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sitting at a park bench ~ trystan x nora (crimes of passion)
wc: 740 | no warnings, general audiences
a/n: Nora and Trystan bid a permanent farewell. That's it. That's the story. Takes place canonically - book 1, ch 18
written for @choicesaprilchallenge24 prompt - 'keep quiet'. It's more of a general theme in the story. the title is based off a simon and garfunkel song - 'old friends'.
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The area near the taxiway was eerily quiet that day. Ruby and Luke had offered their goodbyes earlier; perhaps to give Nora some time alone with Trystan or maybe it was just really a kind gesture, as everyone knew Nora made the grandest of speeches about fifteen minutes before the flight could take off. They saw a few of Trystan’s luggages enter the plane; mostly suitcases. Nora could see the flicker of anxiety he had. He kept playing with a ring on his finger, counting the amount of times he spun it.
They didn’t need to exchange a lot of words.
Nora asked him if he’d been attending his physio appointments. Trystan responded with a hum back, saying he’d been much better. The scar to his stomach was still bandaged.
Trystan asked her if she’d been taking her medications. Rib fractures were no joke. Nora corrected him by saying the worst of her injuries had passed and it wasn’t a fracture at all, in the first place. She carried painkillers in her coat pocket.
They talked some more. Mostly about Trystan readjusting back to his old life. He joked about how everyone would line up to avail the agency’s services, and yet refused to take any of the credit. “Isn’t like me.” he’d said, to which Nora retorted, “Good, there might be some humility left in you after all.”
Both of them had the same thing stuck in their throat. Only difference was Nora used her silence to say the quiet part out loud and Trystan bluntly stated it without any hesitation.
“I wish I didn’t have to go sooner,” he said. “The city has been good to me.”
“Right. Yeah. It isn’t going to go anywhere.”
Trystan chuckled.
“I hope I didn’t say anything wrong.”
“No - no it’s -- it’s a very reassuring thing to say - very grounded. There is a phrase in my language that means something like that. It isn’t going anywhere.”
“What is it?”
Trystan peered at a distance. “Funny.” - he shrugged, scratching his chin. “Must have forgotten it. It is okay. I will remember it when it strikes me.”
Nora asked him how he’d feel about the scar becoming permanent. Trystan gave her a similar shrug. In a while he’d forget how it even happened. Just some sort of a memory somewhere, bit foggy to put it into a picture. He might remember a few things. A dog, a park bench, the distinct taste of an avocado bagel. Nothing much. Likewise you could count on Nora to remember a pasta recipe or a familiar taste of white wine. She’d start telling a story, somewhere to a couple of friends who were willing to keep her company - “I remember when-” and trail off, because she wouldn’t really remember much of it. Fickle was the nature of the human memory and greater was the urge to suppress anything vaguely distressing.
Trystan’s personal assistant gave him a tap on the shoulder. He gave her a firm nod, turning back to Nora. A gust of wind combed through his hair that he didn’t bother retouching.
He hugged her goodbye. She gave him a curt nod on his way up to the plane.
They had plenty of opportunities to say goodbye. Some could have involved the other holding them in their arms; trying to breathe life back into them. This was a better way to say their thank-yous and byes. More constructive. Felt more real. Trystan could go home now; scrub off the blood from his fingernails. Nora could do the same. Their little painkillers and physiotherapy appointments might just work out.
Neither of them wanted to say the real, quiet part out loud, but they didn’t need to. There was a mutual understanding. They could truly say goodbye now.
“Nora!” he turned around, “Let’s keep in touch, okay?”
Both of them knew it was a lie anyway. They’d talk for a while, give up and move on. And yet, she nodded. “Perhaps -- we will see each other sometime soon.”
A small smile danced on Trystan’s lips. “See you, then.”
Both of them knew it was a lie. Just to make it a little better for the other.
Nora stepped away from the tarmac, watching the plane taxi down the runway until it reached the busy, cloudy skies. Hands in her pockets, she walked back once again, melting into a more crowded airport - taking comfort in a familiar commotion of noises.
____
a/n: is this a cheap shot at an april fool's joke? probably lmao, but i am so tempted to make this canon.
tagging some people! if you want to be removed from the drabble tag list, please let me know <3
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter @dutifullynuttywitch
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Lofi Beats To Supress Your Anxiety To ~ nora rose, mafalda ginovesi (crimes of passion)
wc: 744, teen and up
a/n: kind of a follow-up to Starting Somewhere... this follows Nora's first day at work - especially the morning before. Tagging @choicesmonthlychallenge march 2024, prompt "awakening"
this is also a drabble I'd planned to write for this gorgeous piece @lilyoffandoms drew for Nora, but I never got to finishing it (or have it go somewhere) and I finally did lmao.
___
“Take that thing off, you’re going to work, yeah?” Uncle Tommy plucked her sunglasses from Nora’s eyes only to find a pair of tired, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. “Never mind.” he pushed it back up the bridge of her nose.
“Sorry, I didn’t sleep all last night.” Nora reached for a shot glass on the counter, poured a bit of coffee from the pot that was brewing for espresso martinis and took a glass. The burning liquid jolted her awake. “New job and all. I was Googling work-appropriate attire.”
“Mafalda’s an old friend. Take it easy.” he insisted. “Also what do you mean you didn’t sleep all night?”
Nora dodged the question almost immediately with a response about ‘hey look at the time!’ and took a look at herself in the mirror. She adjusted the rim of her sunglasses, covering up her red, sleepless expression and threw on her blazer. The green tie seemed to work on her, albeit her tie-tying skills being subpar.
Still, anything to wash away the image she’d initially given her new boss as an irresponsible disgraced ex-cop with an old drabby sweater on that reeked of alcohol. She ensured to get every inch of her skin cleaned free of dirt, took caffeine pills, had her keys in a jumbled order, a resume stuffed in her pocket and was ready to go. Even before Tommy could wish her goodbye, she’d stormed out of the door.
She pulled out the address for the Agency on her way to the bus stop, familiarizing herself with the direction. Once the bus rolled down, she got in along with her co-passengers, found a seat by the window and took it. Messenger bag tightly clasped to her chest, head put down, the aura of ‘hey, don’t mess with me’ and yet, somehow deeply deeply afraid. She felt like an animatronic puppet being controlled by whatever new it was that fell on her lap. Granted she wouldn’t be doing much, just filling in a desk clerk’s shoes until she got good enough for a private investigator license - intern’s work in her late twenties.
Nora had never had to learn anything new before. Now she had about a good week to cram everything in before Mafalda Ginovesi decided she wasn’t worth it anymore.
The bus passed by the burger place she worked at; her former coworkers, now strangers, which couldn’t be said for the people at the precinct. They were still coworkers, which meant every time she crossed that street, she’d pull a hood over her eyes.
Nora knew it would take a long time for her to scrub the dirt clean off her fingers, but even longer for her coworkers to go on one day without them calling for her ruin. If it was easy to become an enemy overnight at a larger establishment, suffice to say Nora didn’t share the same comfort as Uncle Tommy did with Mafalda.
Some people would bring their boss and their new coworkers a box of doughnuts to make the peace.
Nora got down and walked to a coffee shop across the street. Outside, a guy was playing a cover of Eleanor Rigby on the violin. She reached into her pockets for a handful of dollars and placed it inside his case. There was a sheer focus to his playing that he barely sent his donor a nod of acknowledgement.
Everyone else gathered around, tossing a dollar in, pausing to listen for a few seconds, before moving on with their coffees and doughnuts. The music was one of the many things happening in the air and yet it was impossible to ignore the silence.
She turned away from the shop, knowing she’d spent the last of her pocket change and crossed the road to the Agency. She climbed up the staircase next to a couple of out-of-place Brownstones and knocked on the first door that she could see.
She grabbed hold of her messenger bag, clinging it as close as possible and pocketed her sunglasses away. The tiredness from a sleepless night got to her, shoulders slumped, feet exhausted and a stomach fasting from the night before - it was no way to present herself. And yet somehow, Nora still bore a stoic face - ‘Don’t fuck with me’. Appearing confident when she had no idea what Mafalda was like, what her job would be, heck what she were to eat with next-to-nothing in her savings.
“Good, you’re on time.” Mafalda opened the door for her.
___
Tagging some people who might be interested <3
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter @dutifullynuttywitch
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"mama, didn't mean to make you cry" ~ trystan thorne, viktoria thorne
Before Trystan leaves for a second time, (this time willingly), he must have a difficult conversation with his mother. (Crimes of passion)
wc: 3k, no warnings but mentions of toxic parental relationships involved.
A/N: Yes the title references Bohemian Rhapsody, which I hc is Trystan's favourite song that resonates with him the most. Well. Now you know why. Written for @choicesmonthlychallenge - prompt: "cyclamen flower" which symbolises resignation.
Banner art: In the Garden by Denis Sarazhin
Trystan stepped into the large balcony, tucking his phone in with an email for the next day's charter flight back to New York. His mother had a flute of wine - a glass made of the most verdant material possible, studded with dripping diamonds and golds. She took a small sip in between her nightly watch - fixated on the spot in the sky where the sun had set.
“I am leaving tomorrow.” he spoke in Drakovian.
His mother didn't respond. She took another careful sip, but her silence beckoned Trystan to join her.
“Your father is very disappointed.” Mother said, after a break of silence. “But - he seems to understand. He thinks your American education has made you more jaded than usual, but he hopes when the time comes you will understand.”
“Is that what Father said or is it what you want him to say?” Trystan asked.
“He has been quiet but do not take his silence as acceptance.”
“Are you implying that I might change my mind one day?” Trystan asked.
“One hopes that their children will also yearn and fight for the throne as they have, in the past. But times are changing. The future is, as embarrassing as it is for me to say, uncertain and your sister cannot bear the precarious throne all alone. One day she will need her family and I hope she can count on you to not run away from your responsibilities.”
“I'm not going anywhere, Majka.”
“Don't give me promises you cannot keep, Trystan.”
Another sip of wine. Mother looked concerned. She had stress marks all over her eyes, from the days of sleep deprivation. She refused to show any sign of vulnerability, fearing her son might capture onto that to draw it out even more, like an expert weaver. Viktoria Thorne could hold up the skies and pick out the lies simultaneously, but she would break at the mere mention of her son showing her empathy and kindness. She didn't allow herself to crumble at his feet, to beg him to stay and let them move on as a family. There was no family to begin with.
“I won't. I'll come back home one day.”
“How is New York?”
“Well.”
“I hear you have new companions.”
“They are fine.”
“Refreshing I see, to engage with regular people. You must be tired of politics.”
“I think I am more honest with them.”
“Than your own family?” Mother expressed prudent surprise.
“I believe so, yes.”
“You must have a tarnished opinion of us.” Viktoria took generous sips of her wine. “Had you shared it with us earlier, it would have stopped all of this.”
“How could it have stopped all of this?” Trystan raised his voice immediately. “People still died, Mother. People -- good people were -- I cannot believe you would insinuate that my doubt is so large that it could have single-handedly predicted what Vasili would have done. Am I not allowed to have faith in us?”
“That is where the problem started, Trystan. You cannot pick and choose what you like and avoid the others. Had you expressed your doubts more clearly, we would have been able to forestall all these terrible happenings. Your jaded faith mixed in with your disloyalty birthed this tightrope dance we are all caught up in. And now -- it is easier to leave it behind, is it not?”
“Mother, if you think this is my fault, you are wrong.”
“Eight years in America rid you of all your responsibility. God knows if you will ever come home.” Viktoria sighed deeply, clutching the railing of the balcony to compose herself.
“Do not use my loyalty as a weapon.”
“Nobody is perfect, Trystan. It is you who sees everything in black and white. Perhaps if you had attempted to understand Juliana better - outside of your pre-marital squabbling, maybe we would have gotten somewhere. But, now isn't the time to look back.”
“Are you saying this is all my fault?”
“No. I didn't say you were an accomplice, did I? It is just that--” Viktoria took a deep breath, “It is always difficult with you, Trystan. Difficult and different. Perhaps it was me. You were my first, you see? A favorite. Unfortunately, it didn't work out so well. Might as well make some progress with the others had I given them a chance. Now nobody will talk to me. It is sad.”
“Lydea does.”
“She doesn't. A right-hand man, they all say.” Viktoria shrugged. “You have been gone for far too long and yet, I found it in my heart to favor you anyway.”
“The sham trial you organized did not do it justice.”
“It was a way to bring you home. I had no intention of hearing anything from the Georgescu family. It was merely a litmus test to see how many people favor you as I do. Clearly, not many. Jean Luc Everheart was a plant. A seed in a bigger operation and his nonchalance to making a strong case for you only heightened my theory. And yet -- you had to come home with so much faith in your heart while using the same tongue to condemn your family in front of the Americans.”
“They were my friends, Mother.” Trystan snapped. “And they had little to no larger role in the kind of faith I have in my heart as you so falsely imply.”
“Right, which is why you are in such a hurry to go home tomorrow?”
“New York.” He corrected her.
“Home. To you. Not a problem. I am not going to question your decisions.”
A pause.
“Detectives are seldom trustworthy creatures.” Viktoria began. “Let me explain. Someone with no nuanced understanding of a place, assuming a position of some sort of an advisor is -- appalling. I have nothing but her heritage to blame. The American dream cultivates so much hope and faith and this righteousness that your word cannot be challenged. Naturally, such confidence will make you fall prey to any school of thought. Your father was one such sentient being, with an education from Harvard. Prestigious school. I learned to never see Maksim the same way twice.”
“Are you saying that somehow Nora influenced my decision?”
“Doesn't a cat run to a patch of catnip? A moth to a flame?”
“A mother to a lost childhood?” Trystan added.
“You don't get to speak now.”
“Strange. I thought you favored me.”
“You’re more different than the one I raised.” Viktoria shook her head. “It was difficult, Trystan. Those years of your absence. I knew you could not be involved in Juliana's death. You couldn't have. The Trystan I raised would never allow for this to happen, no matter how careless and charismatic he might appear. It is saddening but what else can I do, but wait? What else could I have done?”
“I haven't changed, Majka.”
“So you tell me, Trystan.” Mother sighed, exasperated. “Those eight years -- I will never be able to scrub them away from history. Your father was of no help. The family was torn apart without your presence. I thought when I first had you, you would be a unifying idea. A goal. Now when I think about that time, it makes me want to scold myself for being so naive. They say it's important to look towards the future, but I don't know how far I can run without looking back once or twice. I cannot run alone.”
“I am here, Mama.” Trystan placed a hand on his mother's palm. “You know I am not going anywhere. I might have made a -- difficult choice, but I promise this isn't a withdrawal from the family. It is what I consider best for me. Best for us. Lydea had eight years - just eight to make Drakovia’s progress chart a linear course upwards. Imagine the time she will have now.”
Viktoria ignored his words of hope. Trystan's encouragement fell on deaf ears.
“You will always be my favorite, Trystan. I hope you know that.”
“I'm still leaving Mama.” Trystan swallowed with great difficulty, almost struck with disbelief that it was his words that supplied a hard truth and he could no longer take it back.
He could no longer afford to have regrets about his abdication, no longer could afford to be a human being who could look at it without the black and white filter. Who couldn't afford to pledge loyalty to his roots whilst critiquing the empire it had cultivated. Every word in Drakovian that he enunciated from the depths of his throat felt like his first foray into the English language upon setting foot in North American soil eight years ago.
“One day I might tell you about the plans I had for the country -- our family, had you expressed an interest in us. But - it is too soon now. I must let you grieve.”
“You don't have to be so understanding, Mama.” Trystan replied. “I don't think any of us are expecting you to offer sympathy, when we should be doing that to you.”
“No. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. My pessimism is not an excuse for you to take a somber feeling of disapproval back home. Your father wants the best for your future, regardless of where he sees you practicing it. I would know better than to defy his wishes.”
“I don't think Father has a plan.” Trystan confided.
“Hm?”
“Might be speculation, but -- I doubt he has a plan for the future. Something to leave us with. I could be wrong-”
“Yes. Yes you are.” Viktoria retorted immediately, squashing the lingering seed of doubt that her son might otherwise take back, only to cultivate it in the Land of Further Questions. “You are not the heir anymore. I assure you, the country is in safe hands. You said so yourself. Must you concern yourself with these matters now, given you have a cushy life waiting back at home?”
“No, I have a responsibility -- I-- You told me to!”
“I'm disappointed, Trystan. I thought you would have grasped your place in this now. It's remarkable how your previous choices have clouded you in this sea of comfort. It's complicated to answer your questions and downright insulting when you think this is how you show concern. To speculate wildly about your family and carry all the wrong assumptions home and make a fool out of everyone who has carried this country as their responsibility!”
“I don't think you can tell the difference between the country and our family anymore.”
“Strange. I think you ought to review your definitions. It would give your stuffy mind more questions to occupy with than questioning the legitimacy of our legislature.” Viktoria snarled. “Perhaps then, would you have left earlier?”
“My departure has nothing to do with the current political climate of Drakovia.”
“Of course. Perhaps you are leaving for love, then. What a privilege you have, my son. To love. To forge a new path for yourself, selfishly while everyone else burns the midnight oil. What a privilege it is to simply walk away, in the name of love out of all things.”
“If you want me to stay, I can stay.” Trystan grabbed his phone.
“You came to talk to me. You approached me with the question.” Viktoria shrugged, setting her empty glass down. She gingerly removed her rings, placing them on a tall table, preparing to go to sleep. “And yet you question your father's insecurity in his decision-making. Trystan, you have turned into a fool. You know only I am capable of telling you this, because I want the best for you. Give me a reason to favor you.”
“You're my mother. Not God.”
“Perhaps you need to review that as well.” Viktoria sat down on the plush velvet couch, watching her son obscuring the view of the horizon. “I am merely admiring the benefits you have. Is “selfish” not an appropriate word, these days? Can't I offer an opinion without being accused of playing God?”
“I'm always going to disappoint you, aren't I?”
“You always disappoint the ones you love.”
Viktoria seldom was a woman of generalization. Trystan knew it was a recurrent problem with him and his mother had just supplied him with a word of caution. Perhaps he should count his days before he could disappoint more people. Sleep with an eye open as she did. If it was so easy to let his mother down - the woman who raised him, who watched him fail at everything his hands could touch, who saw and did nothing yet hope and hope in utter silence, with mere faith in her heart that contributed to the rot the family could never move past from - then how long would it take for him to carry on and on, before he could disappoint Nora?
“You think too much.” Viktoria observed. “At least, perhaps when you come back one day - from your little pilgrimage to the West, you might realize things aren't so black and white -- now don't be so angry, dear. You are only proving my point even further.”
“Which is?”
“You know you can only show your anger here. To me. Can you do the same back at home? Can you offer your frustrations and be considered an honest voice?”
Trystan thought for a while. “Yes.”
“You're lying to yourself.”
Viktoria stood up, placing a hand on her son's shoulder. “There is a place for you here. Whatever you say or do, someone will clean it up. That's what parents do. A parent. A somebody. It is unlikely you will ever want children of your own. Then again, I suppose your dog is easier to take care of.”
Trystan's heart leaped to his throat. He freed himself of his mother’s hand, dismay etched on his face.
“I'm leaving. If you have some decency left in you, you would want to say goodbye at the airport.”
“But I don't, according to you. I am part of something unpleasant you would most likely want to forget.” Viktoria said, bluntly. “It must be easier for your Nora. A traumatic past is easier to forget than a model, golden upbringing that derailed a few many years ago.”
“Don't bring Nora into this.”
“I don't want you to lie to yourself, Trystan. It means I have failed as a mother. Everything I did, I did for you.”
