Sunless-Albion tasted like gunpowder and cinnamon.
If Westlie opened her mouth and breathed deep, she could ever-so-faintly taste hours on her tongue. A muted, earthy tang, like truffles stored in ice.
The sky was a deep pitch.
She hadn't gotten used to it, even after two years; even after near-death blowing up the sun; even after landing the Queen's final blow with her own two hands. None of it felt real.
Elijah's footsteps sounded on the stairwell and she turned as he made the final step. One mug was more carefully balanced than the other, lest it slip on his glass fingers. She took that one. They both settled against the railing.
She sipped. Elijah had made an Achlys blend of tea; dark, earthy, very familiar. She savored it. "... The sky's darker than I remember."
She couldn't see his smile behind the mug, but the skin behind his eyepatch wrinkled. "The Khanate has helped. There have been contributions."
"Contributions from you I hear."
His nose wrinkled. "Family contributions."
"Your contributions."
He ignored that, and Westlie dismissed it for another day.
"... How's Andy?"
"Brilliant." She smiled. "Still rough around the edges, but he learns quickly."
"You have an inordinate amount of patience for the most inexplicable things."
"Thank you," she sipped again. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"He needs it."
"He does."
"What about Arthur? Are you going to visit him?"
Westlie hesitated. "... Probably. At some point. I should."
Elijah hesitated, and Westlie could see the question on his face. She took another sip so she could hide behind her mug.
"Why haven't you come to London for two years?"
'Busy' was true, but it was also a lie. Westlie squinted at the stars like they would hold an answer and Elijah waited.
She admired that about him, as much as she hated it. That deep-sunken silence as she tried to reconcile her actions with words. She let her breath spiral in soft blotted clouds from the chill. "I... I don't know."
Elijah waited.
"Nothing's finished," she whispered. It sounded loud despite the noise of London. "There's so much to do- so many runs to make- we didn't finish."
"There's no sun in the sky. No throne of hours."
"Achlys-" Westlie's voice cracked; for a second she hated herself for sounding half her age. "New Winchester, Port Prosper- They took the brunt of London's invasion so we could have that chance. There isn't enough to repay them-"
She stayed quiet for a moment, hoping he'd read her mind- that she didn't want to sit. She had to do. Had to keep doing. She could help, she could fly, she was free, it was purpose, and whenever she was still there was that itch to keep pushing.
She wasn't Morgan- Gods knew where Marion and Sally and Morgan were off now to kill more Judgements- but she wanted to make things safe in the mess they were leaving. Which words said that?
"I- I just... I want to finish the job; and right now, it's not in London."
"I know." Elijah hesitated. He cleared his throat. "I mean, you have a ho- place here, if you want it. Somewhere to stay that isn't Arthur's."
"O-oh."
"I hoped you weren't staying away because of that." His voice softened a little. "I know you're not done."
"... how?"
"Your letters were happy." They'd finished their tea, so he couldn't hide the way his visible eye softened with understanding and the separation that lingered between them sometimes.
They stood there on the roof of the Fry mansion as gas lights shone through the mist and locomotives steamed to the docks.
"I missed you," Westlie blurted out. "It's not the same."
Elijah's face flushed a violent pink.
Her cheeks burned.
"I- fuck-"
"Yo- you have a home here, whenever you need-" Elijah's words were a little strangled but he managed. "I- I mean that."
oh fucking hell
In the middle of the night Elijah was still wearing his goddamn tie under his waistcoat and Westlie had parked in Wolfstack station and signed 29 pages of paperwork and after two years Elijah was still going to play dignified even though it was very, very attractive- and she dragged him into a kiss.
It was fierce and crushed and hurt, kinda, but she wanted it to hurt because she couldn't stop captaining, and there was a hole at her side where he once stood and that hole hurt, and she missed him and that hurt, and they were both gasping and red when she finally let go.
"... Ow."
"I love you." The words choked in her throat. "I love you- I will come home."
"You could have said that."
"I am- did."
"Gentler next time." But he was teasing now in his dry manner with the subtle up-quirk of the lip.
"Fine." Westlie waited for him to collect the mugs and face her again before she grabbed his tie.
She
gently
with
emphasized slowness
-pulled him down into another kiss that she did make softer that time because she was almost crying with relief. She didn't pull away at the end, and he rested his forehead on hers.
"I'm sorry," Westlie whispered, "for making you worry."
I’m my own fanartist and I require the fluff. It’s very sexy and I’m proud of myself.
Also holy FUCK this is probably one of the best things I’ve ever done look at that boot???????? I’m never going to draw a better victorian boot. I’m in awe.also their hands??? eddy helped with westlie’s thumb bc i was wondering what I was missing. i appreciate him.
It's kind of funny to me that I put so much effort into including Fitzroy and Lavinia and the Revolutionaries into this Liztlie AU narrative when it's no longer really necessary and the only thing I get out of it is the satisfaction of implied Westlijah at the end. xD
someone should ask me why I would write embarassing westlijah content that nobody but me will set eyes on and the answer is I’ve been thinking about it all day, I can think of nothing else, and I do like to do stuff for myself sometimes.
