Summary: Nesta finds the present Cassian threw in the Sidra.
Look I can only write prompts in Cassian’s POV for some reason and he’s always a simp. I can’t make him less of a simp. I think I’m projecting my own love for Nesta Archeron, but it is what it is.
~
Cassian’s sitting in the living room, and the windows are open as well as the doors, and Nesta chooses to be outside. She wants fresh air, she says. It’s a beautiful day and Cassian can’t blame her, but he tries not to grumble in her absence. He’s stuck inside, waiting on Rhys who conveniently forgets they have a meeting today.
It seems, Rhys would rather be with someone else... and Cassian would rather be with her. He jostles his leg impatiently, sighing every few minutes, thinking of all the ways he could be spending his time.
At least, they’re going to a new restaurant in the city after. Cassian can’t wait and he looks to the clock as if his glare might make it tick faster.
He’s sure after the restaurant, they’ll inevitably find themselves in bookshops. Cassian smiles at the thought. It seems they have a routine.
One after another, they’ll peruse until he’s carrying a tower of romances. Nesta will make a game of it, he’s sure. How many can he carry before he drops them or she can’t reach the top even as he leans down? How many can she get away with before he starts complaining that his arms hurt?
Cassian will do no such thing. Nesta should have as many books as she wants. Mother knows they have a house big enough for three hundred libraries. They can stand to have three hundred more. It will feel like three hundred books anyway, but Cassian won’t say a word. In fact, he’ll tell her she forgot to look in this aisle and jut his chin to the colorful bindings and some title that’s laughingly scandalizing.
Nesta will feel guilty about it later that evening though, as she always does, and so she’ll smile fondly. Gift it to him. That small, tilt of her lips, the mirth reaching her eyes. For holding all those books. Nesta will hold him closer too, because when she’s happy, she stops thinking about the city lights and the people and the noise. She keeps looking to him, tucking her hand into his, leaning her head on his arm. They’ll listen to the music as they walk, and all of it will sound sweet, and soft, but really he’ll be too distracted by her. All of her.
Cassian sighs. He’d rather be outside with Nesta--whatever she’s doing. Anywhere but here waiting for Rhys who’s taking his damn time.
He hears the sound of footsteps and sends a thank you to the Mother. Finally. Cassian gets up thinking it’s Rhys. He might just punch his brother for taking so long. Where have you been? He’ll screech.
But it’s Nesta who comes trampling through one of the sliding doors.
Better option, he thinks, and he’s about to say so, but Cassian notices the light blue fabric, the lacy edges trailed in dirt.
Her dress is caked in mud, the bottom drenched. She has a spot of dirt on her cheek, and Cassian brushes it off as she nears, as he pulls her close. Nesta pays no mind; she only grins. A big, happy expression that he’s already named.
Nesta only smiles like that when she’s over the moon, when the sun seemingly sinks into her chest and wants to shine from her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. Sunset hues. Peaches and blush and bright skies. Cassian feels warm to his toes, and he smiles unconsciously for she brings out the sun.
Nesta holds up a little box and Cassian eyes it curiously.
“I found a book!” She explains, “It’s the smallest book I’ve ever seen.”
Cassian looks to the box again not recognizing the color. He’s sure it can't be--
But it is. She opens the box, not torn at all, and inside lays a perfectly small book. Made my tiny, fairy hands. All the pages are intact, no water or mud in sight as if it’s never seen the Sidra at all.
Cassian holds his breath, but Nesta grins so fondly, he feels his chest start to squeeze.
“I was just walking along the river and I saw something on the side, and... I was curious,” She says sheepishly.
Nesta never can keep her curiosity down, and it explains her dress coated in the banks of the Sidra. He half wants to chastise for not getting him to help her. She must have climbed all the way down and he could have flown. She could have gotten hurt or carried away by the rapid tide. It’s at least a good couple of feet... but he shakes away his worry as she holds up the gift.
He just can’t believe it.
“So I climbed down a bit and I dug out the box! It’s perfect, isn’t it? I’m surprised the water didn’t ruin it. It must have come in with the storm last week.”
“Where do you think it came from?” He asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say as Nesta looks at the book, flipping through the pages carefully. “Does it belong to anyone, you think?”
It’s yours, he wants to blurt. I got it for you. It was yours all along. Just like I was.
But Cassian doesn’t say that, he can’t make words form... and he knows where it came from. He doesn’t know what the words mean, but he know who made it. What type of material it is. How many exist in the world? Not many, but one is in her hand when it had only ever met his pocket and the sea.
It must be some work of fae magic. A blessing from the Mother who know Nesta deserves the world... or he deserves some peace. Whatever power calls forth the tide or preserves paper in a flimsy box, he’s grateful for it. For the way, Nesta smiles like that.
Nesta holds up her chin as if she’ll fight any person who claims it’s theirs, who tries to take it from her. A ferocious sort of gleam in her eyes. “I don’t know... but it’s mine now. I’m the one who climbed down for it. I’m caked in mud.”
Cassian’s lips raise as he wraps his arms around her waist, “I think it was definitely meant to be yours.”
“It feels like mine,” she says softly. Nesta looks at the tiny book. It’s purple cover a sheen of old leather, stamped with unrecognizable words. She clasps it to her chest like she’s trying to burrow it away in her heart. Somewhere precious and protected behind a ribcage and a will of iron.
All she loves is stored there.
Cassian is there, too, he knows, because of that look she makes. That softness in her eyes, the sun in her smile. It’s reserved for him. For him and this tiny book.
I’m yours, he thinks.
Cassian grips her hand, pulling her towards the door. “Let’s see if we can go find a magnifying glass. Maybe we can try and read the words.”
Nesta frowns, “I thought you had a meeting.”
Cassian shakes his head, forgetting all about this room and Rhys and meetings. All that matters is her. “It’s not important,” he says.
That joy, he thinks, is more important than anything. A blessing. A gift. He wonders how many times he can make her smile like that.
Cassian doesn’t know, but he’s sure he’ll make a game of it.
The only reason I wrote this is because I was tagged on nessian week and therefore felt obligated to post something. Apparently you can get me to write anything if you give me the obligation.
Summary: Two months after ACOFAS, pre ACOSF fic. If Cassian had actually tried reaching out to Nesta during these months.
Masterlist, Chapter List
Slip and slide this into your Wednesday evening.
~
Nesta was drunk on ale, and Cassian was drunk on the sight of her. Not because she was beautiful, but because she was a walking disaster and all he could do was drink her in.
She wore calamity like a navy-blue dress that clung to her figure, sleeves rolling down her arms. To hide those bones of hers, Cassian thought, but not well enough to distract him from how she’d become smaller then when he’d seen her last.
She blinked up at him, and he opened his mouth, nothing witty or wise escaping his lips. All he could think was that she was here. In this place between tavern wall and tavern wall. The bricks quieting the maudlin voices to dull throbs.
Cassian hadn’t seen her since solstice, after he’d thrown that present in the Sidra and hoped that the ache he’d felt had been carried out to sea, along with the words he’d stupidly said out loud… because he couldn’t help himself—couldn’t stop himself from hurting where he’d been hurt but it hurt to see her like this.
How are you, he wanted to say.
Let me help you.
Are you okay, he wanted to ask.
Let me help you.
Do you want to go home, he inquired in his thoughts.
Let me help you. Let me help you. Let me help you.
Instead, Cassian swallowed as Nesta blinked a bored stare. “You come here often.”
It wasn’t a question, gods help him, but it sounded like one. As if he was a young boy who just had his first run in with a beautiful female and that was the best pick up line he could come up with. Nesta raised a brow.
“I meant, I’ve seen you around here before.” In this tavern, walking these streets. Because he had seen her.
So many times he’d looked, hoped to happen upon her, where her eyes would light up with recognition. You’re finally here, he wanted her to say. I’ve been waiting all this time.
But even the shadows knew this to be an impossible dream.
How many times did he wish to forget her? To get the feel of her skin off his, the soft touch of her lips as they lay dying.
