Your Meaning (Part One)
Based on this request: “Protective Darkling imagine. Reader is a Fabrikator and has doubts about why he would spend so much time with her.”
masterlist / part two
It is silent in the Materialki workshop. Absolutely quiet, save for the clicking of gears, the rub of metal against metal, the silent bubbling and fizzing of the Alkemi workspaces. Most of the Fabrikators have gone away for the night, the few sleep-deprived souls choosing to retire to their quarters instead of perusing their equations and blueprints for another few hours. This alone is a rarity, made even more so by the fact that you’re still here when everyone else is gone. There is quiet, that is, except for the sound of the door opening at the far side of the building.
Instantly, you have to try your hardest to silence a groan. You had rather enjoyed the quiet, the dark solitude of the dimly lit rooms, and the thought of being reprimanded yet again does not really fit in with your picturesque little study session. You dust your hands off on the corners of your purple kefta, doing your best to keep grease stains to a minimum. All the while, the footsteps draw closer, although they’re quiet, as if being muffled by something. Strange.
You’re still focused on the workspace before you when the footsteps stop. There’s no one else in the room to draw their attention, and the intruder paused directly behind you, so there’s no doubt in your mind that they’re here for anyone else except you. This would be fine, did you not know exactly who it was behind you and why they were there. In fact, this person has made this visit several times before in the past week or so, and you’re not looking forward to another chastising speech.
“Sorry, David, I know I messed up on that alloy, I’ll fix it I swear, just please leave me alone for tonight-”
The words die off in your throat as you turn around and come face to face with the man standing before you. This is not David Kostyk, Grisha Durast clad in your same purple cloth and gray embroidery, but someone altogether different. This man is taller, walks with more stature. That, and he’s wearing a kefta of deepest black, a color only allowed for one person and one person alone- the Darkling. Also known as the highest Grisha there is, someone who would most certainly have control over your entire future and whether or not you should be allowed to live it out after addressing him so casually.
You feel like you’re about to melt away into the room. This is so not how you wanted to speak to the General of the entire Second Army. Already, you start reaching for your apologies, but already, you know that it’s too late.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were there, I thought you were-”
He cuts you off with a wave of his hand. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that the one man with the sheer power capable of performing the Cut and slicing a man in two with his abilities is almost smiling at you.
“You thought I was David? I’m afraid not, but I’d almost like to see how a conversation like that would have gone. I can’t see David as anything more than someone whose sole passion is burning the midnight oil.”
You swear that sounds like a joke, but he’s still looking down at you with that same humored look of stone that you can’t be sure of anything. “He usually is, sir, but he hasn’t been pleased with the alloys of late and he can be plenty threatening when he wishes it.”
This time, you’re certain of it- the Darkling laughs. Completely. It would be a sight to remember, were you not terrified that he’s going to find fault in this and relegate you to a life of secretarial work spent cleaning up oil stains after hapless students. “As humorous as it is to picture David Kostyk as threatening, I’m afraid not. Actually, your alloys are what I’m here to talk about in the first place.”
You straighten up a little, some of your fear starting to leave you. “Oh?”
He nods. “They were excellent. Grisha steel is a bit of tricky business, but your latest alloys have posed some difficulties to even my shadows. They’ll be excellent for outfitting the regiments in the latest armor designs.”
You should accept this compliment, seeing as it’s far more than you deserve, but you can’t help but tack on another sentence in a quiet tone. “It wasn’t meant to be for the military. It was supposed to help, not hurt.”
You regret this the instant the Darkling’s eyes flash back to you, but there’s intrigue in his eyes, not disapproval over you speaking out of turn. “I appreciate that viewpoint. It feels like everyone here is clamoring for war. It's nice to hear that someone has another ideal future for our Grisha.”
Our Grisha. If you would have told the you of a week ago that you would be discussing ‘our Grisha’ with the leader of the Second Army, you would have assumed that David had worked you too late and you’d simply started hallucinating.
You start to utter another apology, possibly for contradicting him and possibly just because you have no idea what to do, but he holds up a hand. “I don’t want to be your superior, Y/N. We’re all Grisha here, are we not?”
