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Be My Guest!

Summary:

A series of one-shots to cope with a long summer spent indoors. [N/E.]

All orders served!

Chapter 1: Menu.

Notes:

Brief summaries of all one-shots have been detailed below for convenience. Context for this entire collection may be found here.

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

june


july


august


october


november

december

january

Chapter 2: Marry Me.

Notes:

June 01: Prompt by Shiraz. It is essentially the third installment of In Your Honor and For Propriety's Sake, both of which you do not necessarily have to read in order to understand the context behind this piece. Just know that it's set in a Modern AU. And it's in Emma's first person narrative.

Song-spiration: Marry Me - Jason Derulo

That said, enjoy the story.
Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

I am at my wit’s end. There is no hope left for me.

So that’s why I wrangled Ray into helping me move my stuff.

“Why am I doing this again?” Ray asks, grunting with the weight of a box labelled ‘desk’. He shoves it into the corner by the door, where other boxes are piled up. I grin, glancing around the now bare room, which I will be leaving by tomorrow noon.

Finishing college feels a little bit like freedom.

“You’re doing it,” I remind him, “Because I promised to cover your shift for a month.”

“Is this really worth that?” he mumbles, but I’ve grown used to his mumbling by this point. “Can’t you bribe your boyfriend into doing it instead?”

“Norman’s busy.” I shrug. “He has the business proposal thing to prepare for—”

Ray snorts. “Sure. Business proposal.”

It isn’t the first time Ray has made some disparaging comment about Norman’s recent absence from both our lives. It isn’t anything too serious—he’s simply holed himself up in his apartment to work on perfecting his thesis while simultaneously completing a project that he hopes will get him hired into Minerva, Inc., the company he’s been vying to work for since the day he learned that they were doing revolutionary work in the field of quantum physics.

That is, unfortunately, typical Norman behavior.

And there is no power on Earth that will budge him out of that hole he digs for himself, and the worst part is I understand why. He’s incredibly focused and highly disciplined, and that is how he approaches every aspect of his life: with focus and discipline.

Even when it comes to me, I’ve come to observe; when he spends time with me he makes sure that there is nothing else stealing his focus.

I’ve seen it in the way he folds his research papers away into a binder and pushes it aside when I bring a rare dinner prepared from his kitchen; in the way he manages his time impeccably so that every morning he can greet me with refreshed eyes and a vibrant smile instead of a tired frown and a cranky demeanor; and in the way he always, always holds back despite how lost we can get in a moment.

And we’ve had many moments.

My only wish for Norman is that once all his trials are over he makes sure to get his rest. Despite how disciplined he is—or perhaps even because of it—he always fails to take care of himself. 

I know, because I’ve had to refill his empty cabinets. I’ve had to wake up an hour early every morning for two months straight to make sure he’s been getting his breakfast, which is the most important meal of the day, Norman, stop insisting you’re focusing on important things when you’re not even eating!

I’ve also been doing his laundry, ironically enough. Sometimes I stare at the washing machine and think that the clothes tumbling around in it are incredibly intimate, fraternizing in the washer like that.

They always end up tangled, sleeve around another sleeve, pants curled around a sweatshirt, and the laundry is tempting that way—a big, hot, wet mess that makes me wonder if that’s what it’ll feel like if everything that’s been holding us back is just suddenly taken away.

I shake my head and untangle our clothes, leaving them up to dry.

The laundry really does have it better than me.

Anyway. While Norman’s been grinding away at his personal work—grinding, yum—I’ve been focusing on my own stuff too. I’ve thankfully had an easier time securing a job than either of the boys have; though I’ve definitely been facing a lot more trouble in securing living arrangements. It’s surprisingly difficult to find an affordable apartment that’s close to where I’m set to work. 

Norman’s been incredibly helpful in that regard, and Ray won’t admit it but he’s also been helping me look through the catalogs Norman lent me.

We’d come to learn very soon that Norman’s organization system must work only for him, because Ray and I’ve spent nights just trying to decode his annotations and notes for every apartment complex and housing flyer, all of which he’s compiled into a neatly bound report folder. 

I’ve still been incredibly grateful, however—his annotations have proven useful at deriving more detailed information about every apartment complex, and I’ve compiled a list of pros and cons of every one of them. I’ve also managed to snag a few incredible negotiations.

I suppose it really does help to have your boyfriend minor in Business Administration.

Since I hadn’t wanted to bother Norman yet again with another life crisis, I’ve asked Ray to help me collect some spare boxes and help me move some of them out. I’ve been living in a dorm for four years and it shows—prior to Ray’s arrival I’d scoured through mountains of knickknacks and memorabilia that I’ve saved over the years for sentimental value. I hadn’t wanted to throw any of them out, which meant I needed more boxes and more hands than I initially thought I needed, hence I called Ray.

And as always, Ray demands compensation.

“You did a lot of this pretty fast you know,” Ray remarks, when he’s getting ready to leave and he’s shrugging his coat on. “I’m surprised you were two-thirds of the way through packing your stuff in less than a week.”

“I’m not completely hopeless.” I roll my eyes at him. “Have a little more faith in me.”

“It’s not you who needs a little more faith,” Ray says, in that cryptic manner of his when he’s trying vainly to not say exactly what’s on his mind.

Norman and I have learned the hard way that it is often better to leave Ray to his cryptic ways: force him to say something he doesn’t want to say and he’ll turn on you like a dime.

I wish him safe travel and shut the door once he’s disappeared down the hallway. I look back at the empty room that my freshman self had thought to be a permanent fixture when I’d first started university, and feel a niggling sense of loss. Time has since flown, and I’ve achieved a Bachelor in Liberal Arts as well as a position at Cuvitidala University as a humanities professor, and now I find myself smack in the middle of a transitional phase: a time to let go of what has been and to start working on reaching what can be.

It’s bittersweet and almost devastating to walk through a bare dorm room, but all my things have been packed, and I’ve a new apartment to move into.

An actual apartment. 

Where I can potentially buy my own washing machine.

The thought makes me smile, though as I change into the pajamas I’ve laid out before packing all my clothes, I notice something glistening on my naked pillow.

I pick it up to find that it’s a ring.

I frown, studying it. The craftmanship boasts exquisite taste, with a refined vine twisted titanium band and what looks to be an oval cut diamond, burning brilliantly in the fluorescent lights with diamond fire. I’ve seen rings in shops before and have asked about them just to have an idea, but this one doesn’t look store-bought, it looks custom, and my suspicions are confirmed further when I see the careful imprint of a sun and a moon along the inside of the band.

I turn it over, wondering how it got into my apartment. And on my pillow, of all things. It can’t be magic now, can it? This isn’t a Hogwarts letter come thirteen years too late and transfigured to become a tempting little Portkey?

I wait a few moments.

I haven’t transported anywhere.

That sucks.

Still, it is incredibly strange. I doubt this ring is a loose keepsake either—it looks too expensive and too beautiful. I would have worn it every day if it had been given to me.

I pull my phone out and text Ray. Maybe he has someone he wants to propose to, though I snort when I consider that if Ray is ever to marry anyone it won’t even be an any“one” because he’d bind himself eternally to coffee if he were able.

E: Hey, left anything important?

E: [sent a photo]

Today 9:47 PM

I shove my phone onto my desk and put the ring next to it. If it ends up not being Ray’s, I’m familiar enough with the local jewelry store to give it back if necessary…

With that resolved I stretch and crash into bed. I shut my eyes and decide to entertain any reply Ray sends in the morning.

 

///

 

It’s a Saturday, and since it’s a Saturday, I roll out of bed only to be greeted by the sound of Norman’s ringtone, and I eagerly answer his call, pressing the front camera as close to my face as possible.

“Well, hello there, Emma’s Nose.”

I grin and pull the phone away to study his features as they are displayed on screen. His hair is disheveled and he looks like he’d decided to pull a long night. There are noticeable, pixelated bags under his eyes.

I tsk. “Norman, I told you to take better care of yourself!”

He chuckles, running his hand through his hair the way he does when he’s embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I had a rough night.”

I feel my ire weakening. “Rough night, huh?” I repeat, sitting back down on my bed. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shrugs, the motion barely noticeable when the call momentarily freezes. “I just wanted to see your face,” he says.

“You’ll get to see it more when you finish your proposal,” I assure, and at the prospect he grins, making my heart flutter.

How does he do that?

“I hope so,” Norman agrees, and then he asks, “You’re moving today, right? I can pick you up and help—”

“No.” I shake my head vigorously. “You stay put. I’ve got it under control. I found a moving van.”

“Are you sure?” he insists. “My appointment’s not until three, so I can still help you unpack.”

“You can do that after your presentation,” I tell him. “So focus on that and come back to me with pride, okay? I expect to hear that you’ve been hired by tonight. I’ll keep Ray around and the three of us can go have dinner somewhere.”

Norman laughs. “It’ll have to be my treat, then.”

“No! We’re celebrating you, so you don’t get to pay.”

“Are we really going to argue about this so early in the morning?” he asks, and I roll my eyes.

“You started it.”

“Did not.” Norman’s grin is playful now, and he looks more relaxed, which sets me at ease. He really needs to be reminded to take a break sometimes.

Maybe all the time.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” I ask. “Show me your fridge.”

Norman snorts at that and soon the camera is frizzing as he stands to walk towards his kitchen. He switches the camera view and gives me a perfect view of his open fridge.

I notice that the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday tupperwares are all empty. I sniff, unimpressed. “You skipped Monday and Tuesday.”

“Those were busy days,” Norman defends.

“Sometimes you make me want to force feed you,” I admonish, though I can’t find the heart to stay angry. “We’re not going out tonight—I’m making you finish everything.”

“So be it,” he responds, and I pause for a moment at his tone. 

He sounds almost… smug? As though he’d expected me to say that. I shake my head.

Is he skipping meals to give me a reason to stay over a night? I voice the thought aloud.

He laughs. “You caught me,” he confesses easily. “I miss you.”

“Yeah,” and my voice is softer than it ought to be, “Me too. But the big day is today, and then we can do whatever the hell we want for the rest of the weekend.”

“Sounds perfect,” he answers, and my heart swells, feeling as though it’s just been defibrillated. 

“Perfect ending to a perfect day,” I say, when he switches the camera back around to show his face again.

I wish I can see through the screen to gauge if he’s blushing as hard as I am.

“The proposal isn’t what’s going to make my day perfect, Emma,” Norman says, and his honesty snatches my heart for everything it’s worth. “You are.”

“Stop that,” I whine. “I’m too in love with you already.”

His grin seems to grow wider than the screen. “And I, meanwhile, will continue to defy Newton’s first law. An object in love will stay in love despite any other force that acts upon it.”

“You’re winning me over with Physics,” I gripe. “Stop. That’s illegal.”

“Physics is the study of universal laws, my dearest Emma,” Norman says, “I may defy them, but no one ever calls them ‘legal’.”

I roll my eyes at his semantics-based argument. “Are you practicing for your presentation?”

