Love’s Philosophy
Gift fic for @mewsly as a part of @loveinwayhaven
Pairing: Adam Du Mortain x Detective Orianna Moreau
Rating: All
Word Count: 2712
Notes: Ah! I’m so nervous to post this! I really hope I did your detective justice, she seems amazing 🥺 I went for sort of mid-romance vibes... this is also the first time I’ve written Adam, or anything TWC actually, so I have been a little worried about how he comes across as well. I really hope you enjoy😅
Summary: Adam spends some time in the library.
Adam grunts as his large fingers slip over the leather bound books on the shelf. He’s tucked away right at the back of the library in the bunker, looking for absolutely nothing in particular. If each title that flicks in his peripheral is decidedly not something else, then, well, he wouldn’t notice. And he certainly doesn’t notice the mug ring on the coffee table at the end of the row. Still wet. He can say with ninety-nine point nine percent accuracy that this is a result of a sickeningly sweet, creamer-laced coffee, probably left half full and forgotten momentarily because it’s owner had been perusing the shelves for something else about the supernatural.
And then it catches him, an old—perhaps very early edition if he remembers right—edition of Pride and Prejudice. She doesn’t know it’s here, because he’s sure she would’ve said.
But when he reaches for it, his hand stops by itself. It drags across the direction toward the dark corners, moving at speed until—plod. Something leather-bound with a worn bookmark partway through. As he gently slides it out, Adam notes the gold type font on the front: a poetry anthology. Shelley, to be specific. He knows a lot of these by heart, three-hundred odd years of people raving about the rakes and romantics will do that to a guy. All the same, he’s sure to thumb carefully to the bookmarked part. The spine squeaks as it opens, a quiet yawn where Adam is waking it from a nap. A little dust flies up and is highlighted in the strips of dim lamplight from above. He looks up briefly, checking his surroundings. Not that the detective would be able to come anywhere near him without his pheromones going off. Even if he wasn’t a vampire, he’s sure he’d recognise the sound of her footfall underwater. Because he has to know to protect her properly, of course.
The page the book has squeaked open to has one poem on it: ‘Love’s Philosophy.’
Adam, not particularly taken with poetry for the most part, doesn’t know this one. Only the very famous ones when it comes to Percy Bysshe Shelley: ‘Ozymandias,’ ‘To a Skylark,’ ‘Stanzas Written in…’
Reading for enjoyment as a rule isn’t his thing. But the little he does recall never really lit anything in him. He has never felt how he was told poetry should be making him feel. Maybe he is too worn from years spent focusing on most things aside from feeling. Absentmindedly grazing his thumb over the page, feeling each grain of the pulp on his finger tips, Adam finds his eyes wandering back to the wet mug ring on the coffee table to his right. Drying now, the sheen dulling to match the light wood. It’s nice wood, light, fresh, slightly enthusiastically holding the weight of forgotten books. Adam’s a little lost in the colour. Because it echoes in his mind a similar colour that has been the focus of many an accidental daydream.
Suddenly, he’s seeing pretty light brown eyes; caramelly, iridescent when they’re in that one chair in the office where the sun has a chance to shine on them. Lighting up when she learns new things, particularly those of his world; the supernatural world. Creasing a little in the corners when she makes the odd sarcastic quip. Dilating every so often when he’s talking to her, for reasons he isn’t sure.
One of the books on the table is leather-bound in a deep red, and Adam finds himself imprinting the image of coils of long hair that exact shade into the space he stares at. Adam actively does not enjoy that his brain wanders like this. That it seems to veer off task for silly reasons.
He shakes his head. If only he had a use for sleep. He doesn’t often find himself wishing that, but these days… perhaps more often. Perhaps he wonders what he might dream of.
But he doesn’t want to lose the control of consciousness. It keeps him in check. It keeps him able to protect the detective.
And he doesn’t want to lose control full stop. Doesn’t let himself think too deeply about any of it for fears he may push himself past retrieval.
Adam finds, as he stands there almost frozen, that his mind wanders to a day not so dissimilar to this one. When he had been reading late, against his wishes, for some information Rebecca requested.
—-
With each line he reads, Adam can feel his biceps twitching to get some combat under his belt. This is more Nate’s expertise; he’d far rather be out trying to get one up on Morgan. But, alas, he has been given other responsibilities. And he always fulfills his responsibilities. He finds himself sighing each time he turns the page, increasingly frustrated that he actually seems to be learning less.
