking about; this is the hardest part of my workout.” He gives you one last chuckle before leaving you to it again, a wave of relief settling over you.
——————
“Are you holding up okay? You’ve been pretty.. quiet, all week now.”
Now you’re here, Simon staring at you as you unravel your boots. You don't know what had even happened in the past week—everything had been one massive blur.
The nights started being more sleepless, always rolling around and waking up with a tight chest. The comments made by people didn't help either, even if they weren't intended to be rude.
Time started to blend into each other, your mornings started to feel like a schedule and every conversation wasnt worth remembering. You were living like autopilot, and you couldnt really even care.
“I’m just trying to get back into routine…” You mumble out and he wants to call you out on your lying but he really can't this time. He’s been barely around, only giving you a few minutes of his time because he really cant afford anything with this current Shepherd situation. Still, he doesnt like not talking to you like this— hell, he feels like there’s a shift between you two and he hates it.
“Seems to be more than that.” He mutters, letting out a soft sigh as he stands from your bed. Slowly he makes his way to your drawers, pulling out a fresh shirt and joggers for you to wear to bed. “You sleeping in mine or am i coming to yours?”
“It’s Thursday..”
Your eyes do seem to widen a little bit, excited at the prospect even if it’s a weekday and out of his rules. But it’s still much duller than the reaction he was hoping for.
“I want to. When i come out, you better have made your mind up” He doesnt wait for your answer, tossing his mask on his bed as he heads into the bathroom.
—
“Thought you liked my bed better..” He mumbles as he finds you sat on your own, following close behind. He watches as you quietly slide beneath the covers, slipping behind instantly after you settle. “We wrapped up everything concerning the Second Lieutenant. He won't bother you again.”
He lays on his back beside you, an arm laid out which you tuck yourself beneath. His hand curls in your hair, gently scratching at your scalp before tugging you closer until you’re forced to roll over, face pressing against his bicep. “So you’ll be back earlier now?”
“Yeah, no more disappearing. For a good while at least.”
You nod quietly, letting an arm fall across his chest, gently gripping the thin shirt he’s wearing. He continues to move his fingers across your head, stroking gently as your eyes fall shut. Something isnt right with you, but he doesn't know how to point it out after all this time. Especially after everything that happened to you. He can't exactly nose into all your business.
“How about I help you with some training tomorrow?”
At that you stiffen, and he’s suddenly afraid he had said the wrong thing entirely. Instead you look up at him, slightly propping yourself up on your elbows. “Really? You’ll train me?”
“Yeah? Why not? Good for both of us, I reckon. I want to see how much you learned at that course too.”
———————————
“Lieutenant– you’re here already?” You tilt your head as you exit to see him there standing outside the room you just had scheduled training in and he nods, beckoning you to follow which you instantly do.
“Course I did. Promised, I'd help you today, wouldn't I?" You nod eagerly at his words, following him outside so you don't have to push through the bustle of soldiers just to get there. There’s a few teams out on the track, a grouped session it seems, and you’re naturally drawn to the noise.
“Ye got a minute Lt?” Johnny approaches up ahead, making you immediately nod, letting him delay your workout for a second. When he doesn't start immediately talking you get the hint, sheepishly smiling and heading over to a small bench to wait.
“It’s about the recent stuff with the Second Lieutenant..” He sighs and Simon raises a brow, assuming the past few nights he spent figuring it out with the Captain was more than enough. Had something changed? “Price wouldn’t let me look, it’s her medical exam.”
“Thanks Johnny, i’ll read it when I can.” He pats him on the shoulder after taking the files from his hands, ignoring the concern rising. You’ve been doing okay, if he presses further you might get annoyed with him.
“Private, what the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get out– now!”
Both of them turn their heads, not towards the Sergeant yelling across the field, but to your harsh flinch in their peripheral view. Your body had frozen up but you had reacted harsh enough that it was impossible to ignore.
“They’ve done that a few times, Simon..” Johnny sighs, having heard your CO mention it but he wasnt sure if he should report it not. You got startled sometimes– but this was totally different.
“I’ll.. look into it properly.” He stares down at the file as you take a deep breath to steady yourself, seemingly just noticing how you reacted. “Thanks again.”
He can't stop repeating the image in his head as you walk beside him, tapping away at something on your phone. You never even did anything wrong, clean as a slate compared the crimes of the taskforce. Even this medical file has him dreading everything; what would he find in there?
“Alright, come on.” He stills the anger thumping through him, concentrating on you as you stand before him on this mat, the room mostly empty. “Show me what you’ve got.”
———
His hand catches yours and you tense, already expecting the throw down. That wasnt just the Second Lieutenant who did that, your old teammates always finished a spar the same too.
After all, a real fist fight wouldnt end after you surrender.
His do.
“Mmm, definitely a lot faster than the last time we did this. You really did a lot of work didn't you?” He doesnt let go of your hand, gently guiding it where he wants to demonstrate. “Try hit here next time, same move, just aim for this area, okay?”
You nod, trying not think too hard about the fact you can feel his pulse beating beneath your hand, or the slight rub of his thumb on your skin as he helps you. So, you start from the beginning, the same move, aiming there. He staggers back this time and your eyes widen in relief, before immediately panicking once you realise what you did.
“S-sorry should i have not gone that hard?! I didn't mean to—“
“Relax, I wouldnt be SAS if i couldnt handle a good hit or two every now and then.” He chuckles, patting your shoulder and finding his footing again. So you go again, and again, and each and every time he adjusts you correctly, even when your body braces for a blow it hardly ever comes.
It feels.. wrong.
“You’re going easy on me.” You’re chugging water again, like it’ll inject energy directly into your veins, but it’s the closest thing you have right now.
“I’m not gonna punch your teeth in, am I?” He rolls his eyes at your complaints, offering you a snack bar.. annoyingly it is your favourite.
It’d be more concerning if you declined it though, so you reluctantly take it, ignoring the way your mouth waters at the thought of the dark chocolate drizzle on it. It’s been a while since you’ve had sugar, surprisingly.
“You think im weak.” You huff in return, chewing down the first bite whilst feeling yourself start to thrum with life at something entering your system for the first time in hours.
“No one in your team is strong enough to go up against any SAS soldier.” He hums, poking your cheek just to rile you up until you're glaring at him. “And i dont think you’re weak. Don’t fancy dealing with an incident report today.”
“What would you do if i was a real traitor huh? You’d underestimate me, and then before you know if i’d kill you” With your hands planted on your hips, you challenge him, narrowing your eyes.
Unlucky for you, he just chuckles, shaking his head despite your faux serious demeanor. “I’d like you see you try. Now, come on, we’ve got half and hour until dinner.”
——————
You’re in the shower, scrubbing the grime of the day away and he collapses into his desk chair, rolling backwards from the force of it. Something was definitely wrong— there was no doubt about that, but he couldnt just say it outright. You had been a lot more happier today than the last two weeks.
His gaze drifts down to the files Johnny had handed him, and he glances one more time towards the bathroom door before opening it. The card rustles as he undoes the cover, revealing the medical reports beneath, just as he was told. The blood tests show your vitals were lower than usual, along with your measured weight— he’d consider that almost a dangerous low.
To be honest, he had noticed the change himself, but you’d been dressing yourself in a way where it didn't seem this bad. He flicks to the next page, the documentation of injuries whilst out on the trip, delivered by a nurse who had been working there.
You had broken your nose within the first week.
The report states that it was an accident, but after hearing how your teammates confessed to Kyle about what happened, he knows it’s a severe understatement. With each page he turns, he only sees more and more injuries, small and big, but too many regardless.
A loose sheet falls out when he reaches the end, already sick to the stomach, and he recognises it as the information Kyle collected from your teammates. Their witness statements.
—————
The bathroom door clicks open and you stretch your arms above your head, wondering if you should dry your wet hair since it’s already nearing ten pm now. Though when you look up to see him sitting on your bed, his gaze set on you, you pause.
“C’mere, we need to talk.”
The words are heavy, but not harsh, and somehow that scares you a little more. In a way he feels like the Captain did in that interrogation room— what if the accusations were back again? Your heart thumps erratically in your ears as you step forward, your clothes sticking to your damp body like a rope around your limbs. “Lieutenant, I—“
“You never call me by my name anymore.” He suddenly says, and you stand before him— this time you’re the one looking down at him.
“I.. in the interrogation room it felt like i’d get in trouble if i did. I just.. i didn't want it to make it worse than it was.” You stammer out, already well aware that you hadnt addressed any of them by anything other than their rank for weeks now. It felt wrong to pretend you were actually on their level.
He reaches out, hand wrapping around your wrist in a way that has your eyes locked onto him, fighting to not brace for impact like you usually would. Instead he pulls you forward, a small tug that you easily follow, until you’re standing between his knees, his eyes staring up at you. There’s silence for a few moments, and he takes advantage of it to slowly move your sleeve upwards.
“You lost a lot of weight..” He wants to say more, you can tell, but the feeling that’s been attacking you all week suddenly comes back full force, making you swallow. You should’ve known he’d prefer it too. “Y-yeah.. everyone keeps saying that.”
“They’re worried about you too..”
You pause for way too long, and he notices, propping himself up so he can look over at you. “Y’alright? You dont feel ill or somethin’, do you?”
“No- no, it’s just.. a lot of people were glad that’s all. Happy I lost weight.”
“What?” His tone is sharper than usual, and he suddenly turns you around to face him, his eyes narrowed and almost pissed. “I’ll support whatever you want, but this isn't healthy to lose weight this fast. Why would they even say that?”
“Simon..” You begin, his sudden words throwing you off guard. Where everyone else had praised the lasting effects of the abuse, he had validated your feelings— but now it just feels wrong.
He just shakes his head, the rise and fall of his chest too heavy for you to challenge. Now he sees it right before him; the marks where the stitches would’ve been, the fresh pink scars, and the faintest remains of the extensive bruising that was pictured in your files.
“Turn around.” He murmurs and you do, letting him lift you to sit atop his knees and you feel the cool air hit your back as he witnesses the marks back there even worse than the others. Even with the week passed, he can tell— he knows what was here before.
The shirt falls again, arms now snaking to your middle as he pulls your back flush against his chest. “Why didn't you tell any of us?”
“It’s part of the job. You all get scraped up too.” You mumble, tensing when he lets out a heavy exhale, only for him to shake his head against your hair.
“No. This is not part of the job, sweetheart. This is not right—” His words are angry in your ear, fingers grasping the fabric of your shirt as his arms tighten.
“I-it’s bad luck. He just didn't like me— it happens to everyone.”
That’s what they all told you— he was a nepo baby, you just have to deal with it. It’s his way of discipline. There isnt any such thing as unfair or unjust— fairness doesnt exist on a battlefield.
“And who the fuck told you that, huh?” He turns you around in his grip, forcing you to look at him and his narrowed brows. He’s pissed, and you know it’s not aimed at you and yet still it makes you freeze up. “That’s bullshit. No one in authority should ever be sending a soldier to bed looking like this— even if they’re a right twat. You hear me?”
“Simon— we were training, it’s my own fault for not dodging effectively. If I had been just a bit better—“
“Dont say that.”
You pause, looking up to see his eyes shut, one hand pinching his brow as he grimaces. “Training is called that for a reason. You learn the moves, and you practice them. Your instructor doesnt let you feel the effects of a true fight until he knows you can. He abused you, and no one fucking stood up for you.”
You knew that. Of course you fucking knew that.
This entire time you’ve been well aware of what he did to you, how cruel it was. You feel the pain every morning when you wake up, every time you hear a voice rise too high or even worse a hand coming too close. You knew but everyone else refused to.
“I’m not weak.”
“I didn't say—“
“I’m not!” You pull away as he tries to pull you closer, standing before him again. The beat of your heart is pumping hard and you wish your arms could wrap around yourself to contain it tight.
“I- i worked hard the entire time! W-when he cut me off from the s-showers i went down to the lake, when he wouldn't let me eat i rationed- it’s— it’s not— i cooperated for the e-entire interrogation a-and—“
You choke on your own words, feeling that sickness rise in your throat, the guilt and shame swelling it shut. It’s all too much— the throbbing where the bruises once were, the cold bed of the cell, the growl of your stomach. Your palms push hard at your eyes, rubbing the skin raw and red as you force any sense of wetness down— down back into your body. Soldiers don't feel like this— they don't complain and they listen to orders exactly as told. They don't question the system.
“I got through it..I did everything like I was told.”
You mumble through hiccups, making your throat jump as your eyes squeeze shut. “Why is that not enough? Why won't you all just let it go already?” The dam breaks, sobs leaking onto your palms despite your best efforts.
“You shouldn’t have had to do that— none of this is because of you.” He stands, reaching a hand out hesitantly but deciding against it as you continue to sob, sleeves already way past damp.
“It’s been a whole week and i’m still in pain— i’m still acting like this. I- i didn't even get the certification Simon!” This time you turn away, cheeks glistening in the lamplight as you hiccup, too embarrassed of yourself to face him. “It has to be my fault.. you never even responded to my messages once.”
This time, he truly has no answer for. He was planning to tell you why, he really was. But then he got so angry seeing that they took advantage of your proximity to the team and used you as leverage like that. The General of all people stooped that low.
When he just sighs, sitting back down on your bed, you finally take a glance at him, having managed to settle the tears for a few seconds. He looked exhausted and entirely done with all of this. You couldnt help but feel the guilt weigh heavy on your chest.
Every single time he’s forced to comfort you. Rumours, illness, menstrual pain, anxieties and even your own pitiful insecurities. You should’ve known from the first day you showed up here that you’d be your own demise, stuttering like a child as you stood outside his room. What good have you done since that day? Apart from grabbing him a meal or the odd task, you were useless to him. Maybe he was right, you didn't deserve any of this because you werent even someone that useful anyway. Why they’d choose to frame you of all people if beyond you.
For a moment you just stare at him, the muscles in your face tightening and your breaths only getting more frantic. What have you done? You ruined it— he gave you, so, so many chances. And you blew it? Should you beg for forgiveness? For him to hold you one more time? It’s been so long, months since he’s had you properly. One step, you could move forward and maybe he’d give you mercy.
You can barely make a strangled noise before you’re suddenly turning, grabbing your keys, wallet, phone and your jacket, zipping it up high. You don't know where to go, but you can't let him babysit you much longer.
———————————
Maybe you’ll sleep out here tonight, with the quiet ripples of the lake, just like every night you did for two weeks of that course.
It feels stupid to have run away like you did now, but somehow crawling back seems even worse. Not for your dignity, you gave up on that long ago, but because of the fear he might actually be relieved you’re gone.
“Don’t do anything stupid; it’s not worth it.”
You scramble to your feet insantly, spinning on your heel to see the Captain there, his signature jacket wrapped over a warm sweater beneath. His eyes are just as tired as Simon’s have been, but still somehow his authority is strong over you, arms crossed over his chest.
“I- i wasnt going to..” You mumble, slowly shuffling away from where your legs dangled off the edge to stand up properly.
“You’re standing by the lake at midnight, kid. Come here, now.”
He gestures to you to come over, and you instinctively glance at the time on your phone as you slip your shoes on. It was past midnight, almost halfway now— how did time go by that fast? You come to stand before him, hands flat at your side and throat tight as you keep your gaze ahead— like a loyal soldier.
“You’re going to get sick.” He pulls the hat off his head, placing it on yours and making sure it covers you properly. Maybe to hide away a bit of your red rimmed eyes too. “Inside, now.”
——-
His office is warm, but you dont get the honour of sitting on the small couch this time, forced to sit right opposite his desk.
“You can start by explaining why you were out there, on your own, at midnight, looking like this.”
“The Lieutenant was concerned about me and i.. ran away. It was my fault.” You say, voice quiet but clear now that he’s the one asking. It’s been a week since you spoke to him last, when the interrogation was all over and you were free. “He wasn't happy with the results of my medical exam..how i was treated on the course and i.. i..”
You can’t finish your words because you dont know how to describe your response. A disagreement? An argument? A breakdown? It was too embarrassing, but here you are now, your eyes boring holes at your lap.
“I’m guessing you wanted to just move past everything that happened. Pretend it strengthened you, instead of the impact it actually had.” He crosses his arms as he sits down, eyes set straight on you and not moving for a second.
You stare down at your body, the way your limbs feel heavier than usual, the familiar ache in your stomach you learned to ignore. You quietly nod, in hopes that’ll make it somewhat better. “Yes sir.”
“Simon’s right; You didn't deserve any of that, nor me yelling at you in that interrogation room.” He begins, and you listen, not daring to argue for even a second. “If anything, the blame is completely on the 141 this time.”
“Sir—“
“That Second Lieutenant is the son of a General we’ve had.. problems with. I cant disclose it, you understand, but there’s no doubt this was a direct effort to get back at us. That was a cruel attempt to cause distrust between us as soldiers, and weaken us.”
