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theyellowflowerpetals · 3 years

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Apaixonar- Chapter 16

"She stands at the railing, fingers curling around the black iron as she leans forward and takes a look. She isn’t queasy, having no fear of heights, but there’s something foreboding about the far drop that goes for miles. The longer she stares, still as a statue, leaning forward, the more she feels a tug in her chest. It’s almost inviting- the fall. Like the anticipating still moment of the rollercoaster before it drops. Elain wonders what it would feel like- let go and fall. Soar in the air. It would probably make the landing all worth it. The longer she stares, the more the void calls out to her."

This one is dedicated to the best friend a gal can have, when said gal is me. @mademoisellenimbob you make my life infinitely better and I can't imagine my days without you anymore. Thank you for everything. Here's to countless years of friendship. <3

‘What do you fear the most?

Rhysand smiles wryly, says the dark and cars breaking down in the woods. He had always been petrified after their car flipped over and thought his paralyzed sister had died. Feyre cites nightmares about pretty cages and needles. She can’t forget the way her friends’ arms and legs had looked from all the injections; the way overdosed corpses bear the needle marks.

Cassian shrugs and says dying alone, remembering the countless times he’d been in enemy territory, armed with a half full magazine and a hand grenade. The way they retrieved fallen soldiers’ bodies from the battlefield, finding rotten corpses in lonely places. Facing the unknown alone must be so harrowing. Nesta mentions a mundane fear of spiders and heights. She’d never forget the way the hospital building’s height took her mother’s life.

Nuala shudders before saying headless corpses. Mrs Bucklewease had been her first victim to fail saving, and well, nobody forgets their firsts. She doesn’t mention cramped spaces and men trafficking her and her twin.

Elain is sorrowfully quiet as she whispers the void and being too late. Alice in Wonderland had scared many children, but the rabbit hole seems to have particularly touched her. Or so it seemed. She whispers about dreams where she’s drowning in something but it’s more like falling. Surprisingly, she’s not afraid of the water despite nearly drowning in it in her childhood.

A cell, is Azriel’s brief answer. Being the monster some see him in the eyes of his loved ones. A child failed and saved simultaneously by humanity can’t forget what he opened his eyes to in the world no matter how many big words he’s taught to pronounce or numbers to solve. Being the argument that wins the nature vs nurture debate.

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Azriel seems to have made Nesta’s niece some form of a promise or the other, one he broke, because the girl is giving him a piece of her disappointed mind.

“-You po.. poseded!” The girl concludes her shrill reprimands with a high-pitched cry, bottom lip tucked into her mouth and her chin made prominent as she repeatedly blinks tears from her large eyes. “Azeel..pwomised!”

Nesta stands still, watching the spectacle with a raised brow. Her niece clings to Azriel’s legs with the silent promise of never relaxing her small fists, and the tall man sinks to his knees, a sadness burrowed in the furrow of his brow as he holds Winnie’s unwavering gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. He cradles Winnie’s face in his large hands, his touch erasing any form of resistance she was putting up as tears rolled down her round cheeks, sniffling in the way a child does to hold back their sobs. “I said I’ll be back, didn’t I, Bunny?”

Winnie nods once, a sob escaping the confines of her small chest through trembling lips with the eagerness of an escaped prisoner breathing freedom. A cry escapes her as she nods, Azriel’s fingers smooth over the red skin, coaxing the last of her tears with the comfort of his touch.

“Come here,” he murmurs softly when the waterworks start, bringing the girl into the cocoon of his embrace, tucking her to his chest in a replica of a safe shelter. Winnie cries freely into his chest. And Nesta’s mind can’t think of any words.

She knew Winnie and the detective got along well –her sister wouldn’t have trusted her to him for a whole weekend otherwise- but this is infinitely more than that. This is familial love. Azriel’s not a friend. Not in Winnie’s eyes. Not anymore.

Does he know it?

“I, ehm-” she interrupts their little moment, and Azriel glances up while rubbing Winnie’s back. “I was just going to put her to bed. She was up all day.”

“I’ll do it,” he assures her softly. The mangled state of his hands earns Nesta’s regard; she’d forgotten that about him. Not that she remembered anything of him really; his name usually just accompanied his job title and his relation to her sister’s husband whenever it was brought to her attention.

Nesta wonders just how deeply ingrained Azriel is in her sister and niece’s lives. He knew what he was doing when he prepared Winnie for bed; the girl went through the routine with none of the usual complaints, brushed her teeth and complied while he combed her hair. Nesta happened on them just at the end of Winnie’s bedtime story to see the detective sitting at Winnie’s bed, long legs stretched out before him while he read the picture book to the girl tucked in his side, clutching her stuffed dragon and struggling to stay awake.

He finishes the small book, long fingers quietly flipping it shut as he looks down at the toddler. Winnie burrows more into the blankets and his side, her short arm making and failing at the effort of laying over his waist to keep him in place.

“Don’t go,” she drowsily orders, eyes sliding shut. Azriel brushes her fair fringe from her face in answer and remains silent. It’s the still way he sits and the helplessness in the curve of his shoulders that speak of his mood more so than the pair of tears dripping from the corners of his eyes.

The faint creak of the door alerts him to Nesta’s presence. He pauses briefly in the process of extracting himself from the bed before filling the vacancy he left behind with plushies and the duvet.

“Do you need anything done?” he asks quietly as he passes her into the hallway, black coat folded over his forearm. The house is eerily soundless in this late hour, its residents finally put to rest for the night. Save for the hum of electricity, Nesta can hear nothing. “I can run a few errands before I go.”

Nesta glances briefly at Winnie’s sleeping form before following him. “I think my niece made it clear she didn’t appreciate your absence.”

A short humorless laugh comes from him, quiet. “She did.”

“I’ve never seen her like that,” Nesta comments as they climb down the stairs.

Azriel pauses for a millisecond before speaking slowly, glancing behind him at her. “You don’t see her often.”

Nesta meets his gaze head on and tilts her chin upwards. “No, I don’t.”

Whatever other comments he had on his mind, Azriel keeps to himself. At the front door, he pulls on his coat and gives her an expectant look.

“You have my number, right?”

Nesta reaches for her cellphone, and flicks through her contacts. “No. Put it in.”

“Cassian and Feyre took care of everything mostly,” Nesta says while he types in her phone and hands it back. The dim lighting serves him well; she can’t see him clearly and what she does see is a neutral expression. “Nothing’s left to do. But I’m worried about Elain handling this- she doesn’t have a clean track of handling tough situations. And you saw Winnie, she’s devastated from the lack of attention.”

Azriel’s expression flickers, his features hardening. Nesta doesn’t miss it.

“Her dad?” he asks carefully, clasping his hands behind him. “I thought Graysen would have to take her.”

Nesta scoffs scornfully. “If he grew a spine, maybe he would. He had a meltdown about it.”

Hot air sharply escapes Azriel’s nose. “I was hoping it was just the shock of the moment that had him abandoning her but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything of him.”

Nesta crosses her arms over her chest, shifting her weight onto a knee as she stands before him. “I don’t suppose you’ll stay either?”

Azriel crooks up one brow. “I’ve got work to do.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Nesta utters tauntingly. “They all do.”

The detective’s eyes flicker between hers, the hazel melting into glowing gold in the hallway’s warm lighting. She returns the favor, arms tightening around her. Azriel doesn’t shift under her scrutiny but stares back as if daring her to understand him.

His lips part faintly and a short inhale follows. “If this is your assessment of my character, Nesta, it’s hardly the time and place,” his tone is unfriendly, but not harsh. A silent warning of breaking the peace shakily established in the house.

She takes an intimidating step closer, one Azriel’s doesn’t balk from. “My niece’s whole world is depending on you, and you know it. Elain wanted no one’s presence but yours. I say this has been long in the making. Feyre’s biased when it comes to Elain’s lifestyle- I don’t trust her to make the right judgement.”

