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masterwords · 3 years

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In the Past He's Slow and Sinking

Summary: Months (or longer) after the events of "Profiler, Profiled" Morgan finds out that Hotch referred to him as "suspect" and it changes everything. (This was based on an evil idea @toli-a placed in my thick skull.)

Warnings: mention of Buford's name (I think once?), Foyet aftermath, hospital, brief mention of Hotch's injuries after Mayhem

Words: 4.5k

Pairings: None but it has Hotchgan vibes

“Suspect?” Morgan asked, bursting into the office without warning. It startled Hotch, he'd wrongly assumed he was alone, it was well after 8pm and the place had been a graveyard for hours now. He glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk and found his attention drawn to a scrap of notebook paper. It was torn at the top and covered in Gideon's chaotic scrawl, red ink scribbled diagonally across the lines pinned to his desk by Morgan's splayed hand. He couldn't see what was written, eyes hadn't caught up to the intrusion, the staggered refocus of Morgan's imposition. Neither of them moved, a standoff that Hotch didn't understand yet.

“What is this?” he asked, not daring to drag his eyes from Morgan to the paper again, not yet. His pinched scowl gave him away, he wasn't in the mood to play games – this was the third night that week he'd had to stay late enough to miss seeing Jack before the boy was put to bed, the third night that week he'd called to say goodnight only to be met with his son's disappointed tears and Haley's cold shoulder. Morgan couldn't have known all of that, what quiet storm he'd trampled into, and he really didn't care.

He didn't need to care.

“You know what this is,” was his reply, a little more aggressive than he'd initially intended. He pulled his hand away, left the damning shred of paper there.

Had Gideon intended for it to be seen by anyone but himself? No, absolutely not, and no one was going to say a word to Morgan. He wished that it had stayed that way. It had been such an innocent thing, running to the office under cover of night to pull a file in order to prepare for a custodial interview, something that Gideon was going to do and now fell on his shoulders. Rifling through the mess left behind by Gideon's abrupt departure, he hadn't meant to stumble on the Buford file, he would never have searched it out. He wasn't looking for it, but finding it was too tempting, he had to look, had to see what they'd included. Before he could even open it the paper slipped out, it wasn't like he'd gone in expecting something Earth shattering, something damning to make him question his place on the team. “Suspect. Hotch said it first. Who next?” He sure loved to leave himself little notes about things that struck him, often things people said that he thought might be of use later.

It wasn't surprising. He was there in the room with Hotch, he knew – he watched the way Hotch moved, the way he questioned him. Called it victimology, was profiling him, challenged him about a record that should never have been in his hands. It wasn't a friend, especially after he felt betrayed by information withheld. The betrayal Hotch felt, the way aggravated assault burned his flesh as ink met fingertip, the desperation in Morgan's eyes for Hotch to believe that he was innocent. That he hadn't been lying to his face every day for so many years, that he was still the same person Hotch trusted with his life. Maybe they were fooling each other to ever think they knew anything about the other person. Even still, he never thought Hotch actually suspected him, still didn't, not really...but there was something gnawing at him that he couldn't ignore. Hotch was supposed to be there to protect him, Hotch was his lifeline, his one phone call...and was taken in by the officers and the fervor of their conviction, their belief that Gideon's profile meant it HAD to be him. It couldn't be Derek, Hotch knew but then who else could it have been? It was his job to find out and he had no answer, of course, hadn't been in Chicago long enough so he had to dig, get answers by any means necessary. He had to be ruthlessly professional and he had to accept that there was a certain objectivity he needed to exercise as the leader of the BAU, even if it hurt. The police weren't doing it and his team wasn't doing it – the police were certain it was Morgan, their team was certain it was not, and meanwhile a child had been murdered...someone had to sit in the uncomfortable middle and try to look at it without bias. In the end he'd figured it out first, made the sickening connections as the electricity from Morgan crackled around him. He put his own head on the line...of course leaving the interrogation room door open just a crack had been an accident, it wasn't like he'd walked Morgan out himself.

Except he basically had and it counted for nothing in the face of this scribbled red ink. And why should it?

He wasn't surprised when Hotch didn't deny it, didn't try to excuse it or say he didn't mean it, he wouldn't insult Morgan in that way. He deserved better. Better felt an awful lot like a baseball bat to the gut, splintered sternum and cracked ribs. He folded his arms over his chest to steady his own breathing, to hold himself together, to hide the tremble in his hands.

An apology, genuine and quiet. It was his first move, his first instinct as he lifted the piece of paper and stared hard at it – Morgan couldn't tell if Hotch was shocked that Gideon wrote it down or if he was just stricken by the depth of his feelings over losing Gideon, feelings he'd buried and refused to touch in the midst of the rest of the chaos in his life. Morgan was unclear about what the apology was for, exactly - his actions, the way Morgan was treated, that it happened in the first place? He wouldn't ask and Hotch wouldn't elaborate. It just settled there between them, given freely, accepted with some reluctance. It was genuine, he knew that much, but part of him didn't want it.