You can’t deny this, as odd as it sounds. His eyes start to flicker past you, towards the clusters of metal and grease still lining the worktable. “Are you still working? It’s well into the night, maybe even the dawn. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to find you here at all.” He extends an arm to you. “Walk with me? We should both be going to bed.”
You stare at him. For a moment, the Black General looks almost self conscious. “What?”
This moment, with him questioning you as if he’s one of your Fabrikator peers, almost makes you start to laugh. “No. It’s nothing, just- Well, I didn’t expect you to talk to any of us at all, let alone be concerned about my sleep schedule.”
He laughs now, the sound surprisingly clear for someone of his tenure as a military leader. “I’m not just a general, Y/N. I’m a man too.”
You can’t help but smile. “Alright, then. I’ll go with you.”
Before you can stop yourself, you place your hand on his arm and allow him to lead you back through the workroom, up through the twisting halls, and back towards the main center of the Little Palace. He talks with you all the while, surprisingly open for someone who seems to have so many enemies. He pauses before he leaves you that night, saying something about how he hopes he’ll see you again. Truth be told, you realize that you’re hoping for the same.
You end up talking with him a lot more, as it turns out. It just so happens that Aleksander keeps visiting the Materialki workshop, partly to see how the projects with Grisha steel and bulletproofing kefta and new weapons and all sorts of Durast and Alkemi experiments are progressing, and partly to talk to you. That’s another new thing, isn’t it? He’s asked you to call him Aleksander, his true name. He says it makes him feel more like him, like by hearing his name he remembers that he has a chance to be another Grisha instead of the Black General or the Darkling or any one of the selfless, soulless names this country has cooked up for him.
You meet up with him on nights like tonight, when you end up working later than you probably should and he drops by the Materialki workshops to escort you out. He says it’s for the best, that he wants to make sure his finest Durast has enough sleep to function, but there’s a certain spark that lights its way into his eyes whenever he sees you that makes you almost think that there might be a second reason for his late night visits.
He stands a few paces away from the door when you finally emerge, leaning against the wall and thinking through all sorts of dark and dangerous things that the leader of the Second Army must consider while currently at war, as Ravka always seems to be. He straightens up when he sees you, smiling that little smile that tells you that the sight of you seems to banish all thoughts of Grisha lives won and lost from his head.
“Out already, Y/N? It’s only a short while until midnight. I’m practically impressed.”
You roll your eyes, reaching forward to playfully hit him on the arm. “I’m wounded. I might start turning in earlier just to make you stop bullying me, Aleksander.” His smile takes on an additional glow when he hears you use his name. It’s enough to make you want to use it a dozen times over.
You were working in a slightly different compound tonight, to best study the reactivity of different Grisha-created minerals on Grisha steel, so you’ll have to face a walk across the grounds before reaching the living quarters of the Little Palace. You groan inwardly when you step through the door and study the air outside- dense clouds, the night barely lit by stars. It’s freezing cold, and you’re wearing the thinnest of your kefta. It’s not nearly enough to keep you warm, not on a night like this. To be fair, it was perfectly suitable for the hot, stuffy interior of the workshops, but not for the walk across the grounds. This is going to be freezing.
However, you’ve barely noticed the chill for a few steps before Aleksander is stopping, reaching out and pulling his cloak around your shoulders. You stare first at the heavy drape of black falling into place around you, then back at him.
He simply shrugs at your awestruck expression. “What? You looked cold. I need you alive, and not with pneumonia.”
You shake your head slightly. “I can’t take your cloak! You’ll freeze, and Ravka needs its general, not another Durast.”
You try to hand it back to him, but he refuses, adjusting it back on your shoulders instead. “I’d rather you have it. Honestly.”
You really should put up more of a fight and give it back, but the night air is so cold and you’re already warming up due to the thick layer of fabric draped around you, so your protests quietly die off into the night. Every now and then, Aleksander looks back at you, seeming to smile in spite of himself at the sight of his color on you.
He doesn’t make it all the way back to the Little Palace before a servant dressed in the pale blue and gold livery of the Grand Palace rushes up to him, saying something about how he’s needed by the King’s advisors.