I have a bunch of prompts bouncing around in my brain. I could take Westlijah in-universe and make them hold hands, which is obviously unfathomable and that will be extremely good.
Or there’s the fake relationship AU I could also write that can never come to pass ALAS. SEE WHAT YOU RUINED SARAH. GOD, we could have sent ourselves to the bookstore or somewhere having to act like we’re in a relationship only we WEREN’T but they both have FEELINGZ and that would have been INCREDIBLE.
And then I still need to write Lizzie’s thing because I really want to see how Arthur would react to Westlie just bringing home a child and it could not be good. It would be a long list of problems and I mean, abuse, but it would all end good and that would be pleasing to write.
And in the meantime I have a drawing for The Halved that I want to put out there because I totally think the Other Half is still alive for our dnd Skyfarer AU and I can draw them as people with religious imagery why the fuck not. I should tag Nick just so he can see what he’s putting me through that bastard.
A/N: I’m just enjoying myself. This has nothing to do with literally anything.
Prompt: “#11: Unrecognized at a costume ball/party.”
-=-
“I’m so excited you agreed!”
Ah, yes. Westlie let her eyes lazily follow Marion as the woman whirled around the cab with something red and something metal tucked under her arm. I did agree.
Marion plopped both items on the table. “I already gave the boys their masks. Selmer wanted more bronzewood on the edges, so the three of them left to go- do whatever they planned on doing. Which leaves-” the glint in her eye grew more intense and Marion’s cheeks flushed.
Westlie sipped her tea and waited for the hammer to drop. She could feel the makeover coming- shoved onto her with the force of Marion’s love for upgrading the Pyrrhus. Today felt like a good day for being out of one’s comfort zone. And, more importantly, there would be buyers at the dance. The allure of pulling in work while in disguise was inescapable. And I did agree to this.
“- leaves us to get ready.” Marion pulled out a mask formed of intricate, inter-connected gears. They ticked back and forth every few seconds, giving the illusion of hundreds of little bronze cogs turning on her whim. It didn’t have any sort of steam power attached to it. Westlie glanced at the side and noticed several correspondence sigils. Ah that was the trick.
Marion plopped down a second mask, looking very pleased with herself. This mask was… on fire…? Thank you, Marion. I absolutely appreciate the nod to my hair. It wasn’t quite on fire, but gave the illusion of it with shimmering orange-red, and gold paint; there were small golden tendrils pulled from the trim on the sides like curled strings of taffy. They all curled on the side to make another flame along the cheek- and in general, the whole mask just shimmered. “How do you like it, Capt’n?”
I hate you so much. I can’t believe I agreed to this. “It’s lovely!” And Westlie didn’t hate her and this was going to be fun but oh god.
-=-
Renting ballgowns on short notice – because neither of them had any desire to keep ballgowns with their regular attire – turned out to be just as painful as one would have assumed. The two women weren’t unique sizes but ballgowns in general were tricky things and the tailor was grumbling about renting gowns in the first place. Marion found a rose-red gown that fit perfectly with a silk sash around her shoulders, but Westlie was still struggling between a green gown with the sleeves too big and a somewhat oversized bust or a red dress that was three inches too short. Marion sided with the red one. Westlie hated the idea of going into a room and the bottom of the dress being visibly the wrong size.
“Take the green one,” the proprietor finally snapped at them. “I’ll pin it.”
Marion scowled and Westlie shrugged back at her. “I’ll wear a cloak.”
“-you only have a green-”
“It’ll match the dress. It’ll be fine~”
“It doesn’t match your mask.”
Westlie hesitated and then brushed it off. “It’ll be fine.”
-=-
That settled, they were in the Pyrrhus for another thirty minutes while Marion cleaned up and Westlie dug through a mound of miscellaneous crew clothes to find the green cloak. Marion did Westlie’s hair up instead of the normal pin at the back of her neck. They cleaned up nicely, Westlie decided after all of it. Especially Marion. Westlie felt a certain amount of pride when she spun around in her mask and the rose taffeta dress. They deserved each other, her and Selmer. Their kindness, their cheerful dispositions. They were the people at the center of the world, keeping it running with thoughtful, unrivaled enthusiasm and love. They matched.
I’m lucky, Westlie thought when Marion stopped spinning and grinned at her. She smiled back. Very lucky, to have you both as friends.
By then, however, they were twenty minutes late to the dance. The boys hadn’t popped back to the Pyrrhus either. Marion dismissed it while they walked through Port Prosper’s streets. “I bet they’re late too, and it’s not like they don’t have a watch on them. They just took too long fixing the mask.”
“What kind of mask does he have?”
“Oh, Sebastian had some extra bronzewood. We kind of carved it to look like bone…? But he wanted horns, so a skull with some horns and indents to the side-” she pointed to both her cheekbones “-So it looks a bit like… a giant owl, if an owl had horns… and mandibles. I really don’t know. We used a lot of things for inspiration. It looks cool,” she offered helpfully. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
“And Sebastian?”
“He went simple. Just something white.”
The conversation was cut off when they got to the warehouse and slipped inside. A young-ish doorman offered for Marion’s coat with the gracious air of infatuation. Westlie’s cloak avoided detection – and she wouldn’t have wanted it taken even if he noticed. There was a brief request for the guest list, and then they swept into the ballroom.