“If the roles were reversed,” Hotch finally said with a sigh, setting the paper down. His eyes met Morgan's, a swirl of sadness pooling just out of reach, spreading slowly. Add another thing to the ever growing piles of his mistakes and missteps. Another log on the fire. “If it were you in charge and me sitting there, I hope you would approach it in the same way.” He knew Morgan would, they both did, but Morgan still couldn't mask his hurt. Of anyone on the team, Hotch had known him the longest, had met his family, had held him as he flew apart at the seams. Hotch knew things about him that no one else did and until that moment, until that little piece of paper he'd trusted that to be a good thing. A friend even if it didn't look like it used to – with the big office upstairs came a lot of changes, but through it all he'd been a confidant, someone he could trust and try as he might to think logically about everything, that word wormed its way in and attached itself like a parasite. He could go on living, he could show up and do his job each day knowing he was losing a little more of himself, of that companionship, that trust.

Your actions...

“I'm taking the job in New York,” Morgan announced somewhere between there and Quantico, breaking the awkward silence with harsh words. He'd known the moment it was offered that he had to do it, he'd been unable to follow Hotch the same way he always had, was finding it increasingly difficult to answer to him. The word suspect festered inside of him no matter how he tried to ignore it. He'd been considering asking for a transfer, leaving the FBI, going back to Chicago. He'd been considering it since it was first brought up, the idea that it would even be possible even if it wasn't NYC maybe it would be somewhere else, anywhere else.

As incredibly brave as they were..are still the actions of an Agent who doesn't truly trust anyone.

He'd seethed at that, let it consume him quick and hot, burn out just as fast. What he wouldn't give to be the type to lose control, to puff up his chest and yell but he'd already toed the line of insubordination and this was still Hotch. They still loved each other even in their estranged sibling sort of way. He'd run off the night before with the explicit knowledge that he might be dying for Hotch and his team, and he was fine with that. He would die for Hotch...it was living with him that was the problem now. He would have loved to shout at him that the Agent in question trusted him once, put his entire life in his hands and his trust was broken – suspect, remember, Hotch? I was a suspect. He didn't say it, it was too cruel and Hotch was too vulnerable even if he wouldn't admit to it. He wouldn't ask for Morgan to stay quiet because his head was throbbing. He wouldn't ask for Morgan to keep the music and his voice down because his ears were ringing, he couldn't hear for entire minutes at a time only for things to burst in so loud it was only intense pain in place of sound. His leg was sore, he'd just lost a friend. He wouldn't ever say those things and Morgan knew them anyway, wouldn't exploit them for the sake of argument.

“You're sure?” Hotch asked, even though he knew the answer. He'd seen it coming for a long time, since the note. That red ink still burned. The minute Kate mentioned his name it became real. Things were moving out of his control and one errant word had been enough to destroy years of trust. Sometimes they laughed on the jet and he could fool himself into a false sense of security but they were nothing more than strangers clinging to something neither of them quite knew how to get back.

“I'm sure,” though truthfully he wasn't and if Hotch had asked him to, if he reached out and was just real for a moment Morgan would stay. His resolve would crumble, if Hotch gave him just the faintest hint of hope. Pulled back the curtain and revealed anything sincere, an eye for an eye. Morgan had bared his soul, Hotch knew things about him that no one else knew and in return he'd been met with a brick wall.

But Hotch nodded and accepted it, left it alone. He was too far gone to really consider the ramifications of this conversation. It wasn't until he found himself driving back from Lower Canaan alone, his head pounding with a headache that felt a lot more like Morgan leaving than his eardrums screaming, that it hit him. This was his last case with all of them, Morgan's desk would be mostly empty by the time he made it back. He would look out into the bullpen and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he wouldn't see Morgan there.

Case files on his desk, unfinished paperwork, Academy fitness schedule. He found what remained of Morgan's life at the BAU on his desk when he returned and a bright pink post-it note with a date, time and location for Morgan's going away party. Going away. Veins icy, he pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes against the incessant throb behind his eyebrow. Bad to worse.

Rossi's bottle of Macallan 18 year couldn't melt this one away.

“My brother lives in the city,” he'd said at the party, as if Morgan didn't already know that. Strangers, like starting over. “If you need a friendly face. He's a lot more fun than I am, he'll show you around.” Slipped him a phone number and the name of the restaurant Sean worked at, words left unsaid trailing behind. It would have been unreasonable for him to ask Morgan, once again, if he was sure. Even worse if he brought up that word, tried to make it right- the time had long since passed. They were both sinking in a past made of misunderstandings and the bottom was dropping out. This was it, a clipped handshake and a good luck was all they had to show for nearly a decade of brotherhood.

A trip to New York to visit Sean with Jack in tow gave Haley a weekend to herself, much needed. He didn't bother trying to figure out what she'd do with it, Jessica told him to go have fun, to remember how to smile. It was the first time he would have Jack for more than just a few hours, they were going to do it all - see the sights, take in a Yankees game, play tourist and Rossi had promised he wouldn't receive a phone call. Not one.

“I told Derek you guys were coming up to visit,” Sean said over dinner, shoving a pot sticker into his mouth with a grin. Jack was copying everything he did, trying to use the chopsticks, making a mess of dipping sauces, slamming a gulp of his drink when he swallowed. Hotch groaned. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Morgan, not at all...but what was he going to do or say? Things hadn't exactly ended on a high note. He'd been keeping tabs, watching section head emails, listening for his name to be brought up in meetings. There was a swell of pride when he was praised and a streak of protective fury when someone was frustrated with the way he did things.

