When they have both mostly recovered, and Yuan is back to his smiling, playful self, Lan Wangji presents him with a forehead ribbon. Yuan’s little fingers bump into Lan Wangji’s thumbs as he traces the cloud motif along it.
“You are Lan now. This is very important,” Lan Wangji tells him and Yuan looks away from the ribbon to meet his eyes. “You must not take it off as you please. Only family may touch it.”
Yuan nods once, serious in response to Lan Wangji’s firm tone. Lan Wangji turns him around by the shoulders and encircles his little form with his arms as he holds the ribbon.
“Hold onto both sides and I will guide you.”
Yuan gently grabs onto both sides of the ribbon, just inside Lan Wangji’s hands, and Lan Wangji lifts them to the back of Yuan’s head. He slides his hands over Yuan’s and begins to guide him through the steps of tying, just as his uncle had done for him when he was little. It is a slow process, but they get through it without having to restart.
“There. We will practice and soon you will be able to do it on your own.”
Yuan turns back around to him, face glowing with happiness as he lifts his hands to examine the new, silky material wrapped around his head.
“Family,” Yuan repeats. His voice sounds soft and certain, but he reaches out hesitantly to press his little index finger to the matching clouds on Lan Wangji’s ribbon at his forehead. Lan Wangji lets him, and it burns when he swallows against the lump in his throat . He thought grief would feel the same, when he lost his mother and didn't understand, didn't know where to put all the love he had for her. It's different, he thinks, looking down at Yuan's little face and feeling an overwhelming surge of affection pour out of the hole in his chest all at once.
He takes a steadying breath before replying, “Yes, A-Yuan.”
Yuan beams back at him, big and bright, like a little sun, and Lan Wangji feels something begin to rethaw.
--
“These are my rabbits,” Lan Wangji says to Yuan on a cool, Spring morning on the mountainside.
The grass is dewy, but Yuan kneels down onto it anyway to pet them. Lan Wangji doesn’t have to tell him to be gentle, just watches tenderly as Yuan brushes the rabbits with his little hand, careful not to apply too much pressure, and introduces himself to them politely.
“Hello bunnies, I’m Lan Yuan, it’s nice to meet you!” he says, and Lan Wangji knows they will become the best of friends.
Lan Wangji takes a seat near him in the grass and passes him leafy greens, carrots, and special raspberry treats to feed them. The rabbits gather around them in little clumps and Yuan never stops talking to them. As they nibble the fruit, Yuan giggles with delight, watching their white mouths slowly stain stark red with raspberry lipstick.
After the rabbits are mostly fed, Lan Wangji points out a hole in the ground full of baby bunnies, which Yuan wastes no time trying to coax them out of. They hop out, curious about the strange noise of Yuan clicking his tongue against his teeth and hesitant, until they realize there is no threat. They are perfectly Yuan-sized, white puffballs against the green backdrop of grass and Yuan giggles again.
"Hi babies," he says softly.
Lan Wangji rests his hand on the ground, palm-up, until one takes the plunge and hops into it. He lifts it, holding where Yuan can reach it. The baby makes its way into Yuan's hands and he lifts it to his nose to nuzzle it while Lan Wangji picks up another to put in his lap. The other rabbits hop around them, grazing for any remaining scraps of vegetables.
“Hanguang-Jun, can they be my rabbits too?” Yuan asks, petting the baby and looking up at Lan Wangji with pleading eyes.
“If you like,” he responds, face soft. "It seems they have already chosen you."
“I love them! I want to come see them every day!”
“Then they will be ours.”
--
It's not every day that a member of the Lan Clan turns 15. At the banquet held in his honor, it is quiet, solemn, but between courses 2 and 3, Lan Sizhui meets Lan Wangji's eyes and grins at him. It catches Lan Wangji in the chest and he can’t help but lift the corner of his mouth in return while giving an almost imperceptible head shake, before dropping his gaze and returning his face neutral. Lan Xichen notices and smiles also, and Lan Wangji would think them both insufferable sometimes if he didn't care for them so much. He's not sure what it is about himself that attracts these insufferable loved ones, if Wei Ying were‒
If Wei Ying were here. He doesn't allow the thought to go much further than that, and returns to eating his soup. It is a celebration after all.