He wondered if Nesta remembered—if Nesta could forget.
She merely stared at him, glazed eyes and all, and Cassian shuffled in his boots. He had too many flaws, he decided, for the way she looked at him as if she could count them all. Name them and proclaim them if he said one word out of place.
No, Nesta did not remember. Nesta would not want to remember.
“Why do you come here?” Cassian managed to get out. Some voice in his head answered for him. You know why, why do you keep coming back?
“Because I can’t stay away—”
“What?”
“I told you to stay away,” she repeated. The arch in her brow was filled with enough queenly arrogance that she might as well have banished him right then and there.
Cassian smelled the stale liquor in the air and wanted to laugh, some half-mad sound. Sweat stuck to his skin, his hands were shaking as he clasped them together, and the female in front of him looked as if he’d already been mad, insane from the start.
It was fitting that this is what he would remember. Velaris’s summer heat flaming his cheeks. No sunshine. No soft rains. Just darkness written on her face—drawn in her protruding cheekbones, in the shadows under her eyes.
He could hear the tap of her shoes on the cement, but he didn’t move—didn't let her see that he was frozen in place, trapped in creation instead of the chaos that Nesta had held onto like an outstretched hand.
Cassian opened his mouth to speak. Tell her! His mind screamed. Tell her that she means something, that you feel like she does, that you know what she’s going through!
Cassian turned to face her, but her figuring was already cutting through the shadows, flittering through the pale light of the streetlamps.
Gone, but not so easily forgotten.
“I can’t,” he choked. “I can’t.”
~
Cassian stood in front of her apartment door, practically breathing on the surface. He was already tired, and he’d only walked up the stairs. Perhaps he was out of shape, but no... it was that the mere idea of this that made his body ache and his stomach turn uncomfortably.
He might have laid his forehead there, if he could guarantee he wouldn’t make a sound on the trembling wood. Cassian didn’t want to make a sound. He wanted to be invisible, to float through the walls, to be in her presence without having to beg for it.
In truth, he hoped she knew he was there, her sensing him enough to open the door to her apartment as if he was welcome. Even if he was not. Cassian took a breath, eased himself out of his thoughts, before lifting his fist where it lied on the green peeling paint.
Just knock.
Cassian lowered his hand.
No, he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t make himself reveal what he already knew—that she wouldn’t open the door and even if she did, she wouldn’t be happy to see him. She’d slam the door on his face, and he’d run away with the confirmation that he’d been right all along.
Cassian didn’t want to be right.
Cassian wanted to be wrong, begged and prayed he was wrong... begged and prayed she wasn’t even in the room to hear him pacing in his thoughts.
It had been a wrong choice to come here.
So, Cassian walked away. He had to walk away, or he’d never recover. Five flights turned into four, then to three. There was a whole world ahead of him, that he could see in the window of that little door at the bottom. A world that didn’t seem to include her.
Nesta didn’t want to be a part of it and Cassian ached at that too. But a thought entered his mind. Some revelation that made him pause in his steps. What if she did want to be included?
What if she wanted to experience it all?
What if she was scared—too scared to reach out a hand—too scared to do something before she finally go the nerve? What if it passed her by—a missed opportunity that she’d never get back?
She didn’t have to be scared, he wanted to tell her, and neither did Cassian have to be frightened.
And maybe... Nesta could sense him there. Was perhaps waiting for him to knock, because she’d wanted this as much as him. Because she’d cared for him. He knew she did... or just because she wanted the company. He’d take that too. Anything she’d give him.
It was that thought that made him want to run back up there. Try once more.
So Cassian turned back, his feet pounding on the steps until he stood in front of green. A color that made him nauseous. He tried to breath, to imagine fresh air and the wind on his face—in his wings.
His hand was poised to knock...
Just knock.
But, no.
He should have brought food. The last time Cassian had seen her, she was thin. Nesta had always been on the small side, but she’d been smaller and thinner lately. She could use some muffins or... What was her favorite food?
Cassian didn’t know, but he’d ask Feyre or Elain, and come back with food and... tea. She liked tea; he knew. She’d always gotten peppermint at the townhouse. Always drank it when she was at the House of Wind.
Tea and food, he could do that. It was early now anyway, Nesta could be asleep for all he knew. She did always have late nights. He’d get food and tea, and when he came back Nesta would surely be awake.
Cassian lowered his hand. A mission on his mind as his feet pounded along the stairs with the smell of baked bread in his nose, the feel of hot tea on his palms, but but Cassian paused, halting as he neared the last step.
What if she wasn’t there when he came back? She could have something to do during the day. He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her. He didn’t even know what she liked to eat!
Ask her what her favorite food is, his mind roared, tell her your coming back!
So, Cassian ran up the stairs once more. The clinking of metal and concrete and the sound of his steps filling his ears. He wouldn’t lose his nerve.
He was almost at the last step, and then he'd knock. He’d knock this time.
“Would you stop that racket,” a fae yelled from beneath the stairs.
Cassian peered over the railing only to be met by a stout male carrying a broom stick like he was brandishing a sword. The male hunkered back at the sight of him.
Cassian couldn’t help the way he stepped along each foot as if the nervous movement might somehow make him seem smaller. He never liked being so tall and the height of the stairs didn’t make him seem less intimidating. On a battlefield and in the bedroom, his physique had come in handy—advantageous even. To trapezing through the city and through Nesta’s tiny apartment building, his size had made him no friends.
“Oh, it’s… you again.” Cassian chose to ignore those words, didn’t let them hit him like a door to the face.
He had been there, hadn’t he? Too many times. Too many pep-talks that went unrecognized for he could never find the nerve to knock—to be what she needed.
The fae male lowered the broom, sweeping casually, moving back and forth as if the interaction—Cassian being there—wasn't odd at all... or perhaps it was too odd, and he couldn’t fathom not doing anything while the minutes passed by.
The male started to whistle. A tune that reminded Cassian of old days, though he couldn’t remember which. There’d been so many, too many that Cassian wanted to forget. The melody drifted past his ears until he could only hear shouts... screams... war tunes... and drums. There’d been too many who whistled that tune until they could whistle no more. Cassian couldn’t remember them all.
He could only think of one--who’s voice had quieted so much that he would have taken any shout, any cruel word to hear her again. To see her awake, alive, and fighting. Because she had stopped fighting, hadn’t she?
He watched as the male paused, looked at him, and began the sweet tune once more. Cassian turned back to the door, raising his fist to the wood. Just one knock.
“She’s not here, you know.”
Cassian knew that was a lie.
He felt her there as he always had. A string pulled taut and tight to where she lied in that room of hers. He wanted to grasp it as he did his excuses, tug on it and see if she’d answer.
Cassian couldn’t bring himself to wonder what he would've done if she’d ignored it—if she tore it apart like the rest of her.
And it was that thought that made him lower his fist.
He’d try again another day.
~
Cassian didn’t try another day. He merely came back when he knew she wasn’t there, when he couldn’t feel her in the pit of his stomach and the nausea had gone away. He’d given the crotchety fae male a bag of coins to turn a blind eye, so he’d have free reign to sit there and wallop while Nesta gallivanted through taverns, males, and wine.
Knowing Nesta she was probably scamming some rake out of his wallet, because he knew she was good at cards. Or at least that’s what Feyre had told him when he’d seen her last.
Cassian had no doubt that Nesta would win, of course. Why wouldn’t Nesta win when she was so good at games?
Cassian could only sigh in the dark. Unfortunately, he was the only one playing them right now. Three days in and she was already winning... perhaps had won already if Cassian never got the nerve.
He didn't want to think about what that meant—what it cost him by not knocking on her fucking door. So instead, Cassian imagined Nesta and that cunning mind of hers at work. Cards splayed out like throwing knives, as if she’d choose the perfect weapon before she slaughtered her opponent. He imagined the look the male would make as he lost, as each lethal card sliced through him because he was too busy staring at her breasts or her lips or her neck. Cassian imagined the smug satisfaction that would chase her for days, her eyes brightening like she’d known all along how to bring a male to his knees.