He kept it brief, took Jack and stopped by the field office to say hi to a few people, see if they could talk their way up to the roof where they could see the expanse of city that didn't even begin to cover its entirety. They never made it to the roof, they got as far as Morgan's office before being intercepted. In truth, it was close enough to the top, they could see it all anyway, lit up with twinkling lights in the dusky Autumn sky and this way they were still warm, didn't have to deal with the wind and Hotch's unencumbered fear of Jack toppling right over the edge. Here there was double-paned safety glass and here there were Morgan's arms. When Morgan leaned down, lifted Jack into his embrace, he was struck with the realization of how safe Morgan was, how he'd always felt secure knowing Morgan had his back and how much he'd missed that. Jack gazed out at the city from high up on Derek's shoulders while Hotch stood back a safe distance admiring what he was seeing. He deserved this, he belonged here in many ways but Hotch could tell Morgan was itching for action, he looked out at the busy streets and saw endless potential that he was wasting sitting above it all. A king in his castle, well insulated, cared for. He didn't see much action these days and it showed. He looked restless beneath the crisp suit and tie.

“How are things up here?” Hotch asked, and the answer he received was clipped, short. Things are fine, that was the long and short of it. I never thought you killed that kid, that isn't what I meant by suspect, he wanted to say, to just blurt it out and end all of this nonsense between them. It wouldn't help, an outburst like that could only hurt. It was too late. The time had long since passed, that wound had become a permanent scar. Over time it stopped hurting so much, Hotch understood how scars worked, he carried plenty given to him as a reminder that people who were supposed to love you don't always know how or want to.

“Can I buy you dinner?” he asked, watching Morgan point out all of the famous buildings they could see to Jack. “I'd love to hear how things are going here.” He was extending an olive branch but it was being refused. Another time, Morgan said softly, setting Jack's feet on the floor. He'd like to say yes but there was something holding him back – he couldn't jump back in,not exactly happy in his new job but he was settling and handling it. If he went to dinner, if he heard stories about the BAU...he'd just barely moved beyond the point of being homesick and heartsick, missing his friends desperately because they all said they'd visit but so far Hotch was the first to make it up. He couldn't chance it.

“I'm swamped, you know how it is...but it was great to see you both. Enjoy the city, Hotch.”

You should have made a deal.

The words on the screen weren't registering. The fact that they were typed up by some random person in Human Resources, some brain paid to write carefully worded memos (one of the Bureau's finest wounded) and placate the masses (years of dedicated service) and that was how he found out that Hotch was hurt (contact Betty in Human Resources if you would like to chip in for flowers and please make sure that all sympathy cards are signed and in the interoffice mail by Tuesday at the latest) ate at him. He wasn't sure how long he stared breathless at the screen, heart hammering wildly against his sternum.

Not just hurt. Nearly dead, at the hands of a serial killer in his own home. The team hadn't called, hadn't texted, just left him alone on his island and maybe he deserved it. He'd abandoned them, moved on. It wasn't like they would seek out Gideon or Elle, either, he'd slipped away just like they had.

You didn't tell me about Hotch????He sent Penelope an accusatory text and paced his apartment awaiting a reply. Her response was a phone call, he could hear the tears in her voice and felt terrible for being so harsh.

“I just thought you had enough on your plate...Derek, you don't live here now, you're...what would you do from all the way up there? There isn't anything any of us can do and we're here.” She threw his accusations right back in his face, that last word a blade slicing clean through. It dripped with abandonment, with resentment, with a ferocity he understood to be the product of her fear and not entirely his fault. He was the sounding board, the safe target she could hurl her anxiety at. He had no intention of chipping into HR's guilt fund, deleted the email and asked Penelope which hospital he was at instead.

With the biggest bouquet of flowers he could find and a sappy sympathy card, he showed up, because Penelope was right...what could he do from there? He needed to be here again, because the team Hotch was left with would give him all of the support and love he could handle but they wouldn't give him what Morgan gave. A hearty eye roll and a disapproving groan were the best medicine. He asked for a few personal days and showed up right before visiting hours were over, no one was there, everything was quiet and Hotch looked like he was sleeping. To the untrained eye, he was. Maybe it was drugs, maybe it was just his way of keeping people away – they wouldn't bother him if he was sleeping...he hadn't counted on Morgan.

He would bother Hotch if he wanted to, no matter what.

“You can't fool me, I know you're awake,” he said, so casual as he walked into the room and set the flowers down right where he knew Hotch would see them and grumble over the display, over the absurdity of the sentiment. He affected an air of nonchalance that was betrayed by the sting of tears in his eyes, the way his heart thundered wildly in his chest – he'd thought he could prepare himself for the sight by approaching it with humor, it wasn't like it was the first time he'd seen Hotch in a hospital but it was definitely the worst. An entire car ride he'd had to think it through, to picture what it would look like but nothing could have prepared him for what it actually was. More than just getting hurt in a take down, an accident on a case, this looked like despair and violation, it vibrated like something defiled and left for dead. Haley and Jack were already long gone, he was entirely alone. He'd asked the team to leave, even Rossi and Prentiss, the last vestiges of anything he considered friendship and he was turning them all away, ashamed of this place he found himself.