His smile turns sheepish. “A little,” he admits. “Though that doesn’t mean none of what I just said was true. I love you so much.”

I soften at his words. “I know.”

He grins again—that playful grin. “Star Wars is a very flattering way to flirt.”

“Dork,” I say with a laugh. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You can do whatever you want to.”

At his words I feel my cheeks burn. If he only knew half the things I want to do to him…

“Ah.” I see him looking at his wrist-watch. “I have to go. I hope your move goes over smoothly.”

I try not to pout so openly. “Good luck on your presentation!” I wish, and then sternly, I remind, “And eat your breakfast!”

He laughs. “I will. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He hangs up, and I remain in silence for a while. It always feels like the first time—no matter how many fervent avowals we exchange, it never grows old; it never fails to make me pause for a moment and revel in what makes life so beautiful.

When the feeling settles into a warm buzz, I unlock my phone again to check for any messages from Ray. I’m glad when I see one.

R: If that was mine it certainly wouldn’t be with you

Yesterday 10:28 PM

I snort at the message, but it’s enough to get me up and running. The moving van won’t be over for another hour or so, so I decide to pull on some appropriate wear and tie up my laces.

Goldy Pond it is.

 

///

 

The jewelry store is thankfully open when I arrive, and as the wind chimes jingle above me, I offer a smile to the store manager, Lucas, who seems to be setting up the display cases.

“Emma,” he greets. “Fancy seeing you so early in the morning. Do you have a question about something?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say, pulling the ring from my pocket and showing it to him. “I was wondering if this came from your store? I found it in a strange place recently, and it doesn’t belong to anyone I know, so I was wondering if you could help me track down the owner. It’s custom, so you should recognize it easily.”

“Let’s take a look then,” Lucas says, his voice as warm as summer springs. There’s a soothing, velvety quality to it that far outshines any of the diamond rings and gold necklaces the store is incredibly well-known for.

He plucks the ring from my fingers, and examines it closely. “Ah! This was ordered from here,” Lucas confirms. “I recognize the unique engravement. The owner ordered it some months before though—I’m not exactly sure how long, but I’m pretty sure I had it ready sometime three weeks ago.”

“Really?” I frown. “Shouldn’t it be on someone’s finger by now, then?”

“Certainly.” Lucas nods. “Where did you say you found the ring again?”

“I didn’t.” I shake my head. “It’s strange, actually. I found it in my apartment. And as I’ve said: no one that’s been there recently owns it.”

“Definitely strange,” Lucas agrees. “I recall the client was particularly excited about this one. Anxious, granted, but excited all the same.”

“Think you could give him a call for me then?” I ask. “He must be missing his ring.”

“Sure, I could hold on to it for now—”

My phone vibrates violently as a sign of an incoming call. “One moment,” I excuse myself, fumbling for the device. I pull it up to see that it’s Ray. “Hey, what’s—”

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?” Ray’s voice is so loud that I pull the phone away from my ear with a cringe. “I’M SITTING OUTSIDE YOUR LOCKED DORM ROOM WITH THE MOVER. YOUR LOCKED. DORM ROOM.”

“Sorry—was the mover early? I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“WELL I’M WAITING NOW SO HURRY UP. DEAL WITH WHAT YOU’RE DEALING WITH LATER.”

“It’s all right, I’m almost done anyway—”

There’s a screech on the other side of the line that makes me worry for Ray’s health. “Hey, you okay—?”

“YOU BETTER NOT BE PAWNING THAT RING OFF EMMA OR I WILL STRANGLE YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.” The line is muffled then, and that’s how I know Ray’s hiding a whole other string of profanities.

“Is the ring yours?” I ask, when he quiets down. “Because you should have just told me, I really thought it wasn’t. You don’t even have a girlfriend—”

“JOKES ON YOU, NOW GET BACK HERE ALREADY.”

Ray hangs up after that and I huff, a little displeased. I’d come all the way just for this.

“Thanks Lucas,” I say, “But it turns out I do know someone who owns it after all.”

“Then I’m glad the ring won’t be going to waste,” Lucas answers with a smile, pressing the ring back into my palm. “Make sure it goes to the right person, all right?”

“Sure will!” I pocket the ring then grin at him, casting one last glance around the room. “I suppose you’ll be seeing me soon, too.”

“With the mysterious fiancé, I hope?” Lucas prompts, an expectant grin on his face. “You’re the most frequent face I see in this shop and you’ve yet to buy anything.”

I shrug. “I’m not looking to buy anything for myself.” I bite my lip, hesitating, and then I say: “It’s something I want to talk to him about, but he’s been so busy with securing a life for himself that I don’t want to interfere with something so… so…” I struggle to find the right word. “... big.”

Lucas laughs, and his laugh is gentle like a grandfather’s. “Your fears are perfectly understandable,” he tells me. “You don’t have to bring him here anytime soon; though if he is securing his life as you said, I have high hopes that you will be returning sooner than expected.”

I brighten intensely at his insight. “I’ve actually never thought of it that way!”

He shrugs. “There are things only women know,” he concedes, “But there are also things that only a man can understand.” 

“I guess that’s why we have wise old people like you to help us,” I tease, and he scoffs at the term, waving me off as though he has accepted completely that he isn’t getting any younger.

“Tell your friend to keep a better eye on his ring.”

“I will!”

I wave as the wind chimes jingle again, and I walk down the street with hope in my heart.

 

///

 

Ray pockets the ring with a string of grumbles. I vaguely hear the words “idiot” and “ruining plans” and a whole other array of colorful vocabulary. He’s grumbling as we exit my dorm; he’s grumbling as we unload the moving van at my new apartment; and he’s grumbling still as I pay the moving van driver a tip and wave him goodbye when he sets off down the nearest elevator.

I turn on my heel to look at Ray pointedly once he’s gone. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem,” he bites, and then he offers no further explanations.

I feel my irritance ebb away into concern. “Did I do something to upset you?”

He sighs loudly at the question, reaching up to brush his bangs from his face. “Listen,” he says, and then he’s fishing around for something in his pocket. “This thing’s been through hell and back in less than twenty-fours, I’d hate to chip it or something worse, so here.” He shoves the ring into my hands. “Keep the damn thing and make sure it doesn’t break for the next fifty fucking years.”

I blink, thoroughly confused. The ring settles like dead weight over my palm. “Wait, what?”

“I said keep it, that’s that, thank you and good night,” he waves me off, and I keep my mouth shut because all I have to say to him is it’s still one in the afternoon, what’re you saying good night for?

“Tell Norman congratulations for me,” Ray says, his voice distant now that he’s walking down the hallway. 

“You’re not staying?” I call.

“Too done with this shit to see either of your faces for the next two days or so!”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” I yell, slightly frustrated that we’re having this conversation when Ray’s now too far gone to even reply properly.

I sigh, my gaze falling onto the ring, which has somehow managed to find its way back into my hands. There’s no time to head back down to the store to give it to Lucas, and I won’t know what to say to him either, since he’s very particular about his rings and he expects every customer to understand what it is they’re purchasing, though he never really does voice his expectations aloud.

I suppose I’ll just ask for Norman’s opinion when he drops by later.

For now, I decide to try my hand at homemade pizza.

It’s never a celebration without pizza.

 

///

 

When I hear three straight knocks on my door I’ve teleported down to it in less than half a second—Norman’s physics can prove that—and I pull it open to see him on the other side, looking weary and ready to fall asleep, though there is a distinct pride in his eyes that I recognize all too clearly.

“They liked your proposal,” I say, suppressing my excitement. “You got the job.”

“They liked my proposal,” he confirms, a smile spreading across his lips. “I got the job.”

It’s all I can do to keep my shout dignified as I tackle him into the tightest hug I’ve ever given him. He lets out a sound between a laugh and a grunt, still not so used to supporting my full weight, as physically weak as he is. I press ecstatic kisses all over his face for compensation.

“Congrats!” And I’m pretty sure I want to say something else, but Norman kisses me just then and everything else just melts away.

I hum against his mouth in satisfaction when it seems he won’t be pulling away any time soon, and we stumble into my bare apartment, the door slamming shut behind us like the promise of well-earned privacy. There’s nothing left in my brain as it’s overloaded with sensory delight, Norman’s kisses as intoxicating and filled with dizzying alcohol as they had been the first time.

I sense the longing in each and every breath we share between us, and I know for a fact that we’re going to be locked in each other’s arms for as long as the weekend will last, homemade pizza baking in the oven or not.

Not that I’m complaining.

He’s wearing those jeans.

We tumble onto the sofa and we stay there until the room is bathed in golden light, crisp and warm and feeling much like home.

His fingers are toying with the braid in my hair, and after a moment I turn to study him—and maybe I stare a little longer at his lower half, where the sofa does his butt absolutely no justice. Disappointment rises within me.

Stupid sofa. Those jeans have one purpose and one purpose only.

He’s untangling the clips from my hair, and that’s when I realize that he doesn’t seem as happy about the job as he should be. I frown up at him in thought, and he catches my gaze, though his eyes are distant and far away.

I cover his hand with my own. “What’s wrong?”

His foggy gaze turns clear in an instant when he realizes the question I’ve just asked him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, with a placating smile, “I was just thinking about the job expectations and all that.”

“True,” I say, “You’ll definitely want to meet all their expectations. But you’re not fooling me with such an obvious lie, Norman.”

He sighs heavily, and the sweetness of his smile is tainted with a bitterness. “Sometimes I feel so transparent around you,” he admits, and I mull over his words for a moment.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It depends,” he replies, gently tugging on a lock of hair. 

“On what?”

“On what I’m trying to hide from you,” he continues, after a long moment. His hand falls away but I catch it with mine.

“You told me you had a rough night,” I bring up. “You can still talk to me about it. I’m here to listen to you.”

“I know you are.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m simply… very ashamed about it.”

I bring his knuckles to my lips and press a kiss there. “Tell me.”

He runs his thumb over the back of my palm like he’s figuring out how to express himself, and then he confesses, “I lost something very important. I’ve been keeping it safe for a good while, and I’d hoped for the courage and the right time to give it to you, but the coward in me kept winning and now I’ve lost it, and have no idea where it is.”

Norman’s words come out tenuously, and that’s how I know it’s bothering him greatly—more than he lets on. “I can help you find it,” I assure him. “If we look together then we’ll definitely find it. What was it that you lost?”

He keeps my gaze for an eternity then, and through our intertwined fingers I can feel him quivering, as though he’s looking for that aforementioned courage.

“See, that’s the thing,” he chokes out. “I lost… an engagement ring.”

I freeze. Norman tenses along with me, his blue eyes widening with a fear I wish I could wipe away, though surprise has numbed all of my available senses.

I take a deep breath, and it comes out as a shaky exhale a second later. I hold Norman’s hand tightly with both of mine, and I quietly say, “An engagement ring?”