It was a dizzying amount of people. The hall was narrow with electric sconces lining the walls and carefully crafted glass-pane chandeliers, wallpapered with a cream-gold fleur-de-lis pattern that reflected back the light of the room. It glittered and shown and gods they both felt out of place. There was a long snacking table on the edge of the room. It drew some attention, but most of the people were crowded about the dancing. The bandstand was in the corner with several violinists, two cellist, and a miscellaneous bass.
Once a time Westlie had been familiar with these sorts of things. There was the vague memory of going to one and being expected to dance and not wanting to but also being expected to chat up customers if she wasn’t – or ideally, to do both at the same time. The memory was disgusting now she looked back on it. There was the feeling of mixing pleasure with the pain of trying to sell something and she suddenly realized, even though that had been her purpose before, that This Westlie was free and it didn’t have to work that way. This was an evening just like any other, and Marion had her hand and was gently tugging her through the masses of lilac perfume and soft silk to the snack table where a large man in a bronzewood mask was standing.
The mask was impressive. Whatever the fuck it was. Horned, mandibled, indented, nosed creature of the night. Selmer looked like the king of whatever-it-was. The eyes behind it lit up when he saw Marion in with her ticking, clockwork disguise, and he extended a hand to twirl her when she finally reached him.
“Marion, you look-” both women could see the words fail him and they mentally inserted adjectives in the spot. Beautiful. Stunning. Ravishing. Elegant. “-gorgeous. Where’d you get that dress? You always ‘ave it?”
“Oh, we just stopped off at the tailor to see what he had in store.” She winked at him and Westlie could see Selmer’s brain start running out his ears. He spun her around again to watch the taffeta fan out in an elegant poof. They giggled together when it stopped and he caught her up, kissing her sweetly on the cheek. God, they were so fucking cute. Westlie grabbed a tart from the long stretch of desserts and popped off to leave them to it, making a mental note not to get any midnight snacks in case she had to listen to them in the engine room. There was an unsympathetic thought of pity for Elijah. He had to be used to it at this point.
Speaking of which, where was Elijah? Westlie checked the corners of the room first for any men reading, couldn’t make out anything familiar, and then slipped further into the throngs of people towards the musician’s stand and dance floor.
It was fascinating seeing the different masks and she slipped through a sea of them. Some people had gone full renaissance, sewing additional lace or fabric onto their sleeves. Some wore slender mockeries of eras bygone. It was all very fantastical, and the masks added another layer of mystique to it all. Most women had chosen feathers as decore, and they fringed their faces. There were white lace ribbons, dove feathers, peacock trim, ribbons in hair. At some point, after the third mask and dress paired full of diamonds Westlie was starting to feel underdressed. Not inappropriate, just underdressed. The women were poofy, frilly, vain things, but still. Westlie slipped by them, admiring the masks without staring too much. She toed the edges of the dance floor when she happened to look back at the stand and saw a man with a mask- not covering both his eyes, but half his face. And the other half of his face was Sebastian’s.
Well, that was a shock. Westlie slipped up to the edge of the stage. Sebastian glanced down at her – possibly recognized her? Because he gave a quick smile – then ignored her and continued playing. Westlie just stood there awkwardly until the song ended, indignation building at the tip of her tongue. When he stopped, Sebastian smiled and looked down. “’ello Captain.”
“… You play the violin?”
“Quite well in fact.”
“Why…?”
“I enjoy it.” Sebastian put the violin back to his chin. Westlie could feel the crowd swimming behind her, people gathering new partners and switching off. There was the sound of chatter. “Might as well earn a bit of extra cash in port.”
“What don’t you do, Sebastian?”
His face was completely blasé as he shrugged. “I find decorating cakes to be very difficult.”
Decorating cakes. Westlie blinked at him. She opened her mouth to respond just as someone tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Ms.”
Sebastian smiled at her, gave a polite nod, settled his violin back on his shoulder, and glanced at the other players before starting. Well… that was- Westlie gave it up and turned around. “Can I help you?”
The man was about six inches taller than her with a black mask, specked with gold. His eyes looked confused. “Help- No. Would you care for a dance? A waltz this round.”
I did agree to this.
Westlie cleared her throat. She glanced back at Sebastian who already looked like he’d forgotten about her. He was looking over the music and ever so slightly adjusting the tension of the violin. She looked back at the stranger and simply offered him her hand. “I must warn you, I’m a very poor dancer. Lack of practice.”
He took her hand with a bow and Westlie had to admit she liked this theater of aristocrat. Only for one evening though. Never repetitive.
They swung out onto the dance floor.
The funny thing, Westlie immediately realized, a bit in awe at the ease his lead made, was that dancing was a million times easier when your lead wasn’t half-expecting you to also lead. She’d taught Morgan to dance, and after that, Morgan wanted to lead, so of course she had to teach her to lead (badly, probably), and then she was horrible at it. They had to be three songs in, dancing in perfect unison for their steps to make sense with no toes injured. It wasn’t particularly hard, just… unusual. She’d always had to keep both partner’s movements in mind and now she didn’t. They spun easily and her steps made sense with an ever-so-smooth polish at the end. At the end of the song her heart was pounding and she was ever-so-slightly out of breath. He looked about the same, tickled pink under the black mask. He bowed to her. “Many thanks.”