Hotch grunted and his eyes fluttered open, thick lashes heavy as he tried to force his eyes to focus, find the source of the voice as if he were hallucinating. Morgan leaned over him, did the work so Hotch didn't have to try and move, to search him out.

“This is the type of shit you get into when I'm not around to save you, huh?”

A faint smile, a little hum. He didn't have the energy to talk or move, they had maxed out his pain meds and he was still agitated and uncomfortable, the medication was strong and somehow the pain was stronger. He shifted and tried to lift his arm, his shoulder hurt, the groan of a stiff and swollen joint but he couldn't get it to go where he wanted, muscles too heavy, too weak. He couldn't get it to move on his own, not against the pull of stitches and gauze packed everywhere. Nine holes, like a teddy bear whose stuffing was falling out. Fingers twitched and he made a face, a pinched scowl that might have looked like determination if not for the pull of the medication softening him. Morgan recognized it as discomfort, scanned to see if he could locate and fix it. Without asking permission he reached out, cradled his arm as gently as he could manage and pulled a pillow beneath it, propped it up beside him. He adjusted the paper thin blankets over the top of him, pulled a few tangled cords loose from where they'd fallen and found themselves pinched and trapped. His fingers were like ice, all pins and needles and they twitched again. Morgan wrapped both hands around Hotch's, watched his eyes drift shut again. Of course he'd like to talk, to find out what happened, to know Hotch was okay (he wasn't, he knew that but he'd like to be given the opportunity to hear those stupid infuriating words from his lips, to scoff at them) but that would have to wait. He was sedated to the point of oblivion in the hopes that he'd rest, stop fighting them.

“Visiting hours are over, sir,” a nurse called, peeking into the room and Morgan flashed his credentials and lied – he was supposed to stay, protective detail just in case. The man who did this is still out there, miss. She didn't question him and Hotch's eyes opened briefly, nothing more than accusatory slits calling him silently on the lie he spit out so easily. Morgan smirked and shrugged as she left.

He settled into the small, uncomfortable chair beside Hotch, folded his arms over his chest and let his eyes wander around the room. No flowers or cards yet, save for his own monstrosity, but he'd be moved out of the ICU soon and they'd show up. That memo got a lot of traction, he was about to be inundated, his room was going to look like a gift shop born out of guilt and glad it wasn't me. At least Moran knew his came first.

He had a better understanding now, had for a while as he'd settled into running his own field office. It was lonely at the top, and you didn't get to be so wild and carefree – you had to do the hard things, the things that hurt. You had to make the tough choices, have the awful conversations, sometimes hurt people you cared about for the sake of doing the job. Sometimes you had to play the game to get the results you were after. Even if playing the game meant doubting someone who you trust, just for a moment. Hotch doubted him and it hurt, it still hurt, but he also never betrayed him – he held Morgan's secret close to him, he was the only one who knew, it wasn't in any of the reports and he'd been so blindsided by Gideon's little scribble of red ink to see it at the time. He knew Hotch lied in the reports about his involvement, his records, glossed over details, locked them up tight. He knew that Hotch let him out on purpose, put his own head on the chopping block and he never made Morgan answer for it, say another word, give a single explanation. He had a choice to make, and he was going to choose Hotch over the resentment.

“I'm sorry..." he whispered. "I never thought you...” trying to form words around a tongue that wouldn't cooperate, lips barely moving, and Morgan was snapped out of his trance – it felt like Hotch was inside of him, sorting through every thought he was trying to reconcile to no avail. He'd grown so used to being surrounded by people who were not profilers, people who didn't know him the way Hotch knew him. He'd let his guard down and Hotch walked right in, found the place he'd once occupied and started looking around for things that were familiar.

“I didn't think you...” he tried again but his brain was so fuzzy and he made a noise of discontent, frustrated with his inability to form words. Especially words long buried, things he'd decided never needed to be said because Morgan knew right? Morgan knew he never actually suspected him of murder? But Morgan, it turned out, did need to hear those words. He did need to hear them because suspect hurt worse coming from Hotch than anyone else. He opened his mouth to try for a third time, his edges softened and restraint gone, replaced by an all encompassing need to just say the damn words he should have said years ago. Would have saved both of them years of turmoil. A pinched look of concentration contorted his features and Morgan shook his head dismissively.

“Shh,” Morgan whispered, hand hovering dangerously close to touching somewhere, over his head, his hand again, his thigh, somewhere not covered by golden iodine soaked gauze but he couldn't bring himself to. Not sure what to expect, what lurked beneath the gauze and the gown, he adjusted the blanket to cover exposed skin and settled further into the uncomfortable little chair. “I know you didn't. Get some sleep, we can talk later. I'm not going anywhere.”

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds bau #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #mortch #hotchgan #fanfiction #hotch whump

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monabela · 4 years

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aaaand one more for eeweek, because the more I think about this pairing, the more I think it’s really cute & good! don’t let that whole bunch of characters scare you, they’re all just mentioned, and this is just a fun little thought process I had.

rules of engagement

characters/pairings: Estonia (Eduard)/Monaco (Olympe), and a bunch of mentioned characters - Hungary (Erzsébet), Romania (Dragos), Finland (Tuomi), France (Francis), Switzerland (Basch), Seychelles (Angélique), Lithuania (Tolys), Belarus (Nadzeya), Russia (Ivan), Romano (Lovino), Portugal (Simão), Greece (Herakles)

word count: 2277 summary: Eduard was prepared for many things while organizing his wedding to Olympe. He had not counted on seating arrangements being the most difficult part.