Aleksander nods, allowing the servant to retreat back into the night, then grimaces at you. “Work never ends, I’m afraid. I’ll see you later, Y/N?” He looks almost hopeful to ask the question, like he might genuinely want to find you again. You nod, and his smile deepens. “Goodnight. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With that, he’s gone, disappearing into the shadows of midnight like he and his creations are one and the same. You’re left alone in the darkness, a smile rising to your lips of its own volition. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost say that you’re lovestruck over this man, what with his cloaks and farewells and all the times he seems to seek you out.
You must still be thinking of him, and everything he could mean to you, because you’re distracted on the walk back through the Little Palace. In fact, when the other Grisha stare at you as you walk through the halls, intent on heading straight to bed, you don’t understand why until a particularly rowdy group of Corporalki stops you in their tracks. Their leader, a headstrong young brute named Stojan Litvak, points brutishly towards you.
“Where’d you get that cloak, Durast?”
All of a sudden, you remember that you’re still wearing Aleksander’s cloak, the dark black of the fabric like a beacon against your skin. You’d meant to give it back to him, but he’d had to leave so suddenly that you’d forgotten. Now there’s no way to hide it, no way to explain it. You fish around for an explanation, but with so many angry-looking Grisha staring at you, you can’t seem to come up with anything.
As it turns out, Stojan isn’t looking for a reason. Instead, he sees this as the perfect opportunity to let loose with everything he’s been holding back for a very long time. He steps forward, eyes flashing with rage. “See, I don’t think you understand something. General Kirigan isn’t interested in you, not at all. Sure, he may seem like it, when he visits your little grease shop or when he paws off his cloak onto you, but he doesn’t mean a thing of it. He’s just trying to make sure you’re all being productive, that you’re not slacking off.”
He takes a few steps forward as he says this, and you can feel yourself silently backing up. “I mean, think about it. That’s all you like to do, isn’t it? Think. Why would someone like him, with as much power as him, ever pay attention to a quiet little Fabrikator? If he looked at someone, it would be one of us. Maybe even an Etherealki. But a Durast? Please. If he says that he thinks about you more than just what you can make for him, he’s lying through his teeth. I hope you know that every time you wear his little cloak.”
He lets you go now, laughing with his friends through a kvas-scented leer. You rush past them, past the curious stares and the jokes and the eyes watching you go. When you end up in your room, you lock the door behind you and collapse to the wall. They’re all right, aren’t they? There’s not a single reason why Aleksander would ever let you get that close to him without wanting something in return. He’s a general, used to choosing his brutal tactics no matter who gets hurt. That’s all you are to him, isn’t it? Another pawn to be played in one of his games.
So, you stop your late night visits. You close up earlier and earlier, not wanting to be caught alone with him when it’s only you in the workshops. He only shows up late, when no one else is there to see him talk with you. You’ve noticed that before, or maybe you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. And why would he let anyone else see him there, to be honest? Where they could spy and watch and whisper? He wouldn’t want anyone to know that he was spending time with you. It all makes sense.
You don’t talk to him for days, then weeks. He tries, sometimes, lingering at the edge of your vision on the usual weekly visits to the Materialki workshops. These are during the day, for when it’s most useful for him to seem like the purple-shrouded Durasts and Alkemi are just as important to him as his ruby and sapphire soldiers. He looks at you then. You look away. None of it is real, and all of it hurts.
Aleksander lets this go on for a few weeks before he takes things into his own hands. You’re walking through the halls of the Little Palace, intent on getting back to your rooms so you can spend another night alone, when you see him out of the corner of your eye. He’s approaching you, which wouldn’t make sense. Why would he want to be seen with you in front of all of the Grisha still milling around? Yet here he is, lengthy strides outpacing yours. His tone is formal and quiet when he asks you for a word. You pretend you do not hear him, nodding once as is expected of you before continuing on. It is all anyone would expect of a meeting between a Durast and the leader of the Second Army. It is, apparently, still a surprise to him.
“Y/N.” His voice is more urgent this time, and he stops walking in front of you. You’re forced to stop as well. He stares at you, somewhat incredulous. “You could talk to me, you know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “In front of everyone? Why would we want that?”
Aleksander looks surprised. “What are you talking about?” He glances around, then lowers his voice. “Is this about the cloak? I didn’t know that you would react that way, and if it made you uncomfortable, I’ll never do it again, I swear.”