And then he was gone.
That was fun.
Westlie slipped back into the sea of onlookers waiting their turn. She was scanning for an empty spot to stand when she saw another man, this time in a blue suit with high collar and gold trim. He had an ice blue mask that seemed to sparkle unnaturally. The left side of his face was obscured completely with silver wire thread, tightly laced together then spread at the edges with the illusion of slowly melting icicles. The blue fabric on the right side of the face was laced with more silver thread, woven in a more typical pattern with the silver still curling off the edges it was unique and enrapturing, which made it even odder he was standing alone off to the side, watching the other dancers.
Westlie felt herself literally eye him up and down. His suit didn’t match the aura of the mask or his un-military stance. In fact, he looked fairly… average.
She waded through the crowd to meet him without really thinking about what she was going to say; she was just curious and wanted to know. Not to mention, there was a convenient circle of space about them. No whispering clique of men in his vicinity- which was odd, actually. Maybe he didn’t bring friends with him to the ball.
She grabbed another tart from the table as she slipped by. Marion and Selmer were gone now. She glanced about for them as she kept wading through people. She spotted Marion’s red dress first, then Selmer’s head with the bronzewood horns that shone in the light of the sconces. They were on the dance floor and Selmer was spinning her about – drawing the gaze of onlookers as they waltzed. They looked effortlessly, marvelously in love.
It took a moment, but she made it closer to the man in blue and once she was clear of the sea of people, she followed his gaze. He was watching Marion and Selmer as well. They had changed positions, pulling apart and back together in seamless unison with all the other dancers. That was the beauty of dancing, she supposed. Watching and waiting, then being a part of something much larger, then coming back, watching, and waiting again. The whole thing breathed and you were all part of something much bigger than yourself for one night. Especially this night, where nobody had a face.
Speaking of which, the nameless, faceless man in blue glanced at her. He smiled briefly in a very familiar way.
She did agree to be here, Westlie supposed. And as the music ended, it seemed easy to become a part of something much bigger. She stuck out her hand in a silent, curious question.
He took it.
He didn’t bow like the other man, simply took her hand and they slipped off to the dance floor. Westlie checked on the rest of the crew and she could see Selmer and Marion off on the far end of the room, huddled together before the music started. Marion was beaming up at him, mouth pulled upward even though her cheekbones were hidden. Some other couples were in the same stage, engaged in whispered conversation; a few seemed inattentive, just there for the dance, and some others were older, simply enjoying themselves. Westlie glanced at the man in blue – who still hadn’t spoken – but before she could ask who he was – and Westlie could have sworn she saw Sebastian look down at her from his obnoxiously high stand and smile– the next song started.
It was a lilting waltz, similar to the last song that had played. Selmer and Marion had swung back on the floor and she could see their spots of red and blue swirling about in the corner of her eye. The man in blue seemed to be watching them too, not obnoxiously, just keeping an eye on them. Which, Westlie supposed, was fascinating in its own right. He didn’t seem to be obsessed with either of them, just watching. She was so busy with her curiosity she found she wasn’t paying attention to the steps and she barely noticed when he stepped too wide, shuffle-corrected, and nearly smashed her whole foot. She opened her mouth: “Why-”
She got spun away and fuck it was a switch to different partners. It was a round. Westlie found herself in the arms of a fat corporal who was panting, sweating and out of breath. His mask was an obscene mess of feathers that shook in his face. She took his hand gingerly and he grinned at her. He wasn’t a bad dancer, but it was… difficult to tell. Westlie half-worried his stench was going to rub off for the evening when she switched and took the hand of a middle-aged woman in a purple suit and glittering matching mask. The woman smiled pleasantly and bowed her head. “Having a good time?”
“Oh, just grand.”
“I haven’t seen you at one of Leander’s balls before. Do you come to Port Prosper often?”
The woman spun her about with skill and Westlie felt a flush creep up her cheeks. “Well, every four months or so. Not often. Often enough.”
“Skyfarer?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Well, the timeline implies.” She smiled and Westlie could see her eyes crinkle under the mask. “Who’s your captain?”
“I’m the captain.”
“Ahh,” there was a glint and the woman pulled her ever so slightly closer when they came back together. “I do like a woman who runs her own ship.”
There was a feral pulse of attraction and annoyance that the woman was using Westlie’s own weapon of casual bluntness against her and it was working. “Is that so?”
“You could say,” the woman shrugged, “there’s a certain amount of… freedom most women lack.”
I hate you, Westlie thought bluntly as she got spun around again, because I definitely want to be you. She was going to have to buy a suit and start coming to dances more often.
The thought didn’t make her feel any better and she stayed silent until it was time to switch and the woman slyly leaned into her ear. “Captain Fliers, Peters Hotel, love.”
Saucy attractive cunt. Westlie was absolutely sure her face was as red as her hair when she swirled off to the next partner.