Viktoria picked up one of the rings she'd carefully assembled on her table. The gemstone was a deep rich color - that of the cyclamen flower. Many had misconstrued it with that of a pale rose, but it was Mother who had sat Trystan down to tell him the differences one carefree afternoon. The cuts were deep, intricate, precious - the simplicity contained within the band, rather than the additional carvings royal pieces of jewelry were usually commissioned to.
“Keep this as a token of memorabilia. I would like for you to hold onto this and let it be there with you when you experience a change of heart.”
“You say that with a concerning amount of certainty.”
“It would be cruel of me to expect you will simply let me die alone.” Viktoria chuckled. “Go. Tell me when your plane lands tomorrow.”
She dropped the ring into his palm.
“And close the door when you leave.” she added. “Goodbye. I hope this satisfies your need for a send-off.”
“Thank you.”
As Trystan carried the ring downstairs to the inner sanctum of the palace, he searched for a sign of his friends. Nora would have been given a different room for accomodation or perhaps, had already left for New York on a different plane. He sent off a quick message to one of the palace staff to ensure the luggage was on board for tomorrow and one to Nora - hopefully she was still awake. He crossed the threshold of the court, the Drakovian throne sitting prominently in the middle - clean and polished in its entirety.
The throne drew him in. He felt the plush velvet cushion, the gold and silver - the seat that his father, his great grandfather and his many ancestors had once sat on before the throne was permanently retired; given a symbolic position as the permanent cycle of ascension. The throne represented a martyr, placed upon a land to pay homage to the ones that died for the land to prosper. Refusing it would be criminal. Refusing it would fracture him with a wound enough to have the damning curse of all of his ancestors on him. Refusing it as a result of a series of sinful acts, despite his indirect involvement would be an insult. Then again, refusing it in its entirety erased him from the country's history. Poets would stop writing in his name. His gravestone that his family had selected long before his generation would lose all meaning, thereby scrubbing him entirely of his existence.
Trystan Thorne would no longer exist the moment he got on the plane. His Mother was right. He would be nothing without the Family. His window for a second chance had long been shut off and now the space he had once occupied - the bedrooms with their drawings embedded into the wallpapers, the kitchens echoing the loud sounds of a prince who had merely wanted to help, a court with a podium; the acoustics a reminder of the most powerful speeches from the lungs of a child. All would be lost. And for what? For hope? For a new path? For love?
Viktoria was correct to question it.
And yet Trystan didn't have an answer except the angry drawings in the bedrooms that reflected a past he'd wished to bury within the walls. Except the kitchens and their clutter, the fear of expressing discontentment knowing that he was edging closer to the hot stove with every passing question. Except the lungs of a child that had once provided a country with eclectic hope was also the first to disagree with it; to look back at the words and despise it for what it had become.
Trystan placed his mother's ring on the seat of the throne. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.
___
A/N: this is my attempt to make some reasoning out of why Viktoria was the dicey character she was, because she was I guess, a lot more involved in Book 2 as a parent figure to Trystan? There was a lot more there. I just wish canon did something about it and put these things to rest but eh, should know it by now PB actively kills sequels.
Also yes I've been working on this for a WHILE now lmao. This was a concept in my head for a long time and it didn't see anything past the outline. Eventually I figured out how to knit in the symbolism and I don't know if you've noticed the subtle switch in how Viktoria is addressed. In the moments she offers genuine concern - or Trystan thinks she is, she's highlighted as a Mother. Where she supremely feels like a mother, she's addressed as "Mama" or "Majka" and in the moments she's well, not being a good parent, she's plain old Viktoria. I love adding little bits of symbolism in my writing! If you caught that, here's a cookie 🍪
I'm so SO glad this is out because this is just the biggest fic I had problems writing. Finally I can retire the angst train and move onto some other pursuits lmaoooo.
Thank you for reading if you've reached this far. I'm eternally grateful for you guys, because I doubt I'd have kept this interest far if not for the encouragement. Life has been pretty sucky lately and I hope some frequent writing might rectify that, take my mind off things and I really really appreciate you guys taking time off of your busy lives to give this a read. I'm super sorry if I haven't been responding to your comments - once again, I'm trying to cut back on screentime a little, but I promise I definitely will get to your lovely comments. I still eat them up tho lmao.
You can catch me going through old comments and going "holy shit people liked this stuff??" So thank you SO SO MUCH even if you're a casual reader or a reblogger or someone who's just yknow, in it for the ride. It means literally the ABSOLUTE WORLD to wake up to encouraging, thoughtful comments that makes me want to jump off the walls.
Tagging:
Thank you so much.
Perma: @stars-are-within-me @tessa-liam @thosehallowedhalls @quixoticdreamer16
Crimes only: @jerzwriter @ao719 @peonierose @cassie-thorne @moominofthevalley @trappedinfanfiction
#trystan thorne#crimes of passion fics#viktoria thorne#w:inlocusmads#crimes of passion#choices march challenge
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running on empty (with just your hand to hold) ~ trystan x nora
In the longest, most traumatizing moments in their lives, they search for a hand to hold. (crimes of passion)
wc: 3.6k, teen and up for strong language, mentions of violence
a/n: my rewrite of the aftermath of the stabbing scene as well as the final battle scene with the killer in Book 1.
banner art: embrace by Dillon Samuelson
The hours felt like minutes. The minutes felt like years. Nora felt dizzy, clinging onto Trystan’s body for consciousness. He felt like a lump of clay in her hands, the blood pouring from the other end- a sharp crack enough to sink them both in. Her coat was tied firmly around his waist, carefully over the dagger wound, and even then, the blood managed to ooze out. Trystan groaned, his head on Nora's lap, staring intently at the dungeon ceiling - his right hand hanging limp, dead without use and his left hand clasping Nora's palm with so much force her knuckles turned pale.
“We'll be fine -- we'll be fine--” Nora assured, but she wasn't doing a good job. Her phone was immaterial to her - the object lying several feet from them, the battery dead just right after Nora supplied the 911 operators the address.
A brief attempt was made to fish Trystan's phone out of his pocket but she couldn't do it without hurting him even more and hence, that plan was abandoned. Her commonplace book, the one she held so close was thrown away, nowhere to be found, slipped out of her pocket as she ran to catch him as he fell. Blood soaked Nora's hands. Trystan's blood. The place where the dagger had met his torso exploded into beads of red. Nora bent her head down against his chest, well enough to hear his heartbeat. She kept doing that, with bated breath as Trystan swimmed between consciousness.
“-‘m fine-” Trystan tried to assure her. “Only blood -- hf -- ever accidentally cut yourself in -- the kitchen?”
“You're going to strain yourself. Don’t squirm so much.”
“Hm- not planning to-'' Trystan nestled his head against her arm as a pillow. His voice faltered. “Hurts so much, Nora. Hurts so much.”
“I know, I know-” Nora placed a hand near the vicinity of his wound. “It's okay- it's okay, it's okay- I'm just going to apply a little pressure okay? It's going to hurt, yes just -- just hold my hand, come on- take a deep breath, it's okay, that's it - you've got it--”
“Cannot -- even hide it.” he mustered up tight words, a single tear strolling down his chin. “Hurts so much, Nora.”
“Why Nora?” she asked, hoping to use it as a distraction as she tore a section of her shirt and gently dabbed at his skin to clean the rest of the blood up. “Putting the ‘Detective' to rest, I see.”
“Got to-- know you better.” Trystan gave her a small smile. “Am I worthy of your -- first name now?”
“How is that possible, even? You ‘knowing me’ better?” She applied a little more pressure on the wound, checking to see if Trystan was comfortable with the change. She freed her other hand from Trystan's grip, picked up the piece of cloth to dab the sweat from his neck.
“Black -- coffee, two sugars, one cream--” he continued. “Sometimes you take it with two creams. Sometimes you -- don't like the sugar -- you opt for -- some other -- sweetener.”
“Who is obsessed with whom now?” Nora said, untying his shoelaces and removing his shoes so she could lift his legs up to get the blood flowing to his brain and heart. One arm under his knees, another finding its way back to Trystan's left palm.
“Clearly I am.” Trystan clarified. “Thought that was obvious -- by now--”
He paused.
“You tend to -- forget some things and write everything down in a book-- saw my address at the top of a page--” he continued. “Writing things in -- lists -- vertically-”
He tried to lift his arm to gesture, before Nora quickly pinned it back to the ground. She unwrapped his fingers from the tight fist they were in and he allowed it - allowing himself to hold onto Nora, his only stream of consciousness at that time.
“Okay you've proven your point.”
“Now -- am I worthy?”
“Yes, sure. Why not.”
“So -- nonchalant --” Trystan managed to get in a ‘tch’ before clutching his stomach.
“Don't move.”
“You must be -- tired, you can put my leg down--”
“It's fine. I'm okay.”
“Just hold my hand instead. Please --”
“Yeah, I've got you --”
Trystan didn't talk for a few minutes after, forcing himself to stay awake. His grip on Nora's hand slowly loosened, as his left arm hung limp as well. Nora quickly wrapped her arm around his shoulders, cushioning him whilst keeping his legs up in the air. Her shoulders grew numb by the minute - the pain kept aching as if it'd been there for years. The tick-tock on her watch kept them grounded to reality. While Nora continued to work, keeping him comfortable - getting rid of the sweat, fanning him with a pamphlet she had in her coat, wiping off the blood, keeping the pressure on the wound consistent, Trystan stared at her instead.
He exhaled a little. "Feels like a karmic -- payback for some reason. What goes around-- comes around.” he pointed at the area where the dagger was forcefully ripped out of his stomach.
“You - okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“Scar across -- your eye -- contracts when you are stressed.”
“I'm not stressed.”
“How long, Nora? How long?” Trystan grew desperate.
“They'll be here. They said fifteen minutes.”
“Feels like an hour.”
“It's been a little over ten minutes. They'll be here.”
“Not -- fine--”
“I know, it's not fine.”
“Just need to tell you -- something -- more of a question..”
“What? Everything okay?”
“No -- just -- just please hold my hand. If it isn't -- too much to --” he took a deep breath in. “Both hands. Let go -- of my legs. Hold my hand. Please.”
“You aren't going to die.”
“No -- I just -- I know - I -- am comfortable --” he stopped talking, sat upright only to let out a hollering cry of pain, grabbed both of Nora's hands and leaned his head back against her lap. Talking loud enough to drown her protests, he added- “Don't -- have to make me -- conscious, make me -- comfortable.” Less lonely.
“Stop. Happy now? Got what you wanted?” Nora huffed.
“Happy.” he smiled weakly, focusing on his slow, heavy breathing before his eyelids dropped down, the fight with his consciousness drawing to a slow end. Above the basement, Nora heard footsteps and with all her might, screamed at the top of her lungs until her throat gave out. Trystan could only see a blurry Nora, lunge forward and hear the sounds of her screams underwater as he felt like he was drowning. The warmth of Nora's hands helped him cling onto a bit of safety, eyes closed to block out the dim harsh light - hoping to wake up in a different room with more dim harsh light. Hoping. Merely hoping.
He saw Nora try. He saw her fight. He saw her scream into the paramedics' face for taking longer than fifteen minutes, he saw her - a blurred vision of her, being held back by the arms, thrown a shock blanket over her shoulders and gauze at her bleeding forehead as he was loaded onto a stretcher. He saw the sunlight grazing his face with a different kind of warmth entirely, as the ambulance doors shut and then he could allow himself to go to sleep one more time. All along with Nora's hands holding his own.
____
The hours ticked by like mere seconds, while the minutes passed within a blink of an eye. The greenhouse was up in flames, smoke surrounding Nora - sucking the desperation and the oxygen from her lungs. She can’t be desperate. The one thing she despised more than getting barbecued to death was to feel small while doing so. Feeling like a kid cornered by bullies, the dizziness steering her away and the annoyance too weak to morph into sheer cold hatred. She felt like a kid again, the words at her throat- extinguishing screams from her mouth instead, watching her father’s lifeless body being carried away. She saw it again a few days ago, Trystan’s own unconscious body being thrown into the ambulance, one skip of a heartbeat away from meeting a body bag.
Nora's arms ached, as she slowly stood up against the crumbling concrete. Tony Kowalski was a few feet from her, clutching the ledger she had run back in for. He seemed to be conscious for someone who saw his boss get consumed entirely by fire - likely with his train of thought derailed from having seen Mahra with his own eyes. Or what he believed Mahra to be. Nora couldn't bring herself to hold herself up with such unwavering faith, much less a belief in herself. It was remarkable how much Tony believed he could get away with it all, knowing in his heart he had the blood of Sonja and Bethany in his hands. How far he could go. It didn't make him any different from high school bullies that made Nora feel small. Feel like she could never get out alive. Would feel the need to beat her up, take things from her - take everything from her until she laid down on the cold chlorinated bathroom floor until she'd directed all the blame straight into her veins. Nora would never make the same mistake twice.
It was one thing to assume murdering innocent women would help Tony win points with a God. It was another thing to assume he could get away with harming Trystan, to spit and laugh at Nora for trying. To make her feel small for not understanding what he was destined to be. To throw her down on the hard floor with flames dancing to the rhythm in his heart, as he hovered the ledger far above their heads even though he knew he was cornered. He wouldn't be.
“We aren't that different, Detective.” Tony said, still horrified after watching his mentor - his blood and life, burnt right in front of him. Mahra would never accept him now. Nora knew better than to question his loyalty to Eleanor. “I know what you are. Did my research. Not too different, you and I. I was angry too. I still am. You think I want this to happen? No. Not at all. We both want the same thing. Good job. Someone to tell us that. Lots of violence. We won't stop anytime soon.”
Nora got to her feet, her arms caked with concrete, soot and blood.
“I'll make this quick.” Tony pocketed the ledger. “You let me go. I don't need to remind you of the consequences.”
“You're threatening me now?”
“You will be surprised to know even in the most uncontrollable of situations, I hold the upper hand here. The fire will die down. Tomorrow you'll wake up in a hospital with --” he paused to cough and shelter himself from the falling blocks of concrete. “-- pudding cups. Point is, it won't be long until someone figures it out. Figures it that you've got so much anger and hatred and will conclude you've never been what they believed you to be. But I understand. Feels like I'm the only person who will understand who you actually are.”
Nora took advantage of Tony’s stature. She charged forward, punching him square across the jaw. A tooth flung out of his mouth and he held his chin, groaning with pain. She took a step back, horrified at her actions. No. No. This isn't happening. This is not happening. Nora was not going to let this happen. The playground fighting. She'd put it behind. She knew if she didn't stop herself now, she was going to never let herself stop. First, it would be avenging her mother.
Walking back into that wretched hospital and ensuring the doctor who refused her mother care would be strung to death with his own syringe. Then, Dad. She would hunt down every criminal ring in New York until she found the right one and burned everything they held close to their hearts. Nora saw the horrific things she could do, a fleeting thought about what Trystan would think of her, suppressed immediately.
The schools she'd jumped through, because she couldn't control her anger. The deeply focused annoyance violently turned into hatred. Take back everything that was snatched away from her. Spend her thirties getting back the things they'd robbed from a teenager, the same way she'd spent her teen years fighting to recover a lost, partially-submerged childhood with photographs and campfire stories left behind. She couldn't afford to. She'd lose everyone she'd ever cared about. She'd lose her uncle's trust in her, Mafalda’s faith in her to carry on. Her friends would never look at her the same way.
Perhaps she wasn't that different from Tony.
“Jimmy won't be proud, Nora.” Tony regained his stability, delivering a throw that Nora effectively blocked. “Your father wouldn't see you as his own daughter if you do this to me. He'll see you as a monster.”
Nora's legs grew weak. She couldn't deflect Tony's punches. He kicked her back until she was thrown to the ground, the fire growing ferociously.
“So take my hand.” Tony insisted. “You know you can't fight. Come on. I'll help you up. You let me go.”
It didn't look like Tony was talking. The scared Tony who worked in the smithy shop. The confident one who'd kidnapped them both and thrown them at Eleanor's feet. It truly felt like Mahra was addressing her directly. Mahra, from the stories she had heard. Or so Tony believed, perhaps. Nora couldn't tell.
“Fuck this.” she groaned, holding up a pillar to get to a fighting stance. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, slamming his forehead against the pillar. “Don't murder people, man. Not cool.” - she slammed his head again, pushing his shoulders as hard as she could until he fell flat on the floor.
Quickly, she unbuckled her belt, making it into a pair of handcuffs and grabbed the ledger along the way - taking advantage of Tony’s state of affairs. But somehow he'd regained strength, using his elbows to dig into her teeth as hard as he could- the blood pouring from the corner of her teeth. A large slab of the ceiling above, nearly missed Nora’s back by a few inches, as she hurriedly stuffed in the ledger and tried her best to not lose consciousness in the smoke. Both of them were too tired to fight, too exhausted to even ball their fists to produce enough strength. Tony had to be supported, a fresh bruise against his forehead and a likely concussion rendering him unfit to get up.
He'd try to kill Trystan. Nora reminded himself again and again, coughing until her lungs were exhausted. The blood from Tony's bruises soaked her hands entirely; crimson red dripping from her teeth. Another slab of concrete fell right into the crook of her elbow, the weight would have fractured it entirely, but Nora kept going on. One arm against Tony, pushing him through a clear path against the fire - a man who never deserved forgiveness being pushed away from the destruction while she, someone who was forgiven way too quickly, voluntarily crossed herself with danger because of course, it had to be that way.
Of course what goes around comes around. Of course, one day, she would get what she'd deserved - the horror she'd unleashed on unsuspecting classmates because their warm personality didn't reflect their cruel tongues dripping with vitriol. Of course her father wouldn't accept her at all. The dead didn't speak, but they didn't need words to pass on messages of disapproval. Nora wanted to weep. She wanted to apologise until the words stopped and the horrified screams reminded of her murderous, contemptuous past.
And yet, she kept her shit together. For now. Whatever Tony babbled in between consciousness was immaterial.
Finally, they made it out of the fire. Nora could see, from the corner of her smoke-singed eyeballs, dozens of police cars. Ruby hollered at the medics over the phone. Luke scrambled to alert Captain Thompson and Trystan charged towards her as fast as his legs could carry him. He’d thrown away the shock blanket, a certain limp to his running from the wound he’d taken a few nights ago.
Nora had Tony pressed against a broken patch of wall. She held him by his collars, cornering him as he tried to squirm. She used all her strength to stare dead into his eyes, the hatred from before - the feeling of helplessness, of lightweightedness and the smoke all leaving a clear picture right before her. Tony hurled insults at her - at her dead mother and father, at her piss-pathetic existence, at her excuse of a job, telling her she was better off under the ground, that the hell she rained upon people back then, was now back to haunt her yet again.
That Tony would never rest until she got to see her own work, her beloved people, herself burn. That whichever prison he went to, he’d made sure he got out to come back and finish the job. That he’d made a dangerous enemy. He thought of everything that could push her off the edge and ensured she fell down, but Nora didn’t budge. She stared at him, the anger pulsing through her veins. She saw, from the corner of her eyes, a desperate Trystan telling her to stop, to let go, to tell her help had arrived and she could rest now-
“You stabbed my partner.” Nora refused to let go of Tony’s collars.
“Nora, let go!”
“Nora, no, go on. Go on.” Tony gave her a bloodied smile, even though he couldn’t have anticipated it.
Nora used the last of her strength, lifting him just enough into the air and slammed him as hard as she could against the ground. He hit the back of his head with an audible thud. She grabbed a piece of fallen wood from a tree and prepared to hit it against his face as hard as possible, bringing it down with her eyes closed entirely - only to feel its impact on Trystan’s clasped hands.
“Stop! STOP!” Trystan hollered. He yanked the branch away from her, enveloping her into a tight embrace. “Hey -- hey-- it is okay -- someone! Someone get a blanket!”