You know what he’s talking about. Later that night, you had the cloak sent back to him, no note, no nothing. Just the folded black cloth. He must think that by giving you his colors like that, he’s upset you. “The cloak was fine.”
He lets out an irritated breath. “Then why are you avoiding me? I haven’t spoken to you for weeks, Y/N. You could be dead for all I know.”
Your tongue sharpens before you can control it. “That would be a hassle, wouldn’t it? All the weapons I could have made for you, gone.”
He scoffs. “What are you talking about? We’ve never once talked about weapons.”
You move to walk past him, but he stops you. “Fine. If not weapons, then architecture, or blueprints, or literally anything you could try and get out of me.”
Aleksander shakes his head softly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never wanted anything from you but your company.”
You almost want to laugh. “We both know that’s not true. Why would you ever talk to me if you couldn’t get something out of it? You crave power more than anyone here, why use it on me out of nothing but good will?”
He stares at you, shocked, then reaches down and takes your hand, starting to guide you through the halls. You try to pull away, but he simply keeps moving. “It’s not like that. I’ll prove it.”
When he stops moving, you realize that you’re at the doors of his war room, a place usually off limits to anyone but his military advisors. Why are you here now? He unlatches the door, pushing the dark wood open to reveal a dimly lit room full of maps and markings designating troop movements.
However, he doesn’t pay attention to any of this. Instead, he’s crossing the room, pulling a folded stack of papers out from a desk drawer where they’ve been carefully hidden beneath a pile of smaller texts. He walks back to you now, holding them out as if they're proof of everything you just can’t believe. You take them hesitantly, thumbing through them. Instantly, your breath catches in your throat. He’s written down all the little things you said to him, ever since you met. All the details that you never thought he’d pay attention to, they’re all here. That’s your favorite flower, your favorite part of the Little Palace. All the times you said you keep forgetting a cloak, a tool, anything.
Looking at it now, memories are starting to flash themselves before your eyes. Two days after you’d told him your favorite flower, the plates at the Little Palace had suddenly had a redesign to include them in the border designs. New tools had kept appearing at your desk after you’d mentioned you’d forgotten them, fascinating texts present when you’d made an offhand comment about how one phenomenon or the other fascinated you. All this time, he’s been keeping careful notes, all about you. Not about your work or what you could do for him, but you.
You stare back up at him. “Why-” Your voice breaks off. “Why do this?”
He takes a step closer to you, then another. “You’re not just your work, Y/N. You never were to me.” His hand is on your cheek, guiding your lips up to his.
You can’t help but smile. “I never knew.”
He laughs as well. “I never told you.” He leans away now, something like confusion in his eyes. “Why did you start avoiding me, though? I thought it was something I did.”
You shake your head. “No, it wasn’t that. It was nothing.”
He takes your hand, forcing you to look back at him. “What was it? I can tell that it was something.”
You sigh. “Someone told me that someone like you would never even give them time of day to someone like me. That was all.”
Instantly, the warm look in his eyes vanishes, replaced by the cold general you’ve heard so much about. “Who was it?”
You give him a look. “I’m not telling you. I can’t have you hurting your soldiers.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So it was one of my soldiers? Maybe a corporalnik?” When you don’t respond immediately, the edge hardens in his eyes. “They should know better.”
You lay a hand on his arm. “They’re fine. They won’t bother me anymore. It’s alright.”
And it is- you know you have Alekander now, not just as an uncertainty but with the knowledge that he really, truly cares for you. The opinions of upstart Heartrenders can’t bother you anymore.
When you walk through the halls of the Little Palace the next morning, you pause by the same group of Corporalki that you’d seen before. The one who’d spoken to you before, Stojan, looks at you tremulously. He’s covered in these long, dark scars that almost look as if they’re made of shadow. It appears that Aleksander has found out who spoke to you after all. Stojan’s eyes flicker from your face to the kefta you’re wearing.
It’s new, actually. It was delivered to you late last night. It looks the exact same as everyone else’s, except the embroidery detailing the purple cloth is a darker shade of gray. To any observer, it might even look black. You look at him, the shadow-scarred boy who had the nerve to torment you. Then you tug your black-lined kefta tighter around your throat, and smile.
requested by my dearest @underc0vercryptid
grishaverse tag list: @darlinggbrekker, @cameronsails