Like a saving grace, the library door creaks open and he looks up from where he stands by the window. One hand in his pocket, one under the old book. Detective Orianna Moreau enters, a candle highlighting the high points of her soft, deep brown skin, shining in the light-hued eyes which find him almost immediately. Her silhouette casts subtle grey shadows on the wall behind her as she nears him.
He’d known she was coming, of course. He always does. But it’s always a different thing actually seeing her. Like he’s never completely convinced she’s really there.
She smiles gently at him, nearing with the candle in her grip melting down itself, flickering.
“You’re up late,” she says, placing the candle down by him on a ledge. “I thought you might need a bit of light.”
Light. Like her. Her charming, friendly, easygoing nature always lights up the room. Adam reveres it sometimes. Sometimes he doesn’t.
It makes him a little nervous, actually. And he hates feeling nervous. Hates losing himself in the light when he has to focus on work and tasks.
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but is acutely aware as he remains standing in his spot, that the detective goes to sit on a nearby sofa. She’s supposed to be researching too, so it’s not too odd, but humans do have to sleep, after all.
“Should you not be asleep?” He turns just enough so that he can see her from the side of his face.
“I have to learn this, and want to. There are far worse ways to be spending an evening.” She smirks at him, suggestive and amused. “Come and sit with me.”
At first, Adam was going to outright point-blank say no. So he’s not completely sure why his legs carry him over to the sofa and lower him down beside her. But far enough away that there’s significant space between them. She laughs and rolls her eyes, scooting over next to him. The small amount of her body which presses up against him sends a shock of ice up his veins. She’s warm, so warm, that he feels like his ice is melting a little. It’s almost terrifying, but Adam doesn’t move. Doesn’t show outwardly how he’s feeling. Lets his thigh burn quietly as though he’s already extinguished the flames.
The book in his hand drops to his lap, his other hand twitching on his thigh. She gives him that smile again and his heart almost stops. Settling back into the cushions, Orianna picks up the book from his hands and starts to dig into it.
“I was reading that.”
“I know, but you weren’t enjoying it.”
That she seems to know this about him, though, isn’t lost on Adam. He believes himself to be stoic and mysterious perhaps, but maybe Orianna can see past that. Through it. The way Nate always does.
She holds the book in her left hand, her right sitting on her thigh somewhat restlessly. Just inches from his own. Ensuring that she’s pouring all of her attention into the book, which she seems to be, Adam drops his eyes subtly to her hand. Unsure why, but seemingly doing things of his own accord, Adam’s impulse is to make contact with her. His pinky falters, reaching out a little by itself, quivering in a way he isn’t used to. A way he isn’t sure he likes. Nonetheless, he uses its movement to bolster the moving of the rest of his hand. Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, Adam lets his hand move away from his body. Slip across to the detective’s. He places his down on top of hers gently, encompassing it, letting his fingers and thumb curl around its shape. He doesn’t dare look at her, but he can’t miss in his peripheral the smug beaming grin which takes over her expression.
They sit like that a long while, Adam still, holding her hand. He should be frustrated that he’s not getting anything productive done, but he can’t be. Something about her hand in his means he cannot be anything other than content and a touch conflicted. The detective’s expression never falters as she reads, doesn’t worry when she has a hard time turning the page with the use of only one hand. Seems quite amused by it, actually. Adam chuckles himself a little internally, unable to stop the smile which spreads over his face. With his free hand, he reaches over and turns the page for her.
“Thanks.”
“It is my pleasure.”
When the detective repositions their hands, winding hers around and up, so that their hands are completely joined, Adam can’t help but finally look at her fully. She squeezes his hand, and looks up at him too. Their eyes bore into each other, melting.
It had all been going so well until Farah bounded in like a puppy with a new toy. Quickly, rushedly, Adam pulls his hand from the detective’s.
—-
He thinks about that day a lot. Wishes he didn’t. Wishes he didn’t think about a lot of things pertaining to the detective.
As though on cue, the fine hairs on his arm stand to attention, and his ears zone in on the sound of smart shoes on the linoleum. She’s coming back.
Forcing his eyes back down to the page, Adam has completely forgotten what he had even been looking at. ‘Love’s Philosophy,’ that’s it. Shelley.