Captain Thompson’s fleet of cops took care of Tony immediately. Nora raised her hand to stop them, as if to say - No, I’m not done with him yet. I need him to face everything that he’d done himself. I need him to face the same consequences as Sonja, as Bethany, as Trystan. A flash of memory hit Nora on the night of her father’s murder, which propelled her anger even further. She yanked out of Trystan’s grip, chasing after Tony to finish the job - only to have strong arms bring her back.
“Let go Trystan - let go -- he murdered people --”
Nora’s legs finally gave out, as she crumpled into the ground, resting her head on Trystan’s lap. Tears flew like a waterfall and a glimpse at her own hands sent her mourning what she’d lost today. What she’d lost now. A shot at being forgiven. Tony’s blood along with the powdered mud under her nails - no matter what she cleaned them with, she was never going to get rid of it. A part of her wanted it to happen.
To embrace it entirely. To get it in her head it would be impossible to move on and that the dizziness would pile up until she can never take it anymore. Part of her wanted herself to translate her anger into actions, despite realizing her father would never recognize her as his own daughter if she were to slam Tony’s face with the branch until he stopped breathing or hunted down Jimmy’s murderer until she got the satisfaction of putting their head on a pike. How different was she from Tony? From Eleanor? Would she be able to wake up tomorrow and recognize herself in the bathroom mirror?
“Hey-- look at me.” Trystan said, clasping her bloodied hands in his. “Don’t understand why the paramedics are taking so long, but -- you focus on me, okay?”
“Trystan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry- I can’t-”
“You don’t have to see it anymore.” he said, blocking the burning greenhouse with his physique.. “They gave me blueberry pudding in the -- hospital. Who eats blueberry pudding anyway? Birds?”
“Can’t --” she groaned, “-- lift my arm anymore-- I’m sorry--”
“You don’t have to see anything.” Trystan took her hands in hers, clasping it tightly so she didn’t have to look at the blood. “Medics! They’re here-- oh thank the heavens, hope you like blueberry pudding-- stay with me, Nora, yes?”
There was panic in his eyes and a sense of urgency in his voice. Nora couldn’t profusely apologise as she’d wanted to. Instead, she built up all her strength, “Don’t let me see the blood---just hold my hands, all right?”
As Nora’s consciousness slowly blurred into a mess, the last thing she heard ringing through her ears was Trystan’s desperate screams at the medics. The dizziness settled down, the warmth of Trystan’s hands overpowering the smell of iron and the oxygen finally engulfing her lungs. Hope put her worries to rest, as soon as she felt her life swim back after being plugged into by a hundred or so machines. As the prospect of a horrible blueberry pudding went by, as fleeting as her memories, the feeling of warmth in her bloodied hands refused to go.
____
A/N: thank you so much for reading! I promise I wouldn't write angst for a hot second, but.. it's fine, it's okay, it's a happy ending.
Tagging:
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter @thosehallowedhalls
Also tagging @choicesficwriterscreations
I may or may not have lost my tag list so if you want to be tagged or removed, please let me know <3 I'll do a cleanup as soon as I can to fix this.
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"one word from you and I would..." ~ emma x trystan
.. or how Trystan and Emma's lives melt into each other after they move in together.
wc: 1.6k | general audiences
a/n: So basically I got talking with @thosehallowedhalls about a recent drabble she'd written and Caro wanted me to write something for T and E. So.. I hope I did them justice lmao. Once again please excuse any glaring grammar errors. I didn't have a chance to edit it properly because I was too excited to share.
title inspired by 'first love/late spring' by mitski
Changes took time.
Trying to get luggage up two floors in spite of elevator assistance also took time.
You would call the first few days the honeymoon period. Emma and Trystan shared many slow morning breakfasts. It was an easier commute to work. The bags weren't unpacked just yet - there was still time for that. Theatre date nights- first class seats only to come back home and talk about it late into the night.
A few pieces of clothing were unpacked but for the most part, the bags stayed near the doorway. No. There were more important things to focus on. Mainly a relationship with cohabitation. Mornings with the sun gently caressing their face. Evenings spent curled up for warmth, until somebody woke up in the middle of the night to turn off the lamps.
There was always this certain amount of life that welcomed Emma into her new home. Whether it be Trystan talking loudly into his phone or soft “mmhmm” when she came back after a particularly long work day, there was something special about this. Trystan also had a skip to his step, as if he couldn't believe the penthouse could finally permanently echo the sounds of Emma's voice and the way she moved, a water's rushing pace but enough to make loud footsteps that he had etched in memory.
And yet the bags collected dust.
“You know, we should probably do something about it.”
“Where do we start?”
Trystan made her space for a closet. It all felt too much all too soon for Emma, of course. To get used to the height of luxury and have her requirements taken care of was such a whiplash from the survival game she spent playing even whilst asleep, in her apartment. A waltz, almost. Trying to get her things fit into Trystan's apartment without stepping on his toes. She quickly realised Try
stan played a similar game. He was careful to accommodate her with this certain deftness as of a gymnast. Constantly sandwiching his things on top of other things to make more space. Giving her enough room on the bed and almost falling off the ledge. It felt so new, so raw to him that it didn't occur till the third or fourth week that there was still this distinct divide between his life and Emma's.
Emma took her breakfasts at seven or eight in the morning. She consumed things that didn't need refrigeration and hence they all sat idly in a forgotten corner. Her clothes were shades of red, black and grey and stood so far away from Trystan's, nearest to the closet door almost. As if they were trying to imply to their hardest of abilities that they belonged to a stranger, almost. Emma's coffee mugs were open on the counter whereas Trystan's sat proudly on their little designated racks.
There was still a very distinct divide.
“You know, we should do something about it. You can have the fridge- you can - put things up on it-”
“But you know I am already feeling much at home.”
“-- make yourself at home. And I would like to have something up there. Something of yours”
“okay. Okay. Sure. Upon your request.”
Trystan was good with words. Sometimes. Emma could only laugh at how flustered he became at how direct and awfully poignant he was being. He wanted to do a good job, as if he were some sort of party host. Nevertheless to ease his concerns, Emma pasted a little picture of the earliest photo of their partnership from her camera roll. It was one of them both taken by Uncle Tommy in front of the Drunk Tank. Both a little loopy in their heads following Emma's discharge. It felt good to put that up. Ensure Trystan was as included in her life as he took initiative for her. She would have gone with a Shakespeare quote but it didn't hit the same way.
Mornings went by great. Waking up to grab her mug from the countertop and milk from the fridge, a small smile whenever she saw the picture. And yet somehow there was this sense of emptiness to it. A little unsettling when she would watch the sun rise, baking the buildings in the New York City skyline from Trystan's balcony. It didn't feel quite at home yet. Perhaps Trystan was right. She'd checked off all the boxes, yes, but it was a lull period. The slowing down of the enthusiasm of moving in, coupled with the anxiety of locking horns with each other over accommodating each other's habits.
Changes took time.
Emma tended to wake up a little early. When Trystan reached for his cup of coffee, the milk wouldn't be near the fridge as it always would have been. Emma left her phone to charge in the study which would clash with Trystan if he'd ever been in the mood to get some reading done - a hundred missed calls and a hundred more. Trystan took longer showers, which greatly annoyed Emma. He had certain blanket preferences which would leave her cold and dry or too warm for comfort.
But perhaps they would leave each other a kiss goodnight everyday, knowing they'd learned a little more about the other than the day before.
Trystan now knew Emma got up early to enjoy some sunrise. She took her coffee in a specific way. She left her phone charge facedown, perhaps a little concerned about the sheer number of notifications from Ticketmaster and other apps about new theatrical adaptations near her area. Emma learned Trystan took longer showers due to its therapeutic value. He took the blankets to find a source of comfort; self-assurance and safety contained in the enclosure of a weighted blanket.
Changes took time.
“You know we should do something about it.”
“We are not going to IKEA at the crack of dawn in the morning.” Emma groaned. “I think we can tackle it if we just sort things out.”
“It’s -- everything is everywhere. And you said no to getting a shelf.”
“No shelves. We're tackling this from the ground up.”
“And I am assuming we cannot avail our penthouse’s cleaning services either?”
“Trystan. It's our stuff. And it isn't going to take too long.”
Every relationship has its own twist in the road. A turning point. Something pivotal. For Trystan and Emma, there had been a number of them. Never had they expected one such culmination of change to occur during something simple as a closet reorganisation. Suddenly the house had shredded its old skin behind to adapt something entirely different. Things were moved around, so one could find Emma's legal pad on the kitchen countertop conveniently next to Trystan's charging port. Mugs were no longer designated by ownership. Emma, under earlier circumstances would have never forgiven herself had she taken one of Trystan's mugs and yet there she was, on a bright Sunday morning, drinking hot beverage from a cup that no longer bore a name. That no longer needed to.
The desk she had from Trystan's study had a shiny new plaque on it. A gift. Emma. It said, in bright letters, almost informal. Away from the constraints of Rose. Mails were few and sparse and mostly went to Trystan, addressed simply as Trystan. Packages came by - addressed to them both and Emma's heart leapt everytime it bore her name followed by her address. Her address now. Their things.
And yet of course as well as things blended in together, they were still distinct on their own. Not so much of a divide that is, rather the simplest acknowledgement of their differences. Food arranged neatly in cabinets with one more person's dietary needs to take into account. Their regular cutlery and utensils sat on opposite ends of the same rack, optimal for a quick meal or two. Detergents in the laundry room came in two different colours and fragrances, specifically catered to Trystan's blazers and Emma's leather jackets.
Walls had their emptiness replaced with pictures. The ones Emma took had a distinct blur across the edges while the ones Trystan took had saturation. The refrigerator didn't just end with one piece of artwork on it, rather a collection of things they'd seen and pocketed. A takeout menu from a shop they really liked. Trystan's very first photograph of the New York City skyline matched with Emma's picture of the skyline from the balcony of her new home. Sunrises to look forward to. Sunsets to sleep soundly to. The pictures brought it to life, along with solid-colour throwaway pillows on the couch complementary to beautiful embroidery work on the couches themselves. A warm fireplace fed into, with a mantle on top with Emma's private eye licence.
It took eight weeks. Eight weeks for Trystan to convince himself he knew everything about Emma only to get thwarted with new information on how she preferred her vegetables. Eight weeks for Emma to convince herself there could not be more of a mystery to Trystan, only for her to want to keep solving for clues over and over again- at the slightest hint of his signature perfume.
“I’ll be honest - I cannot believe it took me such a short time to get used to this.” Emma confessed.
“Short time? If I can be honest, it took me longer to adjust to this. I felt like I had to somehow study your behaviour - to kind of understand what you like and what you don't.”
“It's been easy for me. You're kind of an open book.”
“I seem to be an open book but - perhaps it was just easier for you-- given you can see a part of me from my home.”
“That is probably it. I don't know - it's - it's nice seeing you in your natural habitat. It's so strange- you know? Seeing you here. I am almost convinced you walk out with a mask on.”
“Don't we all?”
“Well - I'm just - y'know - thankful and-”
“Oh shut it.” Trystan refused to accept her thanks, adding a little milk to her coffee just the way she liked it.
Changes took time.
____
A/N: Thank you for reading! I really hope I did Trystan and Emma's characters some justice if not none lmao.
Tagging my list here:
perma: @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls @tessa-liam @jerzwriter @quixoticdreamer16 @dutifullynuttywitch
crimes only: @trappedinfanfiction @moominofthevalley
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Starting Somewhere If Nowhere Tangible ~ nora rose, mafalda ginovesi
wc: 996, teen and up, warnings for drug mentions/usage
a/n:.. or how nora scored herself a job at the Ginovesi Agency.
___
Sometime in 2019-20
Nora did not expect to be high when she received a job offer. A friend of hers had told her it “cured anxiety” or something. It made her cough a lot. She didn't have any unexpected laughing fits or a blatant disdain for her life which probably meant what she smoked wasn't even good quality stuff. Maybe she was that immune. Nora wanted to care but a part of her told her it brought no use.
She felt like a kid when Mafalda Ginovesi or someone came up to the terrace after a conversation with her uncle. Nora knew very little about Tommy's friends. Either she was too young to remember them all or never been introduced ever. Probably he wanted to make a good impression. Nora felt like an unwashed wound on someone's leg. Heck, she'd scrub herself extra hard in the shower just to get rid of the stains on her skin. As if she could only be defined by her stains. What was the point, anyway? College ended so long ago. She quit her job because the job sucked. Might as well check off another number by being a grubby mistake people wanted to hide.
She tried flipping burgers and helping her uncle run the bar but with no avail. It wasn't going anywhere. Her friends took the money, listened to her talk about the restaurant industry and ran. Who were her friends?
She'd read every self-help book on the market from PirateBay. Everything told her “hey, just fucking commit to it” when her brain never really got it going anyway. Making to-do lists occupied most of her time and she'd cross them off regardless. Journalling felt like a waste of time when she could be using the book to write more to-do lists. Borrowing money from Uncle Tommy to get groceries felt like she'd hit a new low, so she'd gone to find herself a job which only resulted in getting fired on the same day. What was she to do with a criminology degree anyway? The NYPD were corrupt motherfuckers. Aneesa was gone. Nothing to live upto.
But at the end of the day, she could roll a nice blunt however impure it might be and just stop worrying. Stop reading those books. Stop purchasing motivational keychains she didn't need. Stop cutting her hair. Stop browsing channels and get out of bed. Stop eating so many egg sandwiches after a smoke break. Stop taking breaks and wash up the counter instead. The granite isn't going to get all sparkly on its own.
Wasn't like she had anyone to get excited about either. She'd take anyone at this point. Friends, romantics - the line started to blur.
Maybe it was just the weed.
“I talked to your uncle.”
“Right. Uh, sorry --” Nora massaged her head. “Who are you?”
She flicked the cigarette to the trash.
“Nice aim.”
“Who are you again?”
“A friend of your uncle's.” she crossed her arms.
“Right okay so -- what do I do? Get you a chair or --”
“I came here with an offer. Your uncle said you needed more time -- is that pot?"
“Yes. Sorry I'm not more presentable.” Nora sniffed, adjusting her hoodie. “Please don't tell Uncle Tommy. He's going to be even more disappointed than he already is.”
“Do you want to sit down?” Mafalda Ginovesi’s voice nurtured her to take a seat.
“No -- I'm not -- I'm -- fine.” She struggled. “Yeah. I am okay. So what's up with the offer?”
“He says you're in between jobs and you were a homicide detective down in the 53rd precinct.”
“And somehow I find flipping burgers more honourable.” Nora scoffed. “What about it?”
“I've heard of what happened and I want to offer you a job.”
“Wow, you do not beat around the bush."
“No. I am looking for qualified private eyes for my agency. My fourth kid was just born last year and I need to be at home as much as I can. Didn't get a huge response from the papers. Called some old friends. Tommy said you were available and had a decent record. Good education. Recently unemployed.”
“So it's a full time thing?”
“I'm swamped with cases. We don't get a lot but we do get enough to get by.”
“I've seen private eye agencies run to the ground. What's different about yours?” Nora asked.
“I started it ever since I quit the NYPD myself, ever since they learned I'm gay. Which is enough to say, a long time ago. Ten years afloat. All me. My wife helps with the paperwork. My four kids are going to need some investment.”
“How much are you willing to pay me?”
“This isn't a standard 9-5. You get paid for the work you do. We split it.”
“But I'd still have to call you boss?”
“I don't mind the flattery. It's a small place. Near the bodega that sells egg sandwiches.”
Nora shrugged. “Still going to need a licence though.”
“Can be arranged. I know people. Just have to say yes.” Mafalda said. “You'd have to put in the work. For now it's grunt work. Help with running digital footprints, compile dossiers, write up reports, take notes - essentially an assistant job. Once you get warmed up we move on. I'm giving you a chance. Don't fuck it up.”
“All right, all right, sit down, jeez.”
“I am sitting down.”
“Yeah okay I think the weed’s already kicked in so -- I start Monday right?”
“Tomorrow. Your uncle needs you to get a job and I'm giving you one.”
“I don't need your sympathy.”
“No. You don't. But you need stability whether you like it or not. How long are you going to wallow in the what-ifs, anyway?”
“Yeah okay fair.” Nora said, nonchalantly.
“Get a blazer. Get a shirt. Trousers. Belt. Watch. I need you in the office by nine sharp.”
“Or don't bother coming?”
Mafalda stared at her.
“I’ll show up.” Nora sighed. “Close the door when you leave.”
***
A/n: Aneesa was the reason behind Nora learning about the NYPD's corrupted interiors. She was wrongly accused of a crime she didn't commit - became a scapegoat for an underground crime organisation. Aneesa was also Nora's girlfriend/situationship at that time which made the loss even harder when the former had to flee the country. To this day only a couple people know about the incident and Nora's afraid of making contact due to the fact that the underground crime ring might trail it back to her.
She also suspects this underground ring to be a key player in her dad's death but it's still very circumstantial and disputed.
Tagging @choicesficwriterscreations
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gridlocked ~ trystan & nora
Nora and Trystan investigate a case of a missing student, except they realize she might have also gone completely offline; her internet footprints scrubbed off as if she were never there.
wc: 2.9k, warnings: mentions of blackmail
a/n: @choicesmonthlychallenge prompt "new life" // this is the first installment in many case-fics (I'm back writing more case fics!) to come (gonna be very very original here and title this part one of the 'The Casebook of Nora Rose' lmao). This doesn't follow any sort of 'canonical' timeline, so take it however you will
In the cases of missing persons, it is perhaps more important to observe one’s bedroom - especially if they didn’t have a verifiable presence online. The topmost sanctuary on a list of them. (The list went: locked blogs, private social media accounts, bedrooms and boxes, in that order.)
You’d be surprised the number of times Nora found the answer in an unsuspecting drawer. A ticket from a school charity carnival and suddenly the kid is on the run with the fundraising money, not knowing what to do, knowing they couldn’t just give up and afraid to stay in one place, afraid of getting penalized legally.
Maria Palmer’s bedroom was neat. Mrs Palmer had put in extra care in the form of extravagant housekeepers to dust everything with its own scent. Everything had its place. The vanity kit never bled into the verdant mahogany desk meant for working. Books never touched the bedside tables, given their own places on neat shelves. Working stationary was contained to two drawers alone; the ink kept far away from the silk bed sheets.
Nothing suggested a kid lived there; even if the kid just so happened to come from a line of wealthy corporate magnates. And that’s precisely where Trystan came in.
“I just had a talk with David and Clara.” he said, entering briskly.. “They said they last talked to Maria over the phone when she was en route back to her boarding school. They denied any claims of her ‘acting strange’ over the weekend and were puzzled to hear the news that she wasn’t present anywhere in school.”
“But you call bullshit.”
“Obviously. If anything, Maria would know how to hide well. Part of the whole ‘being a part of a pressurizing family’. Look-” Trystan pulled open the vanity drawer. “- generic brands of high-end makeup, never used. Books hardly ever opened. Everything feels so -- new, preserved like a museum here.”
Nora’s phone vibrated with a series of texts from Luke. She picked it up, giving it a quick glance:
Luke: Sending you Maria’s student profile from Wellesley’s.
Luke: <sent an attachment>
Luke: No luck w the social media stuff, I suggest you look for different means. Girl’s digital footprint is scrubbed off.
Luke: can’t track her phone either. Tough luck but I'll keep trying.
“Must be one hell of a phone to have Luke not figure its entire schematic diagram out already.”
“Her student records say she was a well-rounded student with good grades. She started at Wellesley two years ago; transferred schools and got in on a soccer scholarship.”
“Funny. Maria’s parents never mentioned she took an interest in soccer. When I asked them if she liked her time in Wellesley, they said she liked to write and that the school had journalism clubs she was a part of.”