Azriel inclines his head to the side, the staircase. “I’m saying that while your sister is up there recovering from a shooting, a romantic relationship is the last thing that should be on anyone’s mind. Don’t you think so?”

“Or maybe you just want to run away.”

It’s his turn to take a step closer, dark shadows replacing the light angles which had highlighted his face. “They’re not my responsibility in the first place to run from.”

Nesta’s eyes gleam. “And yet you comfort them like they’re family. Yours.”

A pitying and sorry look overcomes his face. “I don’t know about you, Nesta, but comfort shouldn’t be conditional.”

She retracts her steps, coming back with mismatched puzzle pieces and several beginnings of threads that she has no idea how to start pulling. “So, you’re leaving? This is- this is pity? You don’t give a shit about my sister?”

Instead of defensiveness and firing up, Azriel shuts her up with a sharp glare. “I’m not here because I expect anything from Elain, or to make a fucking statement. She got shot and I should have stopped it from happening. It shouldn’t have happened. That’s a duty I failed.”

“Why didn’t you?” Nesta demands because he’s right.

Azriel looks at the front door, clenching his jaw. “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he responds lowly, dark promises laced in the syllables.

“So when Winnie wakes up and neither you nor her mother are there for her, what do I tell her then?”

That is one thread that she seems she will come to understand well; Azriel’s gaze visibly crumbles, and he clutches his forehead while he contemplates his choices.

“You’re her aunt,” he mutters. “I doubt she’d notice me gone.”

“The aunt she never sees, according to you.”

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He rubs his mouth, the contemplating expression on his face telling her she’s got to him as he weighs his options and priorities.

Azriel pushes numerous pictures and documents off him and yawns as he stretches his legs out and winces at the sore muscles. Scratching the beginning of a stumble on his jaw, he gets to his feet and gathers his documents together before shoving them back in place. He’d discarded his suit jacket, yanked out the tails of his dress shirt. Failing to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt, he rolls his sleeves up in a last-ditch attempt of putting himself together.

Soft sobs muffled through walls greet his ears. He freezes.

He is dashing to the staircase before he realizes it, taking three steps at a time. A glance into Winnie’s room reports the girl is fast asleep. He strides to Elain’s bedroom, where the door is pushed wide open and Elain is sitting up in her bed-

Crying.

Nesta meets his gaze over Elain’s shoulder, a begging plea for help all but screamed at him. Azriel strides towards them without a second thought, of course, taking in Elain’s damp hair and her barely clothed state while Nesta holds a towel to her front with one hand.

Elain looks up at him through tears veiling brown eyes, devastation inked across her face. He doesn’t know if she actually sees him, but the sight of her breaks his heart all the same.

“I just helped her shower,” Nesta explains hurriedly over Elain’s soft sobs. “We have to put this on her back before the bandages but I- it hurts her and I can’t-“

Azriel catches sight of a bottle of cream from his stance, taking in the situation. “She’s freezing,” he murmurs, reaching for her discolored hands and clamping his fingers over her own.

“Just, hold her towel and- and keep her still,” comes the strained request.

He bends his knees before Elain as they exchange Nesta’s grasp for his. Elain’s hands clutch his shoulders in a grip that puts death’s to shame. She leans forward, face scrunching up and her chest rattling, to rest her head against his own.

“You’re all right,” he promises softly, her hot tears splashing onto his face as he holds the towel to her torso. “I’m here for you. It’ll be over soon.”

Her arms are cold as she wraps them around his neck, forehead sliding off his to rest on his shoulder instead. He catches sight of her back then and his throat goes dry.

A large blossoming bruise stretches over her spine mostly, in all the painful colours of red and yellow and blue and purple. Over it is a thin scabbed-over shallow wound. The ugly state explains Elain’s pain as Nesta covers it with cream. Next to her on the bed is a thick roll of bandages. Elain’s body violently shudders with every touch of Nesta’s.

Azriel glances at the weeping woman in his arms, blinking in a daze. He leans back slightly to catch sight of the bullet wound in her shoulder and the other one peeking under the towel in her abdomen. Horrified, he wondered just how hurt she was.

They get Elain to stand, shivering in her pajama pants. Her arm with the injured shoulder held in place as Nesta wound thick rolls of bandage around her chest, binding it in replacement of a bra. Azriel holds up her hair while Nesta covers the bullet wounds. The bandage coils around her chest and over the offended shoulder, the other bullet wounds covered with gauze and tape.

It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong, Azriel thinks over and over. So utterly wrong.

Elain’s tears run until she has none left, her eyes left red-rimmed and puffy as a result. Azriel draws her in while Nesta fetches her clothes, encasing her with his warmth against the cold air of the room and Elain holds on as if it’ll make everything all right. She doesn’t speak at all.

Elain doesn’t speak, but whenever Azriel cups her cheek with a hand lacking in sensation, her distraught eyes flutter shut and her grief diffuses away slightly, easing the wrinkles.

When he prepares coffee and breakfast, thinking about how he’ll get to work, one moment he is putting bread in the toaster and fetching favorite mugs, and the next he is suddenly thinking of Winnie. When he dashes up the stairs, his heart racing for some paranoid reason he can’t put a finger on, there in her doorway, hair ruffled and eyes searching was Winnie.

But then she catches sight of him, very much real and focused on her, and the happiest smile graces her face before she runs to him.

“You didn’t go!” she cheerfully exclaims and his heart breaks for a girl who doesn’t expect her loved ones to stick around when she needs them to.

It makes going back to work with no amount of sleep a bearable feat. That he hadn’t gotten the chance to go home, freshen up and rest meant little when Winnie was happier than someone who won the lottery. She hardly left his side, would not stop talking except when he’d place toast in her mouth, and she clung to his back like a koala would its branch.

I’ll never let you go, her touch chittered repeatedly.

I won’t, was his response with every attentive touch, act, and look.

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Varian is notoriously a morning person, eager to chase the day before it has begun and with their newborn Nevaeh gracing their world, Varian and his wife have tweaked their routines accordingly; Varian is responsible for her in the morning and earlier hours and his wife takes over while he’s not there and during the night. Thanks to that particular modification, he’s been coming to work relatively refreshed, but it also means a shortage of sleep that comes with every newborn.

It also means an inclination towards violence and murder somewhere around noon when the coffee stops working anymore.

He knows Azriel shares a similar poor sleeping schedule; the man is rarely ever seen fully rested or and the days he manages to get at least the bare minimum of required rest are ones they celebrate. Due to the understanding that comes with shared suffering, Varian immediately knows it’s one of those murderously exhaustive days for Azriel when he walks in.

He comes in, armed with new vehemence and bitterness to spit out, and Varian wonders of its source. Being sleep deprived makes his friend lie low and be unremarkable, but Azriel is the murderous type of sleep deprived (a savagery they witnessed only when Milo met his fate). What with his red rimmed eyes, sunken skin and copious ingestion of coffee, he’s a frightening sight.

That he is at the end of his tether becomes abundantly clear when they advance further in the Foxwood Academy shooting; during their morning briefing, Helion brought up the fact that Elain Archeron remained unquestioned, a job usually reserved for Azriel and Nuala.

“She’s not ready to go through it again,” he snaps, as a tired scowl deepens in his forehead. He looks like this is a conflict he’s fought internally for a while with himself. Varian and Nu cast him side glances before exchanging them with the similar finding; Azriel’s not himself. “You can’t do it again so soon.”

“We’ve interviewed victims hours after their misfortune, Azriel,” Helion, ever the unfazed brick wall, returns a stony stare to his prodigy of a detective. “Miss Archeron’s had her few days rest. We won’t delay this any further; the kids described the shooter as a monster, and Eris has been unhelpful in a physical description. If anyone can help us and the FBI complete the profile, it’s Archeron.”

Azriel stares back at Helion with a clenched jaw. Varian nudges him gently.