Really, Eduard had been prepared for many things when he proposed to Olympe. Up to and including a rejection, because you never know, with her. Olympe always seems to have a plan ready, and it wasn’t unthinkable that marriage just wasn’t in that plan, or wasn’t yet. He took the chance anyway, and she said yes, which is amazing.

So, he was prepared to have a stressful time organizing the wedding, because both he and Olympe are perfectionists, and Olympe’s family is… Something. Old money that they are, he expected a million traditions he’d need to adhere to, expected to need to learn how to actually dance a waltz instead of just hoping not to step on any feet during their first dance, expected meddling from all sides.

What he had not prepared for, was seating arrangements. Because he has a small family, and most of their gatherings are informal, even the weddings, and he also didn’t think the friends he wanted to invite would cause trouble.

Apparently, he thought wrong.

“We absolutely cannot seat them near each other,” Olympe is saying, tiredly, sliding the name cards for his sister and her umpteenth distant cousin to opposite ends of the table. “They shouldn’t even be in each other’s sight if we can help it. They have this feud.”

“Why don’t I know about this?” Eduard asks, scrunching his nose enough that he dislodges his glasses. He takes them off to rub the bridge of his nose.

“Because Erzsébet possesses some semblance of common sense, which my terrible cousin unfortunately lacks, so he’s very proud of having an enemy.” She gently picks up his glasses and pushes them back on his face. “I need your brain for this, love.”

“How about we just don’t invite this—” he looks at the card— “Dragos?”

“Oh, no. I’d love to, but I’m not convinced he won’t show up and curse my firstborn.”

“That’s…” He blinks. It never ceases to amaze him how odd her mother’s side of the family is. Olympe quirks a small smile, lips glittering in the sunlight streaming into their kitchen, the table of which they’ve temporarily transformed into a seating chart.

Or, well, temporarily. It has been there for two days now, being shuffled occasionally between work and the other things they have to take care of.

“Don’t worry about him,” Olympe is saying. “He’s alright, just… A little strange.”

“You said that about your brother as well.”

“So did you, about yours, and he asked me if I wanted to see his rifle collection the first time we met. Which reminds me…” She hovers an elegant hand over the table until she spots the card she’s looking for. “If we put Tuomi near Basch, we will have a shootout on our hands by the end of dinner.”

Eduard frowns. “Who even is—”

“He’s not related to me, strictly speaking, that’s my stepfather’s side of the family, but he loves weddings, so he’ll be there.” She considers this, tapping the name card against her chin. “He loves free food, and Francis loves weddings, so he told him about it. There hasn’t been one for a while.”

With that big of an extended family, that seems unlikely, but then, Eduard wouldn’t know the first thing about that. It’s always just been him and his siblings at home, and any cousins he has are so far removed, either in relation or age, that he barely knows them.

“Well, there was Angélique,” she continues in an absent tone of voice, “but she, of course, eloped.”

“Can’t we do that?” he asks, only mostly joking, and she smiles up at him, eyebrows furrowing. On the table, she puts one of her small hand over one of his, tucking her fingers between his knuckles. Her engagement ring catches the light and glitters at him. Eduard hadn’t planned on getting her one—it’s, again, not something his family has ever done—but her half-brother Francis caught wind of his plan to propose somehow, and strong-armed him into using a family heirloom to do so.

Olympe immediately recognized her brother’s hand in it, of course, but she’d been charmed by it, even if she did have to have the beautiful ring sized down to have it fit on her dainty fingers. Every time Eduard catches sight of it, his heart skips a beat. He can’t even imagine what it will be like when she is wearing a wedding ring. He foresees a lot of flubbed keystrokes whenever they play the piano quatre-mains. Olympe probably won’t have that problem. She is always more composed than he is.

“Well, no eloping then,” he sighs, and she laughs softly, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear and tapping the side of her glasses in thought.

“I still don’t have an RSVP from Angélique, actually. They’re still traveling, trying to save an endangered shark species or whatnot. I do hope she comes. She’s a delight to have around.”

Having met Angélique, the cousin in question, once, Eduard thinks he might agree. She seemed nice and upbeat. This was a bit of a problem, since they did meet at a funeral, but it would be appreciated at a wedding.

“Oh, wait, there’s another problem,” he remembers.

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah. Tolys is afraid of Nadzeya.”

Now, it’s her turn to blink owlishly up at him.

“Tolys is— Your best friend is afraid of my maid of honor?” She taps her fingers on the back of his hand. “Well, I suppose she can be intimidating when you first meet her, but…”

“He tried to ask her out. Twice. She said no.”

“Well, surely that isn’t so bad—”

“He also said she had a knife?”

“Oh. Oh, Nadzeya, no…” Olympe clasps a hand over her mouth, expression caught between amused and horrified. “She does have… A fondness.”

“Keep both Tolys and Tuomi away from her, then. Erzsébet should love her.”

“Good. They can still be at the same table, then, so long as we don’t put Nadz across from Tolys…” She begins shuffling the name cards around, leaving only their parents in the same place. “How is this?”