Wait what? You were targeted and this wasnt just because of a stuck up son whose got daddy’s money. “So.. he didn't hate me, he was just listening to his orders?”
“Exactly that, kid. Simon was the one to realise the true nature of this, and the sergeants worked very hard to get testimonies from your teammates on the course. It seems even they had been forced to play along with the lies too.” He rummages around in his drawer for a moment, and pulls out a report of some kind, sliding it across to you.
Slowly you read through it, reading the list of the new orders for the Second Lieutenant or rather his ‘punishments’. The eight month long deployment was in one of the worst places you’ve heard only in rumours, but alas, it was either that or have a case against him for abuse of power. “This is only what’s on paper, you can rest assured that he’ll recieve worse things coming for him.”
“Thank you..” You’re grateful, really, and maybe a but of you is curious as to what that last thing he said means.. then again, Price almost looks proud of himself when you look at him. Did you even want to know what they plan to do to him?
“It’s the least we could’ve done.” He shakes his head at your gratitude, sliding the report back into his drawer again and locking it. “It’s happened now, no changing that. Trying to move forward is the smartest thing to do, but right now you’re only pushing yourself into the ground, kid. And I think you know why.”
You did, you really did. Somewhere deep down, probably subconsciously. You knew that you used the tactics you hated so much on yourself— because if you did it to yourself, then none of it ever happened. It wasn't as bad as you think it was.
“Captain,” You begin, hands grasping the fabric of your trousers, only realising how cold you really are now. He gives you a nod in response, leaning slightly back as he keeps his gaze on you. Your own head lifts, swallowing harshly as you try and look at him without crumbling.
“..I dont want to do this anymore.”
“You want to quit?” He raises a brow, but something in him stills just a little. It’s not often a soldier this far in will end up leaving— he’s only see a few do it, usually due to family problems or other issues that take precedence. Or they always had planned to leave at this point. Did he really drive you to this point? Where you thought you had no other option?
“No, just.. I know i selected that course when i was applying but..” You chew at your lip, and let out a long sigh. Thankfully your tears have all but run dry, so even if you feel like you could bawl your eyes out, you wont. “The whole physical field doesn't.. suit me. I thought i’d be stronger if i did it— like all of you. Everyone my rank chooses it, only a few select the others..”
“So you want to specialise in a different field? I’ll admit, i didn't expect you to want to do a close combat role anyway.” When he doesnt immediately dismiss your thoughts, you perk up a little, looking up at him.
“I- i’m not making the wrong decision, am I? The other ones are still good pathways?” Your eyes glimmer in his overhead light, the red rims of your eyelids practically shining despite everything that’s happened tonight. He hadn't expected the sudden relief when you denied wanting to quit. After all, it was their teams fault that you got in all that mess.
He chuckles, shaking his head at your nervous words— you really were a rookie still.
“Only cocky privates think close combat is the only redeemable job. If it werent for the specialists, the 141 wouldnt get any of our jobs done— that includes Sergeant Mactavish’s knowledge in demolitions.”
You swallow sharply, nodding to his words and taking them in. All this time you’d been so afraid that this was akin to giving up, admitting you’re weak and not cut out for this work. Little had you known that this whole time, the answer had been waiting for you. “Will I still be able to stay here?”
“Depends on what you choose. Might have to take a year out to move to a different unit.” You blink, suddenly terrified by that notion. It’s been a year and a half of living beside Simon, every single day without fail.What would you do without him?
“Relax, kid. You dont have to choose right now.” He stands, coming around the desk and pats your shoulder. “If you dont want to do close combat, you dont have to. But, I should still give you this.”
You hadnt seen him grab the envelope when he came over, clean white and you take it from his hands carefully. It seems a bit smaller than a4, and you carefully rip the edges before pulling out the sheet inside.
Certificate of Completion awarded to..
“This is mine..?”
“The other instructor signed it for you, as well as the General himself. For all the trouble his son caused to you.” Your thumb follows the curve of the signatures, before nodding quietly to his words. He didn't stop you from wanting to do another course even though he knew you achieved this one, with a high score too. “Do you still want to transfer?”
“..Yeah. I do.”
A part of you knew that you always wanted something else but you were too afraid to admit it, fearful of what the others thought. But after everything you’ve experienced in these past months.. maybe it was a sign.
“Good. Then we will talk about it tomorrow after we grab breakfast.” He ushers you up and you follow him towards the door, rubbing your eyes without a second thought. You really were quite tired now, and the time blinks closer to one am. “You’re lucky you didn't want to actually quit.”
“Why?”
“Wouldnt let ya. My lieutenant relies too much on you.”
Your cheeks burn at his words, and you shake your head, hands flailing about. “Sir, that’s not true— he probably hates me now anyway.. I totally freaked out on him..” You cant believe you’re telling a Captain about this of all people, but it comes out before you can stop it, shoulders slumping like a petulant teenager. “Sorry for disturbing you so late at night, sir.”
“I’m the one who caught you, to be fair.” He huffs chuckles, leading you out his office and walking beside you down the empty corridors. “You need to give yourself more credit— you had to navigate an extremely hard situation on your own, kid. It’s not easy having no one to back you. I’m sure Simon, of all people, understands your frustration.”
“You really think so?”
“Swear by it.” He stops outside the room, and knocks before you can, taking the pressure off. You stand there nervously but Simon soon opens the door, eyes softening immediately when he sees you and then moving to Price who had brought you here.
“Borrowed her for a bit” Price teases, a smile peeking through before he nudges you to move forward and you do, your throat bobbing nervously. “Come to my office tomorrow, kid, alright?”
You nod again, and Simon looks between you two before turning back to Price.
“Thank you.”
“Sort yourselves out and sleep. You both look like your soul’s been sucked straight out of you.”
—————————-
“I’m sorry I never responded to your messages.” He says it as soon as he clicks the door shut, as if he cant hold it in any longer. The sheets on his bed are tousled, like he had tossed and turned until you arrived just now. “I read and listened to them— at least the ones before you deleted it.”
“It’s alright, i didn't mean to throw that back on you before, I know you were busy—“
“I wasn't busy.” He lets his chest sink, and you fall quiet, confused to what he’s getting at here. “On a mission, months ago, we had an ally turn against us. He had information he should’ve never had about us— naturally we assumed someone must’ve leaked it. He looked directly at me, and told me to look into the people i know.”
For a moment you pause, unbelieving he had surrendered information that easily. Sure, it was vague, but still more than he’d ever tell.
“Price explained it to me, about the General that’s causing you problems. I.. understand.” You say with a soft sigh, feeling guilty for freaking out on him but he adamantly shakes his head, not taking your words.
“No—I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid of me to be suspicious of you and i knew it, i did so i dont know why i was.”
He falls silent, throat clogged, because of course he knows why he did it. He doesnt even trust himself, let alone others. You wormed your way in so quickly, he had jumped to the idea that you must be a traitor because there’s no way he could ever act like this. Actually be close to someone. Good things never last with him, and he was sure this must be the catch he was always waiting for.
“When I saw you getting interrogated, I knew deep down it would never have been you. The sergeants helped me realise it. I’m.. really sorry. I should’ve defended you sooner— I should’ve checked on you the night you returned and the entire past week.”
It hurts that he didn't trust you initially, but even a seed of doubt in this line of work is something you must listen to. Besides, he may have not communicated it to you the best, but it’s clear he worked very hard to get you out of the situation when he could’ve just let them ‘handle’ it. And you’re incredibly grateful for that.
“Let me fix it, okay? You can ask anything of me— absolutely anything.” He wants to reach out, it’s obvious by how his fingers twitch but still dont move forward, hesitant.
So instead, you take the leap. It’s like the block between you vanishes, and immediately you wrap your arms around him tightly, squashing your cheek against his chest, right to his heart. The feeling is so foreign and so familiar it has you letting out a deep sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “Just.. hold me, please.”
One hand rests on your back carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear into thin air. Slowly his other hand joins it too, until he’s holding you too. His nose presses against your hair, breathing you in as much as he can. “Y’can sleep in my bed the whole week, hell the month. I’ll do all your shopping, and whatever you need i’ll buy.” The promises are mumbled against the crown of your head as his arms lower, landing on your legs as he hoists you up easily and carries you over to his bed.
Gently, he lays you down, and only now do you see the ointments he has arranged on his bedside table. “What’s this..?” You raise a brow but he sits down next to you, the mattress sinking before he starts to open one of the tins.
“For your bruises, it’ll help. Roll up your sleeve, okay?”
Your mind eases as he spends the next few minutes rubbing soothing ointments to the aches in your joints, before pulling the covers high and sliding in beside you. The lamp flicks off and he wraps his arms around you, easily dragging you with how your limbs have become dead weight.
With you settled atop of him, looking content and not as miserable as before, he can finally let the anger leave him, chest sinking against your head. Sleep hasn't weighed so heavy on you in weeks, laying like a thick blanket over your mind now that you know you’re finally free from this torment.
“Y’asleep?” His voice is quiet, probably expecting you to not answer at all. You were seconds away from drifting off aswell, but something in you forces you to let your eyes open, glancing up at him.
You give a lazy noise in return, and he chuckles, hand grazing your neck. “Just glad you forgave me. Don't know what i would’ve done, might’ve got on my knees and begged.”
“Still got time.” You mumble and he laughs, nose burying into your hair as he squeezes you tight.
“In the morning, you need some good sleep for once.” He breathes out another sigh, letting silence fill the air once more, and the weight of you on him settles deep into his bones. He made the right choice, even if it was terrifying. He refuses to ever regret meeting you. “Don’t think i didn't hear your stomach rumble earlier— i’m gonna get you eating normally, y’hear me?”
Fuck— you were praying he didn't actually hear that on the way back from the mess— right after you had literally eaten dinner. It just had to go and start making noises, didn't it?!
“I am eating normally.” You grumble, weakly pushing away from him in a weak attempt to express feigned annoyance at his insistence. Not that he lets you, easily pulling you flush against him again.
“I’ll just tell the chefs to pile it higher on your plate, they aint gonna say no.” He chuckles at his own admission of abusing his rank’s power, and you attempt to hit him with your elbow, failing easily.
“But if i use your rank to get a better dessert that's somehow a crime.”
“Dont make me bring up your dentist reports.” His hand rubs up and down your side, letting the warmth of his hand ease you. “I’ll get you some bloody good dessert for the whole month, you’ll pray the mess hall even gets close to it one day. Now, sleep, before I put you out myself.”
“And they say chivalry is dead.” He lets out a snort at that, only to hear your breathing finally even out against him, chest sinking.
Still, he just quietly watches your body relax, how you completely let yourself be at peace. He wants to engrave it in his mind, because only now he’s realised how easily he can lose you. This time his hands splay across you too, gently grasping your shirt like you’ve done to him many times too. He understands it now— he’s always the one leaving you behind— he knows what it’s like to miss you like this.
His grip is probably selfish, something Johnny would poke fun at him for and Kyle would say he’s ‘actin’ a little desperate there?’ whilst Price would nod along ‘like he’s starved’. But he lets himself have it this time, eyes slipping close as he lets himself sink the same way you did. If he didn't, then one day he’d regret it a million times over. Luckily that day wasn't today.
So instead he lets the breath that’s been keeping him stiff go, breathing in the scent of you that melts his mind into jelly. “Night, love.” He murmurs, his breaths finally evening out to match your pace even in his sleep.
—————————
buy me a coffee! Rookie masterlist
sleeping so hard tonight im exhausted and the examdidnt go well, also fr going on a break now i need it thanks for the support hope you guys like this :)
BANE OF DUTY ✧ duke!baelor targaryen x bene gesserit!reader
synopsis: when you are sent off to become the concubine of house targaryen, your first exchange with your future duke goes nowhere near expected.
warnings: reader is essentially young lady jessica and baelor is leto, slightly anxious reader, technically legal human trafficking ?? canon bene gesserit and dune philosophy lol
word count: 1.2k (was supposed to be a longer fic but it just ended up being a very short oneshot so whatever)
a/n: my dunerotted brain needed this fic so bad omg, this has been sitting in my draft for ages because i thought it would be more elaborate but here we are !! anyway i’d be very glad to discuss this little au in my inbox if anyone wants to <3
You are husband and wife in everything but title and law.
The first time you meet him, you are trembling to the very marrow of your bones. Your muscles are pulled taut, and your spine is a sharp, rigid, immobile line. The dark veil obscuring your vision had been more than mere silk that day, it had been your armor, your only protection against the piercing gaze of the Duke— your Duke now.
You could feel the stutter in your pulse, the betrayal in the air. Your Bene Gesserit sisters standing in a half-moon formation behind you, communicating in the silent language of their fingers.
"… one of our finest pupils." Those were the last words you registered, spoken by the Reverened Mother in that casual detached manner. She was standing a few paces ahead of you, describing you like cattle, handing you off like some prized broodmare. A vessel trained for obedience and breeding.
You should have been feeling honored. You should have felt grateful for having been chosen as an asset in the Missionaria Protectiva— the Great Weave. For the opportunity to be a part of something far greater than yourself. For helping bring about an enlightened mind, one capable of breeching the very bridge between time and space, the Kwisatzch Haderach.
Instead all you felt was a dull, sharp throb blooming behind your eyes, and a cold dread seeping into your bones.
The air you were inhaling felt more burnt than one would have anticipated; the volcanic core of the planet manifesting into an everpresent smell of char and smog in the oxygen. Tiny droplets of sea sprinkles still clung to your black shroud from when you stepped into the open air of Dragonstone, offering a strange form of saline baptism.
The Reverened Mother’s hawk-like gaze turned to you quietly, awaiting the pleasantries and greetings you were supposed to exchange with the Duke. Her gaze was so burning it should have willed you into obedience without a single word uttered. But in that moment something in you simply refused to yield.
You could feel your amygdala being excessively active, meanwhile you were desperately trying to will your nerves into a false sense of calm. I must not fear. Her neck shifted ever so slightly, a bird like movement, as if silently questioning you on why you were not following protocol. Fear is the mind killer, fear is the litte death that brings—
"Lady Y/N." His words cut off any train of thought you might have had, the litany fading somewhere into the background of your mind. His voice was gentler than you had expected, he sounded much less a commanding leader than a diplomat.
The three headed dragons caught the light from where it was engraved into the cool metal of the sigil ring sitting on his finger. A Targaryen heirloom, passed down all the way from Old Valyria to the Conqueror and now to him. The Red Duke.
You dared to raise your eyes, catching a glimpse of the curiosity in his mismatched gaze. He was assessing you, you could tell that much, mentally peeling away the layers of fabric covering your form, as if by sheer willpower he could dismantle you and bend you to his whim.
You wondered what he wished to find beneath the dark shroud.
A truthsayer? An advisor? A wife?
Your lip had trembled then, falling open but shutting closed just as quickly. You were struck with the harrowing realization that you had no idea what to speak. Foolish. You could practically hear the better half of your Sisters sniggering beneath their veils while the other half gave you pitying looks.
Suddenly one of our finest pupils rang falls in your ears. Bitter. What good was years of relentless prana-bindu training when you turned into a flustered, simpering girl in front of a Duke of the Great House?
"If it pleases the Lady so," he began, clasping his hands behind his dark doublet and inclining his head forward. "would she be so kind as to remove her veil?"
The words lingered in the air for a moment; and once again you were caught off guard by the sheer invitation in them. Not command— but compromise.
Perhaps in all your misfortune, at least you weren't being wed off to some brutish barbarian.
And how could you have refused your future Duke anyway?
You nodded faintly, failing to notice the measured breath of air he inhaled, as if willing himself for whatever lies beneath.
A strange insecurity, violently began to unfurl within your chest, rapidly spreading through your limbs like an ugly beast, to the very tips of your fingers, threatening to paralyze them. But it was all too late. The charred air of the Acceptance Hall was already hitting your face, the veil lifting from your head, fully exposing the tissue of your skin to the outside world.
You had swallowed softly, assesing all the men standing before you: the Duke and his men; mentats, soldiers, swordmasters. All of them piercing you with their eyes. And beside them, what you could only assume was the Duke’s youngest brother, Maekar, a rigid pillar of duty, scowling with that characteristic snow-white Targaryen hair.
Though ever inch of your body— save for your face, had been covered that day, you felt as naked as the day you were born.
"My Duke." Your voice emerged quieter than intended, and you suddenly realized how girlish you must have sounded. The Duke needs a concubine not a protege. You pressed your lips into a thine line before anchoring yourself to the fabric of your skirts.
Before you could register what was happening— he had taken the entire audience by surprise when he stepped forward. Perhaps if your gaze hadn't been so fixated on the crimson and black of his doublet you might have noticed how his men reached towards their weapon-clad belts, his brother making a noise of disapproval in the back of his throat.
You instinctively straightened, freezing into place. Somewhere beside you, the Reverened Mother watched the entirety of your interaction with predatory attentiveness.