“I can’t do that to her,” he finally says, tone softening. “She’s-“

“I didn’t say you’re the one to do it,” Helion replies coldly. Azriel blinks, confusion elaborate on his face mirroring the one on the rest of the team. There were few people with Azriel’s perception, his uncanny ability to spot and record everything mentally; it’s why he usually does the field work and leads cases. “This is personal for you, you’re blinded. Varian will do the questioning.”

Eyes swivel to him and Varian nods automatically. He does agree with Helion; while Azriel keeps everything professional, asking this of him is too much. Nuala and he were fully against Azriel being put on the case, but solving it was more important to Helion than the emotional wellbeing of his subordinate.

“Are you calling me unprofessional?” asks Azriel quietly.

“I think you have more than enough on your plate,” Helion almost sounds pitying. Almost. “And I think that when I give out orders, they’re to be carried out, unquestioned. You’re staying here. Understood?”

Azriel raises his hands in surrender but a bitter look skims the surface of his carefully schooled expression of detachment. Nuala raises her hand slowly.

“No you can’t order cheese pizza all day again, Nuala.”

Slow as it went up, Nuala’s hand goes down.

“I think he’s right,” Varian shares his opinion after they disband with their orders and he’s about to leave. A disgruntled Nuala joins them in the briefing room where they stare at the board filled with details.

Nuala folds her arms, perched atop a table, gaze fixed on Azriel. “Me too.”

Azriel sighs, bowing his head and resting it in his palms in a rare display of vulnerability. Azriel’s always been to them the rock of their little group; the safety net to catch them all and keep them together. He had been exactly that when Milo met his untimely fate. And to see him so rattled…

“Have you rested? Eaten? You look dead.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit now,” Nuala sighs, equally tired, half-moons gracing her eyes. “Have you had breakfast? I really want cheese pizza..”

A nod from him is the only answer. Varian’s gaze falls on his long fingers, and not for the first time, he briefly wonders about their story. He’s gotten used to their harrowing sight, but despite their friendship, Azriel has yet to breathe a word of anything personal about him that dives deeper into the folds of his character.

“Before I left, I put in a word with my contacts,” Varian starts saying, earning their gazes; one worn-out and the other frayed at the seams. “Mooney and Nathaniel are behind it.”

Nuala swears colourfully, while Azriel remains silent. Varian can almost see him doing the mental work of translating that into what it means for them.

“I haven’t heard from Jurian about it,” he says.

“He probably didn’t know,” Varian offers but even as he says the words, he realizes how unlikely they are. Varian got an answer just this morning from his contacts in response to his late-night inquiries before going home- what were the odds that Jurian, who is Mooney’s right hand, did not know?

“Now we’re mentioning it, I haven’t heard from Henry either, for a while,” Nuala pitches in, thinly veiled concern in her eyes for her informant that had been ousted. “I want to assume the best, but what if he’s dead?”

“I don’t know. I’ll get to Jurian and find out exactly what’s going on.”

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The Windhaven Public Library is a grand building of great white pillars, winding pristine staircases, floors upon floors of reading areas, bookshelves and private reading rooms. ‘Reading seldom leads to bad temper’ is framed in the grand entryway in bold golden letters of beautiful calligraphy, similar quotes and lines interspersed throughout the library. The tall windows throughout the building offer plenty of natural lighting, and to accommodate the lack of it on cloudy days are lanterns attached to the walls, placed on desks and more modern lights installed in the ceiling.

It’s raining when Azriel arrives there, overturning the collar of his coat as he hurries towards the grand doors. Warmth encases him the minute he steps inside, shaking off the water on his coat like a soaked dog, and he makes his way inside.

The third floor houses the botany section which he makes his way towards, drying his hands thoroughly to avoid getting water on the books (the librarians here are notoriously vicious when it comes to the well-being of the books). Ten minutes later, with The Hidden Life of Trees and The Drunken Botanist selected and safely secured in his grasp, the sound of approaching footsteps resonates quietly on the cleaned floorboards.

“So,” drawls Jurian’s familiar voice. “What’s this about, then?”

Azriel’s mangled fingers close around the spine of an old paperback before sliding it out and taking a look at the cover. Webster’s Complete Botanical Illustrations 2nd Edition, he reads, briefly followed by flipping it open, taking a look at its contents. Colorful and vibrant despite its age with preservation.

“Rubin had his first soccer game yesterday,” Azriel says mildly.

Jurian freezes, and complete silence ensues.

“Good boy scored twice- his team won.”

Azriel looks up from the book, tucking it under his elbow as he scans more of the paperbacks, making out faded and reinforced titles and spines.

“Miryam’s really proud of him, you know? And he was hyped about playing, winning. Little guy has some talent in him. I don’t know where he gets it really, it sure as hell is not from you.”

“Fuck you,” Jurian breathes, his voice shaking. Azriel picks another paperback –The Conclusive Botanical Encyclopedia- and flicks through it.

“Do you keep up with the news, Jurian?” Azriel reads a line on water plants but doesn’t really comprehend it- his blood’s practically boiling, breath forcefully labored into control.

“What do you think?” scoffs back the estranged father. “Why do you ask?”

“There’s been a shooting,” Azriel says nonchalantly, head bowed. “You heard?”

Jurian stills and turns round.

“Foxwood Private Academy,” Azriel goes on softly. “Eris Vanserra’s school. Two kids died, and a teacher was shot. Do you know who?”

His eyes and ears in Mooney’s gang remains silent.

“Elain Archeron,” the words fall from his lips softly, surprising him with the weight they carry. He snaps the book shut and slides it back in place along with Webster’s illustrations before facing Jurian. “Now, what would you know about that?”

Jurian’s lips part. “I-“

“Be very careful about what you say next, Jurian, or you’ll miss the rest of Rubin’s milestones.”

Dark elusive eyes flicker across his face, mouth pressed together, and the skin at the corner of his eyes tightens. “What do you mean?”

Azriel steps closer. “Don’t bullshit me,” he withholds a snarl, keeping his face carefully neutral. “You were so eager to come running to me about Beron. I’m thinking you have second thoughts about turning on your own.”

“I’ve never turned on my own,” Jurian replies, a tint of pride in his voice. “The 16th was never my family.”

“Answer me.”

A calculating careful look becomes Jurian’s expression. “I heard Nathaniel is behind it.”

“Go on.”

“Word spread fast about Beron. Everyone is after his slice of the state.”

“Mooney too?”

A bland smile lift Jurian’s lips. “Naturally.”

Something dark and ugly churns inside Azriel. “You do realize you were supposed to tell me about this, Jurian?” he demand, nose flaring. “This is your fucking job. This is your whole point of existence in this deal.”

Jurian simply looks back, and Azriel does too, and finds that the informant is guarded in his bland expression.

“Two kids died,” Azriel hisses. “You were supposed to tell me. You were supposed to fucking tell me about it to save their lives.”

“I made a choice,” he replies simply. “I’ll live with the consequences.”

In a second, Azriel’s hand shoots out, grabs the man by the collar of his thick sweater and shoves him forcefully backwards; knuckles digging into his throat, the shelves digging into his back and Azriel’s rage rising.

“I had your loyalty,” he furiously whispers. “I know I did. Where is it?!”

Jurian’s pale hand wounds around Azriel’s clutch, hopelessly tugging at his tight grasp. “Telling you about it would reveal my hand,” he says shortly, air supply discomforted. “I was one of the few who knew about it so what would she say when their man finds a SWAT team waiting for him at the evacuated school? I’m sorry but my kid means more to me than the whole fucking lot of people in that school.”

“I guaranteed Rubin’s safety the minute you agreed to work with us,” Azriel shoots back. He tightens his grasp. “The fact that you don’t even know where he is, is testimony enough to that-“

“And that’s comforting?” leers back the dark-haired man in his hold.

“It was not your decision to make,” Azriel forces quietly, gritting his teeth.

“You think they can’t reach him?” Jurian spits back, and fright is truly there in him. “You think there’s anything they can’t do? Anyone they can’t reach? Do you think I trust you?”

“You don’t have any reason not to,” Azriel says, forcing himself to be level headed.