A quick look at the boarding school’s website suggested there was no such thing as a journalism club. A soccer team did exist with everybody’s names and accolades and while Maria’s name was emboldened at the very end under ‘reserves’ - points for trying out and having rich parents, Nora supposed - it still didn’t add up when her student records took her in on a scholarship.
“I don’t think we can trust their word.” Trystan said. “It is likely Father Palmer made a nice donation and they just had to get something on paper to prove Maria was admitted in on merit. And if I am not wrong, boarding schools pride themselves over obscure polo-esque sports. Hence, the field of soccer - pardon the pun - is open for anyone regardless of their skill.”
“They are usually sometimes right.” Nora switched her phone off, slipping it into her pocket. “Maria might probably enjoy writing. It’s the first thing her parents would have told you about her, right?” - she continued, off Trystan’s slow nod, “I don’t think they’re lying. They wouldn’t want us stumbling into this soccer scholarship. It’s good news for whatever press that keeps writing about them.”
Nora fished her phone out of her pocket. She handed it to Trystan. “I don’t think we’ll find any piece of tangible area to cover more than her bedroom. Can you do a sweep?”
“Right, because you think I am qualified because I stuff my poetry in a tree trunk.”
She gave him a you-dug-your-own-grave look.
Trystan sighed, hand on her shoulder.. “Word to the wise, go easy on them.”
___
“We called for carpenters when Maria came over the weekend. She had a bookshelf built for her.” David cupped his mug of tea, taking slow sips. “She was -- herself. Maria talked to us a lot. She seemed to be really liking her classes this semester. Very focused, you see? The bookshelf was a reward for her good grades. We try not to spoil her too much.”
Clara walked back from the kitchen, taking a seat on her plush couch. Her haunted look from before seemed to have dissipated. “Pardon me for asking, detective but - I have heard many things about your partner. He is the exiled prince, isn’t he? From that -- little city we went on vacation once and never again.”
“Yes, he is.” Nora answered, reluctantly.
“Thought I recognized his face somewhere.” Clara chuckled a little. “The memory - it’s a little finicky.”
“Did life get busy after Maria transferred schools?”
“Um- a little.” David was hesitant but hadn’t lost his temper yet. “She lived far away from us - we barely had enough time to think about ourselves because we were too busy worrying about her. It’s been years since we went back to Europe and even more since we took a holiday.”
“Must be rough, but - c’mon, who hasn’t taken a summer road trip anywhere, right?” Nora tried to make her enthusiasm look less synthetic. Fortunately for her, the parents were too dejected to notice whether she had an interest in the Palmers’ holidays.
“Maria spent her summers in Wellesley.”
“The whole summer? Did she have a project or-”
“We assumed so.” Clara interjected. “Guess we can’t trust our daughter anymore with anything, really.”
“Clara-” David motioned, as if he were trying to tell her to refrain herself.
“It’s true. She only came home for the weekend because she cared so much about that shelf. She doesn’t come home if there’s no little present waiting for her.”
“Clara, that’s enough.” David filled her empty mug with wine.
“I personally like to believe Maria would have appreciated the present. It is something she got after doing well in school, I presume? Considering you don’t wish to spoil your daughter.”
“No, of course not.”
“What do you generally reward her with? Might be a bit of an odd question to ask--” Nora started.
“No, no, nothing odd about it at all. Thing is, she never really asks for anything.” David replied. “She’s a good kid - easier to understand. We had no problems with her. She owned tons of books, read a lot, so we gave her a shelf. Told her she could customize it however she liked. We encouraged her to try out for the prom committee. Gave her the best dresses, makeup kits money could ever buy. We supported her journalism stint too - gave her the best camera possible..”
“Did she take them to school?”
“Presumably. Had she had the opportunity, she’d have had her bookshelf built in her dormitory!” David exclaimed.
Nora thought of the unused stationery, the makeup that still remained new, the wardrobe she’d only taken a quick look at - unsure what to make of the well-ironed dresses that never were worn. She thought of the books too, what Trystan told her about them - Books hardly ever opened. Six years in the industry and you too could tell if a book had been used or not judging by the fractures in its spine, forgotten bookmarks or creases on the pages. Judging by the parents’ accounts, it appeared they assumed money could fix their absence.
David purposefully fed his wife alcohol to keep her quiet; exhausted from having to project an image of ‘corporate calmness’ at his daughter’s disappearance. Clara had broken entirely; resorting to blame her daughter because it was easier that way. Nora concluded the mother and daughter wouldn’t have been the thickest of friends, considering how little of Clara appeared on the mantle of framed photos. One parent spoke highly of their daughter, while another shunned her every second they could get their hands on. Clearly Maria had different relations with them.
“Did she have plans after Wellesley?”
“She’d always expressed an interest in the family business.”
“Pfft.” Clara scoffed. “Clearly she had more interest in running away with her imaginary boyfriend.”
“I apologize.” David interjected quickly. “Please go check on the bread. Clara? -” he ushered her away to the kitchen, “I’m sorry for that. My wife is a bit of a cynic sometimes and this has taken a hard toll on her mental wellbeing. Could you give us some time, please? And if possible, could you wrap this up a little sooner? It’s best for Clara that way - if it is okay with you.”
_____
“Have you thought about it?” Trystan asked. The two of them stood staring out of Maria’s bedroom window, at the brilliant front garden. A few books were stacked up on the desk, but left halfway through - something that could be said for Trystan’s “sweep” of the bedroom that had hit a brick wall.
“If Maria is a writer and the parents believe her to be, you and I do the same, where is the expression? The writers I have met are expressive, are - really out there. Nick Bastion would take part in cult orgies to write a mystery book about the same thing. Writers are expressive people. If Maria had free reign to do - well, just about anything with her parents’ money and them willingly giving her everything, regardless of whether she likes it or not - it is likely she has already expressed herself.”
“But what is it? It’s not in writing. Not on social media. Nothing coherent.”
“The very absence of expression - can we say - amounts to some expression as well?” Trystan turned around on his heel. “The bedroom matches the walls, the hallways, and the rest of the house. Where does that leave Maria?” Trystan asked. “If she has her parents’ personality bleeding into her space? These books -” he pointed at the pile at the desk, “-are all from the Wellesley Student Library. They all have that slip of paper attached to their covers. She never took them back to her school.”
“Let’s piece together a timeline.” Nora flipped open the first book, then the second, third, fourth and fifth. She noted down the dates of Maria borrowing them and the dates they were due back. It was clear she’d brought them with her, but left with a suitcase lighter than usual.
Nora went back to the wardrobe, phone in her hand with the Wellesley website open showing her the dates of all the important events the school were to celebrate. Prom was only a few weeks away. The Annual Athletics Meet was only a few days away. All her formals hung limp in her closet. The smoking gun was finding a haphazardly thrown-away jacket with the Wellesley School’s soccer team insignia that had her name embroidered. Boarding schools might be rich, but seldom did they give more than one blazer to their athletes - reserves included.
Suffice to say, the absence of expression amounted to a greater deal than the slightest bit of difference among the gold and silver wallpapers. Maria knew her parents well enough to ensure she left her room in a way that would never reek of suspicion. After all, she was David’s little girl; Clara’s disgraced daughter, the Palmers’ spoiled child who always left with something more than she came home with.
It was a common unspoken piece of information at this point, that it was safe to assume Maria had run away. Whether it be on her own volition or through peer pressure, it was clear she’d prepared herself for it long before she’d come home.
Nora sat on the bed, scrolling through more details she could gather from Wellesley’s website, only to find a dropdown menu that said - ‘summer programs’. Curious, she clicked and gave the article a quick perusal.
“Trystan, do you have a copy of Maria’s student records? Does it mention she has any history of doing a summer program?”
“No- none at all.”
“Language arts, swimming, Latin-” Nora read off the course list. “It says that students who aren’t involved in summer programs would not be allowed to stay back in the school. The Palmers think that Maria is doing a summer program and that’s why she doesn’t come home for summer. And if you wish to stay back, you need consent from your parents.”
“But it says she’s never done them. At all. No mention of it in her records. Or any history of her staying back.”
“Everything - like you said - with her, concerns an absence.” Nora went over to the desk, picking up the books issued by the library. “No wonder we couldn’t find anything about her online. The books don’t have a barcode sticker, which means they’re not uploaded in the system yet.”
“The titles too.” Trystan highlighted. “New York Subway Guide. Perfect for a girl who is new to rapid transit commutes.. Home Repairs and Improvements. Worthy if you are taking a woodworking class. Worthier if you’re starting a new life. You get the idea. Question is, why did she leave them behind if they are useful guides?”
“They’re books.” Nora answered, which didn’t really prove her point.
She sighed, substantiating further. “Books are heavy. She can’t take pictures on her phone camera - no, unless she has one of those low-quality burner mobiles. David mentioned giving her daughter a camera to support her journalism hobby. Perhaps she could have taken what she needed, ditched the books back because she didn’t need all that extra weight. And it works out for her because the books don’t land up in her records. She doesn’t need to have her Google searches leave digital footprints.”
“It is a reasoning.” Trystan compromised.
“Another thing that I found strange-”
“Which is?”
“Her parents. Neither of them - in my brief conversation with them - ever wrestled with the possibility she could have been kidnapped. A sixteen year old girl travels alone. That sentence doesn’t end well in many stories. One could say it’s a likely response to trauma or distress but -- like I said, subjective.”
“We can’t rule that out either. The parents have their own differences to settle. The child could have been caught in the middle. Question is, if she really did wish to run away, why do it now?”
“It’s the timing. David said Maria was very excited to come home to customize her bookshelf. He said they had to get carpenters to work on the customizations. Depending upon the commission, furniture businesses usually insist you pay before you get a shelf assembled for you. Typically the package would also cover the costs for carpenters--” Nora searched the bookshelf for any signs of a logo stamped across the side. She emerged with a satisfying smile, giving her phone a couple of taps, pulling up the contractor’s website. “-- like so.”
“Nora I genuinely have no idea where you are leading with this.”
“She needs cash. She needs a nice check so that she can trade for physical cash. What did you tell me about Maria having free reign?”
“If Maria had free reign to do anything with her parents’ money and them willingly giving her everything, it is likely she’s -- expressed herself?”
A quick word with David and Clara only cemented this theory further.
“Maria told me to address the check to Harriet Trout.” David sunk his head into his hands. “I didn’t -- I thought it -- I mean, it was a couple hundred dollars--”
“Can we get an exact amount?” Trystan queried.
“A thousand dollars. I--- I should have checked, I-- I genuinely thought --”
“We’ll look into this.” Nora told the distraught couple. “We’ll be in touch.”
Wishing not to engage further with the internal politics in the Palmer household, Trystan and Nora took their leave.
____
“Harriet Trout wouldn’t be that hard to narrow down.” Nora said, as they walked back to their car. “A made-up name at that too. Maria would be avoiding getting her transactions on paper, so she’s traveling with cash. She wouldn’t have gone out of state. Last-minute plane tickets can rake up prices. She needs money for food and living.”
“We’ll have to look into nearby motels with cheap price ranges.”
“Somewhere near Wellesley would do it. If she hadn’t come back home for the summer and likely wouldn’t have gone out of state either, given her parents would know either way, she would have hung around in motels. Perhaps someone was sponsoring her stay through the summer. Ensuring she doesn’t have to use her card because her parents would come to know if she were to withdraw huge amounts of money overnight.”
“Do you think she might have opened up an account in Harriet Trout’s name?”
“Possible.”
“Nora wait-” Trystan placed an arm on her shoulder. “What if she didn’t run away like we assumed? What if due to this - sponsor, she was forced to go back and repay the money? But a thousand dollars would hardly cover two, three months’ stay. With three meals a day and transport. And that discounts your everyday expenses. It could be well above a thousand.”
“Maria’s father told me she never really asked for anything. It could be her guilt holding her back.”
“Think about it.” Trystan implored. “The sponsor would likely be more experienced than her.. Them telling her how to get the money, how to get it from her impressionable parents. Her father, especially, because they had a good relationship. It is unlikely for a sixteen year old boarding school student to do something like this if they don’t already have a steady hand guiding them through.”
Nora agreed. “The sponsor seems to understand her better than anyone else that she would leave home for it. Something that is holding her accountable somewhere. One which she had no control of.”
He continued. “After all, that is all people want, yes? Someone to understand them better? And they’re more vulnerable then?”
Vulnerable sent shivers down Nora's spine. She immediately took her phone to call Mafalda.
_____
Tagging:
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me @thosehallowedhalls
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter @dutifullynuttywitch
Also tagging @choicesficwriterscreations
Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged/removed, as always no hard feelings.
A/N:
This is *technically* my first foray into writing short mystery stories and I really hope I did a good job of it and that there are no unaddressed plot holes that makes me want to astral project myself into hell.
I want to bring out bits of characterisation in the story and I loved writing how Nora sees a problem versus how Trystan sees a problem. Nora's rooted in pragmatic explanations while Trystan tends to challenge both pragmatism and abstract-ism with a flurry of "Wh-" questions.
I especially liked writing the last bit because it kind of has them show a lot more sympathy than they originally started off with and both of them can kind of put themselves in Maria's shoes. I didn't plan on writing an end to this, given it would likely exceed 4k words and I did not want this little short story project to just derail into a pit of hopeless nightmares. You can expect Maria to have a happy ending, reunite with her parents and have Nora and Trystan be able to use their assumptions and deduction to derive a thread of a possible explanation to bring Maria home.
Thank you for reading <33
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Nora Can't Draw For Shit ~ trystan x nora, crimes of passion
A really really quick drabble I wrote with a half-baked idea haha
wc: 698; teen and up for strong language, you get the idea
_____
The after-party was in full swing and by swing, there were actual swings involved. You’d expect some sort of an orgy under such circumstances, but it was more along the lines of a fashionable extravaganza.
Trystan was ever so graciously invited, on account of his sister’s collection being put up on display and honoured. Suffice to say, the after-party was entirely for networking purposes. Glossy champagne, lush couches, suited-up beautiful people-- what more could someone ask for? Trystan had a list though. Tacky parties were quite right up his alley but this one was no fun. Not even a chicken fight over Uno, how sad.
He watched across the bar to find Nora who was caught in a group conversation. For a second, he assumed she was enjoying herself - being around people, so many people and their chitter-chatters about how much they had to starve to fit into a dress, their sad stories of switching between diets according to their fitness coach and oh the horror of giving up a specific kind of cheese because they were partially lactose intolerant - not fully enough to milk it (pardon the pun) for all its worth - as their publicist intended. The worst part was Nora didn’t even have a roll of blunt to help her get through this. Most parties would be kind enough to distribute them so she didn’t have to be sober for this conversation. Would help her relax her anxieties. Stop fussing over her blazer so much. Go through five existential crises whilst someone’s talking to her about etiquette school.
Trystan assumed she was more than happy to talk to people and go “haha, totally get you about those damn porcelains!” but he appeared to have misinterpreted her. Nora met his eyes and was pointing subtly at herself and another finger at the exit.
Trystan gave her a perplexed expression. What?
She tried to mouth her words.
“Kate Mihir is out of the -- eggs?” Also who the hell was Kate Mihir?
Nora shook her head. Trystan threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. She then proceeded to put her arm on the table, make a stickman with her index and middle finger and moved her hand across- in a swift motion to the exit.
“You need two more of what?”
Nora buried her face in her hands. She gestured her hand at him. Wait. Trystan watched as she proceeded to take a pen from her pocket and grabbed some rolls of tissues. It was remarkable how well she did so without earning people’s attention. She then drew a face, an arrow pointing at a square - a door - in the most horrible caricature known to mankind. The face was lopsided; the door was not even a door and looked more like a shot glass. She didn’t care. She held it up like a billboard sign. Trystan had to take a couple steps closer to see what she’d drawn. And even then, the dimly lit area didn’t do her drawing much justice.
“Erm.” One of the people she was talking to, tapped on Nora’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to tell a guy with blurry eyeballs that I need to go. It’s nothing personal. I -- really cannot have another conversation about porcelain plates. I just don’t care about plates, okay? I’m sure someone else out there knows a lot about them.”
The person gave her a disgruntled look before walking away. Trystan, still perplexed, approached her.
“Subtle stuff.” Nora sighed.
“That is not a stick figure. What were you drawing? A potato?” he laughed. “Why does that -- thing look like a skirt?”
“It’s a door.”
“Remind me to never encourage you to pursue art, by the way.”
“I briefly dabbled in sketch artistry for my precinct back in the day, okay?”
“And how did that go, hm?”
“Like I said. Briefly dabbled.”
“And what was that -- action? It looked like you were signalling the bartender for two more of your potato skirt shots. Potato skorts.”
“What is this? Be Mean To Nora day?”
“I read somewhere that honesty is the most valued trait among friendships, partnerships- among human beings. It’s okay, Nora. I love your potato skorts.”
“Stop.”
***
not tagging people cuz, it's a quick drabble and not my most polished work if that makes sense lmao
tagging @choicesficwriterscreations
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hello, goodbye ~ jimmy rose
Jimmy writes a letter to his daughter, in the off-chance he doesn't come home. (crimes of passion)
wc: 949; teen and up
written for @choicesjanuary2024 day 10: Write a letter from one character to another.
a/n: just a really quick drabble to get me out of a slump - both in writing and well, everything lol
Nora,
Everything sucks, huh?
That is a terrible way to probably start this letter, but oh well. Herman, you know, the friend of mine who bought you that Tiana mug, tells me I’ve got to write a letter to my family and friends just in case I don’t come home. It is no military, sure, but being put in active danger everyday makes you want to write a little something just in case the worst thing happens.
It’s not going to happen. I doubt you’d read this.
If you do, here’s some life advice for when you turn twenty. I don’t know how old you would be if you read this, but I hope it is an age less than 20, because then there’s no point to this. You’d have learned everything already. Still, life advice is why I’m here. Besides driving you to soccer practice and waiting for you to score a goal.
I do hope you get better at soccer though. Exactly why I keep telling you - do your jumping jacks.
Back to life advice. I’ll keep this thing short because granted if you’re anything like me or Mom, you’d have given up reading this. Mom never liked stalling for time and long emails were no picnic for me either.
Anyway, life advice’s particularly useful if your life is sucky right now. So I hope it is. Not like that, but in a way you could really use some advice.
One: You’re going to need to hydrate. Fill up a flask with water. Good. Stick with it. Water’s your best friend if you ever plan on not fainting. Also, way less damaging for your gut. Whatever happens - even if you are in the middle of something horrible, look for water. Drink responsibly, you know the rest. Not water, though. Don’t skimp on that.
Two: I did not think this through. So when you’re writing a letter - or typing it - think everything through.
Three: You don’t have to get into medicine. Any Ivy League program works.
Kidding. I am, of course, kidding. I would hate to tell you to ‘do what you love’ because if that’s the case, I’m raising a future gambler with all of your trading cards and everything. I just want you to be able to find something you have the drive for.
Not what you love doing, because that stuff changes everyday. I want you to be able to find a consistent drive for something. Not because Maddy or Tracie or anyone else told you to do so. Or randomly picking a job from a website. I don’t want you to completely love what you’re doing, but if you’re going to wholly hate something, you might as well do it more efficiently and not pursue that any longer.
Four: Money management is everything. Get a ledger when you start earning and keep track of your expenses. I don’t want you to get caught up in the whole whirlwind in your 20s and get a house and fill it with voidless decor. New York’s expensive living. Getting four jobs to ensure you come home to mahogany furniture is less than ideal. I want you to be able to sit out of the water, rather than keep your head up just to breathe while everything drowns around you. That’s a really good metaphor. The point is, don’t screw around with money. Get frugal for a bit until you feel secure. That a coffee from a cafe isn’t going to ruin your weekly bills. That splurging on the good kind of produce isn’t going to make you feel guilty, you skip meals to cut costs.