His presence was overwhelming, consuming your senses all at once. You noted the unmistakable scent of ozone and old parchment clinging to him. And before your brain could asses the threat of his position— he reached out. His warm, calloused hand, closing over your own. The electricity of the touch had been secondary to the sheer, terrifying heat of him
It radiated from his palm, soaking through your skin, travelling up your arm and settling somewhere in the pit of your stomach.
Blood of the Dragon.
He had offered you the faintest smile, something only the two of you could see. A shared secret, a forbidden union. It had been void of pity or any performative joy expected of political contracts.
It had simply been reassuring. As if he wished to assure you that this unfamiliar new world— his home—would endeavor to do its very best to look after you.
You should have pulled back, retracted your hand and did something… anything else but just stood there… but speech had decided to abandon you entirely.
You could feel the thrum of your sisters' fingertips, silently pulsing against their thighs and signalling to you. Break the bond. Remember the objective.
Yet all you managed to do was tighten your hold around his fingers, anchoring yourself.
He squeezed once.
And from that moment onward, you no longer belonged solely to the Sisterhood, not by law anyway. Somewhere in your heart, you knew, that had been the first step towards the fracturing of your loyalty.
( modern au!post accident. memory loss ，but he's finding his way back ，even if he had to take a different path. reader and baelor are around the same age ，plus valarr and matarys <3 )
Baelor Targaryen returns home after a prolonged hospital stay, navigating the disorientation of a life he can feel but not quite remember. Through the careful attentions and patience of his wife and the warmth of the people who were close to him, he moves through the day as both participant and observer—recognising the shape of his own life without fully inhabiting it.
Word Count: 12k
[Chapter 3/?]
Doctor Mallister arrived with a tablet tucked under one arm and a file held loosely in the other.
“The latest scans are stable,” he said as he stepped fully into the room, glancing briefly at the monitors before his attention settled on Baelor. “Neurologically, there’s no sign of deterioration, and your cognitive responses over the past forty-eight hours have been consistent enough for us to move out of inpatient observation.”
He paused then, as if allowing the sentence to settle properly before continuing. “At this stage, keeping you here doesn’t provide additional benefit. Recovery will continue, but it can safely continue at home with outpatient therapy and scheduled follow-ups.”
There was a faint rustle of movement from the nursing station as someone made a note, though the doctor did not look away from Baelor when he spoke again.
“You are being discharged,” he added, the words deliberate but unadorned, as though refusing to lend them more weight than necessary. “Not because you are fully recovered, but because the environment here is no longer required for what you need next.”
For a moment, nothing in the room reacted immediately. Even Baelor seemed to take a second longer than expected to process it, his gaze shifting subtly toward his wife as if confirming the meaning through her presence rather than the statement itself.
“You’ll still require physical therapy three times a week initially. Cognitive fatigue is expected, especially in the first few weeks outside a controlled setting, so pacing will be important. We’ll arrange medication adjustments and a full outpatient schedule before you leave.”
Monitors that had once formed a constant perimeter of attention were detached one by one, each removal accompanied by a soft click or lift of adhesive pads from skin that had grown accustomed to their presence. Wires were gathered with practised hands, looped neatly, labelled, and placed aside.
The doctor stepped back slightly, observing the process as the staff worked through their sequence.
“You’ll want to avoid overexertion in the first week,” he added more quietly now, as though the formal part of the conversation had already concluded. “If anything feels disorienting or physically off, don’t try to push through it. We adjust, we don’t force.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Baelor’s chart, then back to him.
“And I’ll see you for a follow-up in ten days. Same time as discussed.”
There was a brief pause then, as if the room itself had acknowledged the end of one phase and had not yet decided what the next would feel like.
Around them, the final pieces of the hospital version of Baelor’s stay were quietly removed, leaving behind a space that no longer looked like it was preparing to hold a patient, but rather preparing to let someone leave.
The bathroom felt smaller than he remembered, though Baelor could not tell whether the space had truly changed or whether it was simply the presence of time lost that made everything feel slightly misaligned, as though the room had been resized around a version of him he no longer fully inhabited. Steam gathered in faint, wavering layers against the glass as the water ran, the mirror slowly fogging at the edges while the rest of the suite remained just beyond the doorway.
When she glanced at him, it was not with urgency but with full attention, as though she had already accounted for every possible hesitation before it could occur.
“You can let me do it if you want,” she said softly, not as an instruction but as an option offered without pressure, her hand resting briefly on the edge of the counter as she checked the placement of the mirror one final time.
Baelor looked at the razor, then at his reflection in the partially cleared glass, where his own aged face appeared slightly fractured by condensation and light. He exhaled slowly, as if measuring something internally that he could not yet name, before shaking his head once in quiet refusal.
“I want to try,” he said, his voice still carrying the faint roughness of recovery, though there was a steadiness beneath it that had not been there weeks ago.
She did not argue. There was only a small nod, immediate and accepting, before she stepped slightly closer—not enough to take over, but enough to remain within reach if he faltered. The space between them felt carefully maintained, not out of distance, but out of respect for the effort it took him simply to stand there and begin.
When he lifted the razor this time, it was not strength that failed him but control; his hand was steady enough to hold the weight, yet was too unsteady to trust the precision it required, as the blade hovered uncertainly in the air, as though the distance between intention and execution had suddenly become wider than he remembered it ever being. He tried again, adjusting his grip, tightening his fingers slightly around the handle, but the tremor remained, subtle yet persistent, enough to turn something once automatic into something deliberately negotiated.
A faint frustration crept into his expression, contained in the small tightening of his jaw and the brief pause where he simply held still, staring at his reflection as if willing his body to cooperate through quiet insistence. He attempted once more, slower this time, but the motion faltered midway, the angle slipping just enough that he exhaled through his nose in a breath that carried more irritation than defeat.
After a moment, he lowered his hand slightly, keeping the razor still but no longer pretending it was going smoothly. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes still on the mirror rather than on her, as though the admission itself was easier when not directly shared, “I might need a bit of help with this.”
There was no embarrassment in the words, only honesty layered over frustration, and his grip loosened just enough to signal that he was no longer trying to force it through stubbornness alone.
She did not respond immediately, only stepped forward as if the request had simply shifted the natural order of things rather than changed anything between them. The razor was taken carefully from his hand, not with haste. Baelor felt the absence of it more sharply than expected, his fingers remaining slightly curled for a moment even after she had already turned her attention fully to him.
“Lean forward a little,” she said softly, her voice close now in the small enclosed space, not echoing so much as settling into it. When he complied, she adjusted the angle of the mirror again, then reached for a towel and draped it around his shoulders. Her hands brushed lightly against his collarbone as she fixed the fabric in place, and the contact, though brief and entirely practical, lingered in a way that made him unexpectedly aware of how still he had become.
The first pass of the razor was slow and very deliberate, as though she was reading the shape of his face all over again through touch alone. Baelor kept his gaze fixed on the mirror, but his focus kept slipping from the quiet awareness of proximity—the warmth of her hand near his jaw, the faint pressure of her fingers as she steadied his chin, the rhythm of her movements that required her to stand just close enough that he could feel her presence in a way that was impossible to ignore.
It was absurd, he thought distantly, almost faintly amused at himself even as the sensation persisted, that something as ordinary as being shaved could feel disorienting at all, especially at his age, with everything else he had already endured without hesitation. Yet there was something about being cared for so directly, so carefully, that unsettled him in a way that had nothing to do with weakness and everything to do with awareness.
At one point, her fingers tilted his chin slightly upward, and the motion brought her closer for a brief moment, close enough that the edge of her sleeve brushed his shoulder as she worked. Baelor’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, not enough to be noticed unless one was already paying attention, and he forced himself to remain still, suddenly overly conscious of how easily his body reacted to something so simple, so domestic, so entirely unremarkable on paper.
“You’re tense,” she said after a moment, not teasing, only observant, as she adjusted her stance and resumed with steady precision. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m okay,” he replied too quickly, then exhaled slightly as if correcting himself mid-thought, his eyes still fixed on the mirror where he avoided looking directly at her reflection. “It’s just … been a while since I didn’t do things on my own.”
A faint pause followed, and then she continued shaving without comment. The remaining time passed in small, careful motions—the rinse of the blade, the final pass along his jawline—until at last she stepped back slightly, evaluating her work with full attention.
Only then did Baelor realise he had been holding himself unusually still, as though stillness itself had become the only way to keep the moment from feeling like something else entirely.
By the time he stepped back into the room, the transformation was already complete in subtle ways. The hospital version of him—gowned, monitored—no longer seemed to belong in the space. In its place stood something quieter, less defined, still uncertain but no longer confined.
She then lays out several outfit options she has brought from home, considering comfort, temperature, and how easily he can manage movement. Baelor participates more than before, choosing with small opinions rather than passive acceptance, noticing how naturally she already accounts for things he hasn’t thought of.
While Baelor was still inside the bathroom finishing up, she remained just outside the room at the small desk that had effectively become her command point over the past weeks, her attention split between discharge paperwork, transport coordination, and the quiet administrative finality of leaving a place that had, for better or worse, defined their lives for nearly two months. The pen moved steadily across forms she already seemed to know by heart, signatures followed by brief pauses as she checked details, confirmed timings, and made sure nothing was missed in the transition out of hospital care.
Alongside the paperwork, she had also been arranging something less procedural and more personal, though done with the same controlled precision she applied to everything else. Small, deliberate thank-you gestures had been prepared for the staff on the floor—carefully differentiated so that each group received something slightly tailored to their role and the hours they had carried: packaged meals for those coming off long shifts, curated boxes of snacks and coffee for the night staff, small envelopes with handwritten notes of appreciation that avoided sentimentality but carried massive sincerity in their specificity.
Baelor did not witness any of it directly. By the time he stepped back into the room, she had already moved between brief conversations with staff and returned to the final stack of documents, pen still in hand. It was only later, when a nurse and his doctor stopped by the room together for a final check and a few closing instructions, that the mention of it reached him indirectly, casually woven into the conversation as something already seen and quietly appreciated.
“They’ve been talking about the packages,” the nurse said with a small, genuine smile, glancing briefly toward the desk outside where she was still signing the last of the forms. “It’s very thoughtful. Not many people do anything beyond generic gifts at discharge, especially for an entire floor.”
The doctor gave a faint nod of agreement, flipping once through the final notes on his tablet before adding, “She made sure each group was considered separately.”
Baelor listened without interrupting, his gaze briefly shifting toward the open doorway where he could see her silhouette still bent over the desk, shoulders slightly forward in concentration, entirely unaware that she was being spoken about in that moment. Something settled quietly in his chest as he registered it as evidence of something he had already begun to suspect without fully articulating it.
There was a kind of care in her actions that extended beyond him, beyond obligation, beyond even the immediacy of their situation, and yet it had still been anchored here, in this place, with him at the centre of it all. And for a brief moment, as the conversation moved on and the staff prepared to leave, Baelor found himself watching her through the doorway with a kind of recognition he did not yet have words for, only the growing awareness that nothing she did was ever without intention, even when she thought no one was looking.
His wife stepped back into the room just as the final conversation with the staff was winding down, the stack of completed forms now neatly arranged and the last of the instructions quietly confirmed. There was a brief exchange of nods between her and the medical team before she turned her attention fully to Baelor, already shifting into the next phase of movement as though the transition from hospital to outside world had been mentally mapped out long before it physically began.
Hospital staff appeared almost immediately after that, not in a hurried cluster but in a coordinated, familiar way, offering to take over the heavier items first. A rolling cart was brought in for the larger belongings that would be collected later, equipment and personal effects that did not need to leave with him immediately, while she quietly gathered everything that was actually his—smaller bags, folded clothing, a few personal items from the bedside drawer, his phone charger, and the small stack of things that had accumulated around him over weeks of staying.
“No need for you to carry all of this, ma’am,” one of the staff said gently, already reaching for a bag.
She shook her head lightly but without resistance, adjusting the strap of one of the bags over her shoulder as she replied with appreciation, “It’s alright, I’ve got it. Thank you, though—really, for everything.”
There was a brief pause, then a nod from the staff member, as though this was not the first time they had heard her say something like that. Another offered to take one of the remaining items anyway, and she accepted with a small smile, delegating without hesitation but never relinquishing the sense that she was still the one ensuring everything was left with care.
Baelor watched this in silence as he stood near the edge of the room, now fully dressed and ready, the last physical marker of his stay here reduced to what was being carried out in small, controlled increments. It struck him, not loudly but steadily, how naturally everyone responded to her presence. They did not ask her for clarification; they simply anticipated it. They did not hesitate when she spoke; they adjusted. Even in small exchanges—brief acknowledgements, final well-wishes—her name was used with such ease, as though it belonged here in the same way the rooms and corridors did.
When they finally stepped into the corridor and began making their way toward the elevator, the shift was immediate. The sterile quiet of the ward gave way to the softer noise of a functioning hospital: distant announcements, the muted rhythm of footsteps, the occasional rolling of carts. People they passed looked up, some offering polite smiles, others greeting her by name with an ease that suggested familiarity built over repetition rather than formality.
“Morning, Mrs Targaryen,” one nurse called as they passed, adjusting a clipboard under her arm.
Another, walking in the opposite direction, gave a small wave without breaking stride. “You’re leaving today? Everything sorted?”
She responded to each of them with the same smile, sometimes with a brief update, sometimes just a nod or a quiet word of thanks, never lingering long enough to interrupt their work but never passing without acknowledgement either. Baelor noticed how often she paused just enough to listen fully before answering, as if every person she spoke to was momentarily the most important part of her attention.
By the time they reached the lobby, the change in atmosphere was unmistakable. People moved in and out of the entrance, and near the drop-off area, a driver was already waiting beside the vehicle, standing slightly to the side with patience, hands folded in front of him as he scanned the entrance for their arrival.
He straightened the moment he saw them, stepping forward to open the door as they approached, his greeting directed not at Baelor first, but at her, with the same familiarity everyone else seemed to carry.
“Morning, ma’am, sir, glad to finally see you again,” he said respectfully, already reaching for the bags she was carrying. “Everything is ready for you.”
Baelor followed a half-step behind, watching as she responded with a small nod and a brief exchange of instructions that sounded both effortless and precise, as though this moment too had already been accounted for. And as they moved toward the car together, he found himself increasingly aware that the world outside the hospital did not treat her as someone accompanying him.
It treated her as someone it already knew.
The car pulled away from the hospital with a smoothness that felt almost unreal after weeks of rigid schedules and controlled movement. The shift from stationary corridors to forward motion was subtle at first, then steadily more pronounced as the city began to unfold around them. Baelor sat slightly angled toward the window, his gaze following the passing rhythm of streets and buildings, as though he was trying to match what he saw against something stored in memory that no longer lined up cleanly with the present.
The roads were vaguely familiar in a way that made him frown more than once, not in confusion exactly, but in the strange dissonance of recognition without continuity. He could place certain intersections, certain stretches of road, even the general direction of districts he knew he had once navigated frequently, yet the details had shifted enough to make everything feel subtly rewritten. New buildings rose where he did not remember there being space for them, older façades had been replaced with glass and steel, and entire blocks seemed to have been restructured into something more modern.
His wife noticed the way his attention lingered on certain stretches of the drive and responded in the same tone she had used throughout the hospital stay, as if translating the present for him in small, manageable pieces. When they passed a cluster of renovated commercial buildings, she leaned slightly forward in her seat and spoke softly.
“That whole stretch changed about six years ago,” she said, watching his expression more than the scenery. “They expanded the road, built new office buildings, and pushed most of the old shops further down the street. It used to feel much smaller than this.”
Baelor nodded slowly, eyes still on the passing structures, absorbing the information without interrupting the flow of what he was seeing. The explanation helped, but it did not fully resolve the sensation of displacement, only gave it structure, as though someone had placed labels on a map that had been redrawn without his input.
A little further along, she added another detail when he leaned slightly forward, tracking a familiar curve in the road that now opened into a widened junction lined with landscaped dividers and modern signage. “This part will probably feel the most different,” she said, her voice steady but attentive. “Traffic used to be a bottleneck here all the time. They reworked the whole intersection, so it moves faster now, but it looks almost unrecognisable if you remember the old layout.”
“I do remember it,” Baelor replied after a moment, though even as he said it, he could hear the uncertainty in how memory and perception were overlapping. “Or I think I do. It used to take longer to get through here.”
“It did,” she confirmed quietly, offering no correction beyond that, only validation, as if allowing his partial memory to stand without pressure to be more precise than it could currently be.
As the car continued through the city’s changing layers, their home gradually drew nearer, and with it, the subtle shift in the conversation began to settle into something quieter still. There was no urgency in the air, no expectation of a moment of revelation waiting just ahead. Instead, there was only the steady progression of distance narrowing, of familiarity being approached rather than suddenly arrived at, and of a life that was no longer confined to hospital walls beginning to reassemble itself in motion.