Afterward, Lan Wangji waits patiently while Sizhui and Jingyi whisper at each other, before Sizhui finally spots him standing there watching him. His eyes widen slightly and he whispers one last thing to Jingyi before making his way over to Lan Wangji.
The January night is dark and quiet on their walk to Sizhui's room. Sizhui thinks about all the things he wants to say, all the things that growing a year older, reaching a new period of his life, and getting a new name has made him reflect on and be grateful for, but the words get caught in his chest so he stays silent. Their footsteps slow as they reach his room and they turn to each other. Lan Wangji shakes out his sleeve, before placing his palm to the flat of Sizhui's temple, right where his ribbon meets his hairline. It is fatherly, comforting, and overwhelmingly affectionate. Sizhui swallows, tries to ignore the prickle in his eyes.
"You have grown up so much." Lan Wangji pauses, his eyes soft, but no other parts of his face giving anything away. "And I am proud of you."
Sizhui smiles up at him, hesitates only a moment before surging towards him to wrap his arms around him in a tight hug. Lan Wangji doesn't show any surprise at the sudden impact, but he goes very still when Sizhui says, voice muffled by the fabric at his shoulder, "Thank you, a-die."
It's not the first time, but because it has been a while, and because tonight he has allowed himself to wish that Wei Wuxian were here to see Yuan now, something unnamed thuds against his chest with his voice ‒ This child is my son ‒ and it aches. He had carefully avoided it earlier, but now, half of him is thrown suddenly back to Yiling, meeting this little boy for the first time. A boy who wrapped his hand around Wei Wuxian's wrist in comfort, gave generous hugs, and confidently moved Lan Wangji's arm to slide onto his lap in its place and, smiling, spin the toys he had spoiled him with around his face. Little A-Yuan who, just like Wei Ying, unknowingly and too, too easily leapt over his walls to stick a flag into and claim a personal space in his heart. Lan Wangji lowers the hand in the air that had been at Sizhui's head and places it on his back, drawing him closer. They stay like that, a gentle breeze ruffling their ribbons, before Sizhui pulls away, returns to decorum, and bows respectfully. His cheeks are pink from the cold.
Lan Wangji's eyes glisten in the moonlight and he blinks softly at him before saying, "Goodnight, Sizhui."
The name settles around Sizhui like a warm blanket and he smiles again. “Goodnight, Hanguang-Jun.”
--
Sizhui is fairly certain his heart stops beating when Wei Wuxian reaches out to pat the side of his head. Only family may touch it, echoes in his ribcage and he spares a glance to Lan Wangji, finding his face impassive ‒ which is validation in its own way, really ‒ before looking down to try to contain the blush on his cheeks. The contact is tangible confirmation of everything his heart had been hoping for, when he couldn't quite put a name to what he was feeling towards Wei Wuxian, and other titles hadn't been enough. He had said that he felt safe when either one was around, and with his arms around both of them in a hug, he thinks it feels more like‒ whole.
He remembers years ago, sitting with his Uncle Xichen and feeling some personal thrill when he had broken sect rules and brought up the topic of Lan Wangji's happiness with him; to make sure he knew his tells, how to see it despite what he projected on the exterior and despite the ever-present undertone of melancholy he carried with him.
"You are very important to him, to us," his uncle had told him. "Not just because you are a good student, but because you are you. I want to make sure you realize that."
He had, but it was reassuring to hear it in words. And now, Sizhui appreciates their talk more than ever, because he can see the shift in Lan Wangji all the more clearly. Some previously unknown missing parts, carrying on despite them, and now, finding them. It's something else they have in common and Sizhui tucks away that point of pride inside himself for safe-keeping.