I can’t offer good advice on this. I doubt anyone else can either, so it will be a bit of trial and error at first. You’ve got to figure out what’s important to you. That’s going to take you a while to figure it out.
Five: I don’t know what the future is going to look like. I don’t know if you’d get a Secret Service job for instance, or if you’d get married or date or do any of that. I have no idea if you’re going to even say, move to the middle of a farm and raise chickens, but I do hope you know I’ll try my hardest to be there for you. Doesn’t matter if you need me or not, if you’re going to punch me square in the shoulder and roll your eyes, but I want to be there for whatever incredible or horrible decisions you make.
If I’m not there, well, pretend I am.
I’m watching.
Kidding. Seriously Nora, don’t do drugs. Not worth it. Not even a weed brownie. I’m serious on this one, kid. If I ever find out, the grave won’t stop me. Everything might “suck” now, but all you need in the world are a couple of prayers, three meals a day and a good movie. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is my favorite. I think your Mother would have liked that too.
Also, keep in touch with family. Whether it be in Hong Kong or right next door in New York, don’t give up on family. My biggest regret is that I didn’t spend time with my cousins or aunts or uncles growing up. I think I would have had a very different life had I just talked to them. I hope you have that too- any kind of support system, really.
If you can’t find one, be one yourself. I know you’re strong enough for that, if you just got your head out of trading cards.
Just be kind, all right?
Dad.
***
Tagging:
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter
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kindness and other things you can expect from your boss ~ trystan x nora
The quarterly honour-your-employees day coincides with Nora's birthday. Everyone wants to be 'best detective/genius' giving Mafalda a long overdue headache. (crimes of passion)
wc: 1.3k, general audiences
a/n: guys guys guys guys guys
the incredible wonderful @stars-are-within-me (I'm literally at a loss for words) with the collective awesomeness of Thia from @oh-so-youre-a-nerd gave me this ABSOLUTE BEAUTY for Nora's birthday which is, well, right now!
I'm still processing this surprise and it's like - I have a lot of thoughts but they're all "ghjkfdfvgbhjkgfdsdfg" so I have no idea how to make sense of "dfghjkjhgfdvbnm" and a lot of pillow-screaming. Instead, I wrote a drabble!
***
“All right, all right, all right.” Mafalda snapped her fingers. “Clearly the idea is to not perpetuate unhealthy working environments.”
“She means you.” Ruby whispered to Nora.
“Hey, I am perfectly deserving of the plaque.”
“You have been competing for the plaque since the plaque was introduced.” Luke wielded his power of statistics. “And have won like a lot of times already, sit down.”
“It was three times, man. You had a five-quarter streak three years ago.”
“C’mon, go easy on him.” Ruby insisted.
“As if you didn’t get the award like fifteen times already.” Luke countered. “I am very proud of you by the way, but seriously babe. You earned boss’s favor ever since you cracked the Darcy Lever and the Sunlight Films conspiracy from thumb prints across beer glasses.”
“It was a slow year for you, Nora.” Mafalda supplied, quickly subverting the topic. “Perhaps the award should go to, erm-,” - she scanned the room, “- the point is, everyone did well.”
“Are you saying my progress matters less because I happened to take care of myself much more in the last quarter leading up to today, and didn’t spend all that time worrying about work in a society that deems itself pro-hustle at the cost of everyone’s mental health?”
“Are you really playing the but-it’s-my-birthday card right now?” Mafalda crossed her arms, eyebrows raised.
“Hey, everyone enjoyed the burger combos on me, didn’t you all?”
Everyone turned their attention to Trystan who had his feet propped up on Nora’s desk, indulging in his first (that they knew of) greasy food exploit. “Mm” - he mumbled, taking quick bites of his cheeseburger. “Thish is one of the besh burgers I have ever had. We had a branch in Drakkos that closed ten years ago.” - he licked the sauce off his fingers before staring at the others who were staring at him. “What?”
“Just because it is your birthday that doesn’t mean you’re getting the plaque.” Ruby reasoned. “Right Mafalda?”
“I hate this.” she responded.
“See? Boss sees reason.”
“But c’mon -- it’s -- what is one more quarter? I just made a place for it on my wall.”
“Look, we all did really well these months.” Luke played the mediator. “Ruby’s faster forensic processing saved us a lot of time. I updated all of our databases so any new information is constantly added to pre-set dossiers. Nora’s gotten pretty good at -- filing, I guess and Trystan’s--”
“What? I did stuff. I did the--” Trystan snapped his fingers, trying to recollect something. “-- the thing.”
“You’re not being helpful.” Nora said.
“Good. I would hate to be of any help.” Trystan tossed a stray French fry in the air and caught it with his teeth. “The whole point of working as a private detective--”
“Consultant.”
“As a private detective-slash-consultant--”
“Just a consultant.”
“And a consultant-- is that it is independent of the trivialities of a cubical-shaped office. No Employee of the Month, none of that.”
“You have never worked in an office.” Luke added quietly.
“The point is- they matter very less to me. I am all about the work. And the fun.” he tossed another fry into the air and caught it at the nick of time. “Mostly just the fun. All right, maybe it is all about the fun.”
“Too bad because the award would have gone to you.”
A chorus of “What?”s erupted. Mafalda picked up the Best Detective/Genius Award from its permanent (now temporary) place on Nora’s desk and handed it over to him. The term was, well, outdated. They couldn’t have “Employee of the Month” considering everyone had unique job titles and it would be weird to equate forensic processing with on-foot investigations. The only thing they could somewhat compare was everyone’s role in a case and how much they were able to contribute towards faster getting-through-the-stack-of-files.
“Oh I love this!” Trystan read the plaque.
“This doesn’t--” Nora started to protest, but quickly withdrew it. “I suppose he deserves it.”
“Not cool, boss, not cool at all.” Luke heckled. “It doesn’t make sense, how-”
“It makes perfect sense to me, Luke. Trystan has learned a lot in his time here, he has used his resources for the good of the job, he is a valuable person on the team - on many occasions risking his life especially with his status as a celebrity-- and well-” Mafalda shrugged. “He is good at what he does. It makes sense to encourage a new team player. And I would insist Nora to give it out. Pass on the plaque from the former winner to the current winner. Ensures teamsmanship in the -- I’m sorry, my Lia just started soccer-- the point is, before I go off on a tangent, please uh, clap. Thank you. Do not make me do this again.”
Except instead of the room erupting with scattered applause, confused murmurs and Luke’s rebuttals just after he had proclaimed everyone was deserving of the award, Trystan pulled open the music app to look up ‘royalty free award music’ and hit play.
“No-- no you are not making it into a thing.”
“I am definitely making it into a thing.” Trystan threw Nora a smirk and unfolded a cardboard crown that the kind people at the burger place had given along with the food. When everyone threw him perplexed looks, he shrugged, “Only coronation I’d get to take part in my life.” and tossed his phone at Mafalda. “Take a picture for me?”
“No.”
“Please, boss?"
She didn't object further.
A good solid ten minutes went by with them figuring out the correct pose. Trystan wanted Nora to pose as if she’s handing him the plaque. Then he decided he no longer wanted a picture and insisted his boss press record instead. A few minutes went by because Mafalda had accidentally clicked on slo-mo and they had to rectify that and ensure the filters were all set right.
They also had to get the lighting correctly, so Ruby had to stand holding the curtain up at a certain angle so the natural sunlight could hit their faces right. Luke was tasked with fishing a coronation mantle out of the box of costumes in the back of the closet, but was only successful at finding a red bedsheet and a fur wrap-around, so that’d have to do.
Fifteen minutes later, with the royalty free coronation music playing its tenth loop, pictures were taken.
“You know what? I am amending it. Trystan shares the prize with Nora.” Mafalda decided out of the blue, because she loved being an agent of chaos like that.
Another chorus of ‘What? What?” ensued. A plot twist? An amendment to the sacred employee code? Can Mafalda (even though she is literally the boss) do that? Is she for real? Luke blamed what he called the ‘birthday bias’. He never got to share the medallion with Ruby on his birthday. It wasn’t fair.
Ruby gave up on the lighting and was arguing with Mafalda over Nora’s five-win sweep. There were shouts to scrap the policy entirely. Some (Nora) argued on behalf of all the present January-born 33-year olds. Some (also Nora) advocated for the inherent sanctity of the all-or-nothing policy behind the ‘Best Detective/Genius’ award - “either one person gets it or nobody gets it! We are not doing halves!”
Forty five minutes later after fervent arguing, with Trystan’s phone charging in the background thanks to the battery draining after playing the royalty anthem a hundred times, the five of them were able to calm down and think rationally.
Clearly Nora deserved the award as much as Trystan did - it was a slow, but rough year for both of them - and well, it was mostly just an incentive to get at least half the people to agree on something and piss the other half off, instead of going 25-75.
Mafalda hated divide-and-conquer as much as the next guy, but hey, you could only turn thirty-three once.
***
A/N: Okay now I can scream.
DFGHJKFTGJHKJLJHDGFSDGHFJKLKJBNVCXDFSGRTYTULJNBMVNCBXVDSGRYRDSXCERVTYBFUNIHNYBTFVDRCXSCRVDTBFYGNUHIKYBJVTDHCSHRVDTBFYGNUHMIJ
This is honestly the most thoughtful thing and like, ugh Stars, how are you the nicest, most wonderful person to ever possibly walk this Earth? It brings me so much joy that you guys show so much love and support to the actual gremlins I write about. Thia, of course, I just -- I just am crying at the details - the funky rings on Trystan's fingers, Nora's scar, JUST THEM, like it's just it is the most touching feeling to like have a piece of fanart that just *gets* your gremlins - not only the bigger details, but the smaller ones that just makes it so incredibly special - I just -- I can't, I'm literally going to start crying again lmao.
Thank you THANK YOU so much for this, I might have to be the Devil and acquire ten million souls to like repay this thoughtful gesture, it is just EVERYTHING TO ME, OKAY? Now brb I'm just gonna continue crying, screaming, kicking my feet in the air and just being the most insufferable person offline about it.
ALSO Fun factoid nobody-asked-for: I was meant to write a Heist fic y'know as a homage to Brooklyn 99 and the "Detective/Genius" plaque but then it got too long and kind of went nowhere at the moment, so I was like "why not write something from mafalda's point of view" so here you go lmaoooo. But seriously, I love the B99 reference - literally one of my fav shows! This is just so sweet, I'm just going to keep screaming about this piece of fanart for like ever and ever
Tagging:
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter
#crimes of passion#crimes of passion fics#w:inlocusmads#trystan x nora#trystan thorne x mc#gorgeous art!!#gifts from friends#by: oh so youre a nerd
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meeting at a crosswalk ~ trystan x nora
They find new favourite things. Written in the form of texts and coffee shop receipts.
wc: 678-ishh // general audiences
A/N: This was a quick little idea I thought of which fit a prompt from @choicesjanuary2024 , Day 14 - "Comfort"
Banner art credits: Ruby Silvious
t: what do i get you?
n: the usual, what are you getting?
t: thoughts on their lattes?
n: go for it
Receipt: 1/4/24 // 0932 Hrs
#0061 for Trystan Thorne
1 Medium black coffee, 2 sugars, 2 creams
1 Coconut Scone
1 Caramel latte, extra sugar
***
t: yooooooo, out on a run, the usual?
n: never start with yoooooo
n: yes the usual, what are you getting?
t: iced latte; they have rose syrup back on the menu
t: didn't realise they made you into a pulp, how are you alive
n: bye.
Receipt: 1/10/24 // 1427 Hrs
#0149 For Trystan Thorne
1 Medium black coffee, 2 sugars, 2 creams
2 Chocolate croissants
1 Iced latte, two pumps of rose syrup
***
n: hey, am working late, want to drop by?
n: okay you're clearly asleep, ill leave you to it.
Receipt: 1/10/24 // 2219 Hrs
#0241 For Nora Rose
1 Medium black coffee, 2 sugars, 2 creams
***
t: thoughts on matcha?
n: it's fine, i guess. why?
t: how much sugar is too much sugar?
n: trys, hun, you're going to crash.
t: fair enough
Receipt: 1/11/24 // 0820 Hrs
#0012 For Trystan Thorne
1 Medium black coffee, 2 sugars, 2 creams
2 Raisin muffins
1 Matcha latte, extra sugar.
***
n: help, they don't have black coffee.
t: GOOD. finally you'll try something different
n: what do you want?
t: i'm in the mood for a vanilla latte
n: seriously what is the appeal with lattes?
t: try ittt!
t: and ALSO get some avocado fudge pls thx
Receipt: 1/11/24 // 1940 Hrs
#0122 For Nora Rose
1 vanilla latte, maple syrup (> 2 nos)
4 Avocado Fudge Squares
***
n: vanilla latte again?
t: hey you have your thing, i have mine
t: it's my "usual" like you have your black coffee addiction
n: how do you feel about croissants?
t: yess
Receipt: 1/12/24 // 0912 Hrs
#0024 For Nora Rose
2 vanilla lattes - one with maple syrup, one without
2 Avocado fudge squares
1 Chocolate croissant
***
t: nora nora nora nora nora nora
t: how are you asleep, the birds are singing, the sky's shining, there's fresh snow, PEOPLE ARE LIVING and you are still asleep.
t: if you don't wake up i'm getting coffee without you
Receipt: 1/14/24 // 0622 Hrs
#0010 For Trystan Thorne
1 Medium black coffee, three sugars, no cream
1 Almond cookie.
***
t: i'm in the mood for some black coffee
n: am I allowed to ask what brought such a change?
t: no
t: actually get it with extra sugar, thanks
t: i don't know, guess i want to try something different.
Receipt: 1/15/24 // 1134 Hrs
#0075 For Nora Rose
1 Medium black coffee, three sugars, no cream
1 vanilla latte, no maple syrup
2 Almond cookies
***
t: hi, sorry, can't pop by the office
n: no worries, anything's up?
t: mags is down with a cold
n: oh no, take care. I'll swing by later with anything you need.
t: nora your presence is more than enough
n: so noodle soup then?
t: pleaaase, she's been coughing for hours
n: give me five
t: my hero
n: take care of yourself jesus, you're going to catch a cold too
n: you know what, give me ten, i'll make enough for both of you
Receipt: 1/17/24 // 1242 Hrs
#0116 For Mags Thorne
1 Medium black coffee, three sugars, no cream
1 Herbal tea
2 Gingerbread slices
***
n: hey, another late night at work
n: don't want to bother you, so I hope you're sleeping
n: also when you get this, let me know if you'd like some breakfast, they have your favourites up on the menu again.
Receipt: 1/19/24 // 2319 Hrs
#0297 For Nora Rose
1 Vanilla latte, two pumps of maple syrup
***
t: nora nora nora
t: kidding, i know you're probably sleeping in, as you should.
t: and thank you for the reminder! just ordered my favourite
t: give me a call once you read this <3
Receipt: 1/20/24 // 00518 Hrs
#0045 For Trystan Thorne
1 Medium black coffee, two sugars, one cream.
*****
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! This was just this random stray thought of an idea and I really want to try writing more shorter fics with an epistolary-esque format.
Tagging:
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter
#crimes of passion#crimes of passion fics#w:inlocusmads#trystan x nora#trystan thorne x mc#also formatting is such a b-word so if this reads weird i am so so sorry
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poster child ~ nora rose
For someone who has made it clear she wants to do everything for vengeance, Nora has second thoughts. Also, Buddha is a good listener. (crimes of passion)
wc: 1.2k / warnings: strong language, discussion of depression and self-destruction
a/n: I woke up and chose angst. enjoy <3
The empty room that hosted support group meetings for mental health illness survivors had this portrait of Buddha. It was one from a Buddhist monastery in Western Bali. Supposed to be all all-encompassing, all-nurturing with the smell of incense and talks about finding a balance and everything. Funnily enough, it was built exactly like a crossover between a church and a college classroom. The seats were cold. A podium straight ahead. An instructor to talk, between 9 and 10. One hour to fix all of her grievances in a proper ordered list, as if that were ever that easy.
She had enough battery in her phone to make one phone call. To tell them to pick her up because she’d fled the scene and now it was raining outside.
She didn’t.
“I’m not Buddhist, but -- I am assuming you’re -- someone--” Nora stared at the portrait, averting her eyes away as quickly as possible. “- who probably listens.”
When there aren’t people, your brain sort of configures this perfect audience scenario. To Nora, a perfect audience was no audience. One that didn’t talk over her for starters.
“Anyway, I had these parents, you know -- panicky people with no soul in them, because they just keep giving and giving-- and I want to be able to do that, you know? Give back. Because nobody is going to remember them. Nobody knows Jimmy. Who knows Alison? No, they’d be ‘who the fuck is Alison?’. Nobody.”
Nora took a staggered breath.
Breathe, said the posters around her. Breathe in and out.
“Look, I’m not trying to -- offend you, Buddha, but -- I can’t sit under a tree. My mom died of medical neglect. No. I genuinely thought I could become some sort of a -- medicine person-- a doctor, and just-- do something about it. But no, I was shit at that--”
Nora stopped herself. The blood across her knuckles sent a sharp jolt of pain as she dabbed her spit on the end of her jacket and pressed it against the wound. Her eyes were botchy and it was hard to see properly. The cheeks she saw in the mirror on her way in, were red and at the mere sense of touch, they felt like they could fall apart.
“Anyway, I -- my dad, back before he died, told me to be kind. He said ‘Hey Nora, I know you suck at everything, but do me a favour and be kind for a change’ and -- me with this-- was all a big ‘fuck you’ to him.” - she held up her blood-caked fists as if Buddha could see her. “Because that’s what people say. They say Jimmy was driven by vengeance, he got what he deserved and this was the universe coming back for a second shot at me..”
Nora inhaled a sharp breath of air. The walls seemed to be closing in. Take a brain break! It is okay to ask for help! Just ask! You are not alone! Self-love is the best kind of love there exists! Want someone to talk to? Just phone one of our partners! Love is love is love!
“And so yes, I wanted it to be a ‘fuck you’ to him, because I cannot stand idly by when I never had a childhood. It’s me doing this because there’s probably a kid at home, some thirteen-fourteen years ago, wondering what she did wrong. It’s --”
Mental health help is not a sign of weakness. You’re doing great! You have come this far! You can make it tomorrow!
“-- it’s all I have. The very reason I exist is because I want to get back at the people who wronged me. I have no plans, no ideas, no -- thoughts -- nothing. Just nothing. Mom’s dead. Dad’s dead. Where the fuck do I go? You tell me, Buddha -- don’t you want to destroy your life trying to make sure they get to rest?” - she pointed at the ground, before her arm hung limp.
“And I know that. I know. I have a friend -- Trystan and -- he had this epiphany where he sees the good in people. Even a brother who killed another. He feels for him and it’s this huge -- thing for him, you know, Buddha? Like he gets to show off his enlightenment because he picked a side that allowed him to grieve for the living and the dead. And he wants me to do the same. Stop going on a rampage. It’s funny how nothing changes. Dad’s talking about how you shouldn’t follow him and you do, and you find him dead. Trystan says it isn’t nice to beat the shit out of someone and you do anyway. This is all I have.”
Nora wasn’t good at anything. The one thing she was, and felt proud of herself for, was shutting off her tears entirely. She grieved. Her heart broke. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t afford to.
“I feel like if people get to know me, they are going to leave me. And I can’t have them leaving me, because I need their help to ensure my parents get a send-off. And I need them because they are my only hope of keeping myself --” Nora yanked her bangs, fistful of hair being pulled in, due to sheer agony -- “from-- me..”
She watched as the blood poured out of the crevices of her hands. “Dad would not want this. Mom wouldn’t want this either. And yet, I’m doing this for them, because deep down, I want to believe that if I die tomorrow, knowing they -- died knowing they did what they had to do, I would pull the life support off, myself. Do things on my own accord."