Occasionally, she pointed out smaller things along the way—a park that had been renovated, a café that had replaced a row of older shops, a residential block that had been repainted and modernised—but always in a way that felt measured, as though she was ensuring he would not be overwhelmed by the accumulation of change all at once. Baelor listened, watched, and occasionally asked brief questions, but mostly he simply observed, letting the city pass through his attention in layers rather than trying to grasp it all at once.
By the time the familiar turned into their neighbourhood, the anticipation that might have been expected in another circumstance still had not fully arrived. Instead, what settled over him was something quieter and more uncertain, a gradual awareness that “home” was not a single point waiting to be rediscovered, but something that would have to be re-entered piece by piece, with time doing the work that memory could not yet provide.
The car turned through the final stretch of road with a smooth deceleration, the sound of the tyres shifting from open street to the quieter, more private long driveway. The gates came into view first—tall, wrought iron, understated in their ornamentation and old in the way they held presence rather than decoration. Beyond them, the property unfolded gradually, framed by tall, mature trees that had clearly been there long before any of the newer developments on the outskirts of the city had begun to encroach.
Baelor leaned slightly forward as the gates opened, and for a moment his expression changed in a way he did not immediately name. The house revealed itself slowly through the windshield, not as something entirely new, but as something half-remembered, reintroduced under a different layer of time. The structure was grand without being loud about it, a wide, symmetrical estate built in an older architectural language that favoured proportion and permanence over modern display. Stonework softened by age, long windows reflecting the afternoon light, and a broad front entrance framed by columns that carried the quiet authority of generations rather than design trends.
Recognition came before certainty, and he's getting familiar with the feeling.
“This…” Baelor murmured under his breath, his gaze fixed on the house as the car rolled closer. There was a faint tightening in his expression, not of confusion but of something more complicated, as though a door in his mind had opened just enough to let in the outline of a memory without granting full access to it. “This was my grandfather’s house.”
His wife glanced toward him briefly, then back to the driveway ahead. “It still is, in a way,” she said gently. “It was renovated after it passed to your father, who then gave it to us as a wedding gift, but they kept most of the original structure. You never wanted to move it.”
The car came to a stop at the front, where the gravel had been carefully maintained, each crunch beneath the tyres fading into the quiet that followed. The front doors were already open.
When they arrive, Baelor is expecting a quiet return. Instead, he walks into something carefully staged—a gathering of people who matter to him.
His parents and siblings are there, arranged in a loose cluster. They are not formally positioned, yet there is an unspoken alignment to how they stand. Dyanna is present with Maekar, who remains slightly apart from the immediate emotional centre of the room, as though he is observing the dynamics unfolding rather than simply participating in them, though his attention is clearly anchored on Baelor all the same.
There are also a few older, familiar faces—his brothers and apparently Baelor's sister-in-laws, senior employees and close associates of his father’s generation, men and women whose presence carries the quiet weight of long institutional memory. Baelor recognises them instinctively, even before he can place why their faces feel anchored in his mind. They look older than whatever version of them exists in his memory, but the recognition is not disrupted by that difference; instead, it creates a strange continuity, as though he is seeing the present and past layered on top of each other.
As Baelor steps forward into the space, the recognition does not arrive in a single moment but in overlapping waves.
The moment stretches in a way that feels almost suspended, as though the room itself is holding its breath with him, not rushing to fill the silence that follows recognition, but allowing it to settle into something heavier, more layered. Baelor remains still just long enough for the weight of the gathering to fully register—not as an event, but as a convergence of lives that have clearly continued without pause around him.
Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, there is a shift in movement, subtle at first, then accompanied by the faint sound of wheels on polished flooring. Conversations went quiet instinctively, not abruptly, as though this moment had been anticipated and carefully timed. A few heads turn toward the corridor leading into the main hall, and even Baelor’s attention follows without fully understanding why.
His two sons appear a moment later. Valarr and Matarys move together, pushing a large trolley between them, the kind used for service or transport within the house, though it has clearly been repurposed for something far less formal. On top of it sits a large cake, tall and carefully constructed, its surface smooth with icing that catches the light from the high windows. The words written across it are simple, unembellished, and immediately legible even from a distance.
˗ˏˋ WELCOME HOME ˎˊ˗
His gaze shifts first to Valarr.
The resemblance is immediate in a way that feels almost disorienting, yet once again, the structure of his face, the set of his expression, even the way he carries himself while guiding the trolley, feels uncannily familiar. There is something in him that Baelor recognises instinctively, something that does not need memory to confirm it.
For a brief moment, Baelor has the strange and unsettling sensation of looking at a version of himself that has continued forward in time without ... him.
Matarys walks slightly beside him, steadier, more reserved, his attention flicking briefly toward the room before settling on Baelor with a kind of openness, as though trying to read a reaction without forcing one. The similarity is subtler there, but still present in the eyes, in the quiet familiarity of expression that suggests shared origin even if not yet shared understanding in this moment.
The trolley comes to a gentle stop near the centre of the room.
No one speaks immediately. The silence is not empty; it's full, carefully held, as though any interruption would fracture something fragile that has just been set down.
Then Daeron steps forward. He does not hurry, but the room subtly yields to him all the same, a natural consequence of presence far more than authority. For a moment, Daeron studies him not like a man addressing a son who has returned, but like someone trying to reconcile continuity where there should have been interruption.
“Seeing you standing there is enough to make me forget every rehearsed sentence I thought I would say,” he begins, the faintest trace of something warmer flickering through his tone as his gaze briefly drifts over Baelor’s face before returning to hold his attention directly. “So I will keep it simple. You gave this family a reason to hold steady while you were gone from us, especially the two women in your life—your wife and your mother.”
There is a brief pause, as though the words themselves carry more weight than he intended to let show.
“I will not pretend the last weeks have been easy for any of us,” he continues, glancing briefly toward the gathered family and friends before returning to Baelor, “and I will not pretend the years that led up to this were simple either, even if you do not remember them yet. But what matters now is not what has been lost. It's that you are here with us.”
Something in the room tightens and softens at the same time as he exhales lightly, as if releasing something he has been carrying longer than he wants to admit.
“Welcome home, my son.”
It's Myriah who breaks the emotional stillness first by stepping forward to gently take the first slice of cake, offering it to Baelor with a smile that loosens the room just enough for movement to return. Almost immediately, people begin to disperse in natural clusters, voices rising again in softer conversations—congratulations murmured directly to Baelor, reassurances exchanged between siblings, older colleagues drifting toward familiar corners of the room where they resume half-finished discussions as if continuity alone is a form of comfort.
Maekar is pulled aside by one of the senior employees almost immediately, their conversation already slipping into work updates that feel almost absurdly normal against the backdrop of everything else.
Aelinor and Rhaegel are approached by another group, laughter returning in hesitant bursts as someone makes a careful joke about how none of them was allowed to miss this without consequences. His mother remains near the periphery for a moment longer, simply watching Baelor with an expression that holds relief so concentrated it seems to weigh her still before she finally allows herself to be drawn into conversation elsewhere.
And gradually, the room opens.
Leaving space, at the centre of it, for Baelor, his sons, and the quiet recognition that whatever this moment is becoming, it no longer belongs to shock or explanation, but to something slower—something that will have to be rebuilt in pieces, one conversation at a time.
Baelor finds himself seated not long after, guided more by instinct than instruction, the chair near the centre of the gathering pulled subtly into place for him without anyone announcing it. The plate is placed in front of him with an ease that suggests familiarity from everyone else in the room, though he still notices the small pause Valarr makes before handing it over, as if measuring whether this moment feels real enough to proceed.
The cake is sweeter than he expects, the texture rich in a way that contrasts sharply with the sterile memory of hospital meals, and for a few seconds his attention is entirely consumed by the simple act of tasting something that does not belong to a routine of recovery. Valarr settles beside him without fanfare, already eating from his own slice, while Matarys takes the other side, closer than necessary but not invasive, their presence forming a quiet boundary between Baelor and the rest of the room.
It's Matarys who speaks first, though not immediately, as if waiting for the right opening that does not feel forced.
“Is it weird being back here?” he asks eventually.
Baelor glances at him briefly before returning his attention to the cake, taking a small bite as if to buy time, then setting his fork down with a measured calm that feels more deliberate than uncertain. “It's not strange in the way I expected it to be,” he admits after a moment, his tone thoughtful rather than heavy, “but it's … full of things I keep almost remembering, like standing too close to a conversation you once knew by heart but can no longer hear clearly.”
Valarr lets out a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh, though it's tempered by restraint rather than amusement alone, and he shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself more directly toward Baelor as if the conversation has become something he wants to understand fully.
“Mom said you’ve been doing better with therapy,” Valarr says, more a statement than a question, though it carries an underlying check-in that Baelor immediately recognises.
“I have been told I'm improving,” Baelor replies with a faint tilt of his head, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he adds, “though I suspect my body is being more cooperative than my patience.”
That earns a more honest reaction from Matarys, a small laugh that he quickly tries to contain, while Valarr’s expression softens in a way that makes the resemblance between him and Baelor suddenly more apparent than before, not just in structure but in the quiet steadiness of his attention.
“You’re actually easier to talk to than I thought you’d be,” Matarys admits, circling back to the cake with renewed enthusiasm, as though the confession itself needed grounding in something tangible. Without a warning, Valarr gave his brother a nudge on his side.
“That sounds like it was a concern,” Baelor replies mildly, lifting his gaze toward him.
“It was,” Matarys says without hesitation, then adds after a beat, “everyone kept saying you were … intense.”
Valarr exhales through his nose, almost amused despite himself, but does not interrupt once more.
Baelor considers this for a moment, then leans back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting briefly across the room where his wife stands near Dyanna, speaking quietly with a small cluster of guests, her posture composed but attentive, as if she is still aware of every shifting detail even while engaged elsewhere.
“I suspect,” Baelor says finally, turning his attention back to his sons, “that I may have been more focused than intense. I was aiming for a quick recovery.”
Matarys nods as if this answer satisfies something in him, while Valarr studies Baelor a moment longer, then speaks again with a little more hesitation, the question less casual than it first appears.
“How do you feel, though?” he asks, setting his fork down and leaning forward slightly, his voice lowering just enough that it feels like it belongs only between them. “Like … really. Not what the doctors are saying.”
Baelor does not answer immediately. His gaze lowers to the half-eaten slice of cake on his plate, then shifts briefly to his hands resting against the armrest, still marked by the quiet evidence of recovery. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than before, unguarded in a way he has not yet fully tested.
“I feel as though I have been placed back into a life that was always mine, and yet I'm still learning how to stand in it without breaking something I cannot see. If you know what I mean.”
Matarys frowns slightly, processing it in his own way, while Valarr nods once, as though he understands more than he lets on. Across the room, Baelor’s wife glances over briefly mid-conversation, catching sight of them together, her expression easing just slightly before she returns to Dyanna’s side.
And for a while longer, the three of them remain there with cake between them, the noise of the room continuing softly around them, as if the world has agreed, at least for now, to let this moment exist without interruption.
Matarys finishes his cake a little more quickly than he intends to, brushing a stray crumb from his fingers as if giving himself something to do while the question forms properly in his mind. He glances briefly toward Valarr, then back to Baelor, as though checking for permission from the space between them before speaking at all.
“So,” Matarys begins, then stops, his confidence faltering just slightly before he pushes through it, “I’ve been thinking about something, and I don’t know if it’s … weird or not.”
Baelor does not interrupt. He simply looks at the younger, attentive in that way he has begun to settle into, the kind of attention that makes even uncertain words feel safe enough to exist.
Matarys shifts in his seat, suddenly more aware of his hands, then exhales through his nose as if deciding to commit to the question before he can talk himself out of it. “When I talk to you,” he continues, voice lower now, “should I call you Dad? Or is that … too much? Because I don’t want to make it uncomfortable for you.”
The question lands in the space between them with more weight than its simplicity suggests. Valarr’s gaze flickers toward Matarys immediately, partially in reprimand, but also in an awareness of timing, as if he understands the delicacy of what has just been asked.
Baelor looks at Matarys, then Valarr, for a long moment without speaking, his expression seemingly unreadable. His eyes drift briefly, almost unconsciously, toward the space where his wife stands across the room, before returning to his son.
“I think,” he begins slowly, choosing each word with care, “that if it feels natural to you, then you should use whatever name reflects what you feel. I may not have the memory of earning it in the way you might expect, but that does not make the relationship any less real in the present.”
Matarys absorbs this quietly, his expression loosening a fraction, as if the answer has removed a pressure he did not fully know he was carrying.
Baelor continues, softer now, “But I would also understand if it takes time. I'm still… becoming familiar with what I'm to you. It would be unfair to demand certainty from you when I do not yet fully have it myself.”
Valarr lets out a small breath, almost imperceptible, and leans back slightly as if settling into the answer rather than evaluating it. Matarys nods once, slower this time, processing it in a way that feels more grounded.
“So I can just … try it?” Matarys asks, finally.
Baelor’s expression softens slightly at that, something faint but unmistakably warm passing through his gaze. “You can try it,” he confirms, then adds after a brief pause, “and I will tell you if it ever feels wrong. Though I suspect it will not.”
Matarys gives a small, relieved nod, then looks down at his plate again, as if suddenly very interested in finishing the last bite of cake.
Valarr finally speaks, his tone lighter but still careful. “You’re handling this better than I expected. Not that I was expecting worse, I’m just—”
Baelor lets out a quiet, almost wry exhale at that, glancing between them. “That’s what the doctor said to me,” he replies, with the faintest trace of humour in his voice, something that makes both boys pause for a moment before Matarys laughs under his breath.
Across the room, the atmosphere continues to loosen, conversations rising and falling in, but in their small corner, something quieter has shifted into place—not resolution, not yet, but a beginning of familiarity that no longer feels entirely uncertain.
The house settles into a different kind of silence once the last of the guests have left, the shift almost physical in the way it drops through the rooms, replacing layered conversation and movement with the quieter sounds of a lived-in space being gently reset. Somewhere upstairs, Valarr and Matarys move between corridors and doors, the occasional muffled sound of a drawer opening or a bag being placed down drifting faintly through the staircase void, while downstairs the remnants of the gathering remain scattered in controlled disarray across surfaces that had, only hours earlier, been carefully arranged for arrival.
In the kitchen, Baelor’s wife is already working through the aftermath, gathering plates from the long table, stacking them with care that avoids unnecessary noise. Glasses are rinsed and placed into the sink in small groups, the faint clink of porcelain and cutlery punctuating the rhythm she has established, while a cloth moves across the counter in slow, deliberate arcs that erase the evidence of the evening without ever making it feel erased. There is no visible strain in her actions, but there is a kind of sustained attentiveness in the way she keeps track of everything at once, as if the room itself is something she is quietly accounting for.
Baelor stands at the threshold between the kitchen and dining space for a moment, watching rather than intervening, his presence hesitant in the way of someone still negotiating the boundaries of what he is allowed to do versus what is simply instinct. He had offered earlier a simple suggestion of help, but she had refused him without hesitation, not dismissively.
“You don’t need to,” she had said then, already turning back to the plates before he could insist.
Now, as he watches her continue, that refusal sits differently in his mind, not as exclusion but as familiarity, something practised rather than protective. The domesticity of it settles around him more fully than he expects—the simple sight of someone moving through a kitchen that clearly belongs to her as much as to anyone else in the house, the ease with which she navigates cabinets and counters without needing to think about where anything is.
Upstairs, a door closes more firmly, followed by Matarys’s voice echoing faintly through the stairwell, something about not finding a charger, and Valarr replying with the resignation that suggests this is a well-established routine even in unfamiliar circumstances. The sound fades again, leaving the lower floor undisturbed.
Baelor finally steps further into the kitchen, leaning lightly against the edge of the counter, careful not to intrude on her rhythm. She glances at him once as she stacks the final few plates, then returns to the sink without breaking pace.
“We usually have help,” she says after a moment, as if picking up a thread of conversation that had been paused mid-thought earlier in the evening, the water running softly beneath her voice. “For this. For the house. For most things like this, actually.”
Baelor watches her for a moment before responding, his tone measured but curious. “And they are not here tonight?”
She shakes her head slightly, switching off the tap just long enough to answer properly before turning it back on. “I sent them home earlier. It felt unnecessary today. Don’t wanna crowd the house.”
The simplicity of it sits comfortably in the space between them, unadorned by explanation, and Baelor finds himself absorbing it with a quiet kind of appreciation he does not immediately name. Something is grounding about it—the absence of excess, the choice to let the house exist in its own natural state for once, rather than being maintained by layers of staff and distance.
She moves to dry her hands, then leans briefly against the counter beside the sink, finally allowing herself a slower breath as the immediate work eases.
“I’ll probably cook tonight,” she adds after a moment, glancing toward him with a small, practical look that carries no hesitation, only planning already in motion. “Nothing complicated. Just something simple.”