Like father, like son, or so the saying goes. And hadn't they just complimented the ways he was similar to each of them? Like fathers, like son, now. It all makes Sizhui feel so inordinately happy he could burst with it.
When Lan Wangji pulls him aside from Wei Wuxian and Wen Ning, and the excitement has subsided, Sizhui wants to ask, Why didn't you tell me? even though he thinks he knows why. What comes out instead is, "This doesn't change anything, does it? You're still my..." he trails off. It's a stupid question, a prickle of insecurity, but he just wants to hear-
"Always," Lan Wangji reassures him. "Nothing has changed that you don't want."
Sizhui doesn't respond. His head swarms with thoughts of himself in red, silly?, of saying "my real family," only to feel instant doubt, because what is more real than the man in front of him who raised him, more real than both men who saved him and gave him their homes? Lan Wangji must be able to see the panic building behind his eyes because he places a hand on his shoulder.
"You have time to meditate and reflect on your feelings. I am sorry I could not tell you earlier."
Sizhui begins to shake his head. “I… I am more grateful to you now than ever before.”
“Sizhui, there is no need. I did not do a favor for you. Family-," he swallows. "-takes care of each other."
Shizhui wipes away an errant tear that escapes against his will, and repeats, his voice full of adoration, “Family.”
Their eyes both flicker up the hill to Wei Wuxian then back.
Lan Wangji smiles softly, as though he cannot help it, and he says, "Yes, A-Yuan. We will see you back at home."
--
"What was it like, raising him?" Wei Wuxian asks Lan Wangji with his ear against his chest as they lie in bed.
He has one arm wrapped around his middle and a knee thrown between his legs. Lan Wangji drags his fingers down Wei Wuxian's arm and back up as he considers his answer.
"He was happy. Empathetic, observant, and a fast learner. It was difficult to remain impartial."
"Ohh, a star disciple," Wei Wuxian says as he turns to look up at him, with his chin resting on the back of his hand and his mouth upturned into a teasing smile. "Sounds familiar. Did you try asking your uncle for advice?"
Lan Wangji ignores him.
"He also likes to tease. As you know. Always tries to do what is right," he continues, looking down to meet Wei Wuxian's eyes. "He was...a comforting reminder, as well as the best distraction."
“Lan Zhan-" he starts, and his eyes sparkle. “-your son is also lucky to have you.”
Lan Wangji halts the brush of his fingers and instead wraps them tightly around Wei Wuxian’s bicep.
“Our Son,” he corrects, and Wei Wuxian smiles like a cat who caught the canary.
“Hmm...I bet you just love to say that,” Wei Wuxian whispers conspiratorially and in an instant, Lan Wangji pulls him upward and onto him to capture Wei Wuxian’s lips between his own.
If Lan Wangji's goal was to kiss the smile off of him, it's an instant success, and something they’ll never get tired of. Wei Wuxian doesn’t resist the heavy force of gravity pulling him into Lan Wangji; he just lets himself fall and kisses him back with equal fervor. His hand slips beneath the folds of his robe at his stomach and palm to skin, he begins a long, slow stride until it slots into place at his heart. Wei Wuxian opens his mouth, and Lan Wangji deepens it; kisses him so thoroughly and possessively that every fiber of his being pulses with Lan Wangji’s heartbeat against his hand, yours, yours, yours. Lan Wangji grips him closer, as if he pulled hard enough they would meld together but it still wouldn’t be close enough, and then Wei Wuxian finds himself suddenly beneath him, pressed deep into the bed, arms raised overhead and crossed at his wrists by Lan Wangji’s large hand. Lan Wangji breaks the kiss - and Wei Wuxian's lips try helplessly to follow - to bite at Wei Wuxian’s neck instead, his lips vibrating against his skin as he claims him.
"My husband.”
“Yes,” Wei Wuxian exhales, tilting his chin up to give him better access. “And mine.”