He already knew what to call that look and Cassian couldn’t help his laugh. The sound was too fond for his own ears.
But then he thought of where the night would inevitably lead, and the stairwell seemed to darken at his mood.
Cassian stared at the door where he’d watched for hours now, the rain streaking across the window. It was almost peaceful, the echoing sound drumming across the rooftop. Maybe this is what Nesta found appealing about this place. Cauldron knew he kept trying to find a reason. She didn’t seem like the person who would settle for anything less than mansions or gleaming chandeliers and here she was living… here.
Not that there was anything wrong with here, he thought, chastising himself for sounding like a snob. He’d been spending too much time with Rhys, Cassian reasoned, or maybe it was Mor. She always did have a taste for the flashier things in life. He’d been raised on nothing so he shouldn’t have hated this place so much, but he did and Cassian didn’t want to think about why.
Cassian didn’t want to think about why he was here either.
Maybe it was because he knew she’d be drunk again, and a drunk Nesta was a Nesta that was bound to send him away. She’d leave him standing there after a few harsh words or just a cold lingering stare that would chase him all the way back to the House or the townhouse, whichever he chose tonight to get that feel of her gaze off his skin.
Cassian had chosen to lose today and that’s why he sat here. That’s why he couldn’t sit here any longer. He had to leave. Before she came back. Before she saw how her look—her words would slice right through him.
Cassian jumped up, his wings rising as his heart raced unconsciously. As if it could sense her there—
As if she was near—
As if —
The door opened with a slam on its hinge.
Nesta walked in and she was not alone.
Cassian watched as she kissed the male and the male gripped the skirts of her dress, bunching them up in his fists. Cassian bunched his hands into fists at the same time that he looked around for some place to hide.
This was a mistake, and Cassian breathed deeply, trying to quell that part of his chest that wanted to roar like some unhindered beast. Cassian was not a beast and Nesta was free to do what she wanted—whoever she wanted. But damn them both if it did not make him see red where the male’s lips met her neck, where her hands lingered on his chest.
They turned, heading towards the stairs, their lips interlocked, and Cassian sat there utterly frozen. Nesta blinked as her eyes opened and she met his gaze. Cassian could only hold up a hand in greeting.
He watched as her brows furrowed as she continued kissing the male, staring at Cassian as if he’d grown two heads. But Cassian couldn’t control himself, his brain shutting down as his mouth opened wide. “I hardly doubt your partner would be happy about you staring at another male.”
The male in question shrieked at the sound of his voice.
He pulled away from Nesta and Cassian took in the brown hair, the built frame, scanning his face as if he wished to memorize it. He hadn’t seen him before and maybe that was for the best, because if he knew where this male lived, he might have found himself circling above that place. He could almost hear the rumors of some big crow in the sky.
“Ow! You bit my lip,” Nesta said as she held a hand up to her mouth. Indeed, Cassian could smell the welled-up blood, and he had to clench his fists even tighter.
“Com--Commander—General—Sir?”
Cassian only looked up to the male, painting on that calm, stoic expression. The one he knew would make this male shit his pants. He didn’t give him an answer as the male squirmed, only looked to Nesta who was still touching her fingers to her mouth, pushing on the perfect pink skin to stop the bleeding.
Her eyes were glazed over like they had been before, and Cassian could tell she’d been drinking heavily as she bunched up her brows, tilting her head to look at him. Her hair stuck to her skin from where she’d been caught in the downpour, and Cassian wanted to give her his jacket, sure that she must have been cold.
“What do you want,” she asked, her words slurring together.
“To make sure you came home safely,” he replied, his voice rougher than he meant.
“Go away.”
Cassian turned to the male, “You heard her. Scram!”
The male lunged for the door, looking to Nesta only for a moment, “I’ll—”
Cassian glared harder. He could smell the fear reeking off of him like the ale that stained his clothes, and Cassian’s wings flared unconsciously. Promises of talons and teeth and fists if he did not bolt. .
“See you around,” he added and ran.
Nesta crossed her arms even as she frowned at the male disappearing into the night. Cassian could name that look too, and he couldn’t help the accusatory tone that came out of him. “That male is not nearly as drunk as you.”
“Why would I want them drunk,” she mused, not turning away from the door. “They can barely keep it up as it is.”
She must have found that amusing, because she smiled lightly as she looked to him and Cassian stored that look away, even as he grunted at her vulgar mouth.
“I said go away.” She went to lay a hand on the railing, and Cassian shot up.
“Let me help you,” he called, “you’re too drunk to be climbing up four flights of stairs. I can carry you.”
“I can do it myself,” she responded petulantly, holding on tightly as she pulled herself up. “And I’m not drunk.” As she said the words, Nesta leaned forward where she’d tipped too far ahead. Her hand settled on a step above.
“Yes, I’m sure you always fall over like this.”
But Nesta continued the climb and Cassian watched as she gripped the rail harder when her foot caught on the step below. He reached for her arm then—couldn't help himself. “Don't you ever worry you’re going to break your neck on these stairs?”
She huffed a laugh, and the sound surprised him enough that he accidentally tripped on the next step, himself, banging his knee. He tried to keep Nesta upright when she moved with him. Cassian grunted, “you would choose an apartment on the fifth floor. I’m guessing you don’t tell this to potential suitors.”
Nesta frowned sweetly, waving a hand. “You talk too much.”
Something about that look, too, made him chuckle and Cassian cleared his throat, swallowing down the discomfort—the need. He supposed he was talking too much, but he’d barely talked to her before, and the sound of her voice comforted him in a way that nothing else could. He wanted to keep her talking—wanted her to talk his ears out.
He might have bit a little, the image of the male still fresh in his mind—but Nesta... Nesta smirked and huffed and frowned. The longer he stared at her, the longer he knew it would be harder to leave. He didn’t want to touch her, feel her, look at her for too long.
Still, he reached out a hand, “You really want to climb up the rest of the way?”
Nesta looked to the top, where it curved to three more flights. Why the building had to be so tall, he’d never know. She sighed, a loud sound that had him swallowing a smirk, and leaned her had back in defeat. Cassian steadied her then, too.
“Fine,” She drawled, holding out her arms.
Cassian picked her up easily and as Nesta wound her arms around his neck, he tried not to pull her closer, once again remembering that male. He bet that louse wouldn’t have been able to carry her up four flights.
“Where are your keys?” Cassian was lucky Nesta didn’t ask how he knew it was her door. Only centuries of training had kept him from dropping her as her scent washed over him. Alcohol and lavender. He didn’t know what he’d do if she started asking questions he didn’t know how to answer.
Nesta patted at her shirt and then her waist. When he heard the jingle of keys, he sent a thanks to the Mother that he didn’t have to go searching for them through Velaris or worse, wake that crabby old fae. He certainly didn’t have another bag of coins floating around his pockets.
Cassian kicked open the door with his boot and nothing about the scenario made this seem matrimonial. He almost laughed as he imagined it. A drunk Nesta with a veil and permanent scowl.
Her apartment was freezing, and Cassian zeroed in on the windows. Open and letting in the cool night air. Nesta tucked herself closer to him, her hair brushing his neck where she’d laid her head.
“You’re cold,” he said as she started shivering.
“You’re cold,” she huffed back in challenge. Cassian wanted to roll his eyes.
He refrained from brushing her hair away from her face as he set her back down, refrained from pulling off her coat to hang it on a little knob he’d seen by the door, refrained from helping her with her boots as Nesta plopped on the floor, untying them haphazardly, and swaying backwards in an effort to pull them off.
Cassian almost smirked at that too.
“Let me help you.”
Nesta didn’t argue this time, just sighed in defeat as her brows set into fine lines. It was an annoyed look that he would think of a name for later.
Cassian gestured to her wet clothes, “you should change into something warmer. You’ll catch a cold sleeping in that.”