Her hands hovered over her phone. Uncle Tommy’s number came up first. Trystan, the second. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth -- all the way until the very end - Dad’s. Then Mom’s. She had no reason to save those numbers; they didn’t exist anymore. Their sims thrown into the ocean, their phones in a recycling factory somewhere, them erased out of existence and thrown into a birth certificate and then crushed as fine as salt. No heroes’ salute. No bereavement food, just silence.
“I just want them to -- anyone to-- clap my shoulder and say, ‘good job, Nora’ in the last moments of my life. This feels like it. So Buddha, if you can talk, I recommend you start doing that right now. Ha.” Nora swallowed hard. “This feels like the end, because -- I have run-- and talked to imagined audiences all my life that I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go on, hoping and hoping because -- this routine isn’t saving me. I am never going to be someone else. Just that one lonely kid in the class, no boyfriends to talk about, no girlfriends to get side-eyes for- on this fucking Roman crusade because I have nobody and that pisses me off so much, I start thinking if I punch someone really really hard and kill them, I can bring my Dad back and the -- Devil can keep the other poor guy. And I’m scared I’m never going to truly grieve the loss of my childhood, because everyday feels like I have always been that kid. That yearns for approval from dead people.”
The posters were laughing at her.
Nora scrolled through her contacts. She dialed Trystan’s. It switched to hold music.
“Will you recognize me?
Call my name or walk on by
Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling
Down, down, down, down.”
“Shit.”
“your defenses… Vanity and security, ah.”
She clicked her phone off, studying the poster straight above the Buddha.
Don’t forget to take care of yourself!
***
A/N: the song is 'don't you forget about me' by simple minds. I hope you enjoyed this!
The sheer audacity of Nora to discuss death with Buddha is just everything to me. I love her so much.
I'm so glad this is done, lmao. I have been working on this for a solid 3 days. It went from 4k words to 1.2k and I am the happiest I can possibly be.
perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam @stars-are-within-me
crimes: @trappedinfanfiction @ao719 @cassie-thorne @peonierose @moominofthevalley @jerzwriter @thosehallowedhalls
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aeruilir ~ killian clawthorne
Killian meets Ittar and Bakshi and they're positively perplexed. (Takes place after Blades Book 2.)
wc: 2.3k, general audiences
written for @choicespride Aromantic Week and @choicesfebruary2024 - philantia.
a/n: killian, my blades mc is aromantic and asexual (or a 'nilvalir' in blades). I thought it would be absolutely funny if she met ittar and bakshi. This focuses on her aromantic/aeruilir identity.
Visiting the Ancient Temple of Ittar and Bakshi was something of a staple for all warriors. To come back to their loved ones was a ritualistic process. Many Elves did not return from long quests and it was instrumental to first make a pilgrimage alone, to the temple before returning home. To let Ittar and Bakshi grant them an eternity of romance with people they hold special and let harm come to nobody. A commemoration to the end of a hero's journey and the beginning of a new life, whilst holding the ones they lost in memory.
Killian unfastened her breastplate and set her quiver down on a boulder next to the Mel-nen Creek. She straightened her hair, splashed some water on her face and took some in her hands to quench her throat. It had been a long walk from Undermount, through the depths of the mountainous caves, through the green meadows where the woodland creatures lived and trekking through a hill with stone-cut steps to reach the temple. Adrina had insisted she do this, regardless of whether she wanted to know more about her Elven roots. She was a hero. She ought to get blessings for good fortune and especially love. Long, sad stories spun by priests would state how miserable heroes were, after enduring loss and pain - how they were incomplete without the romance. How you could have valour, courage, intelligence and charisma but be a nobody without love.
Suffice to say it was skewed thinking. Killian wanted to be done with it.
The temple was built to house people from harsh storms. A monastery of sorts. Murals on the walls were all dedicated to Ittar and Bakshi. Representations of all ways to display love. The gentle touch of one's embrace, a true love's kiss, eyes conveying more than words could. Killian averted her eyes to the shrine in front of her. An old legend said only a true chosen one - one taken note of by Ittar and Bakshi could only see the true faces of the Gods of Love. Many people claimed they saw a wilted rose, a bouquet of flowers, a mirror draped in red satin - symbols of romance or passion. Sometimes both.
Killian saw nothing. It was an empty shrine.
She decided it was best to not question it and knelt before the shrine. She was taught a small prayer by Adrina in the language the Pantheon spoke and she repeated it glumly. Her knees ached; the wounds still hadn't healed properly. Once her prayer had been finished, Elven custom dictated she asked for wishes. Heroes before her had wanted to marry into royalty, fall in love with princes and princesses, wish to attract the eyes of potential suitors, be blessed with a happy romance, wish to meet a person or people whose souls had intertwined with theirs. Ambitious. Killian had nothing much to wish for. She insisted Ittar and Bakshi grant her happiness to sustain another day, heal from her wounds and grant good health upon her friends and prepared to leave.
Outside the skies turned murky grey. The trees swayed against the wind. Killian noticed the incoming rain and rushed outside to grab her things and take shelter in the temple's outer sanctum. Except for the temple, everything turned cold. The warmth inside prompted Killian to break the Elven custom of leaving behind one's weapons while entering a place of worship. She had no choice. It was thundering and she couldn't possibly leave the arrows she'd made on her own, to get frail from the cold and rainwater.
Suddenly the shrine began to exhibit a soft warm glow. Killian didn't notice it until it began rattling and instantly, she pulled an arrow from her quiver, pushed it back against the string of her bow and pointed it directly at the glowing shrine. Fear grew on her. She couldn't run; the storm was getting louder and louder and thunder shattered the skies with fearsome growls. She could only try to breathe, while ensuring she released her arrow just in time for whatever curse this shrine had befallen to, could be cleansed with a killing blow. The shrine was consumed entirely by the golden mist. The gold turned a deep crimson red, before turning into a calm silver. Killian took several steps back, but never dropped her arrow.
“Nessa’h ithil’orn.” A voice from the light boomed.
“What?” How did they know her name in the Elven language?
The light dissipated into nothingness once again, but something was different. In place of the shrine stood two people draped in silver and gold light. Ittar and Bakshi.
“We have been watching you closely, Killian Clawthorne.” Ittar said, taking a step forward. Despite their skin radiating warm gold, Killian couldn't allow herself to lower her weapon down. She was too scared. “Please. Put your arrow down.”
“Who -- I mean -- what is going on-”
Bakshi’s voice was softer than Ittar’s. They reached out their hand, a silver beam of light hitting Killian's bow and arrow. They immediately fell to the floor with a sharp clang. “There. That is better, yes?”
Killian was flabbergasted. She paused to compose herself. “You must be the Gods. I did not really picture you making these personal visits.”
“Is that contempt in your voice that I hear?” Ittar retorted.
“No, none at all. I am not familiar with the attention.” she said, trying to not show fear. But it was obvious from her face and her hands tightened into fists that she was very scared. “In my home in the village of Riverbend, we seldom worship nor do we receive any attention from Gods. This is an honour.”
“We wanted to see you in person.” Ittar said. “It is quite rare to see someone show such courage and strength against adversaries to be of such an uncertain upbringing.”
Killian raised a brow. “You're calling me a commoner? Really?”
“Uncertain upbringing. You have never known your story. The very reasons heroes choose to ensure someone tells theirs is to preserve them in everyone's memory. You seem to be determined not to.”
“I was just trying to protect my brother. I'm no hero.”
“So humble too.” Bakshi chided, with Ittar laughing at their joke. “Now tell me Hero, what would you like? You have certainly earned our attention. We can grant you everything your heart desires. An eternity with your loved one - both of you shall be made immortal to seek out your love. Or perhaps turn a love requited. Whomever you seek shall cherish you, shall worship you till the end of time. Anything your heart yearns for, we will grant it immediately.”
“What about others?” Killian asked. “Plenty of times in my home, I see people leaving behind their loves due to illness and sick health. I know of my friend, Tyril Starfury, who had lost his stepmother and had to forgo her life and he prays, hoping his kilma would find her Dinvalir in a different life. Perhaps you can grant them that.”
“But they haven't earned our attention. You have.” Ittar reached out to gently cup Killian's face. It was like getting burned by the sun. “We can make your friend, Tyril, more than just your Kilvalir or Dinvalir. We can make him your Uluvalir. We have enormous power to grant you a happy ending. Is it not what heroes have always yearned for? Is this a novel thing these days to ask for wishes on behalf of others?”
“I believe that's just basic empathy but go on. What else can you grant me? For example, Nifara blesses her people with prosperity as far as I know.”
“You dare pit Gods against Gods, you insolent, precocious child!” Bakshi hollered, the silver light that made them, turning into a blinding white. Ittar had to console them, before turning daggers at Killian.
“Forgive me, my Gods. I have no ill intent. I am merely curious.”
“Yes, you seem to be rather poorly educated. Now, you cannot ask for wishes on behalf of anyone else.”
“Then I have nothing to ask for.”
“Nothing at all?” Ittar was taken aback.
“I believe I do not experience romance or require any need for it. If you can grant me more time to rest and heal, that alone is enough.”
“What do you mean?” Bakshi asked. “Romantic love is the object of everyone's desire, child. Doesn't everyone yearn for their own perfect story? Doesn't everyone want to experience it, cherish it and never let it go? Isn't it the one thing that makes people strong but at the same time, shares a dangerous weakness? Isn't it the result of everything? Wars fought over, brave warriors running to rescue their beloved in captivity - is it not for love?”
“I don't know, I guess you can probably answer it since -- love is your -- domain.”
“Fascinating. Isn't it fascinating, Ittar?”
“Absolutely not. Seldom have I seen this happen before.” they ruminated. “I thought --”- they stopped themselves. “Killian Clawthorne, did you see anything on the shrine?”
“Nothing.”
“Impossible. You must have seen something.”
“I did not.”
“The shrine is a manifestation of your romantic and sensual desires. You would be lying if you said you saw nothing.” Bakshi threatened.
“I really didn't see anything. I am not lying!”
Killian watched from Ittar to Bakshi. The Gods whose souls had been spun into one were stumped by the problem. Bakshi stared at Killian as if they'd expected her to explode. Ittar’s eyes bore a secret, but they would not tell it out loud. Almost as if the Gods were having their own conversation, away from Killian's ears.
Killian didn't know what it meant. She did not realise it would be controversial to fight the Gods of Love with her fists, but even more so to tell them outright that she didn't experience romance - possessing little or no romantic attraction to anyone at all. Heroes were meant to fall at Ittar and Bakshi’s feet, the only thing weakening them but sustaining the life in them being the sheer, unadulterated love they wanted to share with someone else. Perhaps she should too. Perhaps Killian should get it over with, name an unobtainable person just so Ittar and Bakshi could not mull over it whilst ostracising her like she had contracted some kind of a disease.
“I have met very few Aeruilir in my time.” Ittar began. “They exist although uncommon and very little is known about their lives. They used to worship an Old God. The Patron of all Aeruilirs and Mauvilirs. The Old God created a covenant for all Aeruilirs and Mauvilirs. Some were both. The God called them Nilvalirs. Some were either one. The practices are long lost to history. The Old God was banned from the Pantheon of worship. Some say they were defeated due to our intervention. Some say they are still there, situated in caves, oceans, seas and lakes. Some think they are older than us and the covenant’s elves have been lost to history.”
“I know of some Mauvilirs.” Bakshi added, despite them being largely absent from all sorts of peasantry affairs.
“Do you know why I am telling you this, Killian?” Ittar asked.
“You think I am an Aeruilir.”
“No. I know you are. There was an old prophecy that insisted a warrior by the name of Iltur would die at the hands of his lover. However the prophecy was wrong. He was an Aeruilir who took no interest in romance. At least, he was believed to be. Nobody knew the true story of Iltur. I visited him once, when he had reached Elhalas. Nobody knew of Iltur but the Elves now know better than to trust old prophecies.”
“So what now? Are you saying you cannot fulfil my request because I am an Aeruilir?”
“I am saying whatever we provide will not be for you keeping you in mind.”
“Well, you could just grant my friends their requests and fulfil their prayers instead.” Killian shrugged. “Maybe Threep and Loola could benefit too. They are the last of the Nespers.”
There seemed to be some concern in Ittar’s eyes but they hid it well. “Very well. We may entertain your request if it is within our means.”
“Thank you.”
The storm seemed to slow down. Killian picked up her bow and arrow, fastened her breastplate to her chest and gave the Gods a little nod, while taking leave.
It seemed to be a nice bright day for a walk home.
“I never knew they were still around.” Bakshi said. “This young child might be more powerful than she thought of herself. What would happen? What if there comes to be another prophecy? A blown-out war? One between the Old Gods and the new? What would they think?”
“I do not know Bakshi. But it is best if we keep watch on her. Guard her.”
“Why should we? She said so herself. It is not ours to show concern over.”
Ittar paused. “The child would rather have her wishes go to her friends and the people she sees around her. She shows compassion and kindness - a valuable strength in these dark times. She turned down an immortal eternity with a potential lover to help his family. We should be shameful for not watching over her sooner, despite our own beliefs.”
“It is quite humorous. The Gods of Love protecting a Aeruilir. Nifara must be testing us. Yet another riddle to solve.”
“I think it is imperative we do. If we cannot initiate, who will answer her when the time comes? The Patron of the Aeruilir - the Old God I mentioned - was a friend I cherished the most before meeting you. They led me down a path of wisdom and valour and I would not have another Aeruilir in harm's way.”
“I suppose we do engage with affairs of the heart, even experiencing a change of heart ourselves.”
They watched from the skies as Killian trekked downhill, a slight skip in her step and a small smile on her face.
***
A/N: I've been waiting to do this since FOREVER
I'm still workshopping names for 'greyro/greyace', 'demiro/demiace' and other arospec/aspec terms. Right now this is what I've got:
Pronunciations (or my headcanons basically)
Aeruilir - Ay-eru-ili-r (the Elven equivalent of 'aromantic'; there's a hidden chemistry joke here - aeru loosely translates to 'noble one' in Sindarin/Quenya - and noble gases are pretty unreactive, yknow? Unlikely to form any chemical bonds)
Mauvilirs - Mauh-vil- ir (the Elven equivalent of 'asexual'; mauve because purple aha)
Nilvalir: Nil- val - ir (the Elven equivalent of 'aroace'; nil being 'zero attraction')
(bonus words)
Spirjalir: Spir-jal-ir (a commonly used term that's confused with other terms; spirjalir means 'leaving behind nobody'. While it is mainly referred to as slang for Aeruilirs, Mauvilirs and Nilvalirs in the army back in the day - because they don't leave people behind when they offer to fight, it quickly became misconstrued to mean 'abstinence'. It's really annoying. It's the equivalent of calling 'arospecs and aspecs people who choose to "give up" romance and sex)
Kinvalir- Kin-val-yir (a term used for one who has platonic attraction. Loosely used to describe QPRs too.
Iaethovir - Ey-tho-vir (an old term used to describe QPRs. Iaetho translates loosely to 'shoulders' - to stand shoulder-to-shoulder as equals)
Tagging:
perma: @quixoticdreamer16@tessa-liam@stars-are-within-me
blades: @noesapphic@trappedinfanfiction@starlight-starfury
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risk management ~ trystan x nora
Captain Thompson gives them an unfair intervention. They can't afford to fly into a rage and make a bad landing - not when plenty is at stake. (takes place shortly after Crimes Book 2, Ch 2)
wc: 2.5k+ || teen and up, strong language
A/N: Can you hear me screaming because YES this wonderful art commission was done by the very wonderful, the ever-lastingly marvellous Rose from @rosefuckinggenius who is in fact, a genius at this, and I've been so so grateful to have won the giveaway hosted by the very very kind @choicesficwriterscreations as a part of their Pride Month event! (I hope ya caught that subtle bi flag in the background!)
I also ended up writing a fic to go along with it! Okay okay, enough of the prelude. I'll expand in an A/N at the end of the fic, okay okay okay let's go.
***
Chatter from outside the interrogation room suggested internal discord within the precinct. On one hand, Captain Thompson’s Special Force were thankful someone did their job for them. But it isn’t Thompson’s job until she gets to deliver a long speech in front of the reporters who still wrote about her. She stormed in, closing the door and pulling up a steel chair.
“Morning, Rose.” she sent Trystan the barest nod of acknowledgement.
Nora didn’t answer. Trystan mumbled a response under his breath, more focused on trying to figure out a comfortable position to rest his left hand. His left and Nora’s left were cuffed together on accounts of “disrupting an investigation” as the police swarmed to raid Ricochet’s lair of illegal artifacts. It was obviously a massive “fuck you” from Captain Thompson. A simple thank-you was too much to expect from her. The harmonious coexistence Mafalda had initially proposed was thrown out of the nearest window, given people would rather avail the agency’s services for a nominal fee than run to the police and have their intelligence challenged.
“There’s a pattern with you. Isn’t it? You happen to know Roger Dupont was a wanted man by the police. You seem to know his trademark style even before we can look into a break-in. I’d hate to say it, but this has crossed a line. This has gone from you offering --” Captain Thompson had to muster up the courage in order to spit it out - “- consultancy services for the police department, to actively crossing a police investigation. Interrupting, even. We would have had Roger Dupont without any involvement from third parties, including some of Dupont’s retailers. This has blown out of proportion. Now anyone in association with Dupont will skip town. This has surpassed our jurisdiction.”
“Put a bolo out for them, then.”
“This isn’t about the case, this is about you.”
“No, seriously - put a bolo out for Roger’s associates.”
“We have.”
“Good. Problem solved, no? Can we go? I don’t see the point in being kept here.”
“With all due respect, Captain-” Trystan interrupted. “It was our case. I was contacted by a representative of the head of state of Monterisso, you might have surely heard of Queen Amalas? Her jewelry was also stolen from a bank vault kept in New York and upon our visitation, we were able to trace it to the stolen jewelry in the shop from earlier. The hollandaise sauce seems to be a recurrent theme with him. Sort of a ‘hello I am here’ sign; a message meant for the people he was targeting. I highly doubt you talked to the store manager. He would know tons more than whatever poor boy you have brought in for questioning.”
“Once again, this is not about the case. Or one case in particular.” Thompson said. “The home invasion of CEO Henry Burke. You were not offered to consult and yet, you showed up, uninvited, made a damning accusation against the secretary for organizing it and we were left to pick up the pieces-”
“But the secretary did, in fact, organize it.”
“10th December. Rampant arsonry at the Bates Community Center’s Christmas Fair. Your intervention caused the NYPD a delay as much as two hours.”
“But you went after the wrong guys.” Nora admitted, calmly.
“Point is, Rose, you are a tripping hazard. An obstacle. You were never invited and yet, under the guise of lending a helping hand, you have caused all of us an unnecessary headache. So talk to me.”
“Talk to you? Like this?”
“Not the hand- not the hand-” Trystan protested, having to twist his wrist to give Nora room to lift her cuffed hand up to show. “Captain, there has to be a better way of dealing with this. At the Bates Community Center, we were in contact with an attorney’s client. She deserves to be updated as much as our client does. Henry Burke had contacted us earlier to have the matter dealt with in private, before his neighbors took to calling the cops.”
“I’m talking to Rose.” She paid him no attention soon after. “What do you want, huh, Nora? What do you want? A job here? A commendation of some kind? That you keep prying and prying until you get credit? Some sort of teenage angst against me? What I’m trying to say is, whatever you want, you come directly to me. You don’t mess up the work my team is deployed to do. Is that it? You want to come back? Talk. It’s your floor now.”
“Right, yeah I do have something to say. Kind of vaguely important too, actually, but first, would appreciate some coffee. You and I also know the machine is not broken either, so - would appreciate it if you made it quick.”