Lan Wangji’s grip tightens again at his words and his tongue scorches against Wei Wuxian's throat as his teeth continue their onslaught. Wei Wuxian swallows against it, his skin ablaze.
“Our son,” Lan Wangji repeats again, his voice rougher than before and Wei Wuxian's feels drunk with the power of causing it.
“Our son,” he repeats in a daze, with Lan Wangji’s entire mouth searing and insistent at his neck.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to Wei Ying’s smiles. This one, with his eyes crinkling in the corners and his lips pulling back into a deep grin, one short step away from laughing, pulls at Lan Wangji in a way he remembers not being able to recognize in the past, not being able to really understand. He understood eventually, as he does now. Understands that for all his smiles, reserved for him or not, he appreciates equally if not more the ability to make him drop them and render him speechless. He kneels in front of his easy posture, takes his face in his large hands, and leans forward to press a steady kiss to his forehead, whole and truly here. Wei Ying's smile turns softer, almost shy, but it doesn’t fall completely. Not until Lan Wangji drops his mouth downward to press another kiss to the freckle to the left of his nose.
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying’s eyelids flutter closed and his mouth falls open to let out a shuddering breath. It’s a sight that Lan Wangji is certain only a man stronger than him would be able to resist and he's thankful he doesn't have to anymore. He yearned for so long, and now...Now...
The candlelight flickers, casting a warm glow across Wei Ying's handsome face. Lan Wangji's eyes draw a path from his dark eyelashes to his pouty red lips. He brushes Wei Ying’s cheekbone with his thumb, then traces the line with it downward, pulling gently at his bottom lip before pressing his lips to the beauty mark just below it. How he missed the sight of it. It ends up off-center, capturing some of his bottom lip with it, and his lips move as if to kiss him back.
"Everything for you," Lan Wangji murmurs at the corner of his mouth.
"Lan Zhan," Wei Ying breathes, and chases the contact to finally capture his lips with his own.
I don't go here but @seehang gave me a prompt and I've been wanting to write so
you know you made me love you; mccree/ashe
cross-posted to ao3 [x]
--
“You gonna get me back for tonight?” she asks him, a sly smile on her face, but still keeping her eyes ahead of them.
Their shoulders bump again and he slows, almost outside Ashe’s room. She would have kept walking to his if he hadn’t stopped. When she turns to face him, his eyes are bright, maybe from the whiskey. He winks and she thanks whoever is listening that the hallway is dim so he can’t see the red rush to her pale cheeks. Not like it matters, he knows her.
“Ashe,” he steps forward, crowding into her space, “you may have cheated every round and bled me dry, but the way I see it-” His hand reaches around to the back of her head and his deft fingers fan into her long hair. “I already got somethin’ of yours.”
She steadies her voice, breathing evenly like he taught her when she pulls the trigger, but can’t help the glance down to his lips. “Oh yeah, and what’s that?”
His fingers fan wider and then he grasps, firm and gentle, tilting her chin upward and baring her throat to him. His lips hover close and the scent of his last cigar floods her senses.
“So I can tell you and lose my advantage?”
“Here’s the thing, McCree.” She smiles and licks her lips. ”I only give what I want people to have. So any advantage you think you got? I made it that way."
He laughs then, goddamn him. Uses his free hand to tip his hat to her. Pulls away. She misses his hand in her hair, but doesn’t drop her chin.
“Goodnight, Ashe.”
--
She stands in the mirror, glaring at her hair, wishing she could feel McCree’s hands in it one last time. But he left, her heart with him, and if he were here now she’d be too mad at him to let him anywhere near her. A lie.
“I’m thinkin’ about cuttin’ my hair,” she told him the time they patched each other up after their sting went a little south. Her knees framed his hips while she sat on the bathroom sink.
His eyes raked over her, the streaks of blood in her hair once bright enough to match the red of her lips, but mostly dried now. Superficial scrapes, ‘head wounds bleed more’ he told himself to calm the worry. He lifted his hand to tuck a strand behind her ear, run his fingers through the rest of it, the tips of them grazing her neck to her chest. Her eyes raised to meet his.