Her gaze lingers on him for a beat longer, reading his expression the way she often seems to read rooms. “Unless you’re craving something specific?” she adds, the faintest hint of softness entering her voice now that the demands of hosting are behind them. “Doctor Mallister said you have no food restrictions.”
Baelor considers this quietly, the domestic weight of the question sitting oddly comfortably in contrast to everything else the day has contained.
By the time the kitchen has been fully cleared and the last traces of the evening have been absorbed back into order, the house has already shifted into the softer geometry of late afternoon, the light stretching long and golden across the polished floors and up the sweep of the staircase. Upstairs, the boys’ presence fades into distant, intermittent sounds—closet doors opening, the occasional muted exchange of words between rooms—while downstairs, the air feels still enough that even movement seems deliberate.
His wife returns to him after a while, having washed her hands and changed her focus away from the kitchen, her pace slowing now that there is no immediate task pulling her forward. She finds him where he has been lingering, near the edge of the living space, and for a moment simply studies him the way she often does now—not searching, not assessing, but checking in on a continuity she is still quietly maintaining.
“You should get some rest,” she says eventually, not as instruction, but as a suggestion shaped by habit more than urgency, her voice softened by the fading light coming through the tall windows.
Baelor glances toward her, then toward the direction of the staircase as if briefly considering the idea, before giving a faint, almost absent shake of his head. “I have been resting all week,” he replies after a pause, the words simple but not dismissive, as though sleep is not the issue so much as the act of ending the day too decisively.
She accepts that without argument, as she has learned to do, and instead shifts slightly toward the hallway that leads deeper into the house. “Then come,” she says lightly. “The solar has better light this time of day. You can still see the gardens from there.”
There is a small pause before he follows, not out of reluctance, but out of adjustment, as if orienting himself to the idea of moving through his own home with intention rather than default. The walk is unhurried, as their steps echo faintly in the wide corridor where family portraits and older paintings line the walls, faces from generations past watching as they pass.
The solar is already half-filled with the warm, sinking light of late afternoon when they arrive, the tall windows opening out onto the gardens below in layered greens and golds, hedges and pathways softened by distance and angle. Baelor stops near one of the armchairs by the window, his gaze settling almost immediately on the view as if something in it asks for attention without needing explanation.
She moves slightly behind him, not obstructing his line of sight, her hands loosely folded as she takes in the same view for a moment before speaking again.
“If it makes you uncomfortable,” she says gently, her tone careful but not hesitant, “I can sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight. It wouldn't be difficult to arrange.”
The offer hangs there between them, not heavy, but precise in its implications, shaped by the unspoken uncertainty that still exists around proximity, familiarity, and what either of them is expected to assume. Baelor does not turn immediately. His eyes remain on the gardens, where the light shifts slowly across the hedges as if time itself is stretching itself out.
“I wanted to be alone,” he says after a moment, honest rather than certain, as though testing the shape of the thought as he speaks it. Then, after a brief pause that softens the statement rather than contradicts it, he adds, “But I don’t think I particularly want that either.”
His wife’s gaze shifts toward him slightly at that, but she does not interrupt.
Baelor exhales lightly, adjusting his stance as he finally turns his head a fraction in her direction. “So I’ll think about it when the time comes,” he concludes, not as avoidance, but as something closer to acceptance of ambiguity than resolution. “In several hours.”
An understanding settles again between them.
After a few moments, Baelor’s attention returns fully to the gardens below, his voice quieter now, less structured than before. “You work a lot,” he says, almost conversationally, though there is an edge of observation rather than criticism in it.
She gives a faint, almost imperceptible pause, as if considering how far back that statement reaches.
“Most people do,” she replies lightly.
But Baelor does not let it settle there. His gaze remains outside, though his awareness is clearly on her now. “Not only in the literal sense,” he continues, tone even but more attentive than before. “Here. At the hospital. At this house. You rarely seem to stop moving between anything.”
There is no accusation in it, only recognition, the kind that comes from watching patterns long enough to begin naming them.
For a moment, she does not answer, her eyes drifting briefly toward the garden as well, as if following his line of sight rather than breaking it. The light continues to thin across the horizon, turning the glass between them and the world outside into something almost reflective.
When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than before: “It has been easier to keep moving than to sit still and think too much about anything.”
The words linger in the space between them, settling into the quiet of the solar as the sun lowers further, leaving them both watching the same fading light over the gardens, and neither of them is rushing to fill the silence that follows.
The solar gradually changes as the sun lowers further, the light shifting from gold to something softer, more diffuse, stretching across the polished wood floor and catching in the edges of the glass like thin strands of amber. The gardens below begin to lose their sharpness, turning into layered silhouettes of hedges and pathways, while the sky beyond them deepens in colour, the kind of slow transition that makes time feel less like something passing and more like something unfolding.
They remain by the window.
For a while, their conversation continues in fragments that do not demand structure.
She tells him, at some point, about small changes in the estate that had been made over the years— nothing architectural that would disorient him too sharply, but subtle adjustments in the way the gardens were maintained, the addition of quieter walking paths, the decision to keep certain older sections deliberately untouched because, as she puts it, “it felt wrong to erase them.” Baelor listens without interrupting, occasionally glancing out as if trying to match her words to what he sees.
He asks questions in return, not rapid, but measured, as though testing how much of this world he can rebuild through conversation alone. At one point, he gestures faintly toward a distant section of the garden where a line of trees stands slightly apart from the rest.
“That area looks older,” he remarks.
“It's,” she replies. “It was your decision. You kept it the same way.”
That earns a quiet hum of acknowledgement from Baelor, his gaze lingering there a moment longer before shifting back toward her. At one point, he leans back slightly in the chair, eyes still on the gardens but voice quieter now, almost contemplative.
“It's strange,” he says slowly, “how much of this feels familiar in feeling, even when I cannot attach memory to it.”
She glances toward him at that, but does not interrupt.
“It's not that I feel as though I don’t belong here,” he continues, choosing the words carefully, “it's more that I feel as though I'm trying to recognise a place I have visited so often, but from the wrong side of time.”
His wife moves then, finally sitting in the chair opposite him, mirroring his position more fully now, her attention resting on him rather than the window. “That might take a while to settle,” she says gently, not offering correction, only acknowledgement. “It’s okay, no one is rushing you.”
Baelor gives a faint nod, accepting that without resistance.
The sky outside deepens further, the last of the sun slipping behind the horizon, leaving the gardens in a muted twilight that softens everything it touches. The interior lights of the solar have not yet been turned on, and for a few moments, the room exists in that in-between state where neither daylight nor artificial light fully defines it.
Baelor shifts slightly in his seat, the quiet movement breaking the stillness just enough to draw her attention.
“I think,” he says after a moment, almost reluctantly, as though admitting something simple that nonetheless feels important, “I'm a little bit hungry.”
She lets out a small breath that might almost be a smile, the tension of deeper reflection easing slightly. “That is usually a good sign,” she replies, rising from her chair with renewed practicality already returning to her movements.
Baelor watches her for a moment longer before adding, quieter but more direct, “It seems to be happening more often when I'm not in the hospital.”
That earns a faint glance from her as she begins to move toward the door.
“Then we are improving,” she says lightly, her tone carrying just enough warmth to soften the words. “Let’s go.”
And as they leave the solar together, the last of the daylight fading behind them, the house begins to shift once more into the evening routine.
The kitchen is already warm when they arrive, not from heat alone but from the sense of activity that still lingers in it, as though the room hasn’t fully decided whether the day is over. The dining table has been reset in a more informal arrangement than earlier, plates and cutlery placed by Valarr and Matarys in a way that’s slightly uneven but carefully corrected.
Baelor notices it immediately in the recognition of the effort made by hands that are still learning the shape of domestic order. He pauses briefly near the doorway, watching the faint movement of the boys as they disappear toward the living room, where the soft glow of the television already flickers against the darker edges of the adjacent space.
In the kitchen, his wife has already moved into a new routine, sleeves lightly adjusted, hair pulled back. A pot sits on the stove, steam rising in steady intervals, while a cutting board holds neatly arranged ingredients.. The smell that begins to build is simple but grounding, the kind of food that doesn’t demand attention but quietly earns it.
Baelor lingers at the edge of the space, not intruding, simply observing the rhythm of it. He watches the way she moves between counter and stove, how she checks seasoning without needing to measure, how she adjusts heat with the ease of someone who already knows what the outcome should be. There’s something steady in it that draws his attention more than he expects, a kind of competence that feels less like performance and more like familiarity.
At one point, she glances over her shoulder and notices him still there, standing just within the boundary of the kitchen.
“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” she says, not looking particularly stern, though there’s a faint hint of amusement in her tone as she returns her attention to the pot.
“I am,” Baelor replies calmly, leaning slightly against the counter’s edge as if to demonstrate the point.
She gives a small, knowing exhale, reaching for a spoon and stirring without urgency. “Relaxing in the kitchen still counts as not relaxing in the kitchen.”
That earns a faint curve of his mouth, but he doesn’t move immediately. For a few more minutes, he remains there, watching her work in silence broken only by the quiet sounds of cooking and the distant murmur of television from the other room. Eventually, she glances back again, this time more deliberately, catching him still exactly where she left him.
He exhales through his nose, something almost like a reluctant smile passing over his expression, and he finally pushes himself away from the counter. He doesn’t leave immediately, though, lingering just long enough to glance once more at the simmering pot before stepping out of the kitchen, the sound of their sons’ voices drifting in faintly from the next room.
By the time they sit down to eat, the house has shifted into something warmer, less like a space being returned to and more like a place briefly inhabited fully. The dining table is set simply but carefully, bowls of soup placed in front of each of them, steam rising in thin trails that soften the light above.
The conversation stays light at first, fragments of the day slipping between spoonfuls of soup, small comments about nothing that needs resolution. When they’re done, the boys gather the dishes almost in tandem, Valarr already stacking bowls while Matarys reaches for the sink, both of them moving with the instinct of having noticed more than was said. She watches them for a moment but doesn’t stop them, only leans slightly against the back of her chair as if conceding a rare pause in control.
“I’ll do it!” Matarys says casually as he rinses a bowl, glancing toward her over his shoulder. “You should rest.”
“I’m fine,” she replies automatically, though the softness in her voice undermines the certainty of it.
Valarr doesn’t look up from the dishes, only continues drying what Matarys hands him. “You say that every time.”
There’s a short pause after that. The boys finish quickly, leaving the kitchen in capable hands before drifting back toward the living room, where the television comes back on, and their voices fade into something more distant.
She stays behind for a moment, wiping her hands on a towel before turning slightly toward Baelor. The kitchen feels warmer now, quieter in a different way, the kind that comes after shared effort rather than separation.
“They’ll be fine for a while,” she says gently, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll just take you upstairs.”
When they reach the upper landing, the corridor opens into a quiet stretch of polished wood and warm, low lighting. The door to their bedroom is already slightly ajar, as though the house itself anticipates their return to it. She pauses there for a moment, allowing him to step forward first, not pressing him, simply waiting.
Baelor steps in slowly.
The room is larger than he expects, not in size alone but also in presence, as though it has been lived in deeply enough that even stillness carries weight. It makes sense, he thought. The bed is neatly made, but was definitely shared in practice rather than presentation, as the subtle signs of two lives that occupy the same space without needing constant arrangement. On the far wall, he notices it first without meaning to—the photographs.
There are several of them, arranged not in strict symmetry but in a way that suggests intention in placement. One catches his attention more sharply than the others: a candid image of the two of them together, not posed in the formal sense, but caught in something more natural. His eyes linger there longer than he intends. The sun caught the water the way it always must have, or so he supposed. He didn't remember the sea, not really, but something in him leaned toward it—toward her laughter, the weight of his arm around her, the way she tucked herself close like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it had been, at that time. A wooden dock, the glint of gold at her ear, the blue stretching endlessly behind them—pieces of a life he couldn't locate inside himself, yet couldn't quite call foreign either. It felt like nostalgia for a moment, one that Baelor had no memory of living.
Other frames show fragments he cannot place in time. A birthday—40 printed across a banner, her laughing in the middle of it all. Another: Little Valarr somewhere cold, a mountain resort perhaps, holding an infant so small the bundle seems almost improbable in his arms—the Vale, he noticed, engraved by the frame, a ski trip, and baby Matarys in his arms. And then another one of himself, receiving something framed and official with his father by his side.
He doesn't know when any of it happened. But he can feel what each one meant. That is the part that unsettles him—not that these moments feel foreign, but at the same time, they don't. They sit in him like memories of memories, almost his.
He looks away slowly, letting his gaze fall instead to the room itself. Two sides of the bed. Two sets of things that suggest a shared routine. A book on one nightstand, a folded shawl on the other, small traces of presence that do not compete but coexist. His recognition started to feel like acceptance.
He has been sleeping in proximity to her in the hospital for weeks already, in a setting that was never truly private in the first place, and never fully theirs, shaped by monitors and interruptions and the constant presence of medical routine. This, however, is different. This is not a temporary proximity imposed by circumstance. This is a shared life, still intact even when his memory of it is not.
He exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly as he looks back toward her. She hasn’t spoken at all. She is simply watching him, giving him the space to decide what this moment becomes.
Baelor’s gaze drifts once more across the room, the photographs, the bed, the quiet order of a life that clearly continued without pause. Something in him resists the idea of rejection here, not out of obligation, but out of a recognition that comfort, even unfamiliar, is still comfort when offered without demand.
Eventually, he gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, not to her, but to the idea itself.
It would not be so bad, he thinks, to let the night continue the way the days in the hospital had begun to, except now without the boundaries of monitors, staff schedules, or temporary definitions. Just the two of them, in a space that was already theirs, even if only one of them remembers how it became that way.
Baelor stands there for a moment longer than necessary, still taking in the room as if it might shift if he looks away too quickly. The weight of it settles in slowly rather than all at once, the idea that this is not a borrowed space or a temporary arrangement, but a life that has been built and lived inside these walls with consistency and familiarity that he cannot yet access. His gaze returns to her, steady now, something quieter and more certain forming in his expression.
“We can…” he starts, then pauses briefly as if choosing the right shape for the thought, before continuing with a small exhale, “we can just do the normal routine, I think. Like we’ve been doing in the hospital.”
There is no hesitation in her reaction, only a soft acknowledgement in the way she nods, as if this decision had always been one of several expected outcomes rather than something surprising. She does not press further, does not over-interpret it, simply accepts it with the same grounded ease she seems to carry through everything else.
When Baelor disappears into the bathroom, she lingers only long enough to gather a few things from the wardrobe. She selects a set of dark silk sleepwear, folds it neatly, and carries it into the adjoining bathroom before setting it on the long marble counter beside the sink.
The space itself bears quiet evidence of two lives intertwined over many years. Two toothbrushes stand side by side in a ceramic holder. His shaving kit occupies one section of the counter, arranged with the precision of someone who prefers knowing exactly where everything belongs. A familiar bottle of cologne sits near the mirror. Beside it are traces of her presence—makeup neatly organised in trays, a hairbrush, skincare bottles, a hairdryer tucked into one of the drawers. None of it appears staged. It simply exists together.
She leaves the clothes where he cannot miss them before stepping back out into the bedroom.
When he returns sometime later, towel resting loosely at his shoulders, the television is already on, filling the room with the low murmur of evening news he isn't fully following. He notices the clothes immediately upon entering the bedroom, folded and waiting where he found them. The small gesture feels strangely intimate, not because of the clothes themselves, but because someone had known to leave them there before he even thought to look for them.
By the time he changes and settles onto the edge of the bed, the day is finally beginning to loosen its grip. He watches the television without really watching it, listening instead to the familiar sounds drifting from the bathroom beyond—the running water, the occasional movement, the quiet rhythm of someone preparing for bed.
"Thank you," he spoke eventually, raising his voice slightly toward the open doorway. “Halfway through my shower, I was worried I’d have to embarrass myself and ask you where my clothes are.”
For an answer, she only offered him a small smile before disappearing into the bathroom. A moment later, the door clicked softly shut behind her, followed by the distant sound of running water. The bedroom immediately felt different in her absence. Not empty, exactly, but less anchored somehow. The house itself was quiet, the celebration long over, his sons somewhere else on the floor, and for the first time all day, there was nothing left to distract him. More than once, he found his gaze drifting toward the bathroom door without consciously meaning to, catching himself waiting for the sound of it opening again.
By the time she emerged, the shift was immediate but subtle. Her hair was still damp, loosely brushed back from her face, and she had changed into silk sleepwear that moved softly with her figure. There was something different about seeing her like this. Less composed than she had been throughout the day, less occupied by responsibilities and schedules, and managing everyone around her. Simply at home.
Baelor only watched her briefly before turning his attention elsewhere. The bed itself was enormous, larger than any hospital bed and somehow more intimidating because of it. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he settled onto his side, adjusting the pillows behind him until he found something comfortable.