There were a few more unassuming men. They weren’t as bold as that one woman, nor as gross as the one corporal; they weren’t bad dancers either, just average. Westlie was quite back to normal when she spun full-circle back to the man in blue. He seemed pleased to have her back and gave her an extra spin before settling his hand on her waist. “Having fun?”
The voice was irkingly familiar. Westlie dismissed it as the chatter of multiple people in the background and both of them being a bit out of breath. ‘Having fun’ did bring back bad (conflicting?) memories of the lesbian in the suit though. “Fun enough.” She caught her breath as she spun again. “I don’t do this thing often really.”
“Neither do I,” he panted. There was the hint of a smile on his face. “I like your mask.”
“Yours too. I love how it shimmers.”
“A friend helped make it. She’s very talented.”
“Ah, is she here? Or did you come alone?” Was that a creepy question? Westlie realized it belatedly once it’d left her mouth. He had to wait a second to respond. The music was beginning to pick up for the final swells and the violins – damn it, Sebastian – were too loud.
“I had a group, but they scattered.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
Westlie caught herself glancing at his hand. There were no rings and no sign he was married. A single fellow out- with friends, but they’d scattered- with a clever mask who danced well enough, but didn’t come often. Who…? Ah, a skyfarer, with a crew. “Are you just in Port Prosper for the weekend?”
“I am in fact.”
Somehow they’d gotten closer over the course of the conversation, not even noticing their dance steps as they swept against each other. It felt warm and comfortable, and fuck achingly, weirdly familiar. The man in blue adjusted his arm a bit more securely around her waist and Westlie held back the flush of color.
“Skyfarer?”
“How did you guess?”
“The regular clues.” Westlie’s lips quirked in a grin. “Tall, handsome, single. Crew abandoned him at the first sign of more fun elsewhere.”
“You sound like you have experience!”
“Oh, I haven’t danced in years. I have a very large stick up my ass and they know it. I’m no fun.”
The man’s visible eye crinkled in amusement before the grin dimmed into a polite, seemingly affectionate smile. He spun her about. “Well, this was quite fun. I think you’re fun.”
Westlie felt the blood run to her cheeks, but it was in a very gentle, warm way rather than the usual flush of heat. “Thank you.” She blinked after a few moments. “You too. They shouldn’t have left you so quickly.”
“Oh, they’re around here somewhere.” He glanced around the dance floor at that. “I saw them a minute ago. They’re just absorbed in each other. The real question is where my captain is. She’s supposed to here, but I haven’t seen her.”
Ahhh, the Lusty Lesbian. I’d place five sovereigns on it. “Her! I think I danced with her earlier!”
He glanced around the circle. The music was beginning to wind down, and shift into a quieter, more pensive, personal waltz. People were starting to trade partners or walk off, but the lesbian from before was still on the dance floor. She had dark skin and unruly brown hair. … it fulfilled the very attractive predatory aura and Westlie had to wonder if she was the only one she’d asked or if the vast number of women she was dancing with would all happened to arrive at the same time and she was just going to command them in queue or start an orgy. The man in blue glanced about but his eyes didn’t focus on the woman in particular. “No… not her. I don’t see her.”
“Hmm. Well, if it’s not her, I haven’t noticed any other women in particular.”
“She might not be dancing,” he admitted. “I don’t know if she does. I assume she did.”
There was a pause and soft lilt in the music making the itch of familiarity come back. Westlie studied his face, wishing she could just see the other half that was shrouded in silver. His dark hair didn’t distinguish him and neither did his collared uniform, but she had to know him from somewhere. Maybe an old client from London? Just someone from about the Reach she’d run into several times? There weren’t many of those, but they existed.
On the other hand, she should stop fucking about and have a good time because that’s what was important.
Out of the corner of her eye, Westlie spotted Marion and Selmer slip back to the dance floor. Selmer’s hair was no longer slicked back and Marion had a few curls loose from her low bun. They weren’t noticeable but they were noticeable to Westlie since she’d had to watch Marion painstakingly put them in. She sighed. The man in blue followed her gaze and spotted them as well. He chuckled. “Like I said: infatuated with each other.”
Westlie blinked. “You know them?”
“The friends I mentioned earlier.”
They both stopped dancing at the exact same time and stared at each other. Westlie’s stomach began to churn nervously. That itch of familiarity. Fuck it. She reached up to take his mask off and he caught her wrist. “No!” There was a somewhat apologetic look. “I-” he cleared his throat. “There’s a reason it covers my eye.”
The puzzle pieces clicked into place. “Elijah?!”
Westlie could see his face go two shades whiter. He yanked off the hood to her cloak – which wasn’t exactly revealing; she had at least half her hair visible. The fucker knew it was red. “Westlie?!”
“Since when do you wear a blue uniform?!”
“Since when do you wear a fucking green dress and a cloak?! Where did you even get that?!”
Westlie dragged him off the dance floor, ignoring the line of people. They parted easily anyway and they huddled against the back wall, both of them staring accusingly at the other.
“When the hell do you wear your hair up like that?! The fuck is in it?!”
“Are you colorblind?! I can’t see three-quarters of your face! I have an excuse!”
“You never let Marion do anything to you! And you wore a hood!”