Jurian’s answering scoff is the voice of his opinion. “He’ll always come first,” Jurian states, inhaling sharply, eyes brightening. “I don’t care about your deal. You may care about me staying alive for your purposes but you don’t give two shits about my kid-“

Azriel abruptly lets him go, the man stumbling shortly while finding his footing. Jurian’s eyes never leave Azriel’s face, always watching and reading.

Fishing for something.

The detective steps back, adjusting the books in his grasp, while he assesses Jurian. What now? What did he need?

“Jurian,” Azriel quietly intones stiffly, free hand clenching at his side. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

He could have stopped it- that Tuesday where he was lazing in his office, listening to Nuala and Varian bicker while he thought about the Trudent case… Could he have been running a trap to catch the shooter, he wonders? Assured Elain she and her kids would be all right, comforted her before it could take place? Could he have arrested the shooter and then when it was all over took Elain out for waffles with unhealthy whipped cream?

Could he have stopped those bruises on her back, the bullets in her skin, the blood she lost? Is Jurian to blame?

Jurian’s hand rises to his collar, tugging it and giving his neck a brief rub while he stares back. Jurian remains unfazed, holding his own stubbornly.

“I told you,” He replies, and as he says it, Azriel knows it for the lie it is.

Slowly, Azriel reaches into his pocket, withdraws his personal phone and clicks it open. He looks away briefly from Jurian as he pulls up WhatsApp and opens his conversation with a contact named ‘Z’.

“Here,” he holds out the device, earning a suspicious look. “Read it all if you want.”

Brow furrowed, Jurian accepts the device and slowly scrolls up, trying to make sense of the brief one-sided messages. In a few seconds, his trepidation evaporates as sorrow takes over. His brows rise, eyes widening and his lips tremble.

“This is-“

“He’s in Iceland with his mother and stepfather,” Azriel tells him quietly. “Has been the minute you asked for his safety… He really loves it there, and he’s genuinely happy, Jurian. I contacted a private security company and they keep an escort with them, not to mention Drakon has his own means and he loves the boy as his own.”

Tears slide down Jurian’s cheeks as he flips through the pictures of his son that Miryam sometimes sends to Azriel. His face crumbles when he sees the selfie of her, Drakon and Rubin at Reynisfjara's black beach shore.

“Having said that,” Azriel takes back the phone from Jurian’s trembling hand. “Look me in the eyes and tell me why you didn’t warn me about the shooting.”

Jurian’s tear-filled dark eyes meet his, sliding down his cheeks. He inhales one mighty shaking breath that quivers his chest and rubs his face with his hands. “I told you.”

Azriel’s hand remains in his pocket while he assesses his informant.

Could he have been wrong?

“You’ll come forward with anything you know,” he commands. “That was your last chance, do you hear me? If you fuck up next time, Jurian… God help me, I’ll end you.”

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When those familiar ruined hands come into her peripheral, Elain looks up to see Azriel kneeling down in front of her armchair. His presence is a grounding comfort to hold onto, helps her distinguish what’s real from her fantasy from her memory. His expression is warm, the warmth of his irises welcoming, and his hands covering her own in her lap give her the sensation of a cocooning thick blanket around her shoulders. Safe while the world around her falls to pieces, the shrill whining of a gale only that; a sound outside that could never touch her.

“How about a drive?” He suggests softly. So much devotion and charm in his gaze. It’s heart-warming. Assuring. Elain’s lips faintly turn, withdrawing one brave hand from the protection of his loving ones and resting it against the side of his face. Textured, the beginnings of a shadow pricking under her thumb make her smooth it over back and forth.

She cups the sides of his face and looks at him in the sort of way a sleepy cat might regard someone she trusts.

“Ok,” she breathes without remembering what she’s agreeing to. It makes him get to his feet, offers his hands and carefully brings her to her feet. Slowly, so slowly, it’s like they have all the time in the world. They don’t. Elain wants to believe she does.

He tells her that it’s cold outside, so there’s not a dire need to change out of her soft pajamas. Azriel helps her get dressed. There’s nothing but comfort in Elain’s heart that it dampens her eyes as he kneels again with her jeans and guides her feet into them and then brings them up her legs.

Elain’s been handled like this before, she’s sure, or she wouldn’t recognize the truth of it. She’s been handled lovingly, with the utmost of care like she’s a precious thing, ministrations attentive to all detail. She has to have been.

But for the love of her, she can’t remember when or who or if it was just wistful wishes in her dreams.

He fits her sweater over her pajamas as if he’s handling a newborn. His scarred unfeeling hands. She wonders if they’re bothering him; seeing texture but not associating a feeling with the word. If it does, he doesn’t show. There’s only a warm expression on his face, concentration lining it as he gently gathers her hair and pulls it out from under the sweater.

He tickles her nose with a strand of her hair, bringing a smile to her face.

The house is quiet in the lively, busy sort of way. Elain’s learned about the many forms of quiet and has learned to recognize them. This one is filled with ambient noise; the soft tones of Nesta speaking, Oso’s movement around the living room, Rebel playing with Winnie, a movie on the tv, the dishwasher’s thrumming, the hum of the fridge, the ping of the toaster.

The click of the front door as Azriel opens it; the thud of his footsteps; Elain’s own quiet Uggs against the steps as she descends them; the beep of his car unlocking; their footwear against the gravel of the streets; the unique sound of the car-door; the sound of leather and cushioning as she puts on her seatbelt and clicks it.

And then the smells.

The distinct leather smell of the car and the aftermath of an air refresher coming from the cotton pad tree hanging from the mirror. The crispy air that comes with a final rush after Azriel closes the car door behind him. The smell of his coat. His cologne. The warm air blasting from the car. Elain digs her nose into the neck of her sweater and inhales the cleaning detergent.

“Tell me if it hurts,” his soft voice interrupts her quiet reverie as he drives out of her neighborhood, forsaking the route to the busy city. He drives smoothly, avoiding bumps and sudden jolts in his driving. The wound in her abdomen is a dull constant ache and the one in her head feels muted now as she rests it against the headrest. No movements, it helps.

She carefully holds out her hand, doing so with a special concentration. He takes one look at it, before quickly accepting it and letting her twine their fingers together and put them in her lap.

Elain's eyes drift close as she smooths her thumbs over the surfaces under them. The fabric of the seatbelt, discovering the intricate machine weaving and following a sample path with her nail. Her sweater, thick and soft and smooth but not the most pleasant of textures; it's beginning to wear away, some of the wool stretching thin in places and sticking out in others. The car seat, the leather warming up beneath her, smooth and soundless as she runs her fingers along it.

And his hand.

With the close proximity and Elain's attention, she discovers new things about his hands. But under the small ministrations of her fingers and thumb joined with his, the scars can be mistaken for nothing else.

She wonders how he got them, if it were an accident, if they were recent. The skin is folded in on itself in some places and others so very tightly smoothed out. Her thumb follows the ridges and crevices, finding joy in the smooth texture of the burns. Smooth and so very soft. Even the rougher patterns, harder on the eyes. They go beyond his wrists, disappear under his sleeves.

She wonders if they hurt. Glancing up at him to ask the very question, she's stopped abruptly by the choked-up look on his face and the gleam of his eyes, fixed on the road he drives.

Who? Where? What is the source of the tragedy this time? Her heart flutters out of its rhythm as she sits up to attention and regrets it immediately. No, no, no, she thinks. She can't handle anything more.

"What is it?" She asks softly. He quickly blinks, shifting his shoulders.

"It's nothing," his voice cleared after a cough.

"Az," her voice remains soft. She doesn't have it in her to raise it.

"It's nothing, really," he shakes his head. "I've just- no one's ever touched them like that."

Her eyes fall to his hand on her thigh. "Oh, I'm sorry," she lets go of it but he swiftly grabs hers.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "Really."

"How did you get them?" She asks instead, holding it once more and letting them rest on her thigh. Azriel's expression shutters, the open expression in his eyes flickering away as he refuses to meet her eyes. There- that crease in his forehead.