His attention eventually settled on the nightstand beside him. Curiosity won. Carefully, he opened the top drawer. Inside, everything appeared surprisingly ordinary.
A watch rested inside a leather tray, its metal band worn smooth from years of regular use. Baelor picked it up, turning it slowly in his hand. The design was expensive but understated, the sort of thing purchased with the expectation that it would last decades rather than attract attention. Tiny scratches caught the lamplight along the clasp.
His watch, engraved with his initials and a date he couldn’t recognise the significance of. The realisation felt strangely personal. He set it down again before noticing a folded pair of reading glasses tucked beside it.
"Huh."
Across the room, she glanced up while running a towel through her hair. "What?"
"I wear reading glasses now?"
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Only sometimes."
"That's disappointing."
"You were very offended by it, you know."
He looked at her. "I was?"
"You spent two weeks insisting the lighting in your office was the problem."
A reluctant smile appeared. The drawer contained a few other things. A charging cable. A fountain pen. A small notepad filled with several pages of handwriting that was definitely his, even if he couldn't remember writing a single word of it. The sight gave him pause. His own handwriting, his own thoughts, belonged to a version of himself he didn't know.
After only a moment, he closed the notebook again.
Further inside sat a book, and a bookmark rested roughly halfway through the pages. He pulled it out and studied the cover, noticing immediately that the edges were slightly worn, evidence that it had been opened repeatedly rather than displayed on a shelf.
"You know," he said eventually, "it's unsettling finding evidence of yourself everywhere."
Her movements slowed. "I imagine it is."
"It's like following around a stranger who happens to have my face."
The room seemed to grow quieter around them. Outside, the final traces of sunset had disappeared completely from the gardens below. She set the towel aside and crossed toward her side of the bed.
"Maybe," she said gently, "but he wasn't a stranger to us."
Baelor lowered his gaze to the book in his hands. No. That was the strange part. Everywhere he turned, he found proof that the man he had been was deeply known. Loved. Remembered. By everyone except himself.
After a moment, he placed the book carefully on the nightstand rather than returning it to the drawer. Perhaps he would finish it. Perhaps that was as good a place as any to start.
She slipped beneath the covers and reached over to switch off one of the lamps. The room dimmed immediately, though the television continued murmuring in the background while the city lights shimmered beyond the windows. For a while, neither of them spoke. Baelor's hand rested absently atop the unfinished book as he settled deeper into the familiar unfamiliarity of the room, wondering not who he used to be, but what kind of life was waiting for him here in all the quiet spaces he had left behind.
The television remained on for another hour. Neither of them paid much attention to whatever news anchor happened to be speaking. Occasionally, one of them commented on a story. At one point, Baelor asked about a building shown on screen that hadn't existed in his memory. She explained what had replaced the older development he vaguely remembered. Another segment led to a brief conversation about how much the city had changed. The exchanges were small and scattered, nothing particularly important, yet they filled the room naturally enough that the silences never felt uncomfortable when they returned. To this day, she hasn’t pushed anything toward him. The doctor reminded her how disorienting it might be, and that it’s much better to keep everything on Baelor’s pace.
Eventually, however, the day caught up with both of them. The television was switched off. One lamp followed, then the other. Darkness settled softly throughout the room. Beyond the windows, the city remained illuminated, distant lights stretching across the landscape like scattered stars. Inside the bedroom, however, everything grew still.
Even then, they maintained a careful distance.
She lay on her side facing away from him, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, her slightly damp hair spread loosely across the silk fabric covering her shoulder. There was nothing terribly intentional about it. Merely the natural caution that had developed between two people sharing a space that was deeply familiar to one of them and entirely new to the other.
Baelor remained on his back for a long time, staring up at the ceiling.
Sleep did not come immediately to him. His thoughts drifted through the events of the day. The drive home. The surprise gathering. His parents. His siblings. His sons. The old house that somehow still belonged to him despite feeling distant. One by one, the memories settled into place, becoming part of the growing collection of experiences he had accumulated since waking up.
Eventually, his gaze shifted toward his wife. The room was dark enough that he could only make out the outline of her figure beneath the blankets. The rise and fall of her breathing remained steady and unhurried. She seemed asleep already, or at least close to it.
Without fully thinking about it, he reached across the space separating them. His fingers brushed lightly against the ends of her hair where it had fallen across the pillow. Something about the gesture stirred a strange feeling inside him. His hand retreated again.
For several more minutes, he continued looking toward her, studying the familiar, unfamiliar silhouette of the woman everyone insisted he had spent the last twenty years loving. The thought should have felt overwhelming. Instead, it felt oddly peaceful.
When sleep finally arrived, it came gradually. His eyes grew heavier. The city lights beyond the windows blurred into indistinct shapes. The last thing he remained aware of was the steady rhythm of her breathing on the other side of the bed.
maekar targaryen ii x reader
wc; 11.6k
summary; a day comes and passes. a celebration is had. things change -- for worse, before better.
cw; grief, mourning, angst w/ happy ending, alcohol, marriage
previous part / masterlist
read on ao3!
Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.
It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.
The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.
It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.
In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.
Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.
Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.
But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.
Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.
(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)
Then, of course, there was the matter of—
"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."
The news sat between you for a moment.
Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.
This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.
Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.
It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?
"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."
"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."
Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.
"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"
Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"
The door shut behind her. You blinked.
It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.
Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.
Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.
"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"
"Yes?"
"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."
"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."
Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.
It was a mask.
Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.
Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.
In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.
The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.
Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."
"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."
Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.
"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."
You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.
"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"
You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.
'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?
You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.
"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"
"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"
Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"
"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."
Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.
It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.
The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.
The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.
You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
You perked up suddenly.
"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"
Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."
"Hm."
"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."
"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"
She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"
"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"
A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."
"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"
"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"
You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.
You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.
You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—
"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"
If I marry, you thought dourly.
Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.
You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.
Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.
The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.
Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.
This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.
Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?
Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.
Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.
"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."
"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"
"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.
You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"
"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"
"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."
"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."
"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"
"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."
With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.
"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.
It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.
Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.
It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.
"Are you very upset with me?"
You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."
She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.
"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."
Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"
"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."
"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."
The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.
"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."
"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.
"I would never force you to stay by my side."
"Yes, my lady. I know."
The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.
"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."
You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.
'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.
The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.
You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.
Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.
They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.
The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.
"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."
You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.
Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.
"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"
Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."
Oh.
Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.
In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.
Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.
It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?
But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.
You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.
No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.
Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.
You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.
Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…
The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.
"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."
"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.
"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."
It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.
But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.
"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."
Your mask was left upon your nightstand.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.
You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.
It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.
It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.
Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.
In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.
You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.
(But was it not your right to offer such solace?
Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)
He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.
Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.
You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—
Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.
In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.
The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.
You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.
Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.
It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.
You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.
She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.
You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.
A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.
"Oh. Hello."
"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."
"I did say I would."
"Saying and doing are often two very different things."
You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.
"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."
A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."
"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."
"Yes, that goes without saying."
"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."
She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.
"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.
"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."
You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.
"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."
"Your pride has been wounded."
"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."
"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you?"
"Fear, I think."
For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.
Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."
The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—
"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."
(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)
There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."
(You will learn, my lady.)
Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.
"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."
You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."
With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.
For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.
It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.
You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?
His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.
The door creaked behind you.
"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"
"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.
Your head snapped to the doorway.
There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.
He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.
Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.
The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.
Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.
He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.
He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.
Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.
It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.
It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.
You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.
"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."
Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.
He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.
He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.
The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.
He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.
He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.
He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.
It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.
Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.
(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)
He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.
"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."
"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."
"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.
"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."
There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."
Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"
"They... it is a difficult day."
A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."
"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."
"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."
Silence reigned. Neither moved.
Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."
His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."
"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."
At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Do tell."
Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"
"Excuse me—" he tried.
"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"
His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.
He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.
He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.
"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."
Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.
"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."
The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.
He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.
(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)
It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.
He grit his teeth.
"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."
"And yet, you stayed."
He nodded. "And yet."
Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.
"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."
A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"
He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.
"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."
You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."
The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."
"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."
He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."
"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."
You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.
"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."
A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."
The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.
"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."
You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.
"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."
"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."
You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."
"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"
"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."
Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.
"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."
Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."
"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."
Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.
He stared at you for a second. "I—"
A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.
When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.
Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?
"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."
Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...
"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."
His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."
"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."
A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"
"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."
"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.
"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"
With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.
"Fuck me," he cursed. "I'm not as young as I once was."
maekar targaryen ii x reader
wc; 7.1k
summary; maekar makes an announcement to the people who matter most.
cw; canon typical aerion, discussions of grief, mentions of alcohol
previous part / masterlist / next part
read on ao3!
Dinner was its usual affair. Rhae had discovered a nest of starlings in the south gardens and had decided with no small amount of conviction that she would study them, despite having no knowledge of starlings, or, indeed, birds in general. She described them with great detail to the table — their dark, spotted feathers, their round, squat shape, and their melodious warbles and whistles — and, in turn, the table listened.
That morning Maekar had broken his fast with his father, who'd had much to say about his announcement the night prior (most of which amounted to do not announce such things without first telling me, you fool, which he begrudgingly admitted was fair enough). While the children were away at lessons or training (or, in Daeron's case, sleeping away wine-sickness) he had dealt with his correspondences and made arrangements for his eldest sons' journey back to Summerhall, now that the tourney was over.
Thus, it was his first gathering with his children since he had said the words aloud — since he had confessed his intentions to his father and brother — and he was aware of it in a way that sat tightly wound beneath his skin. He wondered if they could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere; but the time passed, and Rhae continued talking about the birds, and Daeron was poured another cup of wine, and Aegon played with the vegetables on his plate.
Those words had been akin to taking a leap from a cliff-side. He had spoken them before his father the King, the realm's Hand, and the Grey Lion of Casterly Rock. They could not be revoked, which sat well with Maekar, for he had meant them in their entirety and wasn't too fond of having to repeat himself — it was only that, well, he hadn't actually proposed, yet; nor had he given much thought to what would come after his announcement — right after. One could not simply jump to a wedding. There were conventions and traditions and expectations to uphold.
This, he believed, was one of them. Something his children were owed. He'd sent a letter off to the Citadel that very morning for Aemon.
He cleared his throat.
"In the coming moons," he began, watching as Rhae fought to spear a carrot upon her plate. "I shall take a lady of the court to wed."
The reactions were… varied.
Daeron had looked up from the food he hadn't been eating with that look of his — the look that said he hadn't known, didn't know, but somehow had some inkling that it would be happening, and thus he wasn't too surprised after all. Something like a smile had come over his face, and Maekar could not tell whether there was humour in it or not.
Aerion wore the graceful visage of the perfect Targaryen prince. This was customary of Maekar's second born, who could charm the feathers from a goose if he so pleased (though, rarely did it please him) — as was the quick, instinctive thump of his fist against the table that rattled the silverware and made his younger siblings jolt in their seats. Maekar fixed his son with a glare so hardened that Aerion's fury dissolved to nothing, a pup with his tail tucked. He had expected this. Aerion's performance of good-nature was balanced only by his irrepressible pride, and with it came an anger that burned hotter than dragon-fire. This, Maekar could handle, and had been handling for close to twenty years.
Daella was of the age where she had decided she was an adult, and as such, had very adult reactions to things. She set down her knife and fork, licked the remnants of gravy from her lips, and placed her hands primly in her lap; she proceeded, then, to simply watch the faces of her siblings around her, a frown upon her face.
Aegon's wide-eyed stare was a pressing thing. He had the eyes of his mother, large and dark, and they cut just as deep — Maekar exhaled, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth, and tried not to think of the confusion in the gaze of his youngest son.
Rhae did not remember much of her mother. She'd been only three when she passed, and had thus had lived longer without her than with her. She'd been chewing a bit of roast beef when her father made the announcement, and had squealed so loud he had thought she had somehow hurt herself in the few seconds between his speaking and Aerion's outburst.
"Will she be our new mother?" she said excitedly, turning to her sister. "Daella—"
"We have a mother," came Aerion's voice, harsh, steel against steel. The tone was cutting, the words sharpened like a sword's edge.
"Mother is dead," said Daeron. It was not said unkindly, and not without grief, but with that wry sort of edge to his voice that he'd long-since adopted — like there was something funny to be found in everything, a joke only he was privy to. "In case you've forgotten, Aerion—"
"I do not seek to replace your mother," snapped Maekar. "…The gods know it impossible."
Aerion laughed, a grating thing, and looked to the head of the table once more.
"Apologies, father," he said, decidedly unapologetic. "I only… wonder what need you have of her. You have six children already. Surely—"
He felt a bolt of anger in his chest. "The need is none of your concern, boy—"
"In any case," said Daeron, "I do believe that people may marry for more than politics, at times, little brother."
Maekar regarded his eldest with an air of suspicion. Daeron was rarely the voice of reason; on account, mostly, of rarely being lucid enough to see it. It was only that morning, before meeting with the King, that he'd had to needle his eldest into training — and he only acquiesced when Maekar had threatened to send him to take the Black. Perhaps he'd been light on the wine today, though. On such days he appeared more and more as Dyanna's son, humour dry, empathy outstretched… sometimes, he was even surprisingly wise (or, approximating something like it, at least).
The table was blanketed in a silence thick and unrelenting. Aerion's face had settled into something hard, the end of his fork stabbed into the tablecloth; Daeron supped his wine, and Daella watched, and watched, and watched. Aegon was peering into his pease pudding, face unreadable. Rhae's excitement had tapered into uncertain restraint.
Maekar took up his knife and fork, and thought that it had gone quite well, considering everything. He stabbed into a piece of thick, herb-crusted beef and raised it to his mouth…
"The lady," said Aegon. "Who is she?"
… He set the cutlery down again. In truth, he should've known better than to think the conversation was over.
He thought for a moment. Revealing too much before he had the chance to properly propose — properly ask your father for your hand — would go poorly, he thought. His children were well-acquainted with trouble, and he didn't put it past them to cause it.
"A guest of your grandsire," Maekar decides upon.
"Hm. What does she look like?"
"Is she pretty?" interjected Rhae.
Against his better judgement, he thought of you — the curve of your nose, the shine of your eyes. The lavender and honey that perfumed your skin, the particular curve and curl of your hair as it grew from your head. He huffed those thoughts away, and frowned.
"'Tis nothing to concern yourself with. You'll—" He waved a hand about— "meet her in due time."
"Where does she hail from?" Daella asked. "I… I've noticed there are many fresh faces from Highgarden—"
A sharp laugh suddenly cut through her speech, and the table turned — with some amount of reluctance — to its source. A disbelieving smile had taken place upon Aerion's face even as he chewed, idly picking at the food upon his plate, cheeks bulged with it. Maekar's scowl deepened. Even Daeron sighed.
"Oh, come now, Daeron," Aerion said. "You're ignorant enough as it is, you need not feign it. The court talks. There's only one woman father has been entertaining —"
"Aerion," Daeron warned.
"—and it is that woman from Braavos! Father, surely there are more appropriate brides for you to take—"
Maekar's balled fist found the table. Aerion's mouth snapped shut, but even so the light of smugness was in his eyes. He had done what he had set out to do: sow discord before he left for the stormlands, leaving his younger siblings to cause mischief in his absence, and his father to worry over Aerion's short temper.
It wasn't that Maekar thought you would loathe his children, perish the thought. You spoke fondly of children, but there was a stark and plain difference between mere speech, far-flung ideation, and six of his noise-making brood. He had planned to formally introduce you after he had proposed — and he would propose when the time was right, when he had prepared all that needed preparing. Between the Lannisters and his second son, it felt as if every soul in Westeros was intent on forcing his hand.
That Aerion didn't approve of his choice of bride was a middling matter. No matter how often (and reluctantly) Maekar indulged his inanity, his second-born rarely approved of much. The disrespect, however…
"Listen to me, you foolish boy," he said, voice low. "You shall treat that woman you speak of with the highest respect — if not because she is a lady of this court, then because I command it as your father."
The smugness faded. Aerion's jaw clenched. After a few seconds, in which he glowered something terrible, he spoke. "Yes, father."
"And the rest of you—" Maekar continued, casting his stare around the table— "I shan't have you running amuck in the Keep, poking your noses where they're not needed. When the time comes, you shall meet — until then, continue as you are. Nothing has changed."
Everything had changed.
But his children took up their cutlery once more, and ate their roast beef and pheasant, and sat in silence until dinner had ended. Rhae had no more to say about the starlings.
Yes. Everything had changed.
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
One morning, just before noon, a visitor called upon you. The sun had not yet reached its peak in the sky, and the day had started slow and syrupy; you sat by one of the large windows in your solar, soaking up the sun with some tea.
Your guest was an unexpected Targaryen.
"This is nice," Daeron commented, looking at the spread of delicacies you'd had sent up from the kitchens. He reached for the wine, took a sip, and seemed to find it adequate. "Though, wholly unnecessary. We're to leave by noon, Aerion and I."