“One night out, Elijah! One night out! One night out won’t kill me! I can’t look that different with my hair up. You decide not to wear a suit the one time everyone else is wearing a suit?!”
“Won’t kill you? You can’t recognize your own first mate!”
“You can’t recognize your own goddamn captain!”
They seethed for a good five seconds in silent accusation.
Elijah finally huffed and broke it because they weren’t going to do anything about it. And the best that was going to happen was nobody could ever know. “Care to explain that ‘tall, handsome, single’, Captain?”
Westlie felt the flush rush up her cheeks and this time it was a bright embarrassed red. “Well excuse me for noticing you don’t have a wedding ring.”
“Very thoughtful of you to check.”
“Elijah, you’re fucking tall, handsome, and available.” The red was getting worse, Westlie could feel her face burning. “Are you going to take a compliment or not?”
His face was equally red and he looked like he was torn between smacking her and simply stalking off. He chose to spin around and book it. Westlie leaned back, deeply annoyed but somewhat grateful her face could stop being red when he spun back on his heel and stalked back to her. “What-”
He grabbed her chin and kissed her quick and fierce. There was an immediate shock down her spine and then a second equally fierce rush of shock back to her face, turning it even redder although it wasn’t exactly unwelcome from him, especially in this setting. Re. Tall, handsome, single. “Elij-”
“Not that single.”
And then he stalked off.
The fucking nerve.
Westlie came two seconds of calming thoughts from taking off her shoe and hurling it at his head. Fucking man.
They stalked around each other for another hour. Elijah didn’t go on the dance floor and neither did she. She’d had quite enough of that thank you very much. It was fucking frustrating though how she felt herself pay attention to him, even though she was fuming and he was halfway across a room with a load of people in the center – now cheering over some wilder dances. He was standing alone like before, not quite watching, probably just thinking. Marion and Selmer drifted over to him at one point and they starting coming her direction after, but they lost her in the crowd. (Westlie obviously didn’t have anything to do with that, they just had bad eyesight.)
It was only after she’d eaten three more tarts and a larger meat pie she started to calm down and sulk rather than fume. They weren’t together. They weren’t like Marion and Selmer. It was this ridiculous waltz of ‘Yes, but I’m embarrassed at how stupid the truth is.’ and ‘Yes, but I don’t want my brain running out of my ears like Selmer over there.’ and ‘Yes, but I’m terrified of how comfortable this feels.’ And at some point, after another thirty minutes of sulking and no sign Marion and Selmer were going to leave anytime soon, she began to let herself drift back in his direction.
Elijah must have seen her coming; there was no way he didn’t; but he didn’t move, and he also didn’t say anything. Westlie stood beside him like before and they watched the dance floor. Sebastian was still absorbed in his violin; Marion and Selmer were waltzing along in the latest dance of the night, completely unaware of the drama.
After another whole song completed, Westlie still couldn’t think of anything to say. She wasn’t going to apologize, and he obviously wasn’t going to apologize either. And why should they apologize? They’d just… been stupid.
Westlie was almost annoyed at herself as she stuck out her hand in the same motion she had earlier. Almost. Because it seemed the most reasonable method of an olive branch for both of them. They had wasted an hour and a half sulking about and above all, she had agreed to this, so goddamn she was going to make the best of it.
Elijah glanced at Westlie’s hand, then her, and there was the ever-so-slight familiar smile in the corner of his mouth as he took her hand and they moved onto the floor. They settled into position without thinking and Westlie still hated how natural it felt. The itch of familiarity was how embarrassingly easy it was to be next to him whether it be working, reading, or just dancing, even though her last dance partner had been her sister years ago. She could feel it when she hadn’t known it was him, and now she felt it clearly when she knew it was him and that made it more embarrassing – not really, but very much so.
They danced. The steps were simple and the sense of order was relaxing. Westlie didn’t make any move to switch when the song finished and neither did Elijah.
So they danced the next song. And she still didn’t feel like switching.
And the next song.
And a few more.
Westlie realized at some point the sconces were dimmed, the orchestra was quite a bit softer, most of the crowd had scattered into small coteries about the room, and her feet ached. At some point her and Elijah’s extended hands had pulled in closer and now they were folded next to their chest, tenderly intertwined. They were leaned against each other – her eyes were closed anyway – and absolutely everything was perfect. There was something soft about the whole thing. Westlie’s brain wasn’t functioning and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Something about staying in perfect step; something about his cheek resting against her hair and the upper part of the mask.
Elijah cleared his throat to speak after another seven steps and Westlie glanced at him questioningly. “I don’t think they intend to stop.”
“Mm,” Westlie glanced over at the other dancers. Most of them were equally self-absorbed, shuffling about in a soft, tender way. God, I hope I don’t look like that. Marion and Selmer were in the center of the floor, less dancing and more having sex with their eyes. Her arms were looped around his neck and his hands were inappropriately looped around her waist and they were just staring at each other in love and it was all very cute and very fluffy with that red silk-and-taffeta dress and Westlie suddenly didn’t feel like dancing anymore because there was no way in hell she was going to look like that at the end of the night. She looked back at Elijah and he had the exact same look on his face. “Back to the Pyrrhus?”