"It's a box of unpleasant memories," he tells her honestly but quietly. "I'd rather not remember it."

"Of course."

And that's the end of it, the end of their words as a new quiet drift over them. Elain loves it as she watches the world outside speed past them. It's healing and nurturing in a sense. Azriel drives out of the city, to more rural and quieter places without a fixed destination. He comments on the places they pass by, points out locations where he explored as a child, and shows her exactly why Velaris in the winter is the best winter there is.

“Of course, it’s better at night,” he adds while they stare out from the side of the road, looking out from a cliff. “Even better from the mountains, after you’ve spent the day skiing, in one of the cabins and having a hot coco. My apartment has the perfect view of it all so it’s worth the expensive rent. I sometimes never feel as safe as I do when I’m in it.”

Elain smiles faintly in answer.

She spots a path leading away from the road when Azriel makes a U-turn, and points towards it. He obliges, and the path winds over hills and greenery. She would have regretted the request had the path not been serenely beautiful that reminds her of New Zealand’s greenery. The landscape has been benefitting from the amount of rain that has been pouring for months and the rare few days of sunshine, resulting in a world so green and beautiful. Promising, as it sways gently in the wind.

It’s a bittersweet thing to only notice such beauties from the depths of misfortune. How beautiful the world is after her children have met ugly fates- it’s almost mocking. Fearsome.

“Can we get out?” she voices, finding that she desperately wants to feel the wind in her hair, smell the earth after being watered so. Petrichor.

Elain sighs when the crisp air touches her face, gentle and cool, and plays with her hair. Azriel places an arm around her waist, and takes one of her hands in his free one; Nesta has been doing something similar, along with everyone else ranging from Feyre and Graysen to the nurses at the hospital and it never fails to make Elain feel trapped and helpless.

But when he does it, she feels like she’s being escorted. Something about when he does it makes Elain get the impression she’s a lady escorted to a dance by her partner. She looks up at him as they step onto the grass, following the impressive cut of his jaw with her eyes, Elain’s Uggs familiarizing themselves with the uneven ground, and thinks: yes, the chivalrous companion indeed.

“What?” he breathes out with a faint smile at her stare while they walk slowly. Elain comes to a pause in the unkempt meadow and enjoys the visuals; in the city there is rarely a spot of earth that is not owned and capitalized, and so this spot of meadow is perfect in its unruly natural state.

“Nothing,” she answers, sliding out of his arms to step towards a broken thick branch.

“It must have snapped off during a storm from…” Azriel pivots on his heels and points to a large lonesome tree. “That.”

Touching a hand to the rough bark, Elain gives it a slight nudge and discovers it firmly rooted to the ground. She sits on it, keeping her hands spread on the bark to feel the rough texture.

Grass and fallen leaves rustle under his footsteps as Azriel makes his way towards her, hands deep in his open coat’s pockets as he looks around. When his gaze lands onto her, she can practically see the smile in his eyes.

“What?” she echoes his earlier question.

His lips twitch. “Nothing.”

She ducks her head as a smile toys with her lips. He sits down on the ground among the grass, and reclines back on it.

“You’ll get dirt on your clothes,” she says out of habit.

“I need to change them anyway,” he replies, his eyes sliding shut.

Resting her head in her palm, she looks around, eyes going to the cloudy sky above. “Sometimes I… Well, right now I wish I lived in a place like this. Something simple.”

His eyes open, sharing her activity of looking at the sky as he folds his arms behind his head. “I want to be a farmer sometimes,” Azriel shares, an abashed grin on his face. “I blame Enid Blyton.”

“Really?” Elain perks up, her voice lightening up for the first time, having indulged a similar obsession in her childhood.

“Mhm,” he nods, then chuckles at himself. “It’s stupid, I know. But I wonder sometimes about having an honest job that leaves you exhausted in the right way at the end of the day. Sore from planting rather from carrying the weight of memories and dead souls.”

Elain knows exactly what he’s referring to. “When I kept gardens, it was exactly like that,” the doors of her past creak open like a homely house welcoming her back home.

“I’d grow flowers and then I’d pick them, put them in vases and when they start wilting I’d press them in journals. Sometimes I made syrup from them. And if I grew vegetables, I’d make our salads from them. I used to bake the bread we ate. Buy anything I couldn’t grow from local farms. It was perfect: I made every day count, every simple act was worthy of my time. I… I was never as satisfied as I was back then.”

Azriel looks at her through slits of his eyes, and it’s impossible not to smile at him like that, enjoying himself and the weather. “What changed?”

Does she really want to say? At least he’s asking about something other than what his co-workers had. Elain prefers discussing her perfect simple life to the horror she can’t wrap her mind around.

“Having a child puts a strain on a marriage,” she voices and then hates how she phrased it like it’s Winnie’s fault. It wasn’t. “Well,” she corrects herself as her tone hardens. “Actually, I don’t think it does. It just did on mine because it wasn’t as strong as I thought it was.”

“So Winnie’s why you split?” Azriel asks. “I’ve seen Graysen around her. It’s a sound reason.”

“He’d say that,” Elain scoffs, bringing her hands off the bark to wrap her arms around her. Her shoulder twinges. “Of course, he’d blame Winnie but she’s a baby. There’s no one to blame but him.”

A thick dark eyebrow curves upwards. “From the impression I got, there was no one to blame. That you split because you weren’t right for each other.”

She sighs as she brushes her hair back. “No. We split because he cheated on me.”

Azriel raises his head sharply. “He didn’t.”

She nods, finding that talking about it now is not the same as it was when it happened. She remembers how she couldn’t say the words to her sisters as she sobbed, how she couldn’t bear to think, couldn’t understand how he’d do it.

“He did. I got home one day with Winnie, I’d just got her vaccinated and I was going to leave my job because he asked me to, and I walked in on him.”

Azriel’s jaw slacks. “At your house?”

“Yes,” she clenches her own. “There in the guestroom with Winnie’s nanny, asleep. I found out she was his ex. Pretending to be a nanny.”

“No.”

She nods, looking down at her arms. It’s one of the reasons she cannot bring anyone to help with Winnie- a silly reason, she knows, but one that stops her all the same.

Azriel barks an empty scorning laugh. “That pig,” he mumbles in shock, staring up at the sky. “That villain. That… And to have the nerve to go around telling people you two split for no reason.”

“He’s obviously not going to go around claiming to have cheated,” she sighs.

“And just why the fuck is he not paying child support?!” demands Azriel suddenly, vehemently. “Making you work two fucking jobs and still struggle- Didn’t the court rule for you-?!”

“I don’t want anything of him,” Elain says quietly. “I don’t want the memory of him either. Neither his money.”

“Elain,” Azriel reaches for her softly when he sits up. “Make him pay. For every hurt. For the trust he betrayed. For hurting you and your kid. For your struggles.”

“I just want nothing to do with him,” she echoes the words she repeated to Nesta and Feyre while they fought the alimony case and Elain planned on accepting the offered settlement: so long she and Winnie remained together and they had the house, Elain wanted nothing else.

“I understand that, I really do,” Azriel nods. “But you’re not doing that. You let him in your life and Winnie’s. You give her to him on weekends, for fuck’s sake.”

“I won’t be selfish to take away Winnie’s dad from her-“

“Elain, she’s miserable.”

The words are a blow to her chest and they knock the wind from her lungs. They’re not a revelation, nor something Elain didn’t suspect, but being told so honestly brings tears to her eyes anyways.

She curves in on herself until her back protests against the pain. It stings, the words sting, because she knows the truth behind him. A sob leaves her.

“What do you want me to do?” she whispers as her tears run down her face. “What else can I do? What else haven’t I done for her?”

“Elain,” Azriel murmurs, coming closer. “I just think you need the help, for her sake.”