He suppresses a gulp and nods. “I’ve had it for almost a month now. I wanted to… I wanted to propose to you. But there was never a right time, and never a right moment, and then I became so busy that I stored the ring away only to find that it was gone.” He hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped to do it today, because—well. Because I don’t want us to live separately anymore. I want us to face the next phase of our lives with the confidence and stability of a lifelong promise.”

He fumbles over his words the longer I remain incapable of uttering a single syllable. “I want a life with you, Emma. Like I told you before: you’re it for me, and now that we’re headed into stable jobs and a stable livelihood, I was thinking—” he inhaled sharply— “I was thinking it was about time for me to move in with you.”

His words strike me like lightning, and I want to laugh.

I want to laugh, because he’s just said all the things I’ve been thinking about for the last few weeks. He’s just said everything I want for the both of us, and it’s perfect, and it’s everything, and—

—Gods, I love this man.

“Do you really mean that, Norman?” I whisper, and he places his free palm over mine.

His eyes are burning intensely with a light that shines brighter than diamond fire when he says, “Every word.”

“Then…” Slowly, I extract my hand from his hold, and pull the mystery ring from my pocket, holding it up so it’s shining bright against the golden light. 

His breath catches.

“...will you marry me?” I finish. There’s a smile on my face that I know is a reflection of his as he laughs and laughs in front of me, looking as though he might spontaneously burst into tears, and then he’s taking the ring from my hands and slipping it delicately onto my finger.

“Yes,” he says, his grin pulling on his cheeks, “Yes, yes. A thousand times yes. How do you—?”

“—have it?” It’s my turn to laugh, as I shake my head in realization. “I think Ray’s been meddling. I found it on my pillow just yesterday.”

“Clever Ray,” Norman remarks, his expression fond. “A catalyst for this reaction, I’d say. He’s been irritated with me for so long about it.”

“Well, I’ve heard that you had this ring for more than three weeks now,” I tease him. “You were a very slow chemical reaction, Norman. I say we needed the catalyst.”

A magnificent blush blooms over his face and I lean forward to steal a chaste kiss. “I would have asked you eventually,” he mumbles, in defense of himself.

“Eventually,” I repeat, in jest, and he pokes me in response. I simply kiss him again, and when I pull away, I ask, “Is this why you were particular about which apartment complexes I contacted?”

“You caught me,” he admits easily.

“You’re so full of under-handed tactics Norman,” I shake my head, “How am I going to cope with marrying you?”

“I suppose that’s something you’ll have to figure out for yourself along the way,” he tells me, and those words fall so sultrily from his lips that I grab him by the jeans and claim his lips for myself.

Suffice it to say I ate something yummier than pizza that night.

Yum!

Chapter 3: Young God (I).

Summary:

June 03-08: Well, this turned out to be longer than I thought it would be. And it's still Part I. Prompt by megala-thea-praxidike on Tumblr. Royal arranged marriage AU. I'm having too much fun with this concept—someone shoot me.

Song-spiration: Young God - Halsey

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“My king. A letter.”

Norman glances up from his desk, and the light from the large office window illuminates his features with pointed shadows. There is grace to the manner in which he lifts his head; a trained efficiency in his eloquence as he inquires, “From whom?”

“A representative from the court of Tifari,” Vincent, his Hand, answers. He strides forward quietly and places the sealed envelope on Norman’s desk. The mark of the Tifari is distinguished in the red wax of the seal—two swords crossed over a cup of wine, surrounded by vines—and Norman sets his pen down, brows creasing in confusion.

“The war is over,” Norman states primly, tone sharp. “Our nation has offered all its services in the reconstruction efforts. There is no country left wanting; we have bereaved no one of any resource, and the House of Tifari, despite their transgressions, is no less graced. We owe them nothing.”

“Certainly,” Vincent agrees, pushing his spectacles against his nose in that nasty, derisive habit of his. Norman notices this and prepares himself only for the worst news. “This is not a request, my king. It is a proposal.”

“For what?” Norman carefully folds the documents on his desk into a fresh leather binder, subtly creating space to discuss the contents of the letter. He folds his hands over the table and continues, “Is it a trade alliance they want? I am aware that with the death of their former queen, the nation has been struggling greatly to recover from the war, more so than any other.”

He runs his thumb delicately over the seal. “Their once rich vineyards are now reduced to ashes. Are they so desperate that they are willing to exploit my kingdom for the resources to support the livelihood of double the people? I am empathetic, but we do not have the generosity to reduce our rations for the sake of supporting the Tifari even further. We have allocated our harvest for the winter, and we have divided the minerals from our mines. We have given more than we were asked, and I will not stand for any ploy to manipulate us even further.”

“I understand. You are, as always, correct,” Vincent replies, crossing his arms. The man takes a deep breath. “Our nation has done what it can to help our neighboring countries recover from the consequences of the Ten Year War. But you misunderstand, my king. This proposal is not of economical value—it is purely political.”

It is considered disrespect to look into the eyes of the king, but Vincent dares to do so when he finishes, “It is a proposal. A marriage proposal.”

Vincent is privy to the way his king’s eyes widen in surprise, irises quivering with the revelation, before disappearing into a blink, and regaining its former composure. Norman’s breath is still uneven, however, when he takes the letter from the desk and slices it open, nimble fingers pulling the thick parchment from the envelope to study its contents.

“While our countries have not been allied in the past, the Ratri nation has proven to be instrumental in ensuring victory for the War.” Norman frowns, and continues to read silently until, “To venerate the newfound alliance between our countries, we humbly request for King Norman of Ratri, to accept—” His hands shake and his voice turns somber as he finishes, with choked breath, “—the hand of Princess Emma Reglavalima of Tifari, in holy matrimony, for the benefit our kingdoms, and the surrounding countries who look toward us for guidance in this time of sorrow.”

Norman sets the letter down carefully, and he looks at his Hand, who has turned his gaze to the floor at the recital of the request. As though in disbelief, Norman scans the paper thoroughly a few more times, until it becomes clear that he has misread absolutely nothing. The crease in his brow turns sharp and irritated as he walks around his desk to face his servant.

“Tell me, Vincent,” and his tone is forged with steel, “Do you suspect any trace of maliciousness? Of deceit? Are the words of this representative disingenuous? Do they truly have the audacity to request a king to marry a—”

The title catches in his throat and he spins around, shoulders pulled back to retain his dignity, hand clamped against his mouth. 

“Sir, if it is any consolation,” Vincent attempts to say, picking the letter up and scanning through it quickly. “She is a princess. As per tradition, she will be marrying into the Ratri household, and she will hold neither power nor influence to the throne. She will become a political figure, one meant to bolster the reputation of their weakened nation. And while Tifari will still remain an independent state despite the marriage, they will become a useful…” Vincent casts around for an appropriate term, “...resource.”

His response is only met with silence, and Vincent frowns, setting the letter back down on the desk. While the proposal had been a surprise, he knows it has the potential to be incredibly beneficial—not only for their country, but perhaps also for their king, whose eyes have since been haunted by the winter of the First Year.

“Sir?” he prompts, when his king’s silence has turned deafening.

“Ratri has never needed a queen,” Norman says, his voice low. He has long since stopped quivering, and the proposal falls from his fingers to drift onto the carpet. It lands without sound, as though its existence is a mere ghost. “And it certainly does not require one from another nation.”

“I implore you to think about it, my king,” Vincent insists, though he is careful to arrange his response carefully. “The Tifarians are obviously only reaching out to us because we are the strongest nation that’s left. All the others are either decimated or near extinct. Especially given the nature of their previous queen, no one will want to ally themselves with the Tifari. Either they offer their princess to you on a silver platter, or their entire race faces unwarranted genocide.”

“I am not responsible for the sins of Reglavalima,” Norman hisses. He returns to his desk and casts Vincent a sour look when he picks the letter up from the floor, dusting it off and folding it back into its envelope. 

“Of course not,” Vincent agrees, his hand still lingering on the envelope’s seal. “The Tifarians will forever live with the consequences of Reglavalima’s reign. They were once a proud nation, and everyone else fell beneath them. This is a chance for us to claim that title. If you marry the princess, the other nations will see it as a sign of Tifari’s submission, and they will revere our nation—more so than they already do, considering our contributions to the relief efforts.”

“Are you suggesting that we take advantage of their proposal and use it to extend my reign?”

“Precisely.” Vincent’s lips curl into a self-satisfied grin. “With the princess as your wife, we only stand to gain. Our nation will reserve the right to oversee every decision made by foreign councils as they attempt to rebuild from the War. Additionally, and most importantly, the matter of succession will be resolved.”

“We can control what they choose to do,” Norman murmurs, his fingers locking together in thought. Vincent frowns when he notices that his king is deliberately avoiding the topic of succession. “Hence, we can snuff out any insurgents within the surrounding countries’ governments and ensure that a second war will not break out. Not now, or ever.”

“Our nation, and the nations that surround us, will only know peace.” Vincent taps on the envelope’s seal. He will play along for now. “This is not just a marriage proposal, my king. It is a gateway to power.”

Norman’s brow is creased in thought, and Vincent hopes with all his spirit that his silence is a sign of his consideration. He hopes to change his king’s mind—even if Norman’s mind is undefeatable, and no one has ever come close.

His pride forsakes him, however, when his king finally speaks.

“I understand your perspective, Vincent, but there is no benefit to this union,” Norman says, pulling back in a manner which declares the matter closed. “I will not marry the princess. If they want a sign of peace we may reconvene and decide a less…” he winces, “...archaic means.”

 

///

 

“You did what?”

There is nothing princess-like about the way Emma turns to her advisor, skirts billowing about her as she chucks the nearest item—her hairbrush—at his face.

Ray simply catches it, used to her temper tantrums. “I sent the letter,” Ray says, and if he was less polished he would have shrugged. “I made a decision with the court and we acted upon it.”

“Without my consent?” Emma seethes. She marches up to him and pokes him in the chest harshly with her gloved hand. “I am your princess. Your future Queen. I’ve sacrificed too many things for this country and I will not stand for being handed around like a—like a—” Her nose scrunches in distaste, “A doll!”

“You are not a doll, you are a warrior,” Ray reprimands, “And now that the war is over, your skills as a general are no longer needed. You knew what you were doing when you drove that knife through the former Reglavalima’s heart.”

“Indeed, I knew what I was doing.” She snatches the hairbrush from his fingers before he can anticipate the action and whacks him over the head with it. “I knew what I was doing, and yet here I am, these leather gloves covering the weight of my sins and my own court and advisor conspiring to marry me off to—to—”

“Have you forgotten who we’ve decided was the best choice?” Ray deadpans. “Honestly. The more you act like you don’t listen at court the more willing those old geezers will be to marry you off. You’re lucky the King of Ratri is your age. It could be worse, especially since you’re way past marrying age. You could be betrothed to an old man.”