“Yes, that… Hold on, no. Your brother’s husband can’t be next to Tuomi.” He shudders. His brother had tried to fight Ivan Braginsky-Bonnefoy the first and only time they met. Eduard has never asked why and has no intention of ever doing so, certain that he is better off left in the dark about this.

Quickly, he switches Tuomi’s card with his mother’s. It’s the best option, he thinks, even if it does mean Tuomi is now between their sets of parents. Maybe they can keep an eye on him. Olympe hums, then moves him again, switching her mother out this time.

“There we go. Unless he’s tried to fight your sister too.”

Eduard laughs. “Tried, and succeeded, but it’ll be okay.”

Although Tuomi is now very close to Nadzeya, only Erzsébet separating them, he thinks that’s a risk he’s willing to take. Erzsébet can talk a lot. Finally, it’s beginning to look acceptable…

“No! Fuck, Olympe, we forgot ourselves!”

She throws her hands up helplessly. “Give me strength. Do you want to be next to your parents or not?” She scribbles their names on extra pieces of paper, writing Eduard Mets-Castil on his and Olympe Castil-Mets on her own. It makes Eduard smile. She isn’t the sort of woman who is very affectionate most of the time, or very obvious about her feelings in other ways—nor is he that sort of man—but it’s little things like this that make it clear every time how much this means to her.

How much he means to her.

Shuffling the cards until they finally make sense, she smiles down at their completed work. Well, completed table. The only table that makes sense.

“The rest of this is literally all your family.” Eduard squints at several names he has never heard before.

“I know,” Olympe says, long-suffering.

“Don’t tell me there’s more feuds.”

“Well, Lovino doesn’t like Francis, but that is already taken care of this way, so he should be happy… I don’t think anyone actually likes Dragos, not since they all had that fight about how he doesn’t like garlic—oh, I just remembered, he and Nadzeya tried to summon a demon at my birthday once, so we mustn’t have any candles.”

“I think I see why no one likes him.”

“Right, and then Simão mustn’t be near Angélique, should she come, because he saw fit to marry her foster father…”

“Excuse me?”

“They are close in age, should it help, but it has made everything rather awkward.”

“Is that why she eloped?” he asks faintly.

Biting her lip, Olympe shrugs at him in that measured way that she has.

“Right, of course. Simão and his husband can go with Dragos.”

“Oh, no, they actually aren’t married anymore.” She shakes her head when he pulls a face at her, a hint of amusement peeking through in the twitching corner of her lips. “It didn’t help the awkwardness. But Simão can certainly sit with Dragos, that will be fine.”

Eduard shuffles the cards, trying to keep that table out of his sister’s line of sight. It’s a good thing he likes puzzles. Next to him, Olympe sighs, ruffling the cards already in position.

“I’m sorry my family is such a burden. I hardly know many of them, but if I don’t invite them…”

“They’ll curse us and our hypothetical children?”

She shrugs again, uncharacteristically, and Eduard turns to her in his chair, reaching for her hands. He folds them both between his own, the ring on her finger warm against his palm. Olympe looks up at him, dark blue eyes still apologetic behind her gold-rimmed glasses. There is a small smudge of mascara on her eyelid. She wouldn’t go out with that, perfectionist that she is, and he is somehow honored that he can look at it.

For a quiet moment, he searches for the right words for what he wants to say. Olympe waits patiently, steadily holding his gaze like she’s so good at. He used to find it unnerving.

“You know why I want to marry you?” he asks, after a long moment.

“Certainly not because of my family.”

“Well, I do like Herakles. He’s very nice, and smart.”

“Not the other side of the family, then.” She draws her eyebrows together, smiling ruefully.

“No, of course. I want to marry you because I think… You understand me.” He strokes his fingers over the outside of her slender wrist, where her skin is slightly paler because she’s usually wearing her watch, busy as she is. “Because, somehow, we managed to find a reason not to work ourselves to exhaustion every day in each other, and that is a tall order. We both know that.”

She laughs a little, shaking her head so that her long hair tumbles over her shoulders. That is another one of these things that Eduard is aware she rarely shows to anyone else. Her hair out of its usual stylish but practical braids and updos. He lets go of her hands to lean forward, resting one hand on her thigh and using the other to touch her jaw softly, pushing her hair away.

“And, you know, maybe I’m a romantic deep down,” he continues, “so I want to make that official.”

“Eduard, I know you’re a romantic. You’ve composed no less than five songs for me.”

He grins, and she smiles in return. He is still working on the piece for their opening dance—it has to be perfect. More than perfect.

“What I’m saying is, I want to marry you for you, and you’re worth putting up with your cousins… Summoning a demon, or having a shootout with my brother, or whatever they come up with. All that matters is I walk out of there able to call you my wife, and they can’t ruin that.”

“I don’t know how you do this, sometimes,” Olympe says, wonderingly, briefly touching the hand lingering on her jaw.

“What?”

She puts her hand on top of his on her thigh, long nails tapping a brief rhythm on his wrist.

“Know what to say to me.”

“Practice,” he replies. “I’m sure you remember how often I put my foot in my mouth when we’d just met. I was very intimidated by you. Tuomi will bring it up at the wedding.”