She squeezes her eyes shut against the memory of Feyre offering just that. Her sister and her husband were adamant on taking care of Elain’s financial matters when it came to Winnie; what Child Support she refused from Graysen, Rhys wanted to pay himself. It was out of the question back then, and it still is. Elain was of the made-up stubborn mind that Winnie was going to be no one’s responsibility but Elain’s, no matter how much she’d suffer for it.

Her sister still finds ways to help Elain wherever she can; Elain’s birthday and Christmas gifts are practical things that would save Elain from spending excess money, and Nesta often doesn’t buy her anything but sends an envelope of cash claiming that she can’t be bothered to hunt down for something Elain would like to own. Winnie’s birthdays are an occasion where both mother and daughter receive gifts.

Besides, Elain asks too much of Feyre by asking her to babysit for her.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Winnie’s mine. My responsibility.”

“Self-reliance is an admirable quality,” he murmurs. “But too much of it is the opposite, Elain. You have to let your friends help you. You’re not helping Winnie by working all day and not seeing her.”

“You’re wrong,” Elain chokes out. “What would you know? She needs what I can provide for her more than me playing with her.”

His hand rests on her knee, heavy and present, and scarred. She refuses to meet his gaze. “I can safely say she’d rather live in a tiny one bedroom apartment with you than live without you.”

Elain wipes away her tears, blinks rapidly as she does, and his fingers on her chin tilt her head upwards, where his eyes are soft and searching.

“All the finery in the world, Elain,” he murmurs. “All the toys, the clothes, the holidays in Venice and Paris and the private schools meant nothing when my mother was a whole country away and wanted nothing to do with me.”

Tears blur Elain’s vision.

“What do I do?”

Azriel kneels before her, hands on her knees and an earnest sorrowful look on his face. “I don’t know. How about you start thinking of putting aside money for Winnie’s preschool or a daycare? I don’t think Feyre’s up to look after her own son, much less the both of them.”

Elain sighs, lowering her head into her palm. What would she not give for a much simpler life at this very moment?

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll take you back.”

“Will you stay?” she asks.

“I need to go to my apartment and change. I haven’t seen Rebel for days.”

Elain reaches out, long fingers winding around his wrists. “You can keep her with us, we can look after her-“

“A cat in the same house as a toddler and a dog?” he voices doubtfully.

“Rebel in the same house as Winnie,” she corrects, bringing his hands to her chest, gaze locked with his. “I can go with you. I’ll wait for you to do whatever you want. I’m not eager to be back home just yet.”

A small smile lifts his lips as his long fingers fold out against her sweater, over her heart. “Eager to be at my place, Archeron? Let me take you out for dinner first.”

Despite the gentle teasing, Elain feels her cheeks warm up. She releases one of his wrists to tap his face in reprimand. “Ok.”

“What?” he blurts.

“Take me out for dinner sometime.”

A dopey grin brightens his face. “Yeah?”

She smiles slightly back at him, momentarily forgetting her worries and problems as she holds his wrists, and his palms rest over her sternum. “Yeah.”

----------------------------------------

In some way, the state-of-the-art design of the lobby, the quiet and homely feel of it sings a tune similar to his demeanor.

She doesn’t release his hand, but keeps her fingers firmly clasped with his own and for his part, he makes no notion to break the hold. Keys jangle as he pulls them out of his pocket, unlocks the black door to his home, hand still in hers. Pushes it open, turns to her with a smile and welcomes her inside.

Elain steps through, hand slipping from his own as he follows shortly, bringing the door shut behind them. She stands in the hallway, Azriel turns on the light over their heads, calls briefly “I’m home!” before stepping out of his shoes.

Moments later, one haughty looking Rebel walks out of a door down the hallway, gives Azriel a displeased look before circling back to where she came from.

“What can I say,” he scratches his head. “The warm welcome always knocks me off my feet.”

Elain grins and follows him down the hallway.

“Living room,” he points to the arched entry on the left of the hallway. “Kitchen is through there. Bedroom’s down here and the bathroom. Make yourself at home. I’ll be taking a shower.”

Elain barely nods, straying into the living room. What catches her attention are the large floor-to-ceiling windows, before she directs her gaze to the design. Blend of light colours, darker blue and black tones to break the white and beige. A large bookcase sits on the wall across her from the entry, housing a plasma screen and a few paperbacks.

Souvenirs too, she notices as she steps closer. From different countries around the world. Framed photos: familiar faces and others not so. Elain smiles at one particularly charming one of Azriel and his brothers at Rhys’s wedding in a goofy setting- his grin is wide in the picture, which although slightly blurry, is too cheerful to not frame. It’s a gift, she realizes. The framed photos all are.

One frame lies on its face. She picks it up, glances, and her heart stutters when she recognizes who is photographed with Azriel. His friend Milo left quite the impression on her, and his infectious smile is one impossible to forget.

Happy moments, she notices. All the photographs are ones capturing Azriel in an ever-so-rare moment of joy. She is no idiot; she realizes that sadness haunts him like a curse, conversations with him having revealed the clinical depression that had yet let him go. If she looks properly, she’s sure she’ll find prescription bottles.

Wandering into his room, immediately she can tell it’s his. Just a feeling of absolution, but she’d know this is his safe haven from millions of others. The tall windows, the dark cobalt blue duvet, dark carpet beneath her feet. She wonders what it would be like at night-time, the view glittering with the city lights, the ceiling dancing with shadows and silhouettes. Does he lie here while he struggles to fall asleep, or does he not bother?

Elain makes her way back to the living room, straying into the adjourning small kitchen. There is a large balcony she steps out onto, to be attacked by the vicious sharp wind this high up in the sky. A pair of outdoor chairs and a small circular table with an empty ashtray.

She stands at the railing, fingers curling around the black iron as she leans forward and takes a look. She isn’t queasy, having no fear of heights, but there’s something foreboding about the far drop that goes for miles. The longer she stares, still as a statue, leaning forward, the more she feels a tug in her chest. It’s almost inviting- the fall. Like the anticipating still moment of the rollercoaster before it drops. Elain wonders what it would feel like- let go and fall. Soar in the air. It would probably make the landing all worth it.

The longer she stares, the more the void calls out to her.

With difficulty, she forces herself to step back several paces. Her heart is beating a notch above its normal rate. She quickly hurries inside, firmly shutting the door behind her.

She waits for him to finish showering in the living room. Sits on the large heavenly sofa, sinks in it, and curls in a corner. The smell of cedar and morning mist is heavily opulent throughout the apartment, and the sound of running water from the bathroom is a comforting white noise.

His apartment is cleaner than expected- too clean, unused. Elain’s home is never this tidy. There is always a stray item, a misplaced jacket or skirt, drinking glasses from the kitchen spread throughout, but Azriel’s apartment is bare. Untouched. Almost eerily so- empty.

He doesn’t seem to spend much time here. Or if he does, he leaves no mark.

Her eyes begin to feel heavy, prickly, and slide shut slowly. Dozing there on the couch, Elain feels like she’s doing something she shouldn’t. But she doesn’t really care. Enjoys it actually.

Rebel eventually comes and takes offense to someone occupying her sofa, so she compensates that by claiming the spot before Elain’s chest. No protests are made when Elain tucks her in her arms and buries her face in Rebel’s fur. Quiet purring is the response.

Nodding off on the couch, she doesn’t make sense of Azriel finishing his shower until she blinks and he’s standing over her, blanket in his hands that he drapes gently over her.

“I’m awake,” she mumbles, fingers stroking Rebel’s fur.

“Are you okay?” he inquires softly, hand smoothing her hair from her face.

“Mhm. Just drowsy. You smell nice.”

He chuckles softly, and she opens her eyes to take another look at him. He’s forsaken the suit; replaced it with black pants, a cable knit sweater and a navy-blue jacket. His hair is combed back. Why must every look suit him? The ruffled hair in his face does him justice, but having it swept away from his face even more so.

“You sure love blue,” Elain mumbles.

“You don’t?”

“No I do, I just think it’s pathetic how good it looks on you. It’s highly likely that it’s illegal.”