“What makes it any different?” Emma snaps, throwing her hands up. “Do you think I did everything I could to win the war simply to be made a wife? I intended to become the Queen. I fought against my own family in order to secure the lives of my people. And what happens to me once I’ve accomplished my duty?” She pulls at the skirt of her dress, hands trembling, and she’s close to ripping through the silk when she says, “They strip me of my uniform and lock me in my room. Like a child.”

“It would help if you acted less like a child,” Ray suggests, which only earns him another whack to the face with the hairbrush. He catches the offensive item once more and scowls at her. “You are the princess, you said so yourself. Now act like it.”

Having no decent argument for that, Emma huffs and spins around, stomping off towards her balcony. Ray follows her, firstly because he has sworn to do so, and secondly because if he doesn’t she might do something unnecessarily reckless, like jump off the balcony and run away. Gods know she will. She’s slipped through his grasp one too many times.

Emma has one boot on the terrace, looking ready to leap, when Ray grabs her hand. “You really should try escaping when I’m not here, Emma. Maybe then you’ll succeed.”

“I wasn’t escaping.” She rolls her eyes, pulling her arm from Ray’s grip. She hops onto the terrace and sits on it, legs dangling over the foliage that thrives below them. It’s windy on the terrace, but Tifari has always been blessed with vibrant natural resources: beyond them lies the pastures and the vineyards, stretching out into a plain of striking yellows and soft greens. 

Of course, the royal vineyard is the only soil left untouched by Reglavalima’s cruelty. To look beyond the greens and yellows is to come across the barren grays—the ashes of the life that had once thrived throughout their land. Throughout the course of the War, fires plagued their towns and toxic bombs rained from their sky. Reglavalima had deployed forces to protect the Royal Family’s pastures and farms, though this had been at the cost of their people’s livelihood. Poison and blood seeped together into the ground, and now no farm outside the royal property is healthy enough to cultivate.

At first, they thought they could rehabilitate their lands. Emma had been particularly smart and solution-driven about the restoration of their agriculture, but even her best efforts had produced only the most pitiful vegetables, and the most sour of fruits. Ray knows she hasn’t given up—the foliage beneath them continues to glow with the vibrancy of life because of the touch of her hand, but her hands can only go so far.

They are living in times of poverty and depression. The people’s morale is low. Despite everything Emma has done for them, putting her on the throne will not be enough to erase the sins of her aunt.

Reglavalima has engraved scars that simply run too deep. Their homeland is no longer worthy of its name.

Ray settles by Emma’s side, though he is careful to remain at a distance. She is now—even if against her will—betrothed, though the fact will only become real if the king accepts. They had known the gamble they were taking, choosing the king of Ratri, but they had been out of options. 

No one else will accept Emma’s hand. He is the only one who might.

“Why him?” Emma asks softly, and Ray turns to look at her. She meets his gaze and shakes her head, her gloved fingers reaching up to pull on the strands of her hair, shorter now than they’d been before. “I know I’m undesirable. As you said, I am past marrying age. Not to mention…”

“It isn’t just your desirability that we considered,” Ray interjects, turning his gaze back toward the vineyards. “You are still desirable, though it is to a limited extent. You have always been the most beautiful successor ever conceived by the House of Reglavalima.”

“You flatter me,” Emma deadpans. “Musica was the most beautiful.”

“The most ethereal,” Ray corrects. “Her beauty was something akin to a goddesses’. Blatantly unattainable. But you are Musica’s daughter—and you are your father’s as well.”

“Are you calling my father ugly?”

“He wasn’t exactly handsome.” Ray shrugs. “What I mean to say is—Musica was untouchable. So were you. But you have your father’s fighting spirit flowing in your blood, and it shows. No one likes a princess who’s rough around the edges, no matter how beautiful. That’s all.”

“So what?” Emma tuts. “The king of Ratri likes women who are rough around the edges?” 

“We have no idea what the king of Ratri is like,” Ray says. “All we know is that when the war was declared over, he was the first to extend relief efforts throughout the entire land. From the kingdoms of North, Glory Bell and Gracefield, to the kingdoms of the South, Goldy Pond and Grand Valley, to every kingdom in between. They were crucial to inciting the first phase of the rebuilding efforts, and they continue to be generous in how they ration their resources. Even to us—the most scorned kingdom in the entire world.”

“He is also the king,” Emma reminds, “who deployed the least soldiers in the war. Multiple kingdoms sacrificed their people for the sake of defeating my aunt, yet Ratri remained hidden in the background, hiding behind their infamous defensive Walls. No one has ever taken those walls down—even I would have a hard time. He could have offered shelter. But he did not.”

“That wasn’t his call to make,” Ray says. He’s frowning as though he’s disappointed in her, and Emma shies away, because she knows that he’s caught on. She’s merely grappling for excuses. “The duty of every king is to protect his people, and if you recall, he was only eleven when his parents were the first to fall. Ratri suffered Reglavalima’s First Siege. Who can blame him for taking defensive measures? He was just a kid.”

“So was I,” Emma whispers, bowing her head. “So were you. A lot of us were just kids.”

“And the court continues to see us that way.” He grabs hold of her elbow harshly, and that’s how she knows she should listen to what he has to say this time. “You ended the War. Everyone reveres you for that. But you were also still just a kid—and everyone continues to see you that way. Your court, your people, even me.”

Emma frowns, but Ray holds his hand up before she can say anything more. “Listen. No one berudges you that. But a War is no place for a girl to mature, and it shows. Your ideals continue to be childish and naive. Your resolve and determination are still so stubborn that it’s hard to see any sort of maturity from you. Your people may respect you, but they don’t owe you anything. They do, however, feel like they have a debt to pay to the king of Ratri. When they were suffering from hunger, his rations came, and saved many of the children from dying. When that sickness broke out across the kingdoms last fall, he was the one to create the vital medicine.”

Ray lets go of her, and straightens his coat. “He continues to give when he doesn’t have to. He is, at your age, regarded as benevolent and wise. The perfect combination for a king. His age does not betray him, unlike yours. Marry him, and you will have a powerful ally by your side.”

Emma frowns deeply, and in the light of the sun her eyes spark like fire. “A powerful ally, you say?” she grouses, her hands curling into fists. “It’s not like I haven’t done my research either, Ray. You think he’s our best bet to saving this country? You’d only be handing us over. I am the sole heir to the throne, and I am a woman. Ratri is a patriarchal monarchy—do you think I will have any say whatsoever what he chooses to do with my country? My people?”

“Emma—”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Ray!” Emma snaps. “I might be naive and immature to you, but I know that marrying me off to him is just one big political gamble that neither you nor the court have thoroughly thought through! I want to ensure the livelihood of my people as much as you do, but do you really think marriage is the solution? Strike up a trade alliance, a treaty, anything else but this!”

Her voice cracks in her throat, and she’s trembling terribly when she continues, “My mother raised me to be the best Queen that I can be, and she died before I could even begin to show her that I am worthy. Now, I am the sole heir to the throne, and you want to bargain me off to a kingdom who places no value in the thoughts of their Queen—much less a woman?” 

“You’ll be leaving the monarchy in pieces.” She brushes past him, and he winces when her elbow jabs into his ribs, like a warning. “Who will my people follow then?”

 

///

 

Emma Reglavalima… has the childish features to match her cute given name, as well as the refined countenance of the women descended from the Tifarian monarchy. Norman frowns, studying her portrait once again.

Over the last month, Vincent and the rest of his court have tirelessly aimed to convince him to change his mind about the proposal. His subordinates’ completely strange behavior had been enough to give the topic a second thought—after all, they had never asked him for anything. This is the first time they have ever been persistent about a subject with him, and he doubts his own rulership will be enough of an excuse to deny them what they want.

Besides, they have simply bargained for him to reconsider. The princess and her entourage will merely be arriving soon.

That doesn’t mean he has decided yet.

Vincent had sent the response letter two weeks ago. If his calculations are right, then the journey from Tifari to Ratri will take one week and a half, not considering preparation days. The kingdom has been bustling at the announcement—it would have been useless to keep the proposal a secret, considering the Tifarians will be touching Ratrican soil very soon—and his people, excited as they are, have paved the streets with festive and welcoming decorations.

As per request of the Tifarian advisor, Norman has kept the “arranged” aspect of the marriage a secret. The people have been told that he and the princess have been courting each other in secret, and now is the time to decide where the courtship will go. That is the only thing they know. At the very least, that isn’t a complete lie.

At the news, the citizens have simply been too excited to focus on anything else. It is that time again, after all. Since the kingdom of Ratri is patriarchal, it is a rare occasion indeed for the ruler to select his bride. She must be a woman of stature and wisdom; beautiful and serene; kind and generous. Only the best of women have graced the Ratri’s family tree, and Norman intends to keep it that way.

After all, irregardless of Tifari’s political situation, he himself cannot deny that the time to secure an heir to the throne has long since been overdue. It is time to give his people a prince.

The only question is: Will the princess of Tifari prove herself to be a worthy wife?

To celebrate this transitional time, the people have been preparing to welcome the foreign princess as well as they possibly can. Whether she is accepted to be the king’s wife—and hence the people’s queen—doesn’t matter. The Ratricans are known for their hospitality. They will live up to their name.

As such, the children have been making pinwheels during playtime at school; the boys have been preparing to line up and meet a real princess; the girls have been weaving flower crowns. The bakers have been preparing the finest bread and the most delicious cakes to send to the castle; the butchers have been allocating only the best meat; the florists have been decorating the streets and the castle gates; and the seamstresses have begun to sew the most magnificent wedding dress to grace the land in a century.

Norman is their most revered king. There has been no ruler with a reign as kind and as just as his.

The people wish only for the best of wives.

The merriment does not waver even after the Tifarians’ arrival is postponed a week later. Norman has found it disrespectful of them to come so late, but he acquiesces—the main roads were bombed during the War, and are in total disrepair. If they are late, it will be because they are taking longer, narrower, and considerably more dangerous routes.

Another week later, and Norman is numbly playing chess against himself. It has been quiet in his office for far too long.

At this rate, he doubts the Tifarian princess is even coming.

He sighs once another checkmate is declared—that’s fifteen to one against himself this past week—and he pulls back, stretching. The wait has left him too anxious to be left alone and suffocating in a stuffy office, so he loosens his tie and removes his vest. He finds no need to dress like a king and it is a blessing on the rare occasion that he desires to escape.

Glancing around to make sure that neither Vincent nor anyone else are around, Norman briskly makes his way through the castle hallways, bursting through a shortcut into the royal gardens.

Norman heaves a lengthy exhale, and then he’s disappearing through the hedges, heels tracing the grass out of sheer habit. It is a frequented path that he takes, but it has yet to be found.

Every garden has its secret, and it is there that Norman finds solace.

His mother had shown him the secret garden when he was six years-old. He’d been sick, bedridden with fever, but he’d been so fervent to go outside. He remembered giving the maids a run for their money when he set his foot down and demanded to be taken to the gardens. It was spring, and as a child Norman always longed to be with the flowers.

There has always been something refreshing about the fragrance and the vibrant colors. They are so obviously a sign of life and nourishment, much unlike the sturdy ore from the mines that the Ratri are so proud of.