Two cups of coffee arrived soon enough. Trystan took long sips. It had been a while since either of them could eat or drink anything. Nora had some of hers, the midnight exhaustion melting away a little. She set her mug down, glared at Captain Thompson who waited for a response and said-
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t really want anything.” she shrugged. “I don’t need a commendation, I don’t need an award. And I give you full permission to put a bullet in my head, because clearly I’d be talking out of my ass if I want to come back and work here again. Fuck you.”
“Oh real rich, verbally assaulting a-”
“It’s okay. You can take it.” Nora took another sip of her coffee. “Your ‘team’-” she annotated it with air quotes, “- spent several years calling me a ‘China girl’, insulting my intelligence, hurling whatever you thought of at me just because I worked a desk, but quickly became ‘Miss Rose’ this and that when I moved up the ranks-”
“Rose, you cannot use the past as a tool to come back and pull this crap on us again. Do you have a problem? You take it up with me, directly. You don’t give the team problems.”
“Right, as if Holbeck and Morris had made it any easier for me. Like I said, you can take it. After all, nobody’s a threat to your position, right?”
That struck a nerve. Captain Thompson restrained the urge to give Nora a piece of her mind; Nora could see that. The clench of her fists, the tight exhales of air, the darting looks at Trystan as if she’d expected him to do damage control - as if. She massaged her tired eyes, choosing her next words carefully because Nora would read her like a hawk if not. A Freudian slip here would cost her a lot. Gossip got around the precinct. Even if it seemed like a private conversation, there were ears right outside the door. Not to mention giving Mafalda Ginovesi more information she didn’t need.
“This has gone long enough.”
“You want to end our partnership then?” Trystan asked. Thompson sternly expected Nora to at least recoil at the usage of the word ‘our’ - as if an exiled Drakovian royal had anything of interest to do with a detective agency. God knows it could just merely be a hobby to pass the time, but Nora didn’t say anything. In fact, she gave him a curt nod - almost approving of his work. Thompson wanted to yank both of them by the collars to give them a thorough understanding of the dangers of viewing things in black-and-white but she knew she had a lot to lose.
“No-” she redirected the conversation back to Nora. “I want a revision on the terms of our partnership so we can both be happy. I wrote it down too.”
“Which is?.”
“You work the cases we explicitly tell you to work on.” Captain Thompson read from a sheet of paper. “You will get safety and medical benefits in the off chance any harm comes to you, the police’s resources at your disposal that can be negotiated on a case-by-case basis and should there be any overlaps between your clients and the cases we get, you get jurisdiction and the client also receives any protection, medical help, depending on the nature of the case.”
“Okay, we’re going to need to have some - sort of guarantee that you will cooperate, because you cut us dry with Sonja back there.”
“What do you mean ‘cut you dry’?”
“My partner took a blade to his stomach.. Since the stunt with Mayor Brigham’s dirty laundry getting aired live, your folks have been strangely cooperative - Mafalda’s words, not mine. Despite your reluctance in taking after the ‘tips’ we provided, you still enjoy blaming it on ‘coincidences’ and ‘the agency interrupting’ instead.”
“Two people were injured, Captain, despite our warning, despite our pleas trying to - establish some civility if not complete cooperation - I have seen you accuse Nora blindly of interference, when the investigation she was leading provided you with the tip to chase after the imitation cult and reprimand Anika Deshpande and Nick Bastion-”
“Now listen-”
“Had it not been for the consistent slew of updates, I highly doubt you would have gotten there to the undisclosed location- somehow to also arrest the two of us? Either way, bygones are bygones now.” Trystan swatted his hand. “Problem is, this case - this ‘case’ that you have taken under your wing, has led to the death of Winston Reese. My sister and I were both injured. She was taken hostage.”
“Trystan got stabbed.” Nora added.
“Granted I could afford the medical procedures, including weekly physio sessions and my sister could also afford hers--”
“We still require some kind of guarantee from you, personally. Consultancy isn’t a one-way street. What’s a good number to start with, Trys’?”
“The threshold ceiling for victims’ compensation, I’d like to think. Or you know, any good round number works.”
“Wait - you want me to pay you guys?” Captain Thompson looked horrified.
“No, jeez.” Nora tch’ed, “Sonja’s family. She has one living father. He said he wouldn’t take any money from Trystan, but perhaps he’ll listen if he was compensated legally. He’s been trying to get his application through for ages, getting rejected each time. He can’t afford an attorney to fight for him either. We’d just learned he’d spent his last savings on arranging for his daughter’s funeral. And that’s just one person.”
“We know from Eleanor’s ledger there are tens and tens of families out there. God knows how many of them have given up already even if the verdict favors them. God knows if they even are around anymore.” Trystan added.
“I know you have friends up in the Office of Victim Services. Least you can do is to not delay it further, contact all the families and put in a good word there. Not only for Mr Dormer but whomever you could reach out to.”
“We have done our part.”
“Do better. Just ‘doing your part’ will get your institution replaced.” Nora urged. “That’s your guarantee. Then once you have done that, we can work the terms to our liking. Deal’s off if you don’t follow through. Has been a problem with the NYPD for a while. ‘Following through’. You prefer latching onto the easiest answers.”
Captain Thompson looked like she’d been slapped in the face. Nevertheless, she regained her composure. “We’ll talk soon, Rose.” was all she said, without giving away any promises or comments. She stood up to summon a junior officer (as expected, she found him with his back to the walls as if he’d assumed that if he tried really hard, he could hear what his captain was saying), who had the keys.
“Real pity to see a wing of the law enforcement that so many people rely on, blatantly let the very same people down.” Trystan scoffed. “Would you mind letting us out?”
“The hand- the hand-” Nora winced in pain as Trystan hovered his hand over her shoulder.
____
“I miss it.” Trystan spoke, once they got themselves out of the stuffy precinct and walked their way back to the car. He gave his wrist a few twists and turns; adjusting his watch to a more comfortable position. The time read 1:00 AM.
“Miss -- the air?” Nora guessed.
“Actually. What are they putting in there? Mold?”
“Likely. You work there long enough and it gets okay.”
They reached Trystan’s car. He gave his key a few taps, the door clicking open. They took their respective seats, buckling in. Trystan turned the radio on, kept it to a bare simmer of a volume just to have something going in the background. It cut to some late-night news with Ricochet’s capture finally being made public and naturally, neither the Agency nor any of their individual names were mentioned. Nora didn’t mind not taking the credit anyway; it wasn't like a competition of any kind.
“Did they say those things?”
Nora quickly gathered what he meant by that. “Yeah. But it’s - been a while. Nothing really scares them. I doubt Thompson is going to help Mr Dormer out anyway.”
“I have been talking to a legal advisor to work with Mr Dormer. I hope they agree. They are one of my best recommendations, but of course, Sonja’s father - if he is anything like her - will refuse any aid out of not ‘wanting to be a bother’. Let us hope the advisor helps him far better than any of them can.”
“It sucks. Reminds me of when I was an officer there.”
“Well, now - we can do something, right? We don’t have to sit still - there is no requirement for us to be compliant.”
“Hope so.”
A pause.
“You have been a terrible influence.”
“Me? How so?” Trystan drove, taking a left turn.
“Made me cuss out my old boss and everything. I was one of these -- uh, big believers of ‘actions are louder than words’ but sometimes you need to hammer in a point, scream and give them something to stay up at night about.”
“Sounds like the best influence to me.”
Nora chuckled. “Yeah yeah, we’ll see when you don’t get us further into the pit of trouble than we are right now.”
Trystan raised his eyebrows. “Psh, what trouble? Holding somebody answerable shouldn’t warrant trouble. In fact, you could go for a more pointed swear word. Something stronger, even. I’m happy to lend you some Drakovian swears should the mood strike you. Nothing else would warrant its immediate and effective use more than pointing out incompetency.”
Nora gave him a really-we-literally-just-got-out-and-it-is-past-midnight look.
“‘Fuck you’ could work too.”
____
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! This fic (and the whole subplot with Mr Dormer) was inspired by this article talking about the sheer delay it takes for victims of violent crimes to get their compensation. It's a very good read! I highly implore you check it out!
And a huge thank you to CFWC for supporting creators and even more thanks to Rose who did an absolute fantastic, gobsmacking, teeth-shattering BEAUTIFUL JOB aaah I cannot stop staring at it! They're so cool, they're disaster bisexuals, they solve crime, they're hopeless and pathetic at the same time and incredible and I JUST CANNOT OKAY, TOO MUCH EMOTIONS.
I NEED to show you this version!
WHITE COATED TRYSTAN. HOLY SHIT. THEY. COMPLEMENT EACH OTHER. HOLY. FUCK.
I love both these variations, both the dark-jacketed one and this! I'd absolutely love to see Trystan in this beige or this tartan esque coat because they deserve to just serve looks, eat everything and leave no crumbs.
And ofc this is the sketch version and ugh, Rose did such a good job and I've stared at this thing for five hours now. Like the days leading up to the commission and the updates were NUTS! I had like exams going on and Rose's updates just kept me going,, just massive oceans' worth of dopamine here.
AND JUST. NORA. TRYSTAN. SCREAM. SCREAM.
I'm just so so grateful for this, words cannot describe the euphoria I feel right this second because it's just, when you see your characters on paper or portrait or wherever and you're like "holy frick this is real this is a real thing I'm doing" it just gives me so much joy. I'm so grateful for Rose once again, who put up with all of my messy, excited screaming! Thank you so so much!
Tagging:
Perma: @quixoticdreamer16 @tessa-liam
Crimes: @cassie-thorne @peonierose @ao719 @trappedinfanfiction @jerzwriter @fuckitweball0000
Also tagging @choicesbookclub because the brainrot is absolutely real
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laplace's angel ~ trystan x nora
Four times Trystan resorts to trickery to slip out of situations and the one time he is forced against his will not to, the habit is killed and resurrected back to him, at the same time. (crimes of passion)
wc: 4.1k, teen and up for strong language mayhaps.
A/N: The title is a reference to Will Wood's song by the same name - Laplace's Angel. For @choicesjanuary2024 challenge, prompt "reflections" day 28 I think???
Yes this is an incredibly long fic. No I have no regrets.
Banner credits: Duane Keiser
1
It was a competition between him and Vasili. The first person to throw a die and make the number six appear twice would get exempted from going with the Queen on a sabbatical for a personal inspection, a public appearance and two articles written about her all at once.
Vasili had shrewd eyes and the dexterity of a skilled swordsman at the age of twelve. Everyone knew he was much more capable than his so-called ‘legitimate counterpart’ as the press put it. Trystan was no skilled swordsman. However, he was good at getting out of things he didn’t wish to partake in. It was an imperative bet, considering one of them would have to go anyway and be subjected to the scrutiny of a thousand eyes watching their move. Trystan didn’t want to go simply because he found his mother to be unreasonable - in letting him and his brother fight when neither of them wanted to. Vasili didn’t want to go because who would ever take care of the plants in his absence? That and he was Eveline’s son before he could be a throwaway chew toy for the Other Family, as he called it.
The two took turns - two tosses for each of them every round. The first person to throw six twice was declared the winner. The loser would have to retreat to their bedroom to pack up a suitcase for that evening.
“Your turn.”
Trystan didn’t want to use cheap tricks to get by. His brother - though maybe conditioned to him as a competitor to the throne - was still his own brother. Not by blood, maybe, but by simply wanting to eat dinner with them. Nevertheless he decided to cheat anyway. A gift, they’d said he had. One of charm, of trickery and deception. One that made him destined for great things, as the elder ministers of the court had said. If only he stopped playing games and took things more seriously. If only his mother could talk some sense into him and his father saw him as an heir and not a son he could support by watching him play football in the mud.
Nevertheless, he had to cheat. Trystan knew you could palm the die in a way it always landed on a six. He’d practised it before, when mother had taken all of his things from him and locked him in a room to think about what he’d done. He picked up a few coin tricks, but he wasn’t good at them to do magic. He asked his friend, Gustav for help and he was more than happy to teach how you could break a stick a particular way that it always lended the bigger piece. Everything from the way he threw his dice that it landed twice on the same side was rigged. He just ensured to wait a few turns until he could do it so Vasili wouldn’t believe his brother tricked him. He was smart. Vasili could sniff a trick a mile away.
“You cheated.”
“It was a completely random throw.” Trystan reasoned, fiddling with his ring.
“Well, it is not so smart of me to agree to a random game of choice.”
“I mean, we are all -- a random throw of a die to some extent. You are neither smart nor unintelligent for trusting a random game of throw. Life is too. Marching into the valley of death. Us people.”
Vasili sighed. “I do not have time for this Trystan.”
“Enjoy the nice vacation, then.”
“Shut up.”
***
2
“And -- it is all in the way you fold and shuffle the cards--” Trystan said, as he demonstrated a simple card trick to a table of his drunk friends. They had enough fancy cocktails sitting on an empty stomach, no food thanks to the absurd outfits they had to fit into.
It was supposed to be a year preserved into history books because the Palace had never once gone to such exorbitant efforts to pull in as many people as possible for Trystan’s eighteenth birthday. Forget birthdays and birth-months - years were historical. Stuff of the legends to be turning eighteen; to immediately start preparations for the coronation, look for suitors and ensure the season of socialising and fanfare went as far as mid-August before the cold set in. Eighteen. A chance to showcase one’s potential. If there was a perfect time for everyone in the kingdom and beyond to meet up, it was now.
A series of drunken cheers erupted as Trystan performed a nice, easy bait-and-switch trick he’d been practising for weeks. It was recommended you entertain the guests while you’re busy being a showpiece too.
Vasili was trained to talk about politics - it would be truly impressive to see a seventeen year old so well-versed in international relations. Lydea, fifteen-going-sixteen was excellent at marksmanship - probably earning the Commander's attention towards her. Twelve year olds Kasper and Emika were not just to look adorable but to represent Drakovia’s moral rules and values through some terrible singing. (They’re just kids!) Fifteen year old Astrid and an eleven year old Marguerite were instilled with the knowledge of Drakovia’s industries - mainly bread and silk. Fourteen year old Sebastyan followed his brother, Vasili everywhere he went and involved himself in games and songs - trying to make himself useful. And thirteen-year old Patryk stuck by his mother and father as they engaged in pleasantries.
“You should be doing something useful.” Sebastyan approached Trystan and his friends.
“Do you want to see a magic trick?” he asked.
“Please.” Bas scoffed. “Everyone knows you are terrible at it.”
“Try me. Think of a card.”
“Why? I cannot pick one?”
“Think of one. That is the whole point, Bas.”
“Okay, I have one.”
“If I guess your card right, you will have to do something for me.”
“What will I get if you do not get it right?”
Trystan sighed. He removed the one ring from his finger and placed it squarely on the table. “How about this?”
“Psh, that hunk of metal? No. I shall rather relish in your loss. One in fifty two. Forget the odds. You cannot trick your way out of this.”
“Promise?”
“What do you want me to do if you win?”
“I will cash in that favour later. What is your card?”
“Seven of spades?”
“All right--” Trystan spread out the deck, turning up all the cards and palming the seven of spades quickly.
“This is cheating. Where’s the trick?”
“I am looking for the card, Bas. You need to understand I may have accidentally teleported this because of my uh-- intense magical powers. Also you have mustard on your tie.”
“Where?”
Trystan slipped a card down Sebastyan’s shirt when he wasn’t looking. It was a quick manoeuvre, so seamless that to Bas, it appeared as if his brother hadn’t moved a muscle at all. It took months to practise such fluid movements, Trystan almost pursued ballet and theatre just to make a fool out of his brother. All for the bit.
“Guess you lost it, Bas.”
“I didn’t lose the card!”
“Sure you did. You with your mind powers.”
“What? You think I’d put it down my shirt? I don’t even have--” Seb adjusted his blazer, only for the card to fall right into his palm. “What-- no-- now listen-- you put it there--”
“How can I? I am right across the table.” Trystan shot him a smirk, shrugging. “I think I’ll cash in the favour now. Take my place in the interview for the Gazette’s; they’re planning on conducting this evening and make sure you talk their ears off.”
“I am not doing that.”
“You promised me, Bas. You know what happens to Drakovians who don’t keep their word? They die. Yes. I can enact the royal decree number twenty two thousand and ninety seven to execute you. I know, grim, yes. Do me this favour and I’ll show you how the trick is done.”
Unfortunately he didn’t fall for it easily.
“Fine. You can impress that special someone you keep seeing.”
“Which-- who--” Bas lost his composure, red rising to his cheeks.. “-- okay, okay-- I -- they are not-- fine, I will take the interview.”
“Thank you. By the way, I will not tell anyone about your blossoming romance with--” before Trystan could finish his sentence, Bas clapped his palm against his mouth.
“I will do it! Fine! Stop!”
***
3
It was an awkward dinner and an even more awkward post-dinner mandatory conversation over nighttime tea. They had retired to the living room. The Georgescus were delighted with Maksim’s extensive collection of books while Viktoria and Eveline talked to each other in hushed whispers. Trystan was left to himself, staring out of a window, wanting to rip the skin off of his body because of how atrocious this had all been. First, they took Gustav away from him. His Gustav. Second, they insisted they arranged a suitor for him. No prior consent, not even so much as a “hey there son, just FYI, Juliana’s going to be your future wife or something so just -- letting you know, cool?”. Nothing.
It wasn’t her fault. Juliana Georgescu didn’t like the arrangement either. She held her glass of cider, looking thoughtfully at a painting and walking around, unsure if she should take part in a conversation. The Georgescus were wealthy, well-connected and had roots planted in almost all of the country’s infrastructure industries. It was obvious they were looking for someone for Juliana - someone of her age, 20-something; someone who was equally well-connected and when the call came from the Palace’s Head Office, the Georgescus were elated. Looked like they didn’t tell her either.
“Who is in that painting?” Juliana finally approached him after not saying a word to him over dinner.
“Some -- person.”
“Very helpful.”
“Do you always look at paintings for a-- what you call, a source-- a source of enjoyment?”
“Is that supposed to be like, an insult?”
“A question, actually.”
“Right.” Juliana narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, sort of. My mothers took me to the Louvre when I was four. Why? Do you work on art?”
“Something like that. It’s this really erm-- thoughtful piece I am working on. It is more of an experience, really. You’ve got to like, immerse yourself in the background before you can immerse yourself in this whole conceptual worldbuilding -- arena-- of -- thoughts--”
“Hearing a lot of words but what is it, actually?”
Trystan stuck out his palms in a pushing-motion, ensuring his back was facing the window. “Do me a favour and in count of three, push me but you’ve got to use your palms against my hands. Sort of like pressing a wall, you know?”
“Okay, and what happens?” Juliana studied the ring on his finger, as if it were some button that could be pushed for Trystan to explode or something.
“You will see,” he winked. “Push on my palms..”
Juliana pressed her palms against his, confused as to what weird party trick she was buying into and gave him a slight push. Trystan used the time to yank a smoke canister he’d stolen from the barracks in the North Wing. It fell with a sharp tang, erupting fog everywhere. It diffused quickly into the room, earning the others’ attention. Panic took a chokehold. Trystan disappeared into the mist of fog, falling backwards through the window into a rose bush and scrambled for the hills.
Personally he was against standing up people or leaving abruptly. It was quite rude and he hoped someday he’d get to tell Juliana how sorry he was for the coughs and how it made her look like she’d conjured up a trick; a wizard with fog machines for arms blasting Trystan off the window. Right now, it was a message to his parents. He couldn’t do this anymore. He never asked to be king, never desired for the position for its intellect or power or strength like his siblings yearned for. A nobody. That’s who he was. Leaving a gathering abrupt was worse. Crowning a nobody as king would send you to the ninth circle of hell, the way he saw it.