“Any particular reason why?”
She never answered him, kissed him instead, and he kissed her back until his lips were stained red.
She growls and jerks open the drawer so hard its contents rattle. The knife is sharp and it cuts a clean, angled line to her hair on one side at her jaw. No going back now. No more Ashe and McCree. Just Ashe again. At least she has Bob. She slashes through the other side and it feels good, the weight of it gone. Or maybe that’s just what she’s trying to convince herself of.
under cover of darkness and soft music from the radio, she kisses him, her body warm and insistent against his. a better man would resist. would tell her that she’s got the wrong idea, or a bad one. throw a ‘pal’ in there for good measure. but he’s already given her the whole speech, she made her choice, and they’ve been denying themselves for far too long already. he takes his sunglasses off instead, and kisses her back.
Is ‘beautiful’ the descriptor for ‘distraction’ or ‘you’? // deacon x sole survivor // cross-posted to ao3 [x]
He doesn’t remember the first time she touched him.
No, scratch that, he remembers clearly. His vision fades in and out and gunshots sound miles away, but they stop and two seconds later she’s crouching next to him. “Deacon, stay with me.” She sets her warm palm on his thigh, thumb on the inside, and grips. It grounds him, brings him back to the city street where he’s bleeding out onto the pavement. She grins at him, but there’s worry around her eyes and when he opens his mouth to make a joke, she jams a stimpak into the outside of his thigh and all that comes out is “son of a bitch!”
A week later, he still can’t get the goddamn feeling of her hand on his thigh out of his head. It pops in at the most inopportune moments and distracts him. Him. At least she’s living up to that title he gave her, he guesses.
It gets harder to pinpoint the exact moment they started feeling comfortable enough for casual contact. When they’re low on supplies and farther out from any settlement than they’d like to be, they find quieter ways to communicate. She scopes the territory, and he holds his hand out palm up, so she can tap with her finger. 6, no visible detour, stealth? He likes the times she steadies his hand with her free one. Hands that sometimes still tremble after she pulls the trigger, but never while stitching up a particularly bad wound.
When stealth means that a raider gets too close, he ends up pressed up against her in the shadows of an alley, her fingers curled around his elbow and the other flat against his chest. The pressing probably isn’t necessary, but she pulls and he follows. The laws of physics can’t be broken, he would tell anyone who asked. Adrenaline is a bitch though, ‘cause that’s when it’s hardest to stop himself from just leaning down before one of them taps or whispers the all clear.
He starts calling her “pal” more. A sort of self preservation, you see. He didn’t think she noticed, but a while later, he asks her for something, and she says, voice as dry as the mojave and dragging out the last word, “You got it. Buddy.” And he’d only ever heard her call the dog that.
Sometimes he doesn’t have time to shave while they’re on the road. The first time she sees it, she runs her hand through the red stubble on his head and along his jaw, slow and easy. “Ginger suits you,” she tells him fondly when her fingertips graze his chin and drop to her side.
He ignores the flutter in his stomach. “Hey, don’t be getting any nickname ideas,” he warns, pulling his hat out to cover it.
“I can’t make any promises for Piper,” she shrugs one shoulder, and he doesn’t know what unsettles him more, the reporter seeing his hair or Whisper talking to her about him.
–
He finds her on the little bridge behind Sanctuary, back to the railing with one leg spread out straight, and the lantern casting an orange glow on her lost face.
“Everyone’s been wondering where you snuck off to, boss,” he says sitting down with his shoulder flush to hers and tapping her boot once with his. “It’s pretty late.”
She flicks her wrist and sighs, “They worry too much.”
“I guess it’s only natural when they’ve got something this good.”
“Hm. And what about you? You the worrying type?” she asks as he watches her hands fiddle with the strap on her boot of the leg that’s tucked in. One of those days.