His mother, being the delicate woman that she was, enjoyed sitting amongst the flowers as well. She had been the firm hand guiding the royal gardeners, which of course meant she knew every nook and cranny of the gardens.

His father always liked to joke that Norman was more like his mother than he was his father, and Norman has always taken pride in the fact. His delicate nature, while sincere, is often a useful facade. He has fooled countless nobility masking as the sensitive son of the Ratricans’ Queen; they always looked so surprised when he revealed he also possessed the ruthlessness of his father’s strategic prowess.

In any case, Norman likes to maintain a balance within himself.

Stuffy offices will not help in that regard.

He treads into the secret garden with tools from the equipment room in hand, and rolling his sleeves to his elbow, he gets on his knees and starts to work.

As the sun rises high in the sky, he pulls weeds from the flowerbeds and realigns a few of the newly budding stems. He cleans up after himself when he finishes specific sections, until at last his work takes him from the sun and into the shade, where his favorite flowers bloom.

The primroses are more vibrant this spring than they had been last year. From a pale shade of yellow, they are now a concentrated orange, which is rare enough on its own, but Norman admits that he has been tinkering around with genetic engineering. 

In any case, they are his first successful deviation from the norm, and with a brilliant smile on his face he tends carefully to his primroses, and ensures that they are set to bloom even further.

So focused is he on his task that he barely hears the sound of trumpets blaring.

He sits up.

And watercan toppling over, he hurries from his secret garden and into the castle, smelling like grass and covered with soil.

 

///

 

Emma is, for lack of a better word, annoyed.

Ray had pushed her head back from the window and had pinned her down in the carriage as they passed through the kingdom, hissing in her ear that she should remember that she is a princess who is currently not dressed like one. It will do her no good if she is seen by the Ratricans in her current state.

Well, excuse her if they had been attacked by rogue bandits too many times over the trip for it to be considered perfectly safe to carry on in that horrid trap they call a dress. Her kicks are futile and all the frilly things attached to her corset make her movements slow. 

The next time a thief points a knife at Ray’s face he should be thanking her, not telling her that she’s being stupid and proving herself to be less a princess than she already is.

At least the ride doesn’t stretch out longer than it should have, though Emma does regret being unable to look out and gauge the citizens’ demeanor for herself. She’s not one to believe in rumors, which is precisely why she wants to see for herself if the Ratricans are truly as hospitable and kind as they claim to be.

There are always two sides to a coin, and if Ray is intent on marrying her off, then she will at least discover both sides. She will not walk into this losing.

Her people have lost enough.

Ray allows her to straighten once they have travelled through the castle gates, and Emma runs a hand through her hair, if only to make herself a little more presentable. Her current attire is fashioned after her uniform during the rebellion, though she no longer owns any of them. Majority of her old clothes were worn through with cuts and bullet holes, so her lady-in-waiting had been commanded to dispose of them and replace them with gowns appropriate for a princess, though if there is anything her lady-in-waiting and her advisor know about her, it’s that she will always need a legitimate pair of pants or two in her wardrobe.

If not, then she will be fighting in a bare corset should the occasion require it. 

Emma has never been one to care for appearance on the battlefield. At the end of the day, she and her soldiers will look the same.

But it’s not as if the king of Ratri knows that. 

Ray sighs. This is not the first impression he’d been going for—he’d even specifically told Gilda exactly how she should be presented. The girl, of course, had been diligent in her work: Emma’s wardrobe had been set for a prolonged stay at Ratri a few days after they’d received the response letter and the invitation to visit.

Of course, Emma’s current state isn’t exactly her fault. They’d run into their fair share of bandits, and the looming threat as they remained in the open roads had been enough to convince the princess to arm herself and hence dress herself appropriately—she’s gone from her pleated skirts to a practical pair of leather pants, an old pair of boots, and a white silk shirt under a mahogany jacket.

And she is dirty.

Ray is fairly sure she still has the remnants of a kick to the face.

He grumbles silently to himself and offers her his handkerchief. She frowns at him and takes it, then quietly, and much to his surprise, she says, “I’m not exactly the most presentable princess, am I? Is this how my people normally see me?”

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s just practical,” Ray assures, though assurance has never exactly been his strong suit. “Practical this time just doesn’t cooperate with the elegance we’re going for.”

Emma opens her mouth to reply but then the carriage stops, and Emma peeks out to see that the pathway into the throne room is lined with guards, all of whom boast pale blonde hair and a variety of blue and hazel eyes, as though the people of Ratri are born of the skies and the owls—which makes sense. If she recalls correctly, the seal on the answering envelope had been an owl.

She mentally takes note of the history there and lifts her chin when the carriage doors open. The guards don’t spare her a glance, but the citizens who have crowded around the gate do, and they murmur amongst each other in surprise when they realize that she looks less like a princess and more like a battleworn general.

Emma is soon flanked by Ray, who stands to her right, and Anna, who stands to her left. The rest of her entourage gather into formation behind her, and Emma is greeted by the captain of the guards, who to her surprise is a woman with rich brown hair, streaked through with pink dyes if only to boast her wealth, and subsequently her rank.

“Princess,” she courtesies, and then standing straight, she salutes. “I am Captain Wright of the Royal Guard, and I will be escorting you to the throne room. But…” And it is here the captain falters.

Emma’s brows furrow in confusion. “Is there a problem, captain? Is it something to do with my appearance?”

“Not at all,” the girl sets her posture straight again, “You will simply have to wait a moment. We currently have no idea where our king is.”

At the reply, almost every Tifarian brow in the area quirks in suspicion. Emma purses her lips. “He hasn’t been kidnapped, has he?”

“No, your highness.” The captain spins on her heel and begins to walk toward the entrance of the castle. Emma follows. “He simply likes to play a game of tag with us every now and then.”

Next to her, Emma can practically feel Ray’s weighted scowl when he mutters under his breath, “Game of tag? Sounds like something a psychopath would do.”

“Regretting your decision now, are you?” Emma replies wryly, careful to keep her tone low.

“Will you two stop quarelling?” her lady-in-waiting hisses. Anna is formidable when she wants to be. “Save the bickering for when we’re in private.”

“Of course.” Emma tries her best to school her face into a blank yet polished expression, and she folds her hands as though she’s wearing a dress, and they are currently resting against her skirt. Even if she doesn’t look the part, she can certainly act the part if she expends the effort to do so.

They enter the throne room through marble arches, and Emma subtly casts a glance around: the floors are white, though the shadows shine blue. Beautifully tinted glass covers the entirety of the first wall they see, and the stained glass paints a portrait of a beautiful and wise snow white owl, its feathers speckled with enchanting ceruleans and deep browns, its beak curved as regally as the shape of its folded wings.

Emma averts her gaze from the magnificent glass piece to find that the singular throne is empty. There is a man standing to the right of it—to her surprise he is dark-skinned, as opposed to the other Ratricans’ fair skin—and he looks as though he’s at the end of his wits, mouth pressed to a blinking communication device.

“Have you found him yet, general?” the man speaks into the device, and his tone is strained. “I’ve checked his office and his bedroom, we both know there’s only one other place he can be—”

Emma frowns at the exchange, and everyone’s heads turn when they hear the sound of hurried footsteps coming from the right. They increase in sound until the doors leading into a separate hallway burst open to reveal a man.

It is all Emma can do to cover a gasp.

His brilliant blue eyes meet hers first.

 

///

 

It is a rare occasion for Norman to find himself flustered, and as he makes his way from the gardens to the throne room, he’s positively sure that he will find himself in that rare occasion once again. It’s bad enough that he’s filthy—it will be worse when he is forced to explain himself.

He unrolls his sleeves only to realize that they are now crumpled and look dirtier than before, so he rolls them up again. He tucks his dress shirt into his pants to hide a few more of the stains, and he makes a quick stop to the nearest restroom to wash his face.

A few of the maids yell in outrage when they see him— “Your Majesty, the princess is waiting for you and you’re this filthy?” —and at their bewilderment Norman can only manage a hasty excuse. He hadn’t expected the princess to arrive today, though he supposes that was his own carelessness.

Either way, there’s nothing he can do now. At least his face is clean.

He hurries to his throne room and pushes past the thick double doors, straightening his posture and hoping that he won’t make a further fool of himself with their coming interaction.

The woman he finds in the throne room, however, is far from the princess he’d prepared a lengthy excuse for.

In fact, he finds no reason to be flustered at all, because she herself is disheveled and dressed inappropriately, though what does surprise him is the fact that her hair is strikingly short, curling up at the nape of her neck.

In her portrait, she has long hair.

He clears his throat and makes his way towards her. “Forgive me,” he says, and he’s glad when his voice comes out smoothly. “I was in the gardens.”

The princess studies him from head to toe, and straightening, she replies, “You’ll have to forgive me as well. I was in the forest.”

Norman frowns. “How many bandits attacked you?”

She takes a moment to calculate. “Five, though they are far from your territory.”

“I see.” Norman’s frown doesn’t leave his face and he is glad when Vincent makes a note on his clipboard. “In any case, I suppose this first meeting is less than ideal.”

Ray huffs. “I was worried about her appearance,” he says, “But it seems that my worries were useless.”

Norman laughs at that. “So it seems.” He turns to Vincent. “Please, take them to the guest wing. The rooms are all ready, I presume?” 

Vincent bows, and the movement is efficient. “Of course, my king.”

He nods and spins on his heel again to look at Emma, and it strikes her to see that his eyes are genuinely kind. “I will send my Hand to call on you in an hour. Will that be enough time?”

“It’s enough,” she replies, and she wonders why she feels so transparent beneath that gaze.

 

///

 

“You know what I think, Ray?” Emma says, lifting her arms up as Anna fixes up her dress. “I think the king likes you more than he does me.”

Ray barely spares her a glance from behind his pocket book. “What makes you say that?”

“He laughs at your jokes.”

“I haven’t made any jokes.”

“Still,” Emma insists, as Anna picks the hairbrush from the vanity and begins to curl ribbons into her hair. “I think you should be the one to marry him instead.”

“Hey.” Anna smacks her lightly with the hairbrush. “He’s already taken.”

Ray smirks. “I believe that’s what you call karma.”

“Shut up, Ray. Want me to throw the brush at you again?”

Ray casts her a withering glance, but otherwise makes no move to dignify her threat with a response. Emma rolls her eyes at him and settles her gaze on the vanity once more. Her powdered cheeks and her knotted hair remind her greatly of who she had once been before: her mother’s daughter—the only heir to the throne. 

Anna’s nimble fingers have always been able to make her look more like a princess than she truly is. Anna is the daughter of Musica’s own lady-in-waiting, so it had only been natural for her to learn the trade and become the princess’ assistant,  despite the fact that she’s two years younger.

She has proven herself capable over the years, however. Anna has always been good at learning, especially when she’s extremely devoted to the task.