At that, she laughs a light, happy laugh, then leans up and gently presses her glossy lips to the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you, then, for sticking with me. I know it isn’t my strongest suit to say things… Things like this, at least, but for what it’s worth, of course I feel the same.” Now, she puts a hand on his chest briefly, a small warm point mirroring the sunlight on his back. There are flecks of gold in her eyes in this light, and Eduard thinks about how those colors might sound on a piano.

“That’s worth a lot, Olympe.”

Because she’s a woman of action first and foremost—and sometimes that action is diplomatic speech, but there is a world of difference between that and this—so he knows she sometimes forgets to say things.

“Good.” She swipes some hair away from his forehead, tutting. He laughs, captures her hand, and kisses the inside of her wrist before letting go.

Olympe nods, and they both turn back to the table, because if there is anything they’re good at, it’s getting work done, and they have a hell of a task to finish.

#super fun fact: this could have been estmonabela #I'll get that some other time #apheeweek #Hetalia #estmona #aph estonia #aph monaco #w: 2500 #fin #u: human #and yes.... sey is totally married to oz and her foster dad Is england #but there's a reason that isn't in the story and it's so you can ignore that #I think I like this family structure where mona and france are half-siblings and her other parent is related to greece #might use that more often

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phyripo · 6 years

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Your writing is so wonderful and unique and all positive stuff...! Wahhhh God I am so bad with words but I just want to tell you that your work is beyond perfect, and I love reading your works! And thank you for making me ship EstLiet! The ship is so wonderful, they are adorable! Uhhh so yeah in fact just thanks for existing...! ❤️❤️❤️

Nooo anon thank you for existing! This is so sweet, you made my day :00 EstLiet is a Great ship and I’m happy I made you ship it, heh. I wrote a little thing about them as,, thanks? And also because I love writing about them! Thank you again!!

Tolys notices the man the moment he walks intothe restaurant.

It’s mostly because he’s very tall, and hiseyes are the most peculiar shade of sea-green behind his glasses. It’s alsobecause he looks incredibly awkward, causing Tolys’s coworker to elbow him andpropose a bet on whether he’s here for a first date.

That’s a certain loss, so Tolys says no.

The tall man sits by the window, back ramrodstraight while he waits for the other member of his dinner party to arrive. Oneof the other waiters goes to ask him if he would like a drink, which hedeclines with an awkward adjustment of his collar.

When the long-awaited date does arrive, in the form of a man who is almost as tall and wearing his tie backwards, Tolys is the waiter assigned to their table, and his coworkers encourage him to bring them gossip. He smiles and shakes his head but does keep his ears peeled when he goes to greet the couple and ask if they want a drink while they peruse the menu.

Tie man is interrupted in the middle of a sentence that is either about a sibling or about an ex—and judging by the other manʼs expression, itʼs the latter. Poor guy.

“Well?” asks Tolysʼs coworker eagerly when they pass each other in the still-calm kitchen.

“I wouldnʼt start planning their wedding yet if I were you.”

He snorts a laugh. “Too bad.”

When Tolys returns next, ready to note down orders, the men seem to be having a pleasant enough conversation about music. Maybe Feliksʼs dream of starting a wedding planning business still has a chance.

Tie man is gesticulating wildly and almost slaps Tolys when he approaches; the guy with the glasses winces while he laughs nervously.

Orders taken, Tolys returns to the kitchen, and then goes right back out because more patrons are arriving. He canʼt help but pick up bits and pieces of the conversation going on at the menʼs table, though. They apparently donʼt know a single thing about each other. Tolys hears tie man ask for his dateʼs name several times. Itʼs Eduard, and Eduard sounds slightly exasperated after the third time heʼs asked. And that is only the times within Tolysʼs earshot.

Tie man is talking about the ex/sibling again when Tolys brings him and Eduard the first course, and Tolys doesnʼt think he imagines the helpless look the latter gives him as he puts his plate down. He tries to look reassuring. He has seen this before, having worked here since he was a teenager. Besides, heʼs not a stranger to disappointing dates on a personal level either. Eduard smiles slightly, so he considers it a win.

He hopes tie man does too, because he really does have beautiful eyes.

Tolys hurries back to the kitchen with flaming cheeks.

“Did you have an unprofessional thought, Laurinaitis?” Feliks jokes.

“Shut up.”

He grins. “Hey, I donʼt blame you. Dude is handsome.

“Heʼs also on a date.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “a terrible one. Guyʼs spent like a half hour listening to his date talking about his ex.”

“I thought it might be a sibling,” Tolys tries while he gathers plates to take to other patrons.

“Definitely not. At least I really hope not,” Feliks says with a disgusted look that makes Tolys wonder what he heard tie man recount. Poor Eduard.

Itʼs a moderately busy evening in the restaurant, but all the waiters are pretty involved with the disastrous date going on at table 19. Everyone keeps asking Tolys—and Feliks, whoʼs busy in that area too—for updates.

He can tell them that tie man—the name catches on—kept showing Eduard pictures of something he obviously didnʼt have the slightest interest in, then kept looking at his phone afterwards, and that during the meal itself, he choked on something because he was laughing at a joke he told himself and hit Eduard with stray steak he spit out.

Itʼs kind of funny, but Tolys feels for Eduard.

When he goes to check on their table, tie man is gone, and Eduard is poking at his still mostly-full plate forlornly.

“Sir, is everything according to your wishes?” Tolys asks, and the man startles, looking up.