You had seen Maekar's eldest only a few times before. He'd journeyed from Summerhall for the King's tourney along with Aerion, and had been notably absent from fighting, or parading, or… much of anything, really. Maekar had made some passing complaints of his son's vices, and you had heard enough whispered to realise that Daeron was mostly to be found in his cups — only, you hadn't expected him to look quite so… melancholic. Despite his neat hair and freshly shaved face, deep bags hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. You felt a brief pang of pity for him.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, my prince?"
He shot you a look over the rim of his chalice — a look that said, quite blatantly, that there was no point in taking him for a fool. You sighed, sinking deeper into your chair, and waved a hand. "Say what must be said, then, if you please."
"My father is quite taken with you," Daeron said. He speared a brined olive with a fork and chewed it idly, peering out the window. "'Tis not an easy feat. I've never known him to like anything more than his mace and my mother. And his brothers, perhaps."
You frowned. "Your father loves you."
Daeron smiled, and there was no humour in it. "Ah, yes."
You felt distinctly like you had stepped into a conversation you had no business being in.
He turned his head to look at you, then, as if he'd said nothing at all. "My youngest siblings are quite intent on meeting you — faster than my father would like, I think. He doesn't look it, but he can be very particular about these things."
"Ah," you said smartly, pretending the idea hadn't sent your heart pumping profusely in your chest.
He had told his children about you, about who you were and who you were to become, and all before he had even asked you. He was really going to do it, and you had known he would — had already practically accepted the proposal, really — and he'd told his children. The children he shared with his wife. His dead wife.
It almost didn't register that Daeron, too, was one of them; but it was different. He was old enough to understand why his father may remarry. The little ones surely wouldn't — and what of the one away at the Citadel, Aemon? Had he written him? What had he told them?
You had never been a mother — clearly — but you had five younger sisters who preferred your company to that of their governesses. You knew what would be expected of you in marrying Maekar, but the theory of it was far different from the practice, and sisters were a far call from children.
Were you prepared for it? To become a mother to six children — a proper mother to the three youngest, the three that truly needed one?
"Do me a favour and put my mind at ease whilst I'm away: when they do find their way to you, perhaps it might be best to… er, forget to tell my father, as it were."
You turned his words around in your mind. "Is he so cruel a father?"
"Cruel is not the word. Rigid, perhaps. As much as one would think," Daeron said, casting you that knowing look again. "He expects great things of us."
Your throat felt dry. You raised your cup to your lips. "I see."
For a few minutes, the two of you sat in silence, listening to the distant cawing of birds over the Blackwater, watching plumes of fire smoke rise and curl in the sky over King's Landing. Finally, at some point — not any particular point that you could distinguish — he stood, and dusted himself off.
"Thank you," he said. He squinted once more out the window, as if trying to imprint the image in his eyes and burn it from them at the same time. "I've made sure Aerion is preoccupied with my father. He shan't bother you before he leaves."
"Thank you."
"The journey to Summerhall is a rough one. Not unbearable, mind you, but almost a moon on horseback. The wheelhouses are far more pleasant, you'll be glad to hear."
You quirked an eyebrow. "Will I?"
Another smile. "I think so. Farewell, my lady."
"And to you, my prince."
Afterwards, you sat at that table of food you couldn't hope to finish, watching the sun rise to its summit and begin its slow descent. Some time after noon, Maekar joined you for a meal — he did not tell you that he'd spoken to his children, and you said nothing of his eldest son.
It seems, you thought, hiding a smile behind your cup, that we both have our secrets.
There was a little boy following you.
Admittedly, it had taken you longer than you would have liked to notice your odd little shadow; you had spent the last week plagued by an infuriating mixture of impatience and anticipation.
The knowledge that Maekar had divulged the nature of his relationship with you to his children had provoked something terrible in you, an excitement that couldn't be satiated; this, paired with Daeron's warning about his siblings, had set your nerves aflame. You spent that week looking over your shoulder, almost, wondering which would find you first: a marriage proposal, or your future children.
Alas, every lunch, every dinner, every calm evening spent together, and not a single mention of marriage left Maekar's mouth. The smarter part of you knew there were many things that needed preparing, and your father had to be informed, and then there was the matter of your dowry…
You had been deep in thought about it all when there was the sound of a scuff on stone, and the muffled curse of a child, and your mind propelled you back to the present.
There he was, following from your apartments to the throne-room: small and lithe, pale-haired and scrawny, though his guard was decidedly not. The man — a gold cloak — lumbered behind him with the crudeness of a man unaccustomed to skulking about, which the boy decidedly was doing.
He followed you then from court to the gardens, and hid behind a bush of roses as you took your midday tea with Syrah in a small gazebo; he pursued you from the gardens to the lady's solar, where he pressed himself into an alcove outside and watched your poor attempt at embroidery. For lunch — which you also took in the gardens — you almost thought to invite him over from where he had set up watch behind the trunk of an oak tree. The poor thing had been running after you with no rest, after all — but he had prepared thus far, it seemed, and you watched with no small amount of amusement as a maid set a small feast of fruits and meat before him.
You were not a fool. He looked exactly like who he was — white-blonde hair, long enough to curl gently at the nape of his neck; a dark red and black doublet, very obviously the garb of House Targaryen. He hadn't gotten close enough for you to tell, but you'd bet that he had the same dark violet eyes of his father. Aegon, that was his name. The fifth of six.
As dinner neared — as the sun began its descent — you feared the boy wouldn't deign to speak to you. He had stayed far enough from you that he was able to scarper whenever you turned in his direction, and he seemed uninterested in the cakes you sent for, and the dancing the ladies practised in the solar. Rather than resign yourself to a day of being watched, you decided on one final play: the library.
You wouldn't consider the library a sanctuary, really, given Septon Symmon's proclivity for dissuading women from reading books he believed harmful to feminine sensibilities (which was most of them). Of course, he couldn't stop you from reading the books you brought with you — the ones you had Maekar send for — and so, in such cases, you enjoyed the premises. It was a solitary place, home to little more than maesters, septons, and their students; thus, you felt no worry in drawing him out.
You settled into a little alcove in the furthest corner of the library, flicked indiscriminately through the book you'd brought, and waited for the shadow of the pale-haired boy to dance in your periphery. Like a moth to flame, he came. For a moment, you thought to give him the chance to confront you himself — but time passed, and the shadow remained behind a far bookshelf, peeking out intermittently to glance at you.
"Little boy," you called. You watched the shadow stiffen. "I know you're there. Did you run from your maester today? Don't worry — come. Yes, you. Come."
Slowly, he emerged from his hiding spot, looking for all the world like a scolded pup. His guard stood at the end of the aisle as the boy made his way to you, coming to stand by the table. "How did you find me?"
"You're very good at hiding, but your guard is a man grown. He's not as sneaky as you are."
He scowled, and he looked frightfully like his father — his eyes were the same dark violet, just as you'd thought. "I tried to lose him, but he's terribly persistent."
"That's a good thing." After a pause, you gestured to the seat opposite you. "Sit, please. I insist."
With some hesitation, the boy sat, hands clasped. You could feel his feet swinging idly beneath the table, too small to reach the ground.
"I'm Aegon," the little boy said, as if it were not painfully obvious.
"I know." You gave him your own name, and felt something like relief as you considered each other with small smiles. It was not the heart-stopping, world-breaking introduction you had imagined — no crying, or screaming, or upturned nose, swearing to haunt you should you marry his father; just the unsure visage of a young boy who did not know you, but perhaps wanted to. "'Tis a pleasure to meet you, my prince."
"Likewise."
"So," you said. "You've been following me all day. Have you learned anything interesting?"
"Only that you seem to like sweets about as much as Daella does." … "Have you ever played cyvasse?"
"Have I ever played cyvasse?" you echoed, snorting, setting aside your book. "I'll tell you, Aegon, cyvasse came to Braavos from Volantis a hundred years before even your father drew breath."
"A very long time ago," the boy said solemnly. "I suppose you're very good at it, then."
"Well, they say humility is the mark of a great mind, and I wouldn't like to boast, my prince. Why do you ask?"
Aegon peered down the aisle to his guard, and waved a hand; the man, seeming to know exactly what his charge desired, procured a lacquered box from — somewhere. He placed the box upon the table between you with a heavy thud, and you watched as it unlatched into an ornate cyvasse set, complete with alabaster and onyx figures. A familiar one.
"Wherever did you get a cyvasse board?" you said, knowing all too well where the board belonged. The screen was erected between you, and you began to arrange your tiles. He did the same.
"Father's study. He doesn't mind when I take it — well, he says he does, but he always keeps it in the same place."
"Well, I do suppose that means it's yours for the taking."
He met your eyes above the screen, and smiled. "Yes, I think so too. You may go first, my lady."
"Thank you, Aegon."
(When you met with Maekar that night, you said nothing of the several games you and Aegon played together; he, in turn, did not ask for your hand.)
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
From your apartments, there was a long hallway that led to an even longer set of stairs, which twisted and curved around to the terraced gardens along the southern edge of the Keep. On a day as ordinary as any other, you took this path to the gardens, and looked out upon King's Landing. From there you could see the River Gate that opened the city to the wharves on the Blackwater Rush, and the specks of ships along the river.
You complained more than once of feeling trapped in the Keep — but a breeze of salt and grime travelled on the wind, and for once you were glad to be confined to it. Today the sun hid behind a thick mat of clouds, but the heat hadn't abated. It was muggy and humid, and all the terrible smells of the city rose with it; King's Landing had its beauty, to be sure, but it was equally as disgusting.
"I wonder what Summerhall is like," you said. "The stormlands. I know it is battered by storms, but obviously there is more."
At your side, Zelma grunted. "Mm."
"It is beautiful, apparently. According to Syrah, at least."
"Mm."
You pushed way from the balustrade you'd been leaning on, and turned to walk. The strange weather saw most of your peers inside; it was too hot, with too little sun to justify basking outside.
"And—"
"My lady, 'tis too hot to speak. Please, can't we go inside?"
You frowned. "If we do, I'll be roped into visiting the ladies' solar. Come, let us find some shade."
"The sun isn't the problem," she moaned, but she followed along regardless.
Around the side of the eastern side of the gardens, the arboretum began — tall oaks and spindly willows, ash and alder crowned with thick, bushy foliage. It was almost another world — especially now, quiet as it was. It was a popular spot for ladies to walk and take tea, on more suitable days, but all there was to be heard now was the chirping of birds.
"Isn't this better?"
"Hardly."
"Well, I think—"
"Shoo! Shoo, you foul thing! Back, I say!"
You jolted. The yell was sudden, high-pitched — the genuine and utter distress of what sounded like a young child. For a brief second, you exchanged a glance with Zelma; before you could truly think it through, you had taken off in its direction. Were there beasts in the arboretum? You didn't think so, but what else could make a child scream out so?
"Wait!" called Zelma. "My lady, perhaps we should—!"
It wasn't hard to find the source of the yell — given, of course, that it hadn't truly stopped. Even as you came to a halt by the trunk of an apple tree, the yelling continued. The girl was small, with white-blonde hair, dressed in ruby silk. She didn't even need to turn for you to know with some certainty who she was.
"Oh, you foul creature!" she cried again. She was hurling sticks up the tree with all the accuracy of a young child — that is to say, very little —, her cheeks flushed an angry red. "Stay away, you scoundrel!"
"Princess," you called, chest heaving. "Whatever — whatever is the matter?"
She jumped at the sound of you, but was clearly too disgruntled to be very shocked by the suddenness of your appearance; her eyes were teary, and her face flushed, and her finger trembled as she jutted it up to the tree. "That — that terrible old cat! He's going to hurt my birds!"
You came to stand beside her, and peered up to where she pointed. Sure enough, an old, chubby tabby was bundled onto a branch of the apple tree, hunched low. His eyes were fixed resolutely upon a nest that sat a few branches above him. You could see the small, downy heads of the hatchlings bob up and down in their nursery, ignorant to the danger below, and felt your heart sink.
"Oh," said Zelma from behind you.
"Oh, indeed," said you. You bent to your haunches and plucked a dried stick from the ground. "Step aside, princess."
Your aim left much to be desired, though it was decidedly better than that of a seven year old; the first stick simply caught itself in the leaves and stayed there, and the cat crept ever closer to its prey. The second stick grazed the branch the old cat sat upon, and though his tail flicked with annoyance, he did not budge. The little girl gave a worried whimper, and you grit your teeth — a sudden stubbornness had taken hold of you, a petty desire to prove yourself. The third branch glanced off the chubby little animal's stomach, and he yowled low, and you threw another — and then another, and another, until he finally decided that the annoyance was not worth the reward. With an irritated trill, he hopped down from his branch and to the grass, where he promptly scampered off; the little birds continued to twitter and bob, as ignorant as ever.
"Thank you!" the girl suddenly exclaimed, seizing your hand tightly in hers. "Thank you, my lady!"
"O—oh." You could feel heat rise to your cheeks, and cleared your throat. Her smile was a beaming thing, unbridled in a way that children's joy usually was, and you were levelled with the full force of it; you hadn't experienced such unrestrained elation in a long time. "Well, you're welcome. 'Twas a valiant attempt on your part."
"Their mother left this morning and still hasn't come back," she said, releasing your hand to near the tree once more.
"Off to find some food, I assume." Or, so you hoped. There were more than enough cats prowling around the Keep, employed to catch the infernal rats that seemed to live in every corner — you didn't voice this fear, of course. You were emphatically unprepared to comfort a child in tears.
Standing at her side, you squinted up through the foliage. "And you said they were your birds?"
"Well, yes. They belong to nobody else, so they're mine."
"Yes," you said, amused. You heard Zelma huff a laugh. "I do believe that's how it works."
"Though, I don't know much about them," she said. "I had one book about birds, but it was too long, and the passage about starlings was awfully short…"
You frowned. "Surely the library would possess that which you seek?"
She seemed to deflate, lips curled out in a pout. "My septa says reading such things is unbecoming."
"Hm." You bit at the inside of your cheek, wondering whether it was your place to involve yourself. But you'd played cyvasse with Aegon for three days in a row, and it'd be awfully unfair to give bestow attention upon only a single child — and, in any case, you found her fixation on the birds to be incredibly endearing. You heard her sigh wistfully to herself, high-pitched and girlish, and your mind was made up.
"I shall make a deal with you, little one. I have no septa of my own to displease, and so, if you return here on the morrow, I might have a book of starlings for you."
She turned to you with such force that her hair swished about her face. "Really?!"
"If I can find one," you said, nodding. "All I'd ask in return is the name of the lady for whom I shall fetch it."
As if only realising the reality of the situation — the yelling, and the tears that had been in her eyes, and the informality with which she'd grasped your hand and spoke — the girl's eyes widened. A bashfulness you expected to be quite uncharacteristic of her took its place upon her cherubic face, and she glanced down at the ground. Her slippers toed the grass. "My name is Rhae."
"A beautiful name," you said warmly. "Though I must ask — where are your handmaidens? Your septa?"
Her face wrinkled, and so similar it was to the displeasure that often showed on Maekar's face that you had to stifle a laugh. "I'm not fond of them."
"I see. But surely your father must worry?"
"He scolds me. He says I need to listen to my septa or else I'll be in trouble, but I haven't any interest in sewing or sums!"
This time, a laugh really did erupt from you — but Rhae looked proud of herself, and a fondness for the girl bubbled up in you.
"I shall see you tomorrow with the book," you promised. "But only if you promise to listen to your septa. You mightn't like it now, but the lessons will do you good."
You were sure the words went in one ear and out the other — she squeaked in delight, offered you a hurried curtsey, and ran back towards the gardens proper.
Zelma raised her brow at you. "Need I remind you, my lady, that the prince hasn't yet—"
You sighed. "Inside we go, please."
("I've taken a particular interest in birds," you announced that evening, combing your fingers through Maekar's hair.
He grunted, seemingly half-asleep, before opening an eye. He regarded you suspiciously. "Bloody birds?"
"Yes, surely you've heard of them."
"Don't take me for a fool, girl."
"Then perhaps one shouldn't ask foolish questions, ser… In any case, they're quite fashionable these days among the ladies."
He closed his eye again, a frown upon his brow.
"Well, I shall need books about them," you continued. "And seeing as Maester Symmon insists on protecting my womanly intellect—"
Maekar huffed. "Yes, yes. You shall have your books."
You smiled.
There was no proposal.)
─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───
Every once in a while a certain restlessness overtook you. Not a single spot in the palace satisfied: your apartments were stifling, and the Keep (while possessing no shortage of little nooks and crannies for one to hide in) simply couldn't offer the sort of anonymity you desired. The library was too quiet and dark, and you had no place in Maekar's solar because he was away, hunting aurochs with a party of visiting lords.