Nesta blinked up at him, but began stripping off her jacket. She threw it on the ground, and Cassian took a good look at the rest of her apartment as he picked it up behind her.
Her apartment was large and empty, high ceiling which explained the stairs. There was a bed in the far corner, cut off from the living room only by an archway. It had not been made, and just like last time, he could smell that she did not wash her sheets. Clothes were strewn across the floor, but she didn’t have much. He thought she should have had more than this.
“Stop snooping,” she said as she pulled down her skirt.
“What are you doing?” He asked in a rush, holding up her jacket to block the view. Her shirt was too big, so it covered her lower half, and Cassian realized it was because it was a male’s shirt. How nice, he thought, that the males in the bar didn’t care about such things.
“Changing,” she said as if it were obvious.
“In front of me?”
She shrugged, not the least bit perturbed, “Someone was going to see me naked at some point tonight.”
Nesta laid her fingers on the top button, pausing to blink up at him. “You ruined it.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, though he could muster no guilt.
She stared up at him as if she didn’t believe him, but Cassian held up his hands. “Not my fault he ran off.”
“You scared him away.”
“Me?” He gestured to himself, incredulously, “I'm harmless.”
She gave him a look, and Cassian couldn’t help but grin this time. But he dropped his smile as soon as she started fiddling with those buttons again.
He searched for the bathroom, anything to distract himself. Just the small part of her skin had him ready to combust and he doubted Nesta would have liked to clean up his ashes... or that she would based on the trash bin that hadn’t been emptied.
“Do you have aspirin?” He called out. Cassian didn’t want to search through her cabinets. That might have been taking his luck too far.
“Kitchen,” she answered, without further explanation.
Cassian frowned at that, but he went looking, only glancing at Nesta quickly to see that she hadn’t taken the shirt off, just merely loosened the collar. Cassian should have loosened his too.
Her kitchen was not at all messy, he found, but that might have been because it was mostly empty. When at last he found the bottle of aspirin, it too was empty... and so was her cabinets and her refrigerator, save for an apple tart, a loaf of bread, and a jar of what he could tell must have been jam. Grape? He would pick up some more of that.
“I’m going to go get you some,” he called, waving the bottle as she looked over. “You’re out.”
Of food, he thought. Because she certainly needed some of that. He doubted she’d like him grocery shopping on her behalf, but Cassian couldn’t find it in himself to care. Better a grumpy, full Nesta than a grumpy, hungry Nesta.
He’d stop by Sevenda’s too and get her some hangover soup. Some spicy broth that had always helped him. Did she like spicy food? Cassian didn’t know but the worse she could do was not eat it.
Actually the worst thing she could do was throw it at him, Cassian thought, but he shook it away. His thoughts wouldn’t deter him this time.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to get some supplies.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, waving him off, a pin in her hand. Nesta was unraveling her braid, and Cassian stopped short as he neared. He watched as she set the pin on the little side table, where it collected with the rest. She combed through her hair with her fingers and it fell down her back in waves and Cassian had to force himself to swallow. To breathe.
“I’ll be right back,” he repeated, his mouth tasting like cardboard, “I’ll... I’ll uhh leave it outside your door if you’re not awake.”
Cassian wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked.
“You’ll lock the door,” he made himself ask.
“Course, I will,” she said, her voice haughty and a little more like the Nesta he knew. He wondered if she’d regret this in the morning, and some part of him already knew that she would not be awake when he returned—that she would not welcome him back inside even if she was not.
“Okay.” He fiddled with his jacket, not knowing what to do with his feet rooted to the spot. “I’m going to leave it outside.”
“You said that already,” she huffed, moving towards the door. Cassian followed her, watching as she opened it, standing over like a dutiful guard. A beautiful guard with her hair down and in another male’s shirt. His wings dropped on their own accord. The situation settling back in.
Cassian was never supposed to be here. He was not and had not been welcome, so he walked through that doorway though his body screamed to stay.
Nesta, thankfully, didn’t slam the door immediately on his face. Instead, she raised a small hand, her face drawn and tired. “Good night, Cassian.”
He tried not to react at the sound of his name.
Nesta shut the door with a quiet click, and Cassian waited for her footsteps to retreat but they didn’t. He could almost feel her right across from him.
Only the green of the door laid between them, now a cool dark color with the mixture of the night’s shadows. He leaned his head there—couldn’t help it even if it creaked from his weight. He could only think of his name on her lips.
“Good night, Nesta,” he whispered.
~
“What are you doing here?” Nesta asked, her voice straining with accusation.
Cassian settled back into his chair, lifting his chin in greeting—casually, like the sight of her didn’t make him want to order five drinks. He gestured to the table in front of him, where the red set was already splayed out and ready.
Choose your choice of weapon, he thought.
“Playing cards,” he said as if it were obvious. “Someone told me I would be in for a good game with some of the players here.”
“Didn’t someone also tell you to leave them alone?” She sneered, her voice practically venomous, and Cassian knew Nesta was not far enough along in the night to be loose lipped and incautious.
Cassian didn’t want her to be either. He wanted her to see him, to talk to him again, to know that he came to play a round of cards at this public tavern where everyone was welcome as long as they brought cash.
“I didn’t hear that part, unfortunately.” He picked the deck up at the center, the checkered print on the back distracting him for the moment.
Keep talking, he urged. But Cassian didn’t know if the words were meant for himself or a wish to Nesta Archeron, who crossed those navy-blue sleeves.
Cassian split the deck apart, bending them so they’d fall together. It was a move he’d seen Az do, and... Cassian wished he’d practiced this trick. The cards fell haphazardly on the table, and Cassian gathered them back together, feeling the skin of cheeks burn.
Nesta scoffed, “Do you even know how to play?”
The words came out of him before he had a chance to breathe, and he nodded to the seat across from him. “If you wanted to see the extent of my skill, sweetheart, you only had to ask."
Her brows furrowed, but Cassian continued in a rush.
“Loser buys the next round of drinks,” he said, already counting out the cards, placing one by himself and what could be Nesta’s seat. His hands felt sweaty, but he continued—couldn’t stop himself from moving forward as if that alone might stop her from noticing how much he seemed to shake.
But Cassian was cut off by a small, pale palm. He paused; the cards still stuck in his hands. It took every ounce of power in his body to not reach out and grasp it in his own.
Nesta tapped her foot impatiently. “Give them to me. You can’t shuffle for shit.”
~
Fin.
~
Fic Taglist: (If you are on this list, it’s because I don’t remember if you told me you wanted to be tagged in everything or just this fic. If you do let me know)
Summary: After the IC give Nesta an ultimatum Nesta chooses instead to support herself, cutting herself off from them completely and so begins Nesta’s journey of finding a job and falling in love with everyday life (Slice of Life/Fix-it Fic)
Masterlist, Chapter List
Dedicated to you Noni!
~
Three flights of stairs later and Nesta could feel the muscles in her legs quake, and she wasn’t even on her floor. Even after all these months she was still not used to the stairs. They wound up the apartment building in a way that offered no shortcut.
To get to her apartment, she’d need to pass every door on each level, each apartment spiraling around the building like a dome. Nesta’s was at the end. At the very top and the last apartment on the fifth floor. It was the cheapest one she could find in Velaris, and when she’d moved in she understood why.
Never mind that the entire layout seemed impractical, Nesta often wondered what would happen if a fire broke out. She could only imagine jumping from the fifth floor like a flying squirrel, landing in that lone tree at the center of the complex. Then she’d really be lost to the wild, as her sisters probably thought now.
She could hear the pounding footsteps of the floor above and Nesta rolled her eyes. Two little boys came trampling down, running as if they were made of air. They did not so much as huff as they bounced the ball they carried and Nesta held her breath as they passed. No sense in showing them that she couldn’t make it to her floor without panting out a lung.
“Hi Ms. Nesta!” One yelled.
“Bye Ms. Nesta!” The other called.