Emma frowns at the ribbons in her hair. They are only there to make her look younger and hence more desirable. She is still the princess meant to marry this king—a king who walks into his own throne room breathless, his stained white shirt loose over his form, and tucked into his high-waist pants. The area around the knees had been muddied, which had caused Emma to wonder what would make such an apparently fine king get on his knees.

Despite the filth that coated his appearance, however, he had still retained an elegance to him that made her think of the swans back home.

Of course, with the rising toxicity of their lakes, there are no such things as swans anymore.

“Anna,” Emma calls softly, and through the mirror she’s aware of both Anna and Ray sneaking a glance at her. She averts her gaze to her nails, which are digging into the wood of the dresser. “What do you think of him?”

Anna hums thoughtfully at the question, and she ties the singular blue ribbon into a bow situated at the nape of her neck. With her hair pulled back and braided this way, she looks so much like the eleven year old she had been once before. Young and vulnerable. 

Innocent.

Anna stares longer at her and finds she has no words to say. 

“I’m not sure.”

Emma expels a sigh, like she’d expected it. “Me neither.”

Ray slams his pocket book shut. “That’s why we’re here, remember? You’re not getting married yet. He still has to accept the proposal.” He strides toward her, and places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Remember our deal, Emma. You don’t get to make judgements this early in the game.”

“I don’t get to make judgements at all, remember?” Emma stands. Her skirt is large enough to cause Anna and Ray to take a step back. “The success of this entire affair lies on his judgement. Whether he says yes or no.” She glances at his pocket book. “And I doubt you’ve arranged things to give him a reason to say no.”

 

///

 

She is led to a marble pavilion in the gardens. 

It is a circular structure, held together by columns wrapped attractively with Bougainvillea vines. The space is wide and open, shaded coolly from the sun, and there is a table set in the center. The utensils are all polished silver and the plates are lined with gold; Emma finds an assortment of baked pastries and cakes lining the center of the table, with stacks of macaroons and cupcakes along with finely prepared sandwiches. 

Norman beckons for her to sit, and she is guided to a chair opposite his.

He doesn’t look her in the eye.

Instead, he signals for a maid and she pours them tea. Emma tries not to gather the hot beverage into her hands for comfort—this is a foreign place, and foreign places require her to mind her manners. Additionally, despite initial appearances, he is a king, and the fact is made plain to her when she realizes he has forgone the simple shirt and trousers for an elaborate coat, the fabric of his shoulders lined with five gold stars, a sapphire gem set in the middle of each.

His hair is brushed back and gelled as well—very different from the windswept hair.

Emma frowns at the direction of her thoughts, though she is not surprised. The king she had met at first—the one who smelled like grass and was covered in soil—looked more attractive to her than the king who sits before her now, his countenance as waxed as hers.

All the more reason not to marry him.

Not like she has a choice.

She tries not to scowl and struggles to keep her face neutral. She’s not one to keep up appearances when there is no need. Ray has always said her heart is so visible from its perch on her sleeve.

“Why have you invited only me?” Emma asks, when it seems he isn’t going to say anything. “The entire court is here, and my advisor—”

“Excuse me for the interruption,” he interjects, and she’s surprised to hear how delicate his voice sounds, especially when they’re surrounded by the greenery like this. His blue eyes seem to shine as he finally settles his gaze on her. “I invited you to my country because I’ve made a deal with your advisor via our letters. We will have one week’s worth of time to court each other properly, and by the end of it we decide if the marriage is to be arranged or not.”

“We?” Emma repeats, astonished. “Could you elaborate on that?”

“Certainly. I meant you and me.”

“Are you—” she sucks in a breath in order to pace her syllables, “—saying I have choice?”

“I do not intend to force either of us into a marriage, no matter how politically beneficial our courts claim it to be,” Norman explains, “Which is why I have only invited you this afternoon. Think of this as… consideration.”

Emma purses her lips, wondering how she should respond to that. She had suspected the king’s reasons behind delaying his decision on the proposal, though now she finds she never even had to ask him. 

He’s making his intentions clear. 

“I appreciate that,” Emma answers quietly. She feels her posture relax, and she even manages a small smile.

He blinks at the warm expression on her face and clears his throat.

“I’m glad. Though I must say your initial letter was a surprise,” Norman begins. He has yet to touch his tea, so she keeps her hands folded in her lap. “I did not expect such a proposal, but upon further deliberation, I’ve come to find that it makes perfect sense. Tifari…” he trails off, and Emma feels his gaze burning into her skin, “...is hoping to bolster its reputation by aligning itself with me. Am I right?”

“You are,” Emma answers, because there is never any point in lying. “My court and my advisor have deemed you to be a necessary ally.”

“I see.” Norman leans back, and she knows she’s being studied. She tries not to visibly squirm at his scrutinizing gaze, but it is difficult to sit still when being assessed by a complete stranger. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“You mentioned your court and your advisor,” Norman points out, “But you’ve failed to mention yourself.”

“They are the masterminds behind this entire ordeal,” Emma replies, her tone clipped. “I had no awareness of the initial letter.”

Norman nods. “If you’re not the hand behind this proposal, then why are you here?”

Her smile turns a little wry. “Let’s just say my advisor is very good at making deals.”

Norman opens his mouth and does it again—he laughs. The sound is rich and grounded, warm like a cup of tea in the cool spring afternoon. She finds herself endeared by the sound, and curses the fact that he’s become even more attractive to her, now.

“My advisor amuses you a lot,” she remarks, and at her observation Norman’s mouth settles into a fine curve, the corner of his mouth quirking with his amusement. 

“He does,” Norman admits freely, and gesturing at the table, he asks, “Which one of these are your favorite?”

Emma blinks at the question, though she answers it honestly without hesitation. “The shortcakes.”

“With the strawberry or the mango filling?”

“Mango.”

“Then please.” His maid takes note of the cue and offers the plate of mango shortcakes to the princess. Emma’s eyes widen before settling, and nervously, she thanks the maid and takes two for herself. 

Without even taking a bite, Emma asks, “Which is your favorite?”

Norman grins, and without even having to say anything the maid is already offering him the plate that’s still in her hands.

“You’re kidding.” Emma is righteously suspicious. “Is this how you court women? By sharing the same dessert?”

“I’ve never courted a woman in my life,” Norman says honestly. “And you can ask Vincent. Mention mango shortcake specifically. He will groan with disdain.”

Emma scrunches her nose. “Why do you like mango shortcake?”

“It’s sweet,” Norman says, “But not too sweet.”

“A pitiful reason,” she sniffs, “I still think you’re fibbing.”

Norman laughs. “Do you?”

Despite herself, Emma grins. “Hey, that’s the first time I’ve made you laugh.”

He arches a brow. “Is this a competition with your advisor?”

“Yes,” Emma says, and feeling bold, she adds: “I’m starting to think you like him more than you do me. It’s wedding bells for the both of you before the week may even begin.”

“Then I believe I must set my sexuality straight with you.”

“Was that a double entendre?” She’s even more relaxed now, and her personality shines through, authentic and less polished. “Because I’ll have you know that fornication before the wedding day is sure to get you crucified, your Majesty.”

“Please, my mother raised me to be a gentleman.” He smirks, and the look is devilishly good on him. “I do not fornicate. I make love.”

Emma’s hands lift up to cover her mouth, but it doesn’t stop her laughter from spilling out, and the sound is so contagious that Norman finds himself laughing as well, though not as much as her. 

“I can’t—” She gasps for air, her mirth shining through her expression, “I could never—” She shakes her head and tries vainly to compose herself. “I have no idea how you could say that with a straight face!”

“Trust me,” Norman says, and he’s still grinning, “I am truly disgusted with myself.”

“Excuse me, my king,” the maid says, and there’s a smirk on her face. “But I believe Barbara will be pleased to hear about this.”

“Do not gossip in my castle, Ayshe,” Norman winces, “Especially with Captain Wright.”

“Afraid to lose your reputation?” the maid—Ayshe—responds, and Emma is amused to find that even the staff hold some power over their king, even if it is only to embarrass him.

“Tell me, Ayshe,” Emma says, “Does his arrogance require him to be taken down a peg?”

“Always,” Ayshe responds, which is ironic considering she bows her head in respect at the confirmation.

“One day here and you’re already conspiring with my staff,” Norman observes, pinching his nose, though he seems less annoyed than he is amused. “Should I feel threatened by you, princess?”

“It depends,” Emma responds innocently, “Do you feel threatened by a little girl?”

Norman’s grin straightens into a firm line. “I was not aware you consider yourself a ‘little girl’.”

Emma blinks, taken aback by the answer, and stuttering she finds she has no suitable response. She stares at him a little longer, eyes glittering, and then she murmurs, “Your staff are conspiring against you all on their own, your Majesty.”

Norman finds his smile again at the answer, and humoring her, he replies, “You’re absolutely right. Shall I dismiss them, then?”

Emma lifts her head sharply. “What?”

Norman hums as if in thought. “Or we can always dismiss ourselves.” He stands, and Emma is once again reminded of how tall he is. His slender legs are graceful in their stride when he crosses the diameter of the table to stand before her, and his smile widening, he offers her his hand.

“Walk with me, princess?”

Emma stares at his outstretched hand, and sneaking a glance at his maid—who’s still smirking, even now—she wonders what his play is. Why create a situation for both of them to be alone if he’s so apparently leaning towards denying the proposal? Why make his intentions clear in the first place? 

What’s his strategy? What’s he hoping to gain?

She purses her lips, and considering his kind eyes, his gentle demeanor, she suppresses a frustrated sigh and then she says: “Remove your gloves, and I will take your hand.”

Norman looks more than pleased by the answer and he does so without complaint. His maid comes around to collect his gloves, and when his hands are bare, they are once again offered to her.

She nods in satisfaction, and then she removes her own gloves.

She takes his hand.

It’s warm in hers.

 

///

 

The warmth of his hand grows more and more familiar to her, with every day that passes. She continues to fill in Ray and Anna about what they’re doing—they tread through the gardens, mostly—and every single day Ray and Anna are a little more frustrated to know that there have been no developments whatsoever.

It’s just the same routine. Norman invites her for tea at 1 o’clock every afternoon, and from 2 to 3 they take a stroll around the castle, through the gardens. Sometimes they make conversation. Most of the time it’s a comfortable silence.

“Are you deliberately trying to make him dislike you?” Ray asks, a vein popping in his head. “We made a deal, dammit.”

“You’re losing composure, Ray,” Emma says, mostly because she’s been taking every opportunity these past few weeks to irritate him. An eye for an eye, after all. “We’ve become used to each other’s presence, at the very least.”

“Do you think that’s enough? You’ve had so many chances, Emma. You two could be best friends by now—you’re just not putting any effort into it!”

“The deal was that I’d come here and let him decide!” Emma snaps. “You never said anything about having to suck up to him.”

“That was the entire point of bringing you here!” Ray snaps back. “You think we’re here on vacation? I wanted to give you two the chance to meet so you could at least become friends, and if you’re friends we’d have a better chance of saving the damn country!”