“Well,” he reaches over to take her hand and pull it into his lap so she doesn’t rip it. “I’m the one that went to find you, didn’t I?”
“That just means I was your excuse to get away,” she says, giving his hand a small squeeze, a wordless thanks for being here.
He grins and squeezes back. “My personal favorite excuse.”
They fall quiet and she slides her hand out of his grip to flip his over, still needing some sort of movement. She runs her fingertips across his down to his palm and he makes a pleased ‘hm’ as his fingers curls slightly at the touch before straightening again. Her index finger begins to trace a little house in the center of his palm, and lines like rays of sunshine around it. He smiles.
“Did I ever tell you about the time-”
“I’ll let you stay if you’re quiet,” she says with a small smirk on her face, tracing the symbol over and over again.
“Deal,” he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
take your fave to the library day; aka written so fast and don’t even know if i have the voices right; deacon x ss
She catches a few hours of much-needed sleep at Sanctuary and then heads to HQ to pick up Deacon.
“Pack light,” she orders, throwing a bag at him with no explanation.
“You got it, boss,” he answers, not asking for one.
--
“Hold up a sec, isn’t this place crawling with super mutants?” he asks, shooting a wary glance at the building. “I don’t think I’ve got the munitions.”
“Nah, MacCready and I cleared them out on a request. You’re getting slow,” she teases.
“Y’know, I have more important things to do than gather intel on you while you’re gone.”
“mmm, I doubt that,” she says, opening the door for him and gesturing him in.
It smells worse, if that’s even possible, decaying flesh and dried blood. Not at all like a library should. She has her rifle ready, just in case.
“I’m sorry you might not be able to find much pulp trash you love here.”
“Yeah, come on, Whisper. I can’t believe you dragged me to this intellectual hellhole,” he throws her a grin that she returns.
“Hey, whatever it takes to make you good on your promise to read to me.”
“Oh, so this is a purely selfish endeavor then. Thanks for letting me know.” He shuffles past her and disappears into the pile of stacks and she wanders along, taking her time to observe which books got lucky in the fallout. “Anyway, I thought that was a threat, not a promise,” his voice travels from across the room.
“What’s the difference?” she shouts back. Her fingers brush the spine of a familiar Bluebook, a memory older than even the ones in Sanctuary, and she huffs a laugh. Of all the literature to survive. She leaves it on the shelf and makes her way over to where Deacon is standing, flipping through the pages of a book she can’t see the title of.
“Lost my copy of this one a long time ago,” he tells her with a hint of melancholy, and she thinks him brave for picking it up off the shelf.
“Ah, here we go-” his fingers settle across the page while his other palm supports the spine. “Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility, whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing.“ Her eyes fall to his lips as he reads and his voice, smooth and softer than she’s ever heard, settles over her like an itchy, wool blanket. He slows. “(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses). nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”
He looks toward her and she swallows, wishing he didn’t have those goddamn sunglasses on so she could see his eyes. He clears his throat and shuts the book with a soft snap, sliding it into his sack with the others he’d collected so far.
“So, what do you think of it?” she asks, hoping for one of his grains of honesty.
“I'll keep telling you I’m happy as hell,” he nudges her, “and that you don’t need to perform these grand gestures to keep me around.”
She just shrugs in response. ”How about thoughtful gestures then, because that’s what friends do.”
“You just continue to surprise me, that’s all. On my birthday no less.”
“Really?” she exclaims before realizing. “Oh, it is not,” she says, looking particularly unimpressed, and his laugh confirms it.
“Might as well be, though. You’re the best, you know that?” he asks, slipping an arm around her to drop one of the heavier hardcovers into her sack.
bbkaz/pw
If you hadn't taken it, we'd have bled out in the jungle like we should have. But you held it in your hand and it aches for you.
cross-posted to ao3 [x]
You hold it in your hand like a grenade beating bright red blood onto the grass and down your forearm to the elbow. His calloused fingertips graze your wrist as he closes his hand over yours and takes it from your weakening fingers, carrying it like a holy relic. It’s sacrilege, your blood mixing with his at the scrapes in his knuckles before he places it in back inside you. You weren’t supposed to do that.