Nesta didn’t get the chance to answer before they were gone. Matching red shirts disappearing to lower levels. Her eyes tried to follow them as she grasped the railing for the fourth set of stairs. She couldn’t catch the youngest’s dark curly hair or the oldest’s green shoes and Nesta lugged herself up, sighing in defeat.
She wondered if falling down four floors was enough to knock herself out--if the beautiful fae male on the first floor would perhaps carry her up, gods knew she’d survive the fall. But no... Nesta couldn’t chance it. With her luck, no one would even notice, and she’d have to pick herself up, shame and all, and climb them all over again.
She supposed she could always pretend to be napping. Lie under that tree and the beautiful azure sky like she hadn’t fallen four floors. The summer sun, Nesta would say to her neighbors if they asked. Such a beautiful day to be out here. Picnics and all.
Why are your legs broken then? They’d say.
None of your business, she’d answer in that haughty tone of hers.
Nesta laughed at her own thoughts... But as she looked back at all those steps, her smile dropped. Nesta could only tip her head back and groan.
She’d chosen the apartment because it was the cheapest, yes, and she’d regretted it every day since. Not enough to move, but perhaps she was just too stubborn. Even when her sister had asked with that tone of hers why she lived there, or when the silence between them was enough of a proclamation that Feyre did not approve, Nesta held onto the apartment. Nesta held onto it like it belonged to her. Like she owned it and Nesta knew she owned nothing. The city might as well have been signed under Feyre Archeron and her insufferable mate—property owned and sold by the Night Court’s finest and Nesta was not ashamed to say the thought made her bitter.
Nesta could not run far enough away to escape her sister, and now her sister thought she owned her too.
She began the trek up, breathing through the burn of her thighs, trying to focus on the movements of her body rather than the berating voice of her mind, but the anger was a tight first pulling at her skull.
Forget them. They mean nothing to you, Nesta told herself.
You mean nothing to them, a voice whispered back.
She could only agree, and Nesta couldn’t help but lean over the railing. Four floors and then five, contemplating that height.
The only time she hadn’t regretted this apartment was when spring came in a flurry of rainstorms. She’d watched from her balcony window the rain pour down on the city below, gloomy and perturbed that her night of drinking had been postponed indefinitely. But when days had passed and the sun at last began to peek out once more, and she unashamedly ran to the nearest tavern, Nesta had caught a glimpse of that lone tree at the bottom. It had bloomed in magenta and white, it’s flowers swaying to a soft breeze.
She’d gripped those rails and stood there, didn’t even know if she made it to the bar that day. Nesta had stayed there for hours looking at those colors—to each door, each floor thinking that the building itself bowed to that tree, protected it in its sacred embrace. Nesta, herself, had bowed to that tree that day as she leant over the railings.
She could imagine the petals still, the wind picking them up as if it might gift it to her. She’d wished for Elain then... hoped that she might come—forget what she said about her life being separate from theirs. But Elain never came... Elain never visited her once.
Now, Nesta thought, Elain didn’t deserve to see it at all.
The thought of her sister made her chest thrum with unsettled words—and Nesta chastised herself for her straying thoughts and that restless anger she didn’t know what to do with.
The summer had taken away the beauty of spring and there were no flowers left when the sun beat across the sweltering concrete and all Nesta knew for sure was that she was sweaty and exhausted, her chest heavy in a way that she usually only felt after a long night of drinking and getting nowhere. The stairs were usually a punishment then, a pain she’d only vaguely complain about the next day when she did it again, lugging herself up flight after flight.
She supposed this was a punishment, too.
Nesta could see her door as she managed the last step and she could have flopped down right then and there, but she raised her chin instead because the stairs would not best her today.
Neither would her snooty sisters. Neither would her mind that wouldn’t stop thinking of them.
The surest way to forget, Nesta learned, was wheat, barley, and hops or whatever the tavern made ale with. She could practically hear the tumbling drunken voices as she walked to her door. She’d drink the memories away, music filling the space where her thoughts had once gathered. Let them return in the morning with the headache and the dry throat that would surely accompany like loyal friends—old friends that Nesta had begun to miss.
She fumbled with the lock on her door with that thirst in her throat, her mouth parched for the taste of it. The key jammed as she twisted it and Nesta shoved it harder in its slot.
“Are you serious?” She asked the door. The dingy, brown-painted wood did not reply and Nesta groaned as she kicked it. Nesta fiddled with the lock, turning the key over and over, slamming the door with her body, and when the lock would still not budge, she pointed to the door as she had to the King of Hybern. “Open up you blasted thing!”
Meow.
Nesta turned to the black shadow that poked its head out of the wall, clenching her fists at the interruption.
"Shoo,” she said as she waved her hand.
Meow, the cat sounded, tilting its ghostly head.
Nesta could make out no mouth or eyes and she didn’t know how she could hear its cry, but she’d stopped asking questions about the logic of the fae world the first weeks of becoming fae. It did her no good when she was hungover or tired... which were most days, and it was not the first time the little shadow cat seemed to come out of the walls and greet her at her door.
She pointed to the shadow merely wagging its tail like the arrows of a metronome. “At least you can get inside,” Nesta grumbled.
The shadow cat tilted its head as if contemplating her statement then rolled onto its back, offering its belly. Nesta didn’t know what solution that might have wrought so she ignored its luring movements.
“I’m allergic to cats,” she haughtily replied.
Nesta pulled the key from its slot and slammed it in once more. She wiggled it back and forth, her face feeling hot with frustration. The cat meowed louder as it jumped up, coming to rub itself against her leg.
Nesta raised her hands in defeat, sighing as the door stubbornly stayed closed.
“Fine,” she said, looking to the little shadow. “You win.”
The cat bobbed into her outstretched hand, and Nesta crouched low, scratching behind its ears. The shadow’s fur felt as soft as silk, and she wondered why it didn’t feel like air like she thought it should. The cat meowed again, and Nesta huffed. Attention hog, she thought, but the cat merely rubbed against her, purring sweetly.
“You know, you’re far less judgmental than most people I know,” she said. The cat flopped on its back again and Nesta went for its belly. The cat swatted her away with its paws. She swatted back, feeling herself smile lightly at its antics.
At the unconscious raise of her lips, Nesta frowned, but before she could contemplate the distraction, the little cat’s head stood at attention, its body stilling its lazy movements. The cat looked to the stairs and so did Nesta. She could hear the echo of concrete as someone took heavy steps.
When Nesta turned to the cat again, it was gone.
“No music. No stomping. No parties. No recreational sports. No hobbies. No shouting!” The male shouted.
“What? No laughter?”
“Not if it’s loud,” Nesta’s landlord threatened. She could recognize the nasally tone, the footsteps when he went from apartment to apartment reminding them about rent, leaving notes on their door about policies. Why he frequently climbed those stairs on his own accord Nesta never knew.
But she took note of the feminine laughter, one she’d never heard before.
Nesta recognized all of her neighbors—knew what they looked like, how they talked, their routine on a regular basis. She watched them from her world above and occasionally they would say high, but mostly it was Nesta watching as they interacted in the world below. She didn’t care to know any of their names, she only wanted to know what level of bothersome they would be—what kind of threat.
This voice was new and they didn’t sound threatening, but Nesta knew that she would spend hours looking out of the little peep hole to see if she’d catch a glimpse of that unknown being who laughed as if her landlord was joking. He was not joking.
Nesta certainly wouldn’t stay outside to greet them. She didn't have it in herself to meet one more person who would just stare along with all the rest. As if she was some carnival attraction.
Come see the failure of Velaris. Some say she’s so hideous, she never comes down from that tower.
Nesta looked to her door, the key still stuck in its slot. She could hear them louder this time, their voices clear and ringing.
“No pets. No flags. No patio decorations. Nothing colorful...”
She twisted the key with reckless abandon, slamming herself quickly at the same time she pushed. The door opened easily and Nesta watched her landlord reach the top of the stairs as she shut it quickly.
The door clicked in place with a heavy thump.