Silence follows her words before he chuckles again. She likes the sound. “Says the woman who looks good in anything. Pink is your colour, Archeron. Don’t fault me for indulging in mine.”

She lifts one cheeky corner of her lips up. “I look good in pink?”

He smiles in that sickeningly soft sweet way of his as he brings her to her feet. “You look positively ethereal.”

Her cheeks blush with the very same colour.

----------------------------------------------

Elain is roused from sleep by the muffled sound of a shout and screams. The sound has her snapping her eyes open immediately, going eerily still as her heart races in its cavity and her ears tune in for the finer sounds in the house. She quickly makes her way towards the open door.

The floor is vacant. Elain clutches the railing of the staircase, leaning forward slightly to catch the spoken words.

"I can't believe she did- she did THAT!"

Nesta.

Short and out of breath laughter follows. "I swear I didn't know- the trailer made it-"

"You said-!"

"I know!" Azriel barks a laugh. "I know!"

Elain makes her way downstairs, clutching onto the nearest surfaces as she makes her way towards the living room. There, her sister is at the couch, feet firmly implanted in the seat and sitting at the back of it, clutching a cushion to her chest and grinning widely. Where Azriel is spread on the floor propped against the couch at a sore-looking angle for his back, bits of popcorn in his hair, and the TV remote control in his hand.

Nesta turns her gaze to him before her excitement gets the better of her and she smacks him repeatedly with her cushion. An assault he fends off half-heartedly with a forearm. "I thought she was going to marry him!"

"I thought she was going to make a run for it!" Azriel ducks, grinning just as widely and his eyes twinkling. "Never- I never thought there'd be a murder!"

Nesta's bottom lip is snatched up by her teeth as she glares at the screen, fingers clamping tightly on the poor cushion, before she points a freshly manicured index finger at Azriel. "Next episode. Now!"

Azriel straightens, chuckling as he hauls himself off the floor. Nesta jumps down the couch and snatches an upturned bowl from the floor. "I'll fetch more popcorn. Want anything else?"

"Coke, please," Azriel bends to pick up scattered popcorn kernels off the floor, gathering them in his palm.

Nesta turns, and finally catches sight of Elain standing in the doorway. She beams, a look that startles Elain into sobriety more than anything else has. "El Bella! You're awake. I'm sorry, did we wake you?"

Azriel looks up as his cat comes running from the kitchen towards him, a doll's bonnet tied on her head with Elain's toddler close on her heels and Oso, Nesta’s husky, hurrying behind. He smiles at Elain, the gesture melting his expression into one of pure adoration and something incredibly sweet. Winnie comes barreling into him as Rebel leaps on his shoulder and Oso pauses before him, giving an excited bark.

"I heard shouts," Elain says finally, pressing her hand to her chest. "I thought... Well, I don't know what I thought. What are you doing?"

"I'm so sorry," Nesta steps up, placing her hand on Elain's shoulder. "I- we were watching a show and it shocked us. How are you feeling?"

Azriel shooes the hoard of various children off him and gets to his feet. When he stands next to Elain, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and she subconsciously melts into his touch, his chest a firm and warm place to rest her head against.

"I'm okay, actually," she looks up at him, tremendously enjoying his warmth as it seeps into her. "I couldn't stop dreaming about those waffles you got us."

His smile crinkles his eyes as he looks down. Elain’s lips twitch on their own, slightly. "Yours are waiting for you. Winnie and Nesta couldn't wait, unfortunately. Would you like it heated up? They’re supposedly fresh but I think they might have gotten a bit stiff."

"It's ok. What're you watching?"

Nesta points the accusatory bowl at Azriel. "I blame him for the binge watching I'll be doing. He's given me a whole list; I'm not going to be sleeping. We started with a period fantasy show. Man has taste."

"I don't know if you'd like it," Azriel offers when Elain sends him a questioning glance. "Mythical creatures and historical fiction. And loads of magic. That sort of thing. Lots of beheadings and someone just got murdered at a wedding. Your thing?"

Elain shrugs. "So long the acting is alright."

Nesta grins and makes her way towards the kitchen. "Cortenle la cabeza! It's Spanish, though."

"Oh, about Spain, then? That sounds interesting." Elain's arm doesn't leave Azriel's waist, nor his her shoulders. She shifts her head against his shoulder, wrapping her other arm around his waist from the front.

"No, Elain," he answers and she thinks suddenly that she is in love with her name on his tongue. He has a secretive sort of smile in his eyes when she looks up. "The language is Spanish. It is a Spanish drama."

"Oh," her brows rise. "Is there a dubbed version, then?"

"Who the fuck watches dub?" Nesta demands from the kitchen. Azriel cranes his head as he looks back over his shoulder, an easy faint smile on his lips.

“Careful now, it’s a matter of taste,” he warns.

Elain can tell what Nesta’s body language is without looking; her sister gets animated when she’s riled up about an inconsequential matter. She’s probably waving about whatever she has in her hands, eyes wide and face extremely expressive. Others might put her down as aggressive, but an excited Nesta is a Beyblade with no hope of being controlled until she calms down.

“Excuse me but how can you hope to feel the authentic culture that the work is propped up on if you’re consuming it through the most obnoxious American accent known to mankind?!”

“Your sister would make an excellent Elizabeth Bennet,” Azriel murmurs, turning his attention to Elain. Elain looks up, pressing her chin into his clothing and smiles slightly.

“She would, wouldn’t she?” Elain murmurs back.

“Come on, have a seat. Would you like to watch it?”

Elain nods, finding sublime joy in the smile he gives to her before he guides her towards the couch and bundles her in her blanket, resuming clearing up the floor before Winnie and her friends can cause further carnage. The television screen is paused at the credits of the episode, unfamiliar names scripted on the black backdrop.

When he’s done, Azriel settles next to her against the arm of the couch, and his arm over the back of the couch is practically an invitation. One Elain takes with no hesitation, snuggling closer to him as she tucks her knees beneath her.

“So, who did it?” Nesta demands the minute she handed Elain her heated up waffles and Azriel his coke and the big bowl of popcorn.

Azriel merely cracks open the can and takes a long sip of the fizzy drink as Winnie climbs onto his lap and worms her way over to her mother who can only allow her fair head in her lap.

“Hey! Tell me!”

“Ssh,” Elain hushes her sister, stroking Winnie’s hair. “Give me a rundown of what’s going on before you start.”

Midnight comes, bringing with it further tiding of plot complications and handsome foreign characters. Elain’s favorite mythical creature has to be the quiet winged Illyrian that towers over nearly everyone else in the show (“He’s a scary one,” Nesta claimed around a mouthful of popcorn. “Angel of Death and all that.”) and has a soft voice that nearly sings his lines. By episode seven, Elain is properly hooked on his character and has long since lost actual interest in the rest of the cast of characters. She wants to know what happens to them just because, but she wants to know what happens to him because.

Elain’s fascinating Illyrian does not trust his closest companions, plays his cards close to his chest and has a cutthroat attitude that is useful to his ambitious royals.

“He’s one of those useful pawns,” Nesta translates his character to Elain, eyes glued to the screen, when he made his appearance and Elain was taken with his still smooth movements. He hardly moved a hair, but it did not prove to be a boring scene. “So far he’s done nothing but follow orders and hot-damn he does them good but not a character that stands on its own, you know? He’s there to make the plot move, but he doesn’t make the plot, you kno- OH NO WHY WOULD ANYONE-!”

“They can’t hear you, Nesta,” drawls Azriel, covering a sleeping Winnie’s ear. “But I can. And so can the rest of the neighbourhood.”

By one o’clock, Nesta announces that she’ll be turning in for the night. She takes Winnie with her, leaving behind Azriel and Elain who echo various “goodnight”s and a promise not to watch more behind her back.

“What are you doing?” Elain asks softly when Azriel takes out his phone and kicks his long legs out before him.