“What are you talking about, Ray?” Emma narrows her eyes, and her skirts billow threateningly about her frame when she stands from the vanity to face her advisor. “You said this was a political alliance. A chance to bolster the kingdom’s reputation. Why are you saying that we must save the country as if—” Her voice trembles, the syllables lost to the maelstrom of her thoughts. “What aren’t you telling me, Ray? Why are you insisting that this marriage take place? What don’t I know about my own kingdom?”

Ray tsks, turning his head.

“Answer me, Ray!” Emma’s hands reach for an absent hilt. When he says nothing, her fingers curl over a weapon that isn’t even there. “That’s an order, Ray!”

“You’re not a general anymore,” Ray grouses.

“Oh yeah? Is that what’s stopping you?” Emma glares up at him. “I may not be your commanding officer, but I am still your princess. Now answer me. What are you refusing to tell me?”

There’s a loud knock on the door before Ray can even open his mouth to answer. Emma’s glare doesn’t waver, but Ray now has an excuse to look away, and muttering quickly under his breath, he strides forward to open the doors to the room.

Norman grins at him from the other side. “Good morning. I know it’s a little too early to call, but the princess and I have made arrangements for today.”

Ray’s brow quirks. “Arrangements?”

Norman folds his hands behind his back. His grin seems to grow wider. Emma recognizes it as his penchant to lie.

“Yes, arrangements,” Norman confirms. “We’re headed into town today. Sightseeing. She’s a very adventurous woman; it was the first thing she asked of me.”

“And… you’re personally coming to collect her?” 

“Of course. We have entered courtship, haven’t we?” Norman’s expression turns lopsided, like a man in love. “It’s only fitting for me to come collect her myself. I could hardly wait to see her.”

Ray blinks. 

Three days of silence in a garden and he looks this smitten? He glances from the king to Emma, sensing foul play.

“Emma—” Ray begins, but then Emma’s gathering her parasol and brushing past him.

“We’re continuing this conversation later,” she says, turning back to spare him a brief glance. “I hope you’ll have gotten rid of your lying tongue by then.”

He glowers at her. “Well, whatever you say, princess.”

He shuts the door in her face. Because he can.

Emma lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping, and she wishes she wouldn’t feel like crying just by looking at a closed door. She hates walls. 

She hates them especially when Ray erects them because they’ve lost their temper at each other again.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and jumps, her reflexes acting without prompt and grabbing the attached wrist to twist it. Red coats Norman’s cheeks then, and for the first time she can see bashfulness in the contours of his face.

“I apologize,” he says softly, though he does nothing to extract his hand from her lethal grip.

“No, I do.” She lets go of his wrist. “It’s just—a reflex, you understand.”

He nods. “You were a former general, yes?”

“Yes,” Emma confirms, “But not officially.”

“Hm.” He turns sideways, and offers his elbow to her. “Shall we go, then?”

She hesitantly wraps her arm around his extended elbow. The mere act is enough to bring them closer together than she would like, but the lessened distance between them has become familiar with time, and perhaps a little comforting. She’s often wondered if that’s his play—that he wants to see if they can get used to each other’s presence, and presence alone.

He rarely initiates conversation, though when they do talk, they converse for a long time and without pause. She still has yet to learn anything about him, however. He’s always so careful with his words. Their conversations touch upon politics, economics, history, and the like, but they’ve never shared any personal anecdotes, any informal opinion.

They are still strangers, but they stand close together like they are friends.

“We didn’t make any arrangements for today,” Emma points out, as they walk along the hallways. “I’m not even dressed properly to go into town.”

“You’re right,” Norman says, glancing at her once, and studying her from head to toe with that one glance. “We’re going to make a stop along the way. You don’t mind wearing Ratrican colors for today, do you?”

“A stop?”

“We’re going into town, as I said,” Norman elaborates, “And our first stop will be the royal dressmakers’. She’s considered the finest seamstress in all the West.”

“I’d argue that Tifari has much finer seamstresses than yours,” Emma answers, just to see how he’ll react.

He laughs. “You do that a lot.”

“Do what?”

“Turn things into competitions.”

“It’s more fun that way.” She purses her lips, and then she turns to look at him. “Besides, I consider you a rival of sorts.”

“A rival?”

“You’re smarter than me,” she replies, and her tone is playful. “That is grounds for a little rivalry.”

“Is that a challenge, princess?”

“Yes, you’re catching on.” She grips his forearm tighter. “Besides, I don’t like how you ended up having to rescue me today. That’s a little pitiful, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t rescue you from anything,” Norman responds, and she’s become familiar with that smirk on his face. “I simply invited you out to town.”

“Of course,” she plays along, “And your timing was simply coincidence.”

“The walls aren’t exactly soundproof in the guest wing, princess. It’s for cautionary measures.” He glances at her sideways. “And besides, you know as well as I do that the maids love to gossip. A lot of the younger ones are Ayshe’s dogs. They report everything that happens in the castle to her, and through her, me.”

“Cautionary measures, hm?” Emma allows herself a small smile. “So they relayed our argument to you that quickly?”

“It isn’t the first argument they’ve reported,” he answers, without looking at her. “It’s simply the first time I’ve had an excuse ready for you.”

“I’m glad you used it.”

Her words are honest and enough to make him pause. They cease walking in the middle of the hallway, a few of the maids scurrying past and giving them questioning looks. Emma opens her mouth to ask him what’s wrong, but then he’s lifting up his free hand, and in it there’s a pretty pink peony, plucked from the garden, its stem cut cleanly through.

“May I?”

“How long have you been holding on to that?” Emma asks, curious.

“Since the second day.” He smiles at her. “I’ve been holding on to it in case I ever find myself in a situation like this.”

“‘Like this’?” She frowns. She lets him place the flower in her hair.

“Like this,” he repeats, and there are no further explanations. 

When they resume walking, Emma ponders to herself, and wonders if perhaps an explanation isn’t necessary at all.

 

///

 

The dress they fit her in is one meant for travel. She glances at herself in the mirror—a pleated white skirt, held to form with a stylish leather belt. It reaches just a few centimeters past her knees, and the silk stockings underneath disappear into high ankle leather boots, dark brown and heeled. She’s also fitted with a prussian blue jacket—and it’s so similar in style to her attire during the first day that she wonders if that’s what Vincent’s been taking notes on.

“How do you like it?” the seamstress inquires, and her question is punctuated by a puff from her pipe. She’s a wrinkly old woman, though her fingers are nimble and her fashion sense is still sharp.

“It’s surprising,” Emma answers truthfully. “I expected a proper gown.”

The seamstress snorts, and a circle of smoke from the pipe dissipates in the air at the motion. “The king is taking you around town today. A proper gown will drag you down. No, this is much more appropriate for walking.”

“Walking?” Her eyes widen. “But we came here by carriage—”

“The carriage is gone now,” the seamstress says. “The king told me he’s waiting for you in the lounge. The people are pleased to know that they finally have the chance to boast about their crafts to a princess. I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

Emma looks down at herself again—dressed in blue, not red, her boots heeled but comfortable, and a pretty cerulean parasol pushed into her hands as she steps down from the dressing platform. “I’m—” she struggles for words, and she looks at the seamstress, whose strict gaze softens at the sight of her.

“I’m sure it must be hard,” the wizened old woman says. “It’s not easy to face the prospect of marrying into a kingdom that’s not your own. That is, unfortunately, a reality that the women in nobility must face. But our king is kind, as you must surely know. There will always be a place for you and your people here.”

Emma keeps herself from saying anything if only to keep herself from stuttering, and she’s sure her confusion is plain on her face because the seamstress takes her hand and squeezes it in assurance.

The lost princess finds it within her to speak.

“Thank you.”

The seamstress shakes her head, and turning away from the princess she takes a few steps forward and then a drag from her pipe. “Don’t thank me,” she says, and pausing only for a moment, she continues, “Thank the young king, who seems to love you enough to pay me this much for travel wear. Even if it is meant for a princess.”

Emma purses her lips. “I’m sorry, madame, but love cannot be judged by how much one is willing to pay.”

“Who said he paid me in money, dear?” 

Emma blinks. “How else would he—”

“You’d be surprised to know.” The old woman smirks, and Emma feels as though she’s being played somehow. She’s seen that smirk from somewhere.

“Still, I doubt that whatever we share between us can be called love,” she shakes her head. “It’s still so new, and the war is still so fresh—”

“Then forgive me, young princess,” the seamstress bows her head. “I did not mean to misuse any terms.”

“No, it’s not your fault—”

“In any case, the king is waiting for you now.” Emma yelps when she’s ushered out the door, the seamstress and her apprentices giggling amongst themselves. “Blow him away.”

The way the seamstress handles her reminds her of Gilda back home, so when Emma’s form bursts through the curtains she’s flushed with homesickness and longing, her cheeks red with coming tears, and her throat rendered useless.

What are you hiding from me, Ray?

She shakes her thoughts from her mind, and is so distracted that she fails to see the enchantment on her companion’s face as he gazes at her, dressed in an attire that suits her better than any of the gowns he’s seen her in. The dress is made to the standard of nobility, but she looks very much like an adventurer, an explorer—a woman ready to conquer the world—and somehow that makes her more real to him.

She looks less like a polished doll and more like a genuine person.

He clears his throat. “Is it comfortable, princess? I’ve also asked for a matching set to be made in the colors of your kingdom, if you’d rather a mahogany apparel I can wait longer—”

“It’s fine,” Emma says softly, though she’s looking at the ground and not at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he answers, and he longs to say more, but then she’s brushing past him and out the door. He blinks, wondering if he’s somehow offended her by presuming she be dressed in the colors of a kingdom that she doesn’t even belong to, but then the seamstress is standing right by his side.

“You really are hopeless, my grandchild,” she remarks, shaking her head. “I did not think you would be so foolish in love.”

Norman’s expression sobers. “I know Ayshe’s gossip has reached you, but I didn’t think you would care.”

“I don’t, not really.” She takes another drag from her pipe. “But she’s so obviously homesick and worried for her country. Tifari…” she frowns, “... they do not have much longer, do they?”

“What’s worse is that she doesn’t know,” Norman answers grimly. “Her court and advisor have seen it fit to keep it from her. This marriage—it’s built on an omission of truth. Even if I did want to, I can’t go through with it. Not if she doesn’t know why.”

“Then tell her.”

He expels a sigh. “It’s not that simple, grandmother. You know exactly what she has to give up in order to become my wife.”

“True,” she answers. “I only gave my daughter away because I knew she would be no passive woman. There has always been a good reason as to why our monarchy is structured the way it is. The kings will always make a good choice. They have to.”

“But she is the only member of the royal family left. If the Tifarians lose her influence as their queen…”

“They will not.” The old seamstress looks up at her grandson with a fond smile. “I know you, my dear. I know what kind of man my daughter raised you to be. You empathize with the foreign princess and her nation. You will find a way, as you always do. But the first step to doing that is to tell her.”