Nesta didn’t look back out—didn’t move. She was almost afraid the stout male would be there breathing down the worn paint, some random fae trailing behind like death on her doorstep. She leaned against the door and tried to picture that tree again. The cat with silk-soft fur. The fizz of alcohol that floated to the top. The pop of a champagne bottle as if she had something to celebrate.
But when Nesta closed her eyes, she could only see a shadowy figure standing beyond that worn, thin door. Hovering over it as if it breathed on the back of her neck. Scythe in hand—the grim reaper yelling across its wood in sharp, distinct notes.
Nasal and high-pitched.
Where. Is. The. Rent?
~
Nesta left the windows open to air out the scent that Cassian had so graciously commented on the day before, and the room had become unbearable. The hot sticky sun of a mid-summer warmed her skin, and she kicked her blankets away, feeling as if she’d just bathed. Her hair stuck to her face, but she didn’t bother combing it away. It seemed that all Nesta could do was slouch back and stare at the ceiling.
She had stared at the ceiling all day, couldn’t stop staring at nothing until Nesta hoped it would just collapse on top of her. Popcorn ceiling constellation for wary, vindictive dreams. Not that she remembered many these days.
From her bedside window, she could see the sun had already begun to set on Velaris.
The window was another thing she liked about this place—that she could see the city without ever leaving her bed. She could see rooftops and the interweaving trees. Great twisting oak that she felt might come alive one day, grab her by one of its many branches and hoist her over the city to the sky above.
Nesta didn’t know what time it was. Most days she found herself having slept before realizing she’d ever laid down. She was always tired and just like yesterday and the day before, Nesta had slept to the buzz of cicadas, and she’d woken to crickets chirping. The sound so loud she thought they might be hidden in her cupboards.
But all Nesta could do was sigh...
Nothing much had changed. She was still in her apartment, could still see the endless amount of clothes strewn about, knew that there was nothing to eat in the pantry or the refrigerator.
The crickets chirped, and nothing changed.
Still, she felt different.
And she felt as if the world should look different, too. Rain, because something permanent had happened yesterday morning and the sky wanted to wash it away. The ground shaking instead of her body. The wind roaring instead of her words. But the sky was only dipped in peaches and purples, and the world was still.
The bed creaked as she tumbled out of it and Nesta kicked away the dress she’d worn that gathered at her feet. Maybe she’d burn it, too, because she didn’t want to remember what it felt like to be embarrassed... ashamed.
Maybe she’d keep it.
Because no person, thing, entity, or otherwise was going to take one more piece of her. She’d keep it like the memory of a risen middle finger. Like a power that hummed a furious tune.
For now, she’d throw the dress in the corner with the rest of the clothes and hope it took up space in a room that was mostly bare.
That was her apartment’s fault. It was too large, even without a bedroom. A studio Nesta couldn’t fill—didn't want to fill at the time. It was empty and it echoed as she walked. She didn't even have a dining room table. Only a bed that came with the place, a frame that was squeaky and rusted. Her dirty clothes and her shoes strewn about decorated the room, and she was okay with this...
Until he had wandered in.
Some part of her thought she ought to take a bath and wash the grime of the days away. Look somewhat decent. But the thought of him filled her with disgust. She would be decent for no one.
So Nesta went to the kitchen instead, tucked away in the far corner, where the cream-colored shelves sat studiously staring as if to say you haven’t opened us in a while. Nesta didn’t bother with them.
Nesta went to the refrigerator instead, reached above the tall contraption she’d found to be positively fae. Nothing existed quite like this where’d she lived most of her life. They’d had an icebox when it was winter, where they stored uncooked meat if Feyre had come home with excess. But that had rarely happened. In the fae world, it seemed, everything she found a luxury, was common and not worth speaking about.
Nesta reached for the cookie jar that sat at the top, its white hue dusty as she took it down. In it was her security and she couldn’t help but hold it to her chest.
In the beginning, when she’d first started frequenting taverns and hadn’t yet discovered the joys of sex and booze, Nesta was rather serious about cards. Mostly because she was good at playing and males were easy to fool. They’d stare at her breasts, try to make casual chit-chat, all the while Nesta was making bets. They were making their own bets too, of course, who’d go home with her, who’d she kiss in the back hall, feel her up where it was quieter, and the lights were dim. They didn't seem to mind losing money and Nesta certainly didn’t mind taking it.
She stored the bills and coins away in some random jar she’d found in the local grocery store. It was on sale, and it was the first thing she’d ever bought with money of her own.
Nesta didn’t want to think on what they would call this money, but it was her money. She splayed the bills on the counter, piled up the coins, and when she was done counting, Nesta found she had just enough for next month’s rent... and maybe a grocery run if she’d budgeted well enough. It would have to last her—the groceries. Unless she found a job soon. She’d start looking today...
Tomorrow, she decided.
Today she’d clean herself up. Because tomorrow, she’d have to look presentable whether she wanted to or not. It was not about pride. It was about survival and Nesta had survived worse things than this.
So, who cares about them? Nesta thought. The only person who lives here is me.
~
Something her sister didn’t seem to realize was that getting drunk was free.
Most nights Nesta didn’t even have to buy her own drinks, and the only reason she did was because she’d knew her family would see it. She liked imagining the red of their faces, the clenched fists in which they held the bill. Making them angry seemed to spark some thrill in her that nothing else could replicate.
Now as she sat at the bar, a glass of whiskey in her hands, she almost felt annoyed. Not just because she couldn’t get drunk today, but because even if she did who would see it? Who would care?
Not that they did, anyways.
But she supposed all of them had won in that sense... and the idea that they won, that they had an advantage even now made Nesta want another drink.
“Can I get you another round?” The male asked, sidling up to her, placing his hand on her back.
Nesta didn’t spare him a glance, as she rocked her drink in her hand, “No.”
"You’ve been sipping on that drink since you got here.”
“You've been paying attention, how nice.” Nesta held up the half-finished glass, “I’m fine with this one.”
The male didn’t seem to get the hint as he sat at the stool next to her. He could have been beautiful or a disgrace, Nesta didn’t care. He could have been him and she still wouldn’t have looked.
The whiskey told her that was a lie.
“Come on, just one drink.” He lured, leaning into her. When the male didn’t capture her attention, she heard the slam of his glass on the table. She gave it a sidelong glance, where the liquid spilled on the counter. “What? You’re too proud to drink with someone as lowly as me? Lady Archeron.”
He sang the words, and at the title, Nesta shot him a glare, letting her powers glow through, “if you want to keep your tongue, I suggest getting away from me.”
The fae stepped back at the look.
Good, she thought. Smart. Nesta had no interest in blowing up the bottles stacked behind the bar, and she had no means to pay if it happened. If it happened, he’d have bigger things to worry about then her eyes glowing silver.
Nesta looked to the puddle forming where he’d slammed his drink and gave him another glare.
Leaving this mess? Who raised you?
A waitress huffed a laugh, and Nesta turned towards her. She couldn’t help the scowl she gave the female behind the bar, who took out a rag and wiped the counter clear. “What are you looking at?”
The female only gave her a smirk, humor dancing in her eyes.
Nesta gulped down the last of her drink, slamming the finished glass on the table like the male had done before. She took out a few coins, pushing them forward.
Tonight, she did not feel like another.
~
Finding a job was harder than she expected and Nesta spent most of the morning going from shop to shop asking if they had any availability for work.
Most of the stores had barely begun to open, and only a few gave her concrete answers. The little book shop—Nesta's first choice—had told her that the owner was away and wouldn’t be back for two weeks. The pastry shop, where Nesta might have been happy smelling the sweet scent of bread for hours and sneaking the tarts they’d displayed in the windows, had inquired about skills in which she had few.
By the time she made it back to her apartment, she felt the heavy weight of the rising sun and little more than disappointment settling on her shoulders. She was hungry, too. It seemed that job hunting worked up an appetite that only a job could satisfy, and Nesta could think of nothing that sounded remotely good to fill her.