“Yes, please.”
His hand was still trailing the back of her waist as they slipped through the remaining crowd. Most didn’t even notice them, and the cursory glance they got was disinterested. Some people had dropped their masks at this point, and it was a mix of animals, feathers, silver shades, and people, their faces exposed. The dessert table had been thoroughly picked over, but they both grabbed a tart as they passed, cold, but still delicious.
It was the same in the streets at this time of night. The usual bustle was replaced by generally quiet aristocrats taking a late-night walk – or the occasional working man late for a shift. It was misty and the fog blew about the street in soft clouds, bringing minute cold-fronts and warm-fronts with it. Electric lights burned through the mist; occasionally an oil lamp appeared, slightly dimmer and casting flickering shadows on the damp stones. Westlie pulled her cloak close. Her arm looped on Elijah’s felt ever-so-slightly warmer and she appreciated it as it grew colder next to the docks. The mists were a little less thick here; they curled about one’s ankles and drifted between the locomotives, obscuring nameplates and the faces of miscellaneous crew. The Pyrrhus was in Dock 8 at the very end. Windy, mist-less, serene.
They slipped into the Pyrrhus together. Elijah shut the hatch and Westlie took the opportunity to shake out her cloak, grinning a bit guiltily at the exposure of the sleeves that were two sizes too big. He rolled his eyes.
“I’m vain occasionally.”
“You’re vain all the time. You just hide it by being practical.”
Westlie wound up the cloak and smacked his arm without any malice. The truthsayer just grinned and held the door open.
It was a regular quiet evening at that point. They both took off their masks and frippery and ended up reading over tea in the mess hall, half-chatting, half-absorbed in their separate topics. And that still felt familiar, Westlie mused. It didn’t feel uncomfortable with him sitting there- and it probably wouldn’t feel uncomfortable with Marion or Selmer or Sebastian or Sally- but there was an extra level of affection. Something about his thumb supporting his chin while he read, then leaning off to take another sip of tea without breaking pause in reading was familiar and deeply satisfying.
She gave up reading at midnight when Sebastian and Marion and Selmer still weren’t home and she had no expectation of them being back before 3am. Elijah’s smile teased her. A good attempt, he was thinking; not fucking sleepy at all, damn her for letting him take nightshift.
Westlie rinsed her cup and hung it to dry. The whole thing was very methodical, very sleepy, and she tucked her book under her arm as she headed for the door. Elijah opened it for her again (the action seemed affectionate and yet amused because he knew it threw her off-kilter ever so slightly to be paid attention to) and he beckoned for her to walk through in a little bow.
Well, two could play an off-kilter game.
Westlie paused in the doorway, leaned up and kissed him. Not hard, just meaningful. It felt good in private where it could be more expressive, affectionate. They weren’t waltzing around in those stupid masks, they were just… here. She waited a few seconds after, just savoring it. Finally she opened her eyes and gave him a little grin. “I’m not that single either, I suppose.” And she went to bed without checking what expression crossed his face.
I was going to write about newd legs, sex, drugs, and alcohol, but thought better of it. I’m not sorry and I hope all your teeth fall out.
Set on a return trip to the Khanate. The Khanate is extremely sexy. Am in love with the atmosphere of the Khanate. Am Anti-London.
Edit: Eddy made this GLORIOUS cover. Enjoy~
-=-
The thing about Westlie was she over-thought. A lot. It usually paid off, but it had been paying off less and less the more she stayed with the crew, and at this point, thinking about holding hands and not doing a goddamn thing about it was very much Not Paying Off and also driving her fucking mad.
They were walking through the Khanate. Marion and Selmer were wandering in front, gripping each other’s hands tightly as they made their way through the chattering throngs of people of the central city. Selmer was swinging their hands wildly back and forth, joking, and it was making Marion laugh. The teasing was a stark contrast with Westlie about five paces behind, stiffly walking next to Elijah in the awkward silence of people who wanted to walk with each other and had quite a lot to say but were too nervous to say it. They were not holding hands.
After a few streets into the city, Westlie snuck a look down at their hands, just hanging there about eight inches from each other. They were ever so slightly swinging back and forth, and they’d pass each other as they swung, knocking a few inches off the distance each time. But compared to most of the walkers – and definitely Marion and Selmer – their hands were barely swinging at all, and it made the distance between them tantalizingly close.
The problem was they didn’t do anything like that. ‘I like you,’ and ‘I like spending time with you’ was the closest they’d gotten. “Come with me to turn in the port reports” was much easier than saying “What do you think about dinner at six, Elijah?” Even though the answer would be Yes and there’d been some form of accidental-not-quite-so-accidental-semi-date-things marginally work-related but dinner-focused that hadn’t gone terribly and were much more relaxed when they were talking about papers, signaling, cargo, and how to set a broken leg.
And God, it was fucking mortifying that this was something Westlie wanted in the first place. It was so stupid and visible. There was the constant internal conflict of who she was supposed to be and the much softer, much gentler person she wanted to be. She wasn’t quite sure what that softer, gentler person was supposed to look like, either. Did it mean letting Elijah pick if they were going to do the whole ‘holding hands’ thing? He hadn’t made any moves, so maybe he hadn’t thought about it. Maybe he didn’t care, or it was too affectionate. Because it was a affectionate thing and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that either. Westlie’s face flushed a soft red. They turned a corner.