“It is now,” he says, inclining his head at the empty seat across the table. And then, “No, sorry, that was mean. The food is great, thank you.”

“Iʼm glad.” Tolys should go now, but he shifts his weight from one foot to another while Eduard looks up at him questioningly. “And to your companionʼs wishes as well?”

“I expect so. He seems to be enjoying himself, at least.” He smiles wryly and casts a glance at the door to the bathroom. “Iʼm not sure why my brother thought weʼd be a good match. Sorry. Iʼm sorry, you donʼt need to know that.”

Tolys shakes his head. “Donʼt worry about it. Iʼve been there. My own brother has terrible ideas as well.”

“Gotta love your siblings. Not that I think heʼs a terrible guy, my date,” Eduard hastens to say. “We could be friends, but, well… He seems a little hung up on someone else at the moment. And I donʼt get his humor and it is so tiring. Sorry.”

“Honestly, itʼs fine.” Tolys glances over his shoulder and pushes some hair that has escaped from his ponytail away from his face. “Iʼll be honest, youʼre the talk of the evening among the waiters.”

Promptly, Eduard flushes a bright red that makes his light hair seem almost white, and Tolys canʼt help but smile at it.

“If it helps, we all feel pretty sorry for you.”

“I feel sorry for myself too,” he mumbles. “And I donʼt even have anyone who can call me and fake an emergency to get me out of here, because my siblings have no sense of loyalty.”

Without thinking about it, Tolys says, “I could do that.”

Eduard looks up at him with those turquoise eyes, and Tolys looks back with his heart beating in his throat. Why did he say that? That is the last thing he should have said. He opens his mouth to apologize, but is forestalled.

“Please do,” Eduard blurts. Then, he clasps one hand over his mouth and adjusts his glasses with the other.

“I…” Tolys doesnʼt know what to say.

“I am serious. I think. Yes. I am.”

“Alright,” he just says, because what else can he do. When Eduard starts patting down his pockets for something to write on, Tolys hands him the notebloc he uses to take down orders, biting his lip when the man smiles gratefully. Eduard scribbles something down in kind, rounded letters.

“Thereʼs my phone number.” He glances at the bathroom door again. No sign of tie man. “Iʼm Eduard, by the way.”

“Well, I hope I can help. Iʼm Tolys.”

“Thatʼs a beautiful name.” He blinks, adjusts his glasses again, and averts his eyes. “Just, I donʼt know, pretend somethingʼs wrong with my dog?”

“Oh, you have a dog?”

“Yes! Heʼs just a puppy.” Eduard seems to be on the verge of pulling out his phone and showing Tolys a picture, which he would be more than happy to look at—the only reason he doesnʼt have a dog is because his building has a no-pet policy—when he suddenly straightens and casts a meaningful look in the direction of the bathroom.

And sure enough, tie man comes back. He has re-knotted his tie so that itʼs the right way around. Was that what was taking him so long?

“Hello, sir,” Tolys greets him. “I was just informing if everything is according to your wishes.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning, and then he launches into a story about a place he used to go without sparing a further thought for Tolys, it seems, so Tolys returns to his job. Wasting time is not appreciated.

When he gets back to the kitchen in a quiet moment, about ten minutes have passed and Feliks keeps throwing him looks that promise an interrogation. He quickly shoots into the back room, fishes his phone out of his bag, and punches in the number Eduard has given him.

With a deep breath, he presses call.

“Eduard Mets,” comes Eduardʼs voice after a few rings.

“Hello, uh, Mr Mets.” Tolys swallows. “This is… Tolys Laurinaitis from the… Something with animals, probably.”

“Did something happen?” Eduard asks, playing along great. Better than Tolys is doing.

“Your dog, uh, attempted to fight a cat? The cat won. It isnʼt looking very great, sir. Would it be possible for you to come take a look?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he replies, sounding honestly distressed, which Tolys finds impressive because heʼs sure he would most likely have started laughing. “I will be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. Iʼm sure your dog is grateful.”

“Thank you as well.” He sounds sincere. Tolys bites his lip and smiles as he presses the end call button.

Feliks is leaning against the doorpost with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised when he looks up.

“Shut up,” Tolys says, and he just laughs.

Sure enough, Eduard is gone when Tolys goes back out. He seems to have left some money for his date to pay with, though. Tolys does feel a little bad for the man and decides to offer him a cup of coffee on the house. Maybe heʼll come back for another date when heʼs over his ex for real.

When Tolysʼs shift is over, there is a notification of a new message on his phone. Itʼs from a number with no contact attached, but he recognizes it all the same and smiles when the message contains a picture of the tiniest, fluffiest white puppy he has ever seen and a short message.

Hello Tolys, and thank you again. This is Helicopter Pilot (my brother named him). He's fine! If you want, would you like to meet him? We could have dinner to make up for tonight. Let me know. Eduard

Tolys bites his lower lip to fight down his grin—ineffectively.

That sounds great. I know a good restaurant. Can vouch for the waiters too! Tolys

His phone beeps seconds later.

I can't wait.

“So,” Feliks says loudly, from the shadows of the back room, “can I start planning a wedding now?

#things written out of gratitude #pt 2 #estliet #Phyripo writes things #most best #anonymous #quaestiones #aaaaa

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