Nesta had been like that lately. Always hungry. Never hungry enough... or perhaps too hungry to move and search for food in her pantry. Not that she had much in there besides dust bunnies.
She’d taken money out of the jar that morning, though her heart hurt with every silver coin. The bills, in their array of colors, Nesta hadn’t touched—wouldn’t dare if she wanted her rent paid next month. She couldn’t stop thinking about it... the looming sense of dread that accompanied her and her dwindling jar. Her stomach ached with it.
Still, she had enough for a bag of groceries, Nesta told herself... minus the coin for the drink. She shouldn’t have bought it. She should have let the male pay for it.
Nesta didn’t want to dwell as the guilt roared up her chest.
She had enough for some bread and butter, cheese and some fruit. Tea to tide her over. She let that fact comfort her. She didn’t need much. Afterall, she’d starved half her life. There was no difference in doing it now. Nothing new, Nesta decided.
For now, even as her nausea demanded she go home and hide behind her door where she could pretend it was safe, she’d buy a sweet bun for her effort and she would try to enjoy it, too.
There was a grocery store a street down from her apartment and trees lined the sidewalk. Nesta could make out the pinwheels poking out from the ground, rainbow colors spinning so fast she might have gotten dizzy starring at them for too long. Windchimes rang as she approached, and its soft music drifted past as if it were made of dreams. It made her envious. The little shop that could hear music made by the wind.
“Good morning!” An elderly male greeted her as he set down a box of oranges lined in neat rows. Nesta recognized him as one half of the couple who owned the store. She raised a hand in greeting but didn’t say a word instead jumbling past him and the ramshackle array of boxes. Reds and vibrant yellows. Bright greens and dark greens and something shaped like a star.
“Can I help you find anything?” He called, though Nesta had lost him between the shelves. The fae always asked her that as many times as she dared to show her face, and just like the many times before Nesta did not reply. She merely looked to the corner, already knowing its place, where the clear display casings were filled with buns and bread.
Nesta eyed her favorite immediately.
She took the tongs out of the encasing and felt her mouth water, her stomach grumbling its get on with it roar. She picked up the toasted brown, the bun dusted with powdered sugar. She ignored the other sweets trapped inside. Nesta hadn’t wanted to try any of the others. As soon as she’d first bitten into this one, she hadn’t wanted anything else.
She wanted nothing else, as she went to the counter, carrying that little bun wrapped in paper.
The male sidled up the register, clearing his throat as he smiled. Nesta only moved to get her coins and tried not to stare at his face. She didn’t care for the warmth it held.
Liar, she thought. Everyone in Velaris is a liar.
“That will be two silvermarks,” He replied cheerfully.
Nesta pulled out the two coins from her bag and felt her mouth pull into a frown.
Was a bun worth it? She asked herself. Two silvermarks for one bun that would last her only a moment. Apprehension welled up and her stomach twisted in greedy knots. But she set the coins on the counter anyway, the money rattling a harsh ring.
The male dipped his head politely, sliding the silver towards him. Nesta watched as he entered a button on his register and the till opened with a sharp ding.
“We appreciate your business,” he said at last. She nearly grimaced at how chipper he sounded, but he once more smiled warmly and Nesta’s brows furrowed.
Liar times two.
She didn’t note her goodbye even as he called for her to have a nice day and only when she was out of the shop did Nesta unwrap the bun she’d carefully held. She nearly moaned her pleasure as she bit into it. Her favorite part was the yellow custard at the center, and as she took a few more bites, she licked at the cream. Before she knew it the bun was half eaten and Nesta wrapped it once more in paper.
She’d save it. Savor it because it would be the last of them for a while.
Nesta shuffled along as she walked back to her apartment, cradling the rest of the bun with care. She blew at her hair that fell into her face, escaping from her braid. It stuck to her sweaty skin. She didn’t like how hot it was, how bright the sun shone, and as she entered the dome of her apartment building, Nesta could only think of getting back into her room, sleeping until it was night again.
No disruptions. No busybodies knocking on her door.
As she looked to the steps, Nesta sighed heavily. She could hear the noise of two little boys.
Oh, right.
“Ms. Nesta! Ms. Nesta!” They called, out of breath.
Nesta waited for them at the bottom of the stairs, but they were not coming from the floors above, but rather the pavilion. They passed that large swaying tree at the center, and Nesta stood straighter as they ran towards her.
“There's a ghost!” The oldest yelled.
“Come quick!” The youngest one said, grabbing on to the skirt of her dress. He pulled her forward and Nesta followed casually, not at all bothered by the notion of ghosts.
They had on matching blue shirts today. Jerseys of some sport Nesta knew nothing about. There were many teams in Velaris, she found, and she never knew if they were from a specific organization or just friends who went out in the world proclaiming that they fit together somehow. Nesta would never do such a thing.
She knew of one group who certainly would.
The youngest let go as he ran towards the laundry room. That was another thing that Nesta thought was strange. To wash clothes by spinning water and dry them using magic. Gods forbid, they hang one piece of cloth.
The boys stopped at the door and waited, and Nesta crossed her arms. “What’s wrong with it?”
“They think it’s haunted,” a voice said from behind.
Nesta turned to find the female leaning up against the tree. She recognized the voice—the light tilt of an accent.
Nesta eyed the fae, taking in the pink fuzzy slippers first. Bunnies, she thought. But Nesta’s gaze caught on the wings tucked so keenly behind her back.
Illyrian.
Nesta almost sighed out her displeasure.
“I gathered, after they said there were ghosts,” she replied.
“There are ghosts,” the eldest boy argued. He held up his hands. “Just wait.”
Nesta shrugged away the female and peered inside. White and dingy washers and dryers were stacked on top of one another. Dutiful soldiers all lined up on each wall. There was an old bubble gum machine at the farthest end that must have stopped working before she was born, because she saw no one ever use it when she came down. Granted Nesta didn’t do it often. But the number of gumballs didn’t seem any lower. It was rusted around the red base, and Nesta didn’t trust the age of the candy inside.
There was nothing odd about this place, though. She didn’t feel anything off.
“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Nesta said, looking to the boys peering back into the laundry room. She refused to look once more at the female. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, averted her eyes as she so often did—the way she was good at. Nesta could feel her stare any way.
“You have to believe us!”
“There’s a ghost Ms. Nesta.”
“Did you see a ghost?” Nesta asked, turning to the female who only shrugged a shoulder.
“I might have seen a shadow move around.”
Nesta almost gave her a glare.
“Wait look!”
“See!”
Both boys pointed to the room that began to be overrun by darkness. It reminded her of a shadowed cloud. It filled up the room like water in a bathtub, and Nesta stepped toward it, her brows furrowing as she reached a hand out to feel exactly what the substance was made of.
It felt soft as if she were running her hands down the back of some giant cat.
As if summoned by her thoughts alone, the shadow stepped out of the cloud.
Meow.
Nesta rolled her eyes as it rubbed its body against her legs.
“It’s just the cat,” She mused.
The three of them merely looked at her as if she’d grown another arm.
Nesta crouched low; her hand held out scratch behind the little cat's ear. She’d forgotten she was holding the bun, and the cat seemed to smell it—to want it.
“Hey!” Nesta yelled, as the cat jumped on her shoulders. Nesta shifted the bun to the other hand, but it seemed to want to crawl down her arm, and she could feel the sharp claws sink into her skin.
“Stay away you mangy thing,” Nesta yelled in outrage. “Pay for your own!”
The boys laughed, coming closer, petting the menace as the shadow cat purred.
Nesta looked for the female, but the Illyrian seemed to not find them interesting enough. She went back to perch on her tree, or whatever those with wings could do. She could already feel the touch of irritation. Of course, she’d be okay living on the fifth floor. She could fly easily up there without wasting a breath.
“You have a cat!” A voice yelled.
Nesta closed her eyes at the nasally tone.
Just. Her. Luck.
“No,” the boys said in unison, but the landlord stormed towards them, all shrunken limbs and potted belly.