She’s entering, though, and he can’t focus himself enough on what he’s holding to seem entirely nonchalant. Doesn’t give himself enough time to consider that it probably isn’t in his best interests for Detective Moreau to see what he’s holding. She’s bold, flirty. She’d pick up on something and make a remark that would have his cheeks hot and his jaw tightening in a way he doesn’t want it to.
Through the gap in the shelf he can just about see a fitted pencil skirt, shirt tucked in, emerging into the library. She’s holding another book, something supernatural focused that smells a little of blood and Adam isn’t sure where exactly came from.
Next thing he knows, she’s rounded the corner.
“Oh.” He hears her from the side, always debating how the next words will come from his mouth. She just seems a little surprised he’s there, is all. “Hi.”
He can hear the smile in her voice, senses how she places her book down on the coffee table he’d been so fixated on before. The title looks to be written in Haitian Creole.
“Hello. You have been busy.” He nods to the table. She grins. There’s always a sparkle in her eyes when she’s learning new things; especially new things about the world which only opened up to her not so long ago.
“Always have to know more, you know me.”
He does. Knows her scent, the exact amount of time which passes between each step she takes, how she shines like the sun whenever something otherworldly occurs. Knows she would be interested to know about the early edition of Jane Austen he completely accidentally came across. Knows that a large part of him wishes he didn’t know these things.
“What are you reading?” she asks, the tone of her voice something Adam hadn’t even realised he’d been yearning to hear.
“I am not. I picked it up. I will be putting it back now,” he nods, hesitating at the sight of the page. His eyes drag over the words subconsciously: heaven, sweet emotion, sunlight, moonbeams, kiss.
Things which are meant to be pretty and emotive and only seem to be making him think of the one thing he doesn’t really want to think of.
How maybe he doesn’t believe in heaven, but that it might be something close to her eyes when she smiles. Or how sweet emotion is something that Adam doesn’t feel like he can achieve, but if he were to, maybe it would be because of her. The sunlight which shines on her in her office, which highlights her features and matches her personality. Moonbeams… electric, softly-glowing, other-wordly. Kiss… well, he tries not to focus on that one.
But he also thinks sometimes he thinks too much and of too absurd topics. That he shouldn’t allow himself to think these things. He has responsibilities. Duties.
He might have closed the book and placed it back when he hears her start to near, but he feels a little too frozen on the spot.
“Shelly,” she smiles again, pulling down on the corner of the book so that she can see the contents of the page. “A love poem! Romantic,” she teases, in the way that only Orianna knows how.
“I was just interested in the bookmark.”
“Oh, that might have been me, I like this one.”
He nods, moving to close it, but his hand is caught by Orianna instead. He stiffens, the brush from her climbing up the brim in his arm right the way to his heart. Reminding him of when he’d held her hand before.
“Let me read it again.” She smiles, letting her eyes drift back over the page. She’s stubborn, so there’s no point arguing. Not that he’d have much reason to, anyway. Adam finds his curious eyes slipping over the page, too, and he reads the words in front of him.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?—
See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
When he pulls his eyes from the page, he looks to the woman beside him. She’s mouthing the last line, subtle warmth on her face, and it’s impossible to not focus on the movements of her lips as she rolls through the vowels and consonants.
“Yes, it’s lovely. Just as I remember.”
“I suppose it is not awful.”
She lets out a little snort. “You hate reading for pleasure.”
The smile he returns is ever so miniscule. She’s absolutely right, but seeing her find joy in it makes it not so bad.
He’s drawn in by the pull of her eyes again, struggling to find the right words. Creasing his brow a little, he watches her edge a little closer. Finds himself willing down the impulse to hold her hand once more.
She smiles at him, in a way that tells him she knows the look on his face. It’s frozen, unsure, repressing. So she just leans in, and places a gentle, soft kiss just below his ear. Her lips on his skin sear simultaneously hot and cold, soft. She lingers a little, hand ghosting at his jaw. A little cold touch from the jewellery she wears.
That spot feels incredibly warm even as she moves away again. Even as she pulls the book from his hands, closes it, places it back on the shelf.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Adam.”
Adam starts, not even remembering what the date was. Perhaps he’d been a little too distracted.
“I—well, yes. Happy Valentine’s Day, I suppose.”