***
4
“They’re going to ask us if we’re pregnant.” Juliana swallowed hard, as the interviewer, Mr Konjović from the Daily News’s Nation Watch segment adjusted the teleprompter. “They’re going to ask us if -- Trystan, I need you to be prepared.”
“I am.” Trystan looked around the set, impressed by how many people they had behind the camera. You’d expect- you, the viewer, presented with two reporters talking about breakfast and the weather, in a lonely corner of the room keeping you company, but it was far from that. There were several back exits, a stream of lights for any occasion, a sound engineer’s booth on two ends, a hallway leading up to more sets- it was tremendous. Trystan felt like a newborn baby exploring the world. He was twenty one after all. Good as a toddler chewing on a stuffed animal’s arm.
“If they ask if I am pregnant, what do you say?”
“I am not.”
“No, I am not.”
“Right.”
“Trystan.”
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“I hate this. I hate this so much.” Juliana straightened her blazer and smoothened her skirt. The harsh lights impaired her ability to see clearly and made her sweat, which in turn, made her anxiety hit levels incomprehensible on any scientific instrument.
“Not a fan either. In the name of questions, they will ask us intrusive things and poke us until we share something of importance.”
“So we word it in a way that it feels like something important.”
“They smell BS a mile away. We only have the pregnancy story to sell. Until Mother can come up with something.”
“We don’t have other options?”
“I can think of one.” Trystan turned to Juliana, taking her hands in hers. “You should let your hair down. You look wonderful either way, but having your bangs like so--” he reached out to smoothen the front of her hair, “-- might help with the lighting.”
“Thank you.” Juliana smiled at him, removing the rubber band that held her hair in place. Curvy strands of hair fell on her shoulders.
“I will hold onto this.” Trystan said, fiddling with the rubber band.
“What if they ask if we decided on a wedding ring?” Juliana panicked.
“We are not married yet. Is that not an answer?”
“I don’t know. I know for sure that is not the right answer.”
“Fine then.” Trystan removed his ring from his left hand - the one that he refused to remove, despite all the others receiving their good share of polish. “Wear this and tell them I gave you something of sentimental value.”
“I cannot.”
“Why not?”
“Trystan, it is your ring.”
“And I want to give it to you.”
Before Juliana could protest, Trystan slipped the hunk of metal on her finger.
“Right. We just have to sell this story.” she said, bit taken aback by the gesture. “Somehow.”
Together, they watched as the producers set up a storm of cameras; unpacking them from their boxes and protective plastic sheets. Mr Konjović finally took his seat across from the coveted royal couple, eagerly imagining the ratings pouring in from around the world. The Royal Couple Break Their Silence would be put up in bulletins everywhere. The tabloids would reference his interview for years to come. Everything - from the wedding to the scandalous details, right from their mouths at the expense of their comforts. It was everything Konjović needed.
The rubber band flicked from one end to the other. Trystan controlled it with ease, interweaving them to make shapes. He wasn’t sure if the public would approve of him making shapes out of stretching rubber bands, considering the interview was supposed to be memorable. That was what he was told to do. Sell the story that he would be a good king, a ruler, steering the ship to the twenty first century. Tell them exactly what they want to hear. If they angle at a scandalous premarital pregnancy, go with it. If they insist on some insider gossip on the affairs of the Thorne family, you must fabricate it enough to not be damaging but instead, welcoming. Get people invested - old and young- whoever watches the television.
Trystan wasn’t having any of it.
“Are we ready?” Konjović asked, as the cameras counted down and cut to the intro. Konjović prepared himself before the cameras could cut back to him again.
“I am not ready.”
“I have got this.”
“Somehow I am apprehensive.” Juliana shot him a look.
“And we are back to this exclusive interview with --” Konjović couldn’t finish his sentence. Trystan had sent the rubber band flying a short distance across the roomland square on the fire alarm. The glass broke, hitting the trigger switch in process and sending the fire alarms blaring. The fire alarms triggered the sprinklers attached to the roofs and a thunderous shower rained down upon them; water drenching the cameras. Everyone ran to take shelter, while the producers cut off the broadcast.
“That was good, was it not?” Trystan chuckled, as Juliana removed her blazer and draped it over their heads - running to the sound booths as everyone else. Everyone chatted in chorus about the crappy infrastructure and how the fire alarms had never passed the inspection test and how the stupid boss upstairs wouldn’t bother fixing it.
“What will you tell your mother back home?” she asked, worried. Hastily she removed Trystan's ring from her finger, handing it to him as if the mere weight of the accessory was enough for her to suffer from regret she couldn't tell him.
“Nothing. If you can keep a secret, I can.” he pressed a finger to his lips.
Juliana shook her head, suppressing a smile. “How did you even figure this out?”
“Luck. I knew it was going to hit the glass one way or the other.”
“If it didn’t?”
“Well, that would be a nightmare for us, right? Good thing it worked. I am terrible at coming up with baby names on the spot.”
***
+1
Old habits die the same way. It starts as it always ends, with a pair of dice.
The table with an ongoing game of poker rice at the Clocktower Casino had a rule for its esteemed players. Blindfolds. A measure to make people forget they ever gambled and ensured they gambled some more in the process. It did make the job difficult, but Trystan had no choice but to play. No tricks, he couldn’t even read his cards. A hotel staff walked from player to player, giving them just the information they ought to know, ensuring they bet higher and higher.
Trystan was losing. He reached for the table, fiddling with the ring he had loosened off of his finger. The precious ring. The one he’d made himself. The one where he’d found scraps of metal at a young age, decided to despite, with no metalworking knowledge, glue it with precision like putting two puzzle pieces together and ever since then, it never left his hand. He tried memorising what it felt like. How it would be to lose something so valuable - all for the job.
Nora had had her arm fractured, her ribs broken, blood out of the crook of her teeth for the job. He can give up a ring.
There were times when he could trust nobody and this accessory, this piece of metal that he had constructed out of nothing when he carried so much in him at a young age - the ring that, when away from Trystan's reach, felt like as if an aching wound from a bullet that cut through his heart. The way he had bent up a long strap of copper, pricking his thumb in the process. The times he kissed it for good luck, hiding under his bed while his mother took away everything he was, leaving behind a shell of a child Drakovia would have to accept as ruler. Things didn't change. He would hold himself tight inside closets while Drakovian guards sent by family searched him in his house to deliver a personal message. Deliver in the way subpoenas are delivered. Minus the polite paperwork and adding in a lot of screaming.
The one thing Trystan would willingly bet on, because he knew he would do anything to get it back.
Now, it was hopeless.
He had a few pictures of the woman he was looking for, but his ring remained in the winning pool stash for the winner; who had won despite the blindfold. The one time he slept, he lost everything. The one time, he decided he wanted to play earnestly. Or forced to. The one time he willingly agreed to playing without any tricks up his sleeve, an escape plan in his mind and a blueprint written on a tissue. It truly hurt.
“So did we get her pictures?”
“Yep.” Trystan tossed his phone into Nora's hands.
“What's up?” she asked him, pulling him back as he attempted to cross the road.
“Lost a ring.” he chuckled. “It's funny. After today, I planned to quit it all. The silly card games -- the -- fun little tricks -- I do not wish for it to be my only defence.”
“One year on the job and you want to be on the side of Good?” Nora joked.
“It is not good or bad, you see, it is more of -- this thing where I hope. I hope the disruption causes me to escape. I hope I find a pipe to crawl out of the right tunnel and see the light. Tricks and -- swindling and cheap lying -- they all rely on a lot of hope. You would have to have a stupid amount of faith to do anything. The greatest liars are invincible. They hope so much that things go well. That they can sell this lie as much as they can. That they can pretend and pretend all their lives.”
“Jeez.”
“I am sorry, I am boring you -- I --” Trystan trailed off.
“No you are right. Thieves put so much faith in them and the universe alone, despite knowing it is going to work against them. I've seen it on the job on sparse occasions. I know the difference between a day's bread and embezzlement and how bread carries hope and company fraud squashes it for the very same people who pickpocket bread.”
“I don't think when it comes to lying--” Trystan went through his camera roll. “- there is a difference. But I don't want to hope anymore. Trickery has made me watch my own brothers die for a crown that would not have shed half as much blood as they have. Gustav, thrown out of the country because we broke the rules out of sheer hope that even if we could never see each other, we won't forget the other. Juliana who died protecting the family that would not put her first. I think I am done, Nora. Before harm comes your way as a result of my doing.”
“What if you didn't have to do it?”
“How do you mean?”
Nora reached into her pocket and fished out his ring.
“How did you --”
“Stole it from the poker table. I was watching your game. You were losing badly. Didn't look that different from an onion ring so --” Nora whistled, “-- switched it up.”
Trystan blinked, bewildered.
“Oh come on. Of course I know it isn't just a ring.” Nora rolled her eyes, yanked his left hand and slipped the ring on his finger. “There. Moral of the story being, if you can't steal, just have someone do it for you. Hope restored?”
“I -- I don't know what to say --”
“I know you are scared, because some who say they are a liar and a crook probably aren't one. Or maybe it's some deep poetic shit I don't understand. The point being, it is scary to be alone and I don't blame you for picking up some survival skills along the way. I resorted to physical violence in school. It sucked. And it is this funny thing where if you -- don't -- say, punch people, it feels like you are losing your sense of self. Losing a lot of hope.”
“It has been two months.” Trystan sighed.
“Let’s start small. You got your ring back, right?”
His gaze flicked to his hand.
“And one day you'll get your hope and faith -- and whatever else you lost, back.” Nora clapped his shoulder, a small smile on her lips. “It's a -- rocky path. But you'll get there.”
***
A/N: If you made it here, thank you so much for reading!
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second languages ~ trystan thorne (crimes of passion)
> part 2
series summary: How Trystan forgets his mother tongue - the trials and tribulations, the consequences and the guilt that follows and how he struggles to learn it back again.
chapter 2: "I will not ask you where you came from"
chapter summary: trystan says he cares, but who is willing to take them seriously?
wc: 2.2k | teen and up for strong language
read it on ao3 here
title from 'like real people do' by hozier
Trystan woke up, cold sweat running down the back of his neck. It was four in the morning. His translator, Leon, slept soundly next to him.
He wrote a note for him and stuck it to his fridge, before taking a leave. Leon worked with him for a speech he delivered at the Drakovian Embassy for the unveiling of the newly established library, housing an extensive collection of literature from his home. Everyone, however, was more puzzled by the fact Trystan had a Drakovian-language translator and chose to speak in English instead. A personal choice, some had excused him. The wound from his exile two years ago had left a scar across his tongue. The people at the embassy were defensive, knowing it wasn’t wise to question his decision since he bore a surname that struck fear into their spines.
Leon was appointed because he was an intern. Disposable. He could understand English, but only be able to speak Drakovian and some Croatian thanks to some of its similarities. Leon was an anomaly, he believed. Neither here, nor there. Half American on his mother’s side and half Drakovian on his father’s.
It was his first speech translator job and first time speaking next to a podium because that was all he could dream of. He used his economics degree in the morning while learning a third language at night. He’d admitted how difficult it was for him and the pure joy that came from understanding two sentences, hoping to get to three sentences one day. People like him were well-versed with how different words communicated different ideas. It didn’t occur to Trystan until Leon gave him a warning.
“The unveiling of the new library will let our culture and literature reach more people without any barriers.” he’d said.
Leon translated it into a worrying, “The unveiling of the library will let people use our culture and literature with no restrictions.”
Listening to someone speak his native language was like a lifeless heart being carefully brought back to life in a surgery; being nurtured into remembering its old functions. Trystan missed it; fully anticipating he would die on the operating table so much, the actual solution didn’t give him any sense of optimism.
He wrote a note to Leon. Trystan said he was sorry he had to leave early. He added he had a good time and offered him hope of maybe doing something like this later.
It was oddly cruel given that Leon processed English completely differently. He would read a sentence, translate its meaning - the crux of it into his native language and try his best to explain it the same to himself. Trystan's note would give him the wrong impression because offering someone the optimism of a second time in the bluntest possible manner would squander any such hope. That and Trystan didn't provide him any helpful information.
English was blunt in a way that it required too many words to make a point.
Trystan's note on the Post-It read: Thanks. Sorry, I have to go. Hope we can talk soon - Trystan.
It didn't matter how genuine Trystan made it sound like, Leon would never quite register it the same way. Language barriers. One born and brought up on the bridge between two languages would clearly be able to distinguish the dissimilarities and unite the commonalities. One born and brought up on one end, only to cross over to the other and burn the bridge entirely would have a very narrow field of view. That is, until the fire and smoke cleared out.
Trystan didn't have a means of transport to get home. He decided to walk for a bit, with his Maps on. He passed by some early-risers, joggers and a couple of 24 hour shops. The street was empty but well-lit. Few sparse cars went around the perimeter all night long. He kept a lookout for yellow taxis, double and triple checking his wallet. He should be okay. He'd grabbed one of Leon's baseball caps, figuring he wouldn't miss it and tied his scarf tightly around his face and neck. A precaution. Mags would be livid at his behaviour. She'd been quite overprotective, almost taking all the blame for the words he'd said and the things he'd done.
Mostly the words.
Trystan had quickly learned in his two years that the American tabloids cared too much about his words. Opinions took the front page, with an exhausting amount spent clipping the context off of the quotations. Trystan had also quickly learned that he was to his native language as an editor was to their carefully doctored-up tabloid write up. He couldn't fully grasp the English language as well as Mags did; it seemed as though it differed entirely from place to place. At the same time, he'd lost touch with his native tongue. He'd purposefully ensured it. He was in an awful grey area where a language was only as good as its translation. That it had to draw out its own blood to be fed in with something else's sustenance.
Trystan spotted a newspaper stand near the window of a shop. He picked it up and flipped it to the International News section.
Something about a groundbreaking heart transplant in Korea, football games in Europe, so on and so forth - nothing about his home. It was odd. They usually made it at least once on the paper every Monday. One could suggest Trystan look up actual Drakovian newspapers, but what was the point in trying to show concern for his homeland when he could barely understand their language anymore? He'd assumed they'd print his library inauguration but it didn't even get a passable mention. However, Trystan knew it would be on every newspaper, every magazine and every television channel back at home. He couldn't bring himself to read it. It had the genuinity of a half-hearted nurse at a maternity ward. You couldn't do that with the lofty responsibility of bringing a new life into the world.
Finally he found a taxi. He made Trystan feel comfortable by addressing him as a friend. A couple of introductions. Hello. Hello. Long day? Certainly. I hope you aren't drunk, my friend; you're cleaning if you vomit. I won't, just a late night out.
Then there was silence in the sense the driver chatted away and Trystan listened. The driver questioned whether he spoke in a formal, artificial tone because he came from FIDI or the reason why he lived there was that he could speak in a formal, artificial voice. Trystan was certain the driver wasn't sober to begin with, steered the conversation away to how he had a friend and was showing them around Manhattan. Drivers got very chatty about the roads they'd travelled, but unfortunately he was an outlier. Jake was more keen on talking about where he grew up.
Streetspeak was quite popular in cities back home. Things moved a lot quicker compared to other provinces. Phrases such as “as fast as the next generation is born” (to say something is extremely slow) and “the sooner it takes for you to find your family, the better” (to say something is impossibly slow, it ceases to exist) were not uncommon. Same with “you speak like you're from the south of the city” (the south of Drakkos was home to many foreign embassies and neighbourhoods who usually took longer to make a point and usually talked your ear off). It wasn't too far off from the things he heard in New York.
“Do you miss it?”
“Nah.” Jake answered. “I come from around here, y'know? You're just - sick of it, you don't miss it.”
Trystan had half a mind to ask him if he was from the south of the city. “What do you miss then?”
“I'd think -- the people. Hated all of them, but - I grew up in a good neighbourhood. The people make up the whole - thing, yeah? At the end of the day, you hate them, but if not them, then who? They get you, they know what you speak - right? And they say no, because they are little shits and also because it's like uh - an affirmation. They understand you, but don't want to do anything about it. You've ever seen - y'know, strangers tell you no?”
“Usually they say fuck you before they say no or yes.”
Jake erupted into laughter. “The - uh - fuck you is embedded in that no, y'know? Encrusted into it like a sandwich. Your people wouldn't have to bother with fuck you, because - you know, they get you. Right? You get me?”
Trystan hummed in agreement. “It is really intimate when someone punches you in the eye.”
“Nah, you're not getting it. It isn't -- pain from pleasu- no pleasure from pain, yeah, it isn't that, you just - you don't have a lot of people to hate for a good reason. I hate my folks because they're the only ones who get me at the end. I hate them so fucking much I'd talk about - y'know all the kid stories I can think of and I - I don't know why I do that. And it's funny, cuz - you're just attracted to the same kind of people even though you know that you hate them.”
Trystan wanted to call bullshit. Luckily Jake anticipated that from a mile away.
“Think about it like this. Would you punch me or your mother?”
“My mother's dead.”
“All right, we'll assume she's alive. Me or your mom? Got to pick one.”
“You. I mean - it's my mom-”
“I don't punch back. Your mom's punching you back. Who are you picking? She's calling you a bunch of different names. Y'know, stuff that hurts - cuts through you like a razor blade. Do you punch her and shut her up?”
“I don't think I would.”
“See - man, that's exactly what I'm trying to say. Your mother could call you a million things and you'd still go back to her. Not because she's your mother but because you've got this -- unique weakness for her words. If she isn't going to call you a fucking idiot and get away with it, who will? It's -- like a thing I read in a paper somewhere. The words stick even if the people don't. Now you get why I talk about it?”
The taxi stopped in front of their apartment. Trystan got out, paid some wads of cash and thanked the driver for the conversation, even though he fully couldn’t understand it.
It’s the stuff of dreams, right? Get to a different city, wipe your tongue out and start a new life. All temporary stuff, of course, so you can’t get tied down and have a therapist tell you to “commit” to something. Start an arts and crafts project. Write books about your struggle when you willfully succumbed to it instead. Cut your family off as if somehow that would make things better, even though it would never. Attempt to build your own family out of bribery and bloodshed when really it is a ‘social circle’. Deep down Trystan knew the taxi driver, Jake was right. No matter where they scavenged off to, which piece of carrion they tore the flesh out of, they’d always eat from their mother’s hand.
Of course Trystan couldn’t fully understand it.
Lydea phoned him even before he could head into the elevator.
“They aren’t pleased.” she spoke in hurried Drakovian, as if merely establishing contact with her older brother was sacrilegious.”- that you’re still involved in Embassy work.”
“But I thought the Queen gave her word.”
“Mother might. The rest others are unhappy. Vasili was supposed to do the speech instead of you. He was caught up so they planned on sending Astrid because she was around.”
“I take it she is as caught up as him?”
“We were thinking of flying in some council members, but the Embassy contacted you. Said it was urgent, they had to do it at the last minute.”
“Why aren’t they questioning the Ambassador?”
Lydea answered too quickly. “You’re easy to blame.”
“How is that fair?”
“You aren’t here, Trystan. Of course Mother will turn her back on you when the family puts pressure on her to pick sides. You are not in a position to.”
“So I am supposed to just sit back and watch the coup happen? Against me?”
“You should be grateful I am letting you participate. I must go. So do your own thing. Whatever the Americans seem to do in a way that doesn’t anger them as well.”
“Do my own thing? The fuck you mean ‘do my own thing’? It is - it’s my home, Lydea! Look - we have the same objectives - focus on the bigger picture, yes? Right? We have seen the uglier sides. We know there is more to it than my involvement that somehow riles everybody up- we care, Lydea. We do.”
They could hear her chuckle on the other end. “If I were you, I would be grateful. They didn’t send you to a big city for you to show you still care.”
“I care! I do!”
“If you did care, you wouldn’t have needed a translator to make your message. Hopefully you do care soon enough than it takes for you to find your family.”
____
A/N: Thank you for reading!
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