She points the pipe out the door and towards the silhouette outlined faintly through the glass. “She’s still young. And she’s like you. She only wants the best for her people. She will be a worthy wife.”

“But she’s homesick,” he frowns. “And she’s arguing constantly with her advisor. She’s confused.”

“Then help her.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Stupid boy.” She strikes his head with her pipe. “Ayshe tells me you’re curious about her but have done nothing to act on that. The more passive you are around her, this entire week will go to waste. I did not think my grandson was wasteful.”

“Well, Granny,” Norman answers, rubbing his head, “You’ve always had a way with words.”

“And you Ratri men simply do not know how to court women. Honestly. You’re completely hopeless.”

“I’ll try not to be,” he replies, sincere, and his grandmother pats him on the back.

“Good boy. Now, get out of here.” She pushes him out the door. “You’ve left a woman in the scorching sun for far too long.”

“You forget that I’m a king, Granny.”

“King Schming, I’m your grandmother, I can push you around.”

The door chimes jingle a merry tune just as Norman lets out a laugh.

 

///

 

Emma’s spirits are gradually lifted as they walk farther from the castle and deeper into the outskirts of town.

She’s extremely good with children, Norman comes to note. They place more flowers in her hair, and she gives them piggy back rides to the astonishment and embarrassment of their parents, who apologize profusely every time their child sees it fit to climb upon her back. Emma always waves away their apologies with a smile, and often she ropes Norman into her shenanigans with the children, which makes him laugh—which makes the parents cry even harder.

“That’s the king, sweet Goddesses, please don’t climb on him!”

They still walk in silence with each other for the most part, but there’s a spring in Emma’s step and she converses with the townspeople like they’re longtime friends, so Norman finds no need to initiate conversations when there’s an entire kingdom for her to see.

He takes her for a stroll the entire afternoon, taking her to some of the more prominent shops and places. She has an eye for strange knicknacks, though when he offers to purchase them for her, she refuses.

They’re also followed conspicuously by curious children, all of whom Emma continues to entertain without tire.

The entire rest of the day passes this way. In high spirits and merry distraction.

Neither of them take notice that their hands remain linked through every in between—letting go only to intertwine again. The act of doing so has simply become natural; they find no need to pay it heed.

When the sun begins to set, Norman leads her back to the castle in a roundabout way, on a path that looks decidedly unfamiliar as they tread through it.

“Are you lost in your own kingdom?” Emma asks, and her question is breathy, like she’s tired but still joyful.

“Have you no faith in me?” he replies, to which she allows herself to snort. “Now, that was a rather inelegant sound, princess.”

“What do you care?” she responds, smiling. “No one’s here to reprimand me. Unless you’re planning to.”

“Not planning to.”

They reach a rather large hedge, and Norman turns to her, beaming brightly. “Are you willing to get a little dirty?”

She mocks a courtesy. “By all means.”

“All right then.” His grin grows wider.

And then he takes her hand and pulls them through the hedge.

Emma yelps, caught off-guard, and she finds herself falling onto a soft patch of grass, Norman laughing heartily right next to her. His hair is disheveled, stray leaves weaving through the silky strands, and unable to help herself she feels her shock ebb away into soft giggles, her amusement causing her to lift her hand up to his face.

She brushes the leaves from his hair. “Ray would pin this on me, but now we both know you’re the reckless one, your Majesty.”

“Please,” he answers, eyes softening beneath her touch, “We’re in my secret garden. Call me Norman.”

“Secret garden?” Emma echoes, and she sees it again, his wonderful smile.

“Yes. This is where I was when you first arrived.”

“I see.” She casts a look around, and finds that the garden is lit golden by the setting sun, the leaves a rich shade of brown and orange, the flowers glowing iridescently in the fading sunlight. It’s large, though she knows it’s a mere fraction of the entire gardens, and beyond the shade of a brilliantly purple wisteria tree, she sees the sun glittering over the ripples of a placid crystal lake.

“It’s beautiful.”

“So it is,” Norman agrees, and he stands, offering her his hand once more. “It was my mother’s, and now it’s mine. Come along with me?”

She grins wryly. “It’s not as if I’ve had a choice all afternoon.”

“But you do have choice,” Norman counters, his gaze set firmly over her form. “You may have set foot on my soil, but you will always have a choice. Hence, I ask: Come along with me?”

She blinks up at him, bewildered, and a rare smile graces her face—the kind of smile that lets her dimples show, her teeth shine. It’s breathtakingly genuine, and Norman knows only that he wants to see it forever on her face. It suits her better.

She takes his hand, and he pulls her up without much effort. She dusts herself off, though when her skirt is as clean as it can be, she takes hold of his hand again, and it feels like a choice.

He squeezes her fingers and leads her down to the shore of the lake, which is rather small in size, though it’s no less enchanting—pure and calm. Norman rests on his knees, and she mimics his pose, her gaze kept steadily on his serene frame.

“Mother always told me that the water here is so pure, drinking from it once with your bare hands will be enough to quench your thirst and soothe your ache, whether these be physical or not.” He leans forward, and cups his hands. His fingers are still clear to her, even when they’re submerged an inch below the water. “Try it.”

She stares at him a long moment, though he doesn’t spare her a glance. She knows by now that he’s simply waiting for her to act or say something, so she doesn’t waste her breath, and simply mimics his actions again.

Their hands rise together and they drink together.

Water dribbles from her hands and soaks her sleeves; it dribbles from her chin and soaks her collar, but the liquid that does touch her lips is cool and refreshing, and her tongue brushes over her lower lip in satisfaction, her head tilting to look at the man next to her, his smile a reflection of her own.

“Your mother must have known a little magic,” Emma says.

“She must have,” Norman echoes, and his hands settle in his lap. She’s surprised to see him lower his head, and she can vaguely place the redness on his cheeks as something akin to his earlier bashfulness. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, concerned. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I didn’t mean to.”

“You haven’t offended me,” he assures. “I was simply thinking…”

“Yes?”

“Your hair,” he manages to say, after a moment. His cheeks redden further at the absence of his eloquence.

“What about it?”

“It’s short.” He shakes his head, and ploughing on, he says, “In your portrait—the one that I was shown—your hair was long.”

Emma hums in thought. “Well, I suppose that would be the case. I haven’t had any recent portraits commissioned.”

“May I ask why your hair is short? Is it… because of the war?” At the last question, he looks timid—a far cry from the reserved and confident noble she’s seen all week—and at the show of vulnerability, of uncertainty, Emma’s expression softens.

She lifts a hand up to her locks—which have been brushed back and braided as well as Anna’s dexterous fingers could manage—and she fingers the ribbon that keeps it all in place. She ponders over his question, and her gentle expression rises to meet his bashful one.

She’s known since the very beginning that there is no point in lying.

“The Tifarian Royal Family has a tradition,” Emma prefaces, and her voice doesn’t tremble as much as she’d thought it would. “Since our country is ruled by powerful Queens, it is only right that we have traditions which befit only women. Long hair has long since been a symbol of peace and prosperity in Tifari—the longer the hair, the longer the time of peace. My mother and aunt, as sisters, both held the title of having the longest hair to ever grace the Tifarian legacy. The people trusted that I would continue the cycle of peace—that is, until my aunt decided to take over the throne in her greed and avarice, and hence laid destruction all over the land.”

Emma’s fists curl into her skirt. “She ruined our symbol of peace by soiling it with the blood of innocents. You should know very well what she did—she murdered my mother, took the throne, and decided to make peace her way.”

Norman nods grimly. “Yes. I know very well the kind of woman she was.”

“I was angry with her. So angry.” Emma’s fists tremble. “She had no right. My mother was the true Queen, and she was so privileged under my mother’s care. I still don’t understand. It’s been ten years and now she’s dead and I still don’t understand.” She blinks, and hates herself for the way her eyes swell with despair. “How could she—how could she kill her own sister?”

Her bitter tears fall heavy at the question and Emma gasps for air, her heart constricting within its cage, her grief rising with every sob she tries to hold back. Her shoulders shake violently, and her syllables are broken when she continues, “My father is the only reason I’m still alive. He gave me the opportunity to fight. And I—” She lifts her hands to her face and bites her lip to keep herself from crying so openly. 

“I’ve never hated anyone in my life until I saw what my aunt had done in her quest for power. When she pointed her sword at my father next, I knew then that I could never forgive her for what she’d done. So I did what my father protected me for—I fought for my people. Cutting my hair off was just a declaration of war.”

“‘Just’?” Norman repeats, and he hesitates, his hand reaching for her trembling frame but unable to reach it. “My dear princess, you are very brave.”

She shakes her head, her tears spilling through the spaces between her fingers. “No I’m not,” she chokes out. “I’m not, because I’ve kept my tears to myself until now, and I find myself weeping in front of the man my people deem a far more worthy ruler than I.”

“How could you say that?” he admonishes, opening his arms. “You treat my people like they are your own—how much more the subjects you fought to save for ten long years? Dearest princess—Emma—you are the last person I expect to devalue your own efforts. I am just a pawn in the game; you are the ruler your people, even your court, admire and look up to. This marriage was never about your incapability.”

“Then why?” She tears her fingers away from her face and buries them into his jacket. “Why must I marry you?”

He places his hand over hers. “For my land. Tifari is now barren. Your court believes it no longer sufficient to support your people’s livelihood.”

Emma blinks, her tears streaming silently down her cheeks. “What?” she whispers.

“Your kingdom is barren,” Norman reveals gently, “Your people—the remaining few left from the war—are sick and hungry. Your advisor has told me that they have kept the truth of the situation from you, for fear it would ruin you even further.”

He cups her fingers into his own. “They tell me of your valiant efforts to restore your country to the grandeur it once was. They also tell me that this goal of yours is too naive and idealistic—that Tifari will never be what it once was, no matter how formidable their princess. They just want to help your country in their own way. My kingdom’s territory is large and protected by the Walls. They want to secure a place for your people here. A marriage will be the best way to ensure that.”

Emma frowns, and her tears have long since stopped flowing, though her heart continues to grieve. “Why couldn’t they just tell me that? I’m their princess. I wanted them to have faith in me, but…” Her fingers curl into his jacket, and she lowers her head. “Am I really just a child to them? A naive, ignorant little princess?”

“Childlike, yes. I’ve seen that for myself.” He lifts her chin with his thumb, and his blue eyes glitter brightly in the early evening. “Naive, most definitely. And stubborn. Defiant. But most definitely sincere. I have never seen anyone whose actions speak so loudly for themselves.”

She bites her lower lip to keep herself from trembling any more. “Don’t lie to me simply because I’m crying before you.”

“Am I lying, dear princess?”

She meets his gaze and is arrested by it. “No,” she whispers, and seeking warmth, she pulls herself into his open arms. “No, I suppose you aren’t.”

His eyes widen as her frame fits delicately into his, and hesitantly, he settles his hands over her upper back soothingly