The streets of the Khanate were busy and exotic. They did not appreciate Londoners, and Westlie could feel the stares of annoyance if her eye caught something unique and she had the tourist look in her eye. They could smell foreigners from a mile away. It was a shame really, because she would have loved to hold Elijah’s hand and gawk at that bookstore – was it a bookstore? The whole front was full of scrolls, hanging displays of foreign writing she couldn’t read – and goddamn it. The image was in her head now.
Westlie bit her tongue and stared straight ahead. She probably looked constipated but that was better than turning a bright, truly embarrassed red.
Six inches. His hand was six inches.
She could try.
Westlie swallowed. Hard. Her right hand felt like lead at her side. It was barely swinging, just waiting limply for her brain to actually send the signal to move. Her middle finger twitched. Elijah’s hand swung past hers. Just grab it! Grab it?? Was grabbing it the right option? Maybe a finger? Should she try touching it…? Maybe he’d freak out because he hadn’t suggested this and she was just… This was just something she- did she want it? Was it weird to want to hold his hand? Westlie begrudgingly eyed Marion and Selmer as their swinging tugged Marion closer to him. Selmer threw an arm around her shoulder; they were both laughing. Yes. She decided for herself. Yes, I do. Even if it’s weird.
Her pointer finger twitched again, but she couldn’t just- move it. Next time. She could feel his hand swing past her again and she didn’t even twitch. The lead weight was holding her immobile. At this point they were going to get to the restaurant and she wouldn’t have gotten any closer. There would be that sinking ‘well fuck, maybe next time’ feeling of disappointment that would wait until they were doing whatever date-eque Selmer’s In-Law restaurant idea was again.
Marion and Selmer were goofing off now as they approached another corner. She was leaning on his shoulder and he was swinging his arm, swaying her back and forth while they laughed. The locals looked a bit surprised at the show of affection, but more amused. They turned the corner and Westlie could feel the rise in panic as she and Elijah approached the same curve. Do it. Do it. Do it now. Try it. His hand is so close. Just a little bit?
They turned. The ever-so-slight trajectory change helped her arm move and her fingers twitched. Elijah’s hand swung out a bit too. Westlie felt her fingertips brush his own. It was gone as soon as it’d started and they both recoiled to the respectable 8 inches while the moment burned a red glow into Westlie’s cheeks; some mix of shame, guilt, and embarrassment. Elijah was looking pointedly straight ahead with a very faint touch of pink on his face.
Westlie’s soul that she didn’t have screamed incoherently.
Elijah please, give me something. I don’t know what to do!
Selmer and Marion paused up ahead. They were asking for directions. Westlie and Elijah both stopped the appropriate amount of distance behind so they could wait and there was another moment. She could feel it building up inside her. Grab it. Grab his hand. It’s right there.
Selmer’s booming voice cheerfully checked the address. Westlie swallowed. 1, 2, 3- do it. She didn’t. 1-2-3-do it now. She didn’t. Her pinky twitched. You can do it. Do it. The Khanate man looked momentarily stunned at the enthusiasm but pointed them the right direction. Selmer clapped him on the shoulder and just as Westlie was really about to reach out they set off again and the moment was broken.
Westlie could feel her blood pressure slowly rising from the sheer stress as they kept walking through the street. It was a like a fat chunk of lamb dangling in front of her that she was just physically incapable of grabbing. Sheer lunacy. God, she was better than this. Fucking captain of a ship and she couldn’t fucking grab a hand.
That somehow smacked her brain and her arm jerked out from her side, brushing against Elijah’s hand (it didn’t burn as much this time; maybe she was prepared) and almost settling against it in something- Well, she intended it as a question. Her heart was stuck in her throat as she felt (actually felt) him stiffen in uncertainty. He flushed red. She was undoubtedly just as red, if not moreso.
After a fucking eternity his fingers softly curled around hers, like they were glass, or an egg, or something equally fragile that would shatter if he so much as breathed wrong. Westlie felt her breath catch in her throat in a combination of joy and sheer terror. Her arm was stiff from uncertainty and they were both making tiny panicked adjustments to their gait at the unfamiliarity of a weight at the end of their hand that they weren’t carrying, just attached.
In the shuffle of the street, they both ducked under a giant load of wood a worker was swinging about on the sidewalk. Westlie felt her fingers curl a little more in his, and as they popped back up - both of them grinning a little at the absurdity while the locals were continuing with their day – she felt Elijah give them a careful uncertain squeeze. He wanted her there. He was alright with it.
They both got a little bolder as they continued down the streets, weaving in and out of traffic, trailing Selmer and Marion- who were adeptly lost in each other and not even looking around - they’d nearly run into passersby twice. Westlie eventually let her thumb curl around the back of his hand so she was clasping back. Elijah – possibly from absentmindedness or nerves, or maybe he meant for it to be thoughtful and soothing, because she did find it soothing – started to lightly rub his thumb against the side of her own. And the whole world was pretty damn good.