--
You think it remembers his touch. Because it’s the only explanation for how it tries to escape through your ribcage whenever he’s around. You wonder if his hand remembers too. He always stretches it, five fingers to opposite points, when he leaves the room.
He wasn’t supposed to do it.
--
Your hands shake as he watches you unbutton the top four buttons on your shirt, the yellow scarf already discarded onto the chair. When you take a step forward, he takes one step back. You keep trying until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and there is nothing between you except an echo of a heartbeat and uneven breaths. His hand surrenders to yours so easily and you thank him with a brush of your thumb against his wrist. His palm is cool and damp against the center of your chest where you place it. You slide it against your skin a millimeter at a time, his fingers disappearing under the left side of your shirt, until it slots into place and you have your answer. He nods once, his blue eye clear and certain in this dim room, and you drop your hand from his, letting your eyes fall closed as his fingertips trace little x’s where stitches might have been. He drops his fingers, leaving emptiness and a familiar ache, until you’re guided forward by the waist so his lips and mustache can press against where his hands once were.
It wasn’t yours to touch.
But well, that’s not true. It flutters when he murmurs to it, his lips never leaving your skin. The objection loses words and echoes through every vein and artery and nerve. Yours, yours, yours.
another amell at skyhold thing because i am predictable; alistair x warden
“You know what I think?” she mumbles into his shoulder as he draws circles on her back absentmindedly.
“Hmm?”
“I think...that this bed is too soft.”
Alistair’s chest shakes gently beneath her. “I think there are some wounded soldiers we can kick out of their tents, if you’d like. And yet you weren’t complaining earlier.”
“I wasn’t trying to sleep earlier,” she huffs, rolling away and off into the dark of the room.
The emptiness jars him and he groans. “You’re not trying to sleep now. I was joking about the wounded, you know!”
She conjures a flame to light a candle, bathing them in warm, orange light and pulls her robes over her head. “Come on, get dressed,” she says finding his clothes and throwing them at his face. “And grab that blanket.”
He groans again, rising to follow her orders – because honestly when doesn't he?
--
The night is still besides the occasional clink of armor from a guard shifting restlessly while standing watch, and they make it to the intended spot without interruption. She throws the pillows down and pulls him down with her onto their new stone bed. The stars hover overhead, steady and bright.
“Better?” his voice quiet, as if they are sharing a secret in this midnight tryst on the battlements.
She turns her head to meet his eyes and smiles. Perhaps they are. “Much.”
“Good,” he says and it turns into a yawn. He interlaces his fingers with hers and they return their eyes to the heavens.
A few are fading and she frowns as if it’s her fault. “Alistair…”
“Yes, my love?”
“What if we don’t find it? What if we can’t figure it out?” Time lost, time they could have had together.
The stars blink at her, silent and unjudging, and she blinks back before Alistair brings a hand to her cheek to face him. His thumb brushes a line across it. But here you are. And here I am. Not bad, right? “Then we have a date, don’t we? But you will. We will.”
Her eyes search his face and into his hairline, a fleeting thought of seeing it grey, and she turns to press her lips softly against his palm in confirmation, glancing back up at the stars just as one shoots across the sky. It’s foolish, something the little girl in a tower always dreamt of, but she squeezes her eyes shut anyway. Please. Because right now, things are rarely impossible, even if she hears a whisper like the blunt edge of a blade, you don’t get to cheat death twice.
Alistair opens an arm and she settles into the crook of it. Her fingers graze idly along his ribs and his lips place a benediction on her forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers into her for what must be the tenth time that night, but his voice breaks near the end and she burrows into him and squeezes tightly in response. She falls asleep to the brush of his fingers on her skin and a pulse of home, home, home.