“I said no pets!” He raved.
“He’s not mine,” Nesta said even as she held it. The cat conveniently had not gotten off her shoulders. In fact, it seemed to want to lounge on them, and she hunched slightly at its claws on her back.
Her landlord sneered, “It sure looks like yours.”
“He’s been here since last fall.” Nesta tried for a haughtier tone, but she couldn’t very wall act arrogant when she couldn’t even stand straight. “He is not mine.”
The landlord wagged his finger, “Vagrant then. I’ll just ought to call the forest prowlers. They’ll tear right into him.”
Nesta blinked at that and she was sure the boys did, too.
“You can’t do that! He’s just a cat,” The oldest said.
“He’s not harming anyone,” The youngest argued. The child’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red and she watched as he clenched his fists while the oldest crossed his arms.
She had to admire them. When she was young, Nesta would have never been so bold. She learned to be bold after her mother had died, and it had done her no good in poverty. Nesta felt for them, felt for the cat—though she didn’t know what kind of creature could eat a shadow.
Nesta didn’t want to ask, but she held up her hand, feeling the regret already settle in her stomach.
“I lied. He is mine.”
Her landlord huffed as if he knew, but Nesta only gripped the cat as it came down her arms. She grasped it in the crook of her elbow. As its body dangled, its tail wagged lazily.
“Get rid of it, there are no pets allowed.”
“Unfortunately, it’s my brother-in-law's pet,” she said quickly, resisting the urge to gag at the phrase. “He told me to take care of it until he could take it back.”
The male paused at that. “Brother-in-law?”
Nesta hummed, “Brother-in-law. It was a gift for my sister, but... she’s allergic to cats. He’s looking to rehouse it. It seems he hasn’t found the right one yet.”
As the landlord sneered, opening and shutting his mouth, Nesta raised her chin. She felt the satisfaction thrum through her at the lie. She was good at making up stories. Perhaps she could find a job in lying through her teeth.
Nesta watched as he took a breath, his face dulling to a peach. She hoped that would be the end of it. She hoped that he’d never get the chance to ask her... brother-in-law... if the story was true. Nesta doubted he would do her any favors.
She didn’t want his favors.
In fact, she’d never mention him again.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge a pet deposit then. Nonrefundable. And of course, your rent is going to go up.”
Nesta dropped her custard bun.
“What?” She yelled. “Pets aren’t even allowed!"
“But as you have one, I’m going to have to change the terms of your lease. I’m sure your brother-in-law will have no problem fitting the bill as he’s done before.”
The little shadow cat meowed, wiggling in her arms. She set it down and Nesta watched as it disappeared back into the wall.
Good for nothing...
“You’ll have to keep it on a leash, too,” The male scowled, “I don’t want to break a leg going up the stairs because he’s running about.”
Nesta wanted to tell him that he could break more than just a leg.
“Oh, and make sure he isn't loud. I’d hate to have to terminate your lease early over a noise complaint.”
Her landlord smiled, dipping his head in a mocking bow as he went to yell at another neighbor coming down the stairs. The boys shirked away, looking to the laundry room again.
Nesta could only kick at the bun at her feet. Now dusted in dirt.
~
Tagged: I’m sorry if you wanted to me tagged and I didn’t tag you. I’m horrible at tagging and you should never consider be reliable for this. I think I tagged everyone who has ever asked to be tagged in any of my random posts of fics. But that’s probably a lie. If you want off/on let me know. I will not be offended nor enthused. I will have only one list from now on. No individual fics. If you asked to be tagged, it’s for all fics. Be forewarned. I’m tired. I hate tag lists.
Nesta’s... a little misanthropic. We’re going to beat that out of her through love and healing.
Personal Anecdote: I put a magnolia tree because at my university there was one in this random place on campus that you couldn’t find unless you knew where the post office was and I was obsessed with sending my mom cards to tell her I was still alive (She lived in a different state). No one ever went there, I never saw more than a few people or maybe they didn’t even know the post office was there. It was tucked in between buildings and it was the definition of serendipity. Little freshman me would go there and sit under it and sometimes eat a taco lol (fried avocado and barbacoa) when I was finished with classes. It bloomed every spring for about three weeks and I yearned for those weeks. I worked so many jobs, took so many classes, but during those weeks the only thing that existed was a tree of magenta and white. I sometimes really miss it.
Summary: After the IC give Nesta an ultimatum Nesta chooses instead to support herself, cutting herself off from them completely and so begins Nesta’s journey of finding a job and falling in love with everyday life (Slice of Life/Fix-it Fic)
Masterlist, Chapter List
“I no longer know if I wish to drown myself in love, vodka, or the sea.” Franz Kafka
~
Nesta walked away from the estate with little more than her pride and her ale sodden shoes. Gods knew she didn’t leave with her sanity. In fact, sanity had not been present as she told her sister to sod off. Her youngest sister, who said she’d cared, but who wasn’t exactly convincing. To her other sister who Nesta supposed was supposed to be there but wasn’t even there in the room. To the others who judged so… blatantly for people who claimed to not be judging at all.
Nesta laughed.
Hypocrites! She wanted to call them—probably did though she couldn’t remember the exact words she’d said. Her anger had roared louder than her thoughts and Nesta thought she might have covered her ears. Her rage like a mother comforting her child, yelling the bullies and the bold adults away. The one’s who’d forgotten who they’d been speaking to.
Nesta had not forgotten who she was.
So, she had given them an ultimatum.
They could keep their money and they’d leave her alone, or… they would never see her again. That was the other option, wasn’t it? The human lands. Well, she preferred to be hated in closer proximity, she’d told them. What did it matter if she was here or there? Without their money she was free.
They were under no obligation to give it to her, and she was under no obligation to sit there and endure the conversation. And it wasn’t hard to negotiate that when they were empty threats at best. They were counting on her approval, her agreement because she’d been drunk the night before, wasted and wasting a life, and there were four of them who sat so tall and powerful talking down to her, deciding for her what she could and could not do—what she could or could not feel.
Well, Nesta felt it all and she felt it clearly and most days she hoped to feel it again, because some nights she couldn’t feel anything at all. But somewhere in that heart of hers, she’d felt betrayed. Exposed. And a heart exposed was an easy target. She’d learn that when she was young and learned it well.
Maybe they wanted to never see her again. She often felt that way too.
Either way, she’d had enough of them… tired of them and of so many things, and she wasn’t going to be a dog on a leash, happily submitting to its owner after she was finished being trained and broken in. They should’ve known she wouldn’t submit.
But Nesta supposed they didn’t know her at all and now… they wouldn’t have the chance.
Good riddance, she told herself as she walked back to her apartment on the other side of town. She cursed them all for bringing her here as she laid a hand above her eyes, the sun shining too brightly. Her body already hurt from the trek, and Nesta cursed the cauldron for making her without wings among other things. But Nesta cursed life, itself, for the headache already beginning to form.
She’d have to… clean her apartment, probably. Look presentable. Look for a job. Try to stay upright and moving. Nesta doubted she’d have much of a chance when she was already exhausted, and she’d only made it down a few winding streets.
But she was on her own, and Nesta clung to that thought, as if she might hug the words enough to bring her comfort.
I don’t know I just prefer Nesta angrier and more stubborn, and I suppose Nesta being angry would have actually made sense if she’d not been already at rock, rock bottom, where she’d stopped fighting. Because that’s what made the difference, one would think. But honestly, Nesta lost a lot of agency in her weakened mind frame in this book that I started thinking that wow her anger must have been a protection. A seemingly good one for how often she was used without it. I didn’t like that and I didn’t like acosf as you all know. So I’m keeping the aspects I like and dumping the rest.
This is my comfort fic now.
This eventually will get happier but I had to get this ugly part out of the way, which is why it’s super short and maybe not the most complicated thing I’ve ever written. Alas. I almost re-read the first six chapters, and omg I got angry like it was the first time. Had to stop that shit immediately. Never doing that again. So I wrote this and we move.