Thus, today, the trunk of Rhae's starling's tree was your writing desk. The sun filtered through the foliage, dappling light across your cheeks, and the birds sung a sweet tune. The cats were dissuaded by your presence, and the little princess seemed to enjoy your company — or, perhaps, the opportunity to abandon her septa's teachings. She sat in the grass across from you, copying drawings from the book you'd brought her into her diary. She'd been overjoyed with it, though most of its prose was far too difficult for her to understand — but she liked the pictures, and she most enjoyed hearing you read it to her.
Like father, like daughter, you mused, looking down at the letter in your lap once more.
Each month you took some time to write to your family; small, inconsequential happenings, never truly detailing the more scandalous aspects of your life, of course — you feared your poor father's heart wouldn't be able to take it. You tended towards the friendlier aspects of things; the tourney, and the sudden shift in weather, the three roasted boars present at King Daeron's name-day festivities. You were busy wondering whether it would be appropriate to divulge the recipient of your favour when a shadow suddenly appeared over you.
She was Aegon's opposite, the girl. Where his hair was pale violet, hers was a mousy brown; her skin was slightly tan, similar to Baelor's colouring. Where Aegon had regarded you with wide, curious eyes, and Rhae with an unfettered sort of interest, this girl held herself with all the elegant reservation of a young noble lady, dressed in shades of soft shades of purple and pink, the neckline embroidered intricately; their only similarity, really, was their eyes. She must take after her mother, then.
"Pardon me, my lady."
You stood from the grass. Rhae hadn't yet noticed her sister, it seemed, absorbed as she was in her drawing, muttering to herself beneath her breath. In some way you were glad for it; you had the feeling that the conversation you were to have with the girl — Daella — would be more akin to the one you'd had with Daeron.
You bowed your head in greeting. She seemed like the sort of girl who appreciated those kind of niceties — the sort of girl that was, perhaps, far more scrutinous than her younger siblings. From the little that Maekar had told you, she was a shrewd, reserved sort of girl, older than her years.
"My princess," you greeted. "I… would ask what I owe this pleasure to, but I'm sure you know I've already spoken with Daeron and Aegon."
"Yes, Aegon's not very good at hiding," she said, sniffing primly. "I came to offer my apologies."
"Oh," you said after a moment, surprised. "That's… very kind of you, though I cannot recall anything you've done which would warrant an apology."
"For my siblings," she reiterated. "Father told us to wait, but Aegon was awfully impatient, and Daeron said we could seek you out if we pleased, and Rhae — well, I suppose that was an accident, but she wanted to meet you too…"
"Ah. I see."
You blinked. She was still staring at you with those violet eyes, almost unbearably intense, and you had no idea of what to say. It was easier with Aegon and Rhae — they were both so young, so innocent, and perhaps blissfully ignorant; Daeron, on the other hand, was old enough to realise the reality of the situation. Daella existed at such an age where she sat between them, and you weren't sure how exactly to speak to her because of it.
"Er… would you like to sit? I've only sent for a pot of tea; Rhae will have some too."
She hesitated for a moment, peering over her shoulder to where her sister lay upon her stomach in the grass.
"I shan't force you," you added. "But it's a lovely day, and the starlings have been flying closer and closer."
"I suppose so," she said eventually, and tucked her dress neatly under her as she sat. You followed her example.
It was almost funny, the tension that had gathered in your spine. You found yourself sitting with your back impossibly straight and your hands gathered in your lap, feeling for all the world as if you were being measured by a girl barely ten-and-one years old. Daella stared down at her hands, and the silence between you two was as thick as clotted cream.
She must've been quite young when her mother died — six or so. Old enough to remember, but young enough to forget, too. You weren't sure how to connect with her; you'd never experienced loss as she had, hadn't experienced the weight of being the eldest daughter in a family missing their matriarch. Your mother was alive and well, albeit across the Narrow Sea, and the pain that you had felt — your homesickness — couldn't hold a candle to hers.
Perhaps she has hobbies, your mind supplied helpfully. Aegon likes cyvasse, and Rhae likes birds, and Daeron likes… wine. What does Daella like?
You opened your mouth to ask, but Daella suddenly spoke.
"Do you love my father?"
Oh.
You could feel your ears heating something terrible, and fought to compose yourself. "W—well, yes. I would not marry him otherwise."
Her nose wrinkled. "I'm betrothed to Aegon, but I do not love him."
Oh. You hadn't known that. Though to be fair, it wasn't your business to know, presently — but you supposed it would soon become your problem.
"Well," you said, feeling as if the words were being dragged from your throat, "that… is a problem indeed."
Together, in the silence which followed, you watched as Rhae's starlings hopped to and fro, gathering upon a low branch to peer at the earthworms down below.
"Who would you like to marry, if it were up to you?" you asked.
"I do not know. I'm only ten-and-one. But… not Aegon." Her hands moved from her lap to the grass, and there she began to pluck and tear mindlessly. "In any case, father says I shan't marry until I'm at least ten-and-eight."
A smile tugged at your lips. That sounded like him.
"Well, circumstances can always change. I'm sure Aegon isn't sure who he would like to marry, either."
She hummed, but it was unenthusiastic.
It was another thing (upon a list of many things) you couldn't fully understand. The affair of marriage was somewhat different in Westeros — you weren't foolish enough to believe there was complete and utter freedom of choice in Braavos, but it was, at least, far more common for people of your status to consider both prospects and love when finding a match. It was why you had been able to reject Qhryso Thaynis so many times, with his ships and swords and gold.
In Westeros, even princesses were not allowed such freedoms.
"Summerhall," you said. She looked over at you. "Tell me of it. I've never been outside King's Landing, really."
"Well, it's … quiet, and small," she said. "And there's only the staff and us. The sun shines every day, unless it's storming. And when it storms, the fires are lit, and the maids make tea with cream and honey."
"It sounds lovely," you said honestly. The tea arrived, then, and the serving girl set it upon a little golden tray at your side. There was a porcelain pot of honey, too, and a plate of lemon cakes. You hadn't expected Daella's presence, but nonetheless, you praised your earlier self for sending for more than was needed; you poured her some tea, sweetened it with honey, and proffered a cake. Aegon said she liked sweets, didn't he?
"And what do you do there?"
"Me?"
You nodded, pouring out Rhae's tea, though she was still deep in her book.
"I… I suppose I like to embroider."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
You eyed the neckline of her dress once more. Thread formed bundles of gold upon evergreen vines, pink blossoms and drooping leaves. Delicate and feminine and proper, the sort of skill a septa prays for. "Did you do that yourself?"
She peered down at it, and a bashful sort of look took hold of her face. She squirmed a little bit, as if unused to the attention, and you found yourself smiling. "Yes."
"You're very talented, Daella," you said. "You'll have to teach me. I'm rather hopeless at embroidery."
"Oh." The girl blinked. "Yes, I — I can. I shall."
The tension had finally dissolved — in the tea, in the embroidery, in the sunlight and birdsong. A small, hidden smile sat upon your companion's face, and you felt a certain sense of satisfaction in knowing that you had, in some way, broached the walls she built tall around her. You sipped at your tea in unison, and sat in pleasant, companionable silence.
A starling fluttered from its branch, and landed just a few feet from where Rhae lay in the grass, tilting its head curiously.
"Rhae," you called quietly. "Look up!"
Her head shot up with all the grace of a child (which was to say, very little) and she gasped, pushing herself up. Of course the bird, as birds do, startled and fluttered away once more, but the delight had been dealt. She grinned wide and unfettered, and turned to you to speak, but the words died in her mouth.
"Daella?" asked Rhae, blinking. "What are you doing here?"
Daella glanced at you. "I was introducing myself. She is to be our mother, after all."
"What?!"
("I must ask," you said that evening. "'Tis quite common for your family to intermarry, but you never did. Are you particularly attached to the tradition?"
Maekar's gaze slid to you from where it had been fixed on the fire. His lip curled in that way of his. "You speak of the oddest things. I cannot fathom your train of thought."
"It isn't a particularly complex question," you said calmly. "Though I understand. In your age, I'm sure your mind struggles, at times, to—"
He ran a weathered hand over his face, and grunted. "Seven deliver me, the vexation never ceases."
A few moments passed, and you thought he'd simply ignore the question; but you turned the page to your book, and he suddenly spoke.
"I neither care for it nor detest it. Are you satisfied?"
maekar i targaryen x reader
wc: 1.1k
summary: The courtiers said you were a shameless social-climber. A high-bred Essosi whore taking advantage of a woman’s tragic passing. Thus, you’d thought it only right to appear to have some reservations, lest Maekar think they spoke the truth — though, in all honestly, the prince did not seem the least bit bothered by the whispers that followed you.
tags: older man/younger woman, widowed!maekar, not actually unrequited love, pre-relationship, he want that cookie so mf bad, pre-ashford (or no ashford tbqh), reader is from braavos
masterlist
read on ao3
“I think, perhaps, that you should not find yourself here so often, my Prince.”
“I will find myself wherever the fuck I please,” comes Maekar’s reply, addled with the gruffness of slumber. “Whatever those courtly cunts have to say about it, I have not the mind to care.”
Since his lady wife’s death, Maekar Targaryen had become something of a scourge upon the castle. To be sure, he had never been the most charming or personable while she still lived; from what you’ve been told, the youngest son of the King had always been liable to complain about the slightest mistakes, punish even the smallest wrongdoings, and make the most impossible requests. He sulked more often than he spoke, whinged more often than he laughed. Baelor, it seemed, had stolen all those goodly pleasantries that a prince should be expected to possess — or perhaps they’d all gone to little Aegon.
You suppress a sigh as you think on it, rubbing his silvery strands between your fingers absentmindedly. It was an attempt on your part, though admittedly weak. Really, you’d only made the objection to save face and, perhaps, salvage what little dignity you had left. It was just all so scandalous, wasn’t it? Prince Maekar, eighth in line for the throne, widowed and finding his comfort in the arms of a lady far younger. If you were as far-removed from the truth of things as the other courtladies were, you’d find pleasure in the gossip, too.
The courtiers said you were a shameless social-climber. A high-bred Essosi whore taking advantage of a woman’s tragic passing. Thus, you’d thought it only right to appear to have some reservations, lest Maekar think they spoke the truth — though, in all honestly, the prince did not seem the least bit bothered by the whispers that followed you.
And in any case, it could all very well be true, if not for two things: the first, that you had had no hand in whatever divine machinations that had placed Maekar Targaryen upon your path; if not pure and unadulterated chance, it was far more likely that Maekar had sought you out himself, not the other way around. You often thought that he seemed too sure of you for it to be pure serendipity; surely, he should be more cautious, though you’re not sure he exercises that very often.
The second thing, of course, was that the Prince had not bedded you, nor engaged in any of the frivolities one would consider a requisite of… well, erotic opportunism, for lack of better words.
(Your nails scratched gently against the shorter hair of his temples. The pleased purr that came from his chest was lost on you and your pensive mind.)
Of course, none of it was of any consequence. It did not matter that Maekar Targaryen had not touched you. It did not matter that the Prince had only, over many moons of clandestine dalliances, only found solace like this: laying still and quiet, with his head upon your lap, your hands in his hair. Sometimes he would have you feed him fruits and honeycakes and pour him tea. It did not matter that you were a simple confidant, that your meetings had never crossed the line into romance or carnality. The simple fact of your existence — young, unmarried, relatively personable and of high-breeding — was enough to breed rumour. The court was desperate for it. Hungry for scandal that did not come with bloody war or tense political stratagems, both of which the realm had seen enough of.
Though, you suppose your relationship does carry with it a facet of… impropriety. To touch the prince as you do is less than acceptable. If anybody stumbled upon you now, you’d be ruined — if he hadn’t demanded it of you, you would never have crossed the line yourself.
“I can hear you thinking from here,” Maekar said crossly. He wore a deep frown, now, all traces of calm joining the smouldering embers in the fireplace. Petulant, like a child, he huffed, “It vexes me. I mean to relax.”
“Perhaps you should close your ears,” you muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing, my prince.”
He let it go. You, in your own way, were known for your stubbornness. Not as terribly as Maekar, who bore all the advantages of princehood and was, at times, flagrant in his use of it — but you’d been called pig-headed for as long as you were able to understand what it meant, and for good reason. On the other hand, Maester Tyrden had joked (once) that Maekar had grown more gentle in his age; you found it difficult to believe.
Outside, on the balcony of Maekar’s apartments, a pair of birds perched themselves upon the balustrade. Their feathers were almost as pale as the stone they sat on, gleaming in the midday light, and when they opened their beaks, a song as sweet as any fruit escaped. It was a nice day. You should be convening with the other ladies of the court, or promenading with your lady’s maids, or any other number of activities that would see you away from Maekar.
“Your hair has grown longer,” you said quietly. Your thumb brushed over his hairline, where the whitish-gold strands began. It had begun to grow so far that it threatened to tickle his shoulders; you’d never known him to wear it past his nape. “And your whiskers, too.”
“I am old, girl,” he grumbled from beneath you. “I am allowed this, at least.”
“Hm.”
Apparently, it was not the answer he wanted. “Are you restless, today?” He asked suddenly, accusingly, opening a violet eye. “My horse sits better than you.”
“Perhaps it is better to seek out your horse, then,” you said — perhaps more frosty than you intended, but you knew he was well able to handle it. It was something that, at times, irritated you more than it relieved you; his ability to brush off your barbs with a roll of his eyes and a sniff of his pointy nose. Even when you seemed to annoy him, it was only ever skin-deep. You should count your blessings. Not many could speak to royalty as you did and live to tell the tale.
“Don’t be cross,” he said, and closed his eyes once more. “Read to me, should your mind need it.”
You rolled your eyes. Should your mind need it, as if it were for your pleasure and not his. He’d very inconspicuously left a book upon the table next to where he often sat with you — Annals of Old Valyria — heavy and dusty and filled with more boring details than you cared to know. But, as much as you saw no problem with sitting and waiting for him to rest his fill, there was some truth to his quips. You were restless, today, and trying not to think about it.
“I do not speak High Valyrian,” you said, but you reached for the book anyways, propping it upon the firmness of his chest. “Forgive my pronunciation.”
“I’ll correct you,” he only drawled.
(He did not. In fact, he took great pleasure in how your Braavosi tongue stumbled and shorted.)
what did you just say about arranged marriage one bed. what did you just- [explodes]
WAILING WAILING CRYING because i'll probably never write it atp so let me pitch the plot: you're a lady at court and your father is a relentless social climber toxic male ex-frat-bro type and he wants targaryen grandkids so he's gonna marry you off to aerion. and baelor feels so baddddd for you but the crown needs your big fucking dowry so he's like ok. i have to do the honorable thing and offer myself as an alternative. we'll be husband and wife in name only, we still get that big fucking dowry and you'll help run the red keep and such, you get to not marry aerion. win win. so you get married and you're a great team. you're diplomatic and bright. you get the servants to bring him supper when he works late. you two handle a dinner with some ambassadors like no problemmm. you offer to mend the shirts he's ripped while hunting or sparring. and hmmm maybe he's handsome but he doesn't seem interested. but YOU definitely are. and then ohhhh there's some tourney you have to go to. BUT OH NOOOO the lord who's hosting only had ONE CHAMBER made up for the two of you!!!! but you don't want to EMBARASS him and it's only a fortnight so you just suck it up and share... and maybe end up spooning a little bit... but whatever because you're having so much fun learning about jousting and bantering with your husband and you think you're catching a vibe and hey! you're the fucking queen of love and beauty and you're feeling amazing so on the last night you retire to your chambers and he's smiling at you so you lean in... OH NO he freezes up and you're embarrassed and heartbroken and you flee and cry all night by the light of the moon </3
so you're all heartbroken because clearly he's not over his dead wife and you leave him alone, and now HE'S realizing how much he needs you, because he really does admire you and he's starting to love you and he would've apologized and kissed you if you hadn't run away (he just feels guilty abt moving on from jena and he's insecure because he's an old man and you're beautiful and young and too good for him). so he tries to win you back and you're not having it. you're back to stiff formalities and yes, your grace and no, your grace. well there's only one thing to do, LET'S GO TO SUMMERHALL and have a little sexually tense vacation. and while you're there you find out your father has died which you feel conflicted about and he comforts you (and ohhh he's so strong and he smells so good...) and from there mayyyybe you start to open up again. you smile at him when he passes you and the maekarlings in the gardens. you find him in the library late at night and tell him to go tf to bed. and finally there's a storm and you're feeling lonely so you finish mending his shirt (and maybe you kept it so long because you like to touch it and smell it and think of him) and bring it to him. which gives him the chance to apologize and explain why he'd rejected you at first. and also gives him the chance to make things right and take your virginity so tenderly and passionately and while he's crying a little and calling you my lady, my wife, my queen, and you live happily ever after blah blah blah <3
when he kisses your puffy pussy so sweetly and says a little breathlessly “my poor baby” as if he wasn’t the one absolutely pounding you into the next week