“Looking up the books,” he replies, pulling up his browser. “I promised I’d not watch more but I’m not going to wait until whenever we get to watch this to find out what happens.”

Elain grins. “They’re a book series?”

Azriel gives her the sly side eye, the cheek in them almost palpable. “Yes... but she doesn’t know that.”

She almost laughs, setting down her plate of devoured waffles before coming closer to him. “Wouldn’t they have to say it’s based on a book?”

“Why do you think I skip the credits and intro?” comes the sly response, causing Elain’s grin to widen. “But unfortunately, they’re in Spanish and there aren't any translations. This is going to be a slow process.”

“My Spanish isn’t good,” Elain hums, burrowing in his side as his arm settles around her shoulders. “I noticed you follow along sometimes without reading the subtitles, are you fluent?”

Surprise colours his handsome face at being noticed so well. “I- yes. I’m fluent. Struggle with the slang, though. It’s tougher not being around the native community and learning it from DVDs and books, you know?”

She nods earnestly. “So how many languages do you know?”

“Well,” he hesitates. “English, French and Spanish. I can find my way around Italian but that’s about it. I don’t read or write French, though, I just speak it.”

“I bet you were the overachiever of class, weren’t you?”

Azriel’s smile is not so much cheerful as it is self-degrading as he looks down at his phone and purchases the e-book.

“Ah, no actually,” he clears his throat. “No, I was... I barely got by.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” she teases.

“No, I’m serious, you’re looking at a college drop-out who couldn’t handle the first month. High school was- well, nightmare doesn’t cut it.”

Her eyes flicker over his face, taking in his features and reading into his expression. There seems to be a story there, one that relates to the childhood he so mysteriously eludes speaking of.

“So why did you learn so many languages? Is it a hobby?”

A smile lifts his lips. “Not so much a hobby than a need for communication. I told you my half-brother’s French, so I learned it to cross that bridge between us when I lived with him. Spanish I learned because I always thought, as a child, that my mother would want me back someday and Maji was enthusiastic about keeping me in touch with my culture.”

“Your birth mother is from… Spain? No, wait, Mexico, right?”

“Mexico,” he confirms, swiping his thumb aimlessly over his screen. He glances at her before adding: “Maji took me in when I was a kid. One day, she told me my mother wanted to meet me, and take me back with her. Live with my actual family. Go to Mexico.”

His eyes slide away from hers, looking at something over her shoulder with a soft and distant gaze. She leans her head back until it rests on his arm, and waits for him to tell her more.

“I couldn’t be older than, what, ten? I’d just recently started talking, understanding civilization essentially, and becoming an actual human. Maji and Dad took me to meet her at the airport, we were going to have lunch together and bring her to our place, and the next day I’d go back with her.”

Confusion furrows her brow but she stays her questioning tongue.

He heaves in a deep breath. “She came with her husband, took one look at me and started bawling her eyes out. She wouldn’t touch me. Told Maji that she can’t and she’s sorry. Then she turned and went right back home. That was my first lesson in abandonment.”

She hates the dry chuckle he followed his words with.

“What do you mean,” she began softly once a short amount of time passed in silence. “You’d recently understood and began talking?”

There’s such pain in that expression he displays, pain and sad bitterness that he’s had to live with all his life. He holds up one scarred hand, offering it to Elain for inspection. “I lived in a basement for eight years,” he reveals quietly as she wraps her fingers around it. “Since I was born. Locked away, starved, beaten. The whole package. I wasn’t human when they rescued me. Not where it mattered.”

Tears of horror glisten her eyes, and they drip when they overflow. She looks down at the scarred hand, cradles it in her own.

“Oh, Az-“

“It doesn’t matter,” he says in a thick voice. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s nothing-“

The words fall suddenly from her lips in a hushed quiet intense line.

“I want to hunt down everyone who ever hurt you.”

And Elain surprisingly finds that she means it with every part of her presence. She looks down at his sign of abuse and for some reason she cannot feel her own pain. A primal feeling of protectiveness surges through her, a need to secure and protect, that she cannot possibly say those words without feeling.

His hand moves, rises to cradle her head as he stares at her. Barely blinks to break his stare. He’s sat up, closer to her than before, and his gaze burning in its intensity. Elain returns it, sniffling slightly. She remembers her own student, Mordred, and how his own abuse has him in its grasp. She can’t bear to think of Azriel like that. In harm.

The pair of irises he has are beyond beautiful, and part of his hair has fallen into his face. Elain reaches up, brushing it back as the words escape her and him.

“Az?” she breathes out.

He stares, lips faintly parted in the middle, the golden tint of the dim warm lighting casts him in warmer shadows. Shadows dark and sharp expanding over the elegant planes of his face, but leaving behind clearly illuminating patches. One falls over his eye, enhancing its hue. Elain is mesmerized.

“What do you say to that?” he whispers back, and his eyes grow brighter. “When you’ve never been told anything like that?”

She touches his jaw, tracing her fingertips over the structure. “You don’t have to.”

“Where have you been all my life?” Azriel breathes out in wonder.

Elain shifts as a timid hesitant smile briefly touches her lips, hesitant to break eye-contact. “Looking the other way.”

Azriel’s hold on her disappears as his hands drop, and he reclines back the way he was. He stares up at the ceiling, prominent Adam’s apple bobbing once as his lips twist faintly. The lack of his gaze makes her feel as if he has abruptly snuffed out a light.

Sitting against the corner of the couch, arms spread on the arm and back of it with his head tilted backwards, she can imagine him the peace he craves. Her fingers drift to his hairline, and they scratch his dark inky hair, taking notice of the lines in his brow.

“Thank you for telling me,” She murmurs. He looks at her, and she doesn’t miss immediately the pool of warmth that gathers in her when their eyes lock. “Soon I’ll tell you about me some more.”

“There’s more than your dick of an ex?” he murmurs gently, not belittling.

Elain has flashes of her mother, her first funeral, her therapy sessions, her father and his drinking. Her own dangerous tilt into it. Her years of loneliness. Struggles with Graysen’s family, her own, herself. Her efforts to better tolerate herself.

“Oh yes,” she voices hesitantly as she suddenly assesses her character in a light she hasn’t thought of for many years, and familiar poison ensnares her insides, toxic nervousness making her feel nauseous. She’s not good enough for him- when he knows what fractures she’s composed of, he surely won’t stick around-

“Hey,” he murmurs kindly, snapping her from the beginnings of a spiral. He gives her that soft smile she’s come to love. “Baby steps, huh?”

“What if- what if you don’t like the things about me that I don’t-“

“Impossible,” he brushes her hair behind her ears. “I like the way you are now, and everything else makes the person I like so much. Me has hechizado, Archeron.”

Hesitantly, she smiles and nods. He brushes his fingers on her cheek before he drops his hand and he looks up once more, and this time, his eyes look heavy with sleep. His eyelids droop slowly, until he’s reclined against the corner of her couch and his eyes fall shut. Before she can change her mind, she leans forward and in the span of half a second, lowers her head and pecks his cheek.

She had meant for a peck-and-run, but her traitorous lips lag and her body relaxes against her will into liquid. It feels like a sigh escapes her very bones, with the unique softness against her lips and the warmth she feels seeping into every part of her like she’s just slipped back in bed. Elain softly kisses him, brushing back his hair, and feels her heart settle down easily like a bear about to go for the long rest, feeling the weight of his arm around her, the way his hand moves on her back. Oh hello, it’s you. It’s always been you.

Like a sleepy 1990s Disney cartoon character, she pulls away only to find she has no mind to stay away for much longer, so she melts against him, arms winding around him loosely as she listens to his heart thump in his chest and she doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to break this warm peace. Wants it to be eternal for the perfection it is.

Rain pours from the heavens, and the wind sighs, and the windows creak, and there’s logs popping in the fire, and Azriel’s heart beats true under her ear, and-

Her eyes flutter shut as a smile encases her lips. Perfect peace.

-------

Me has hechizado, Archeron- you've bewitched me, Archeron.

--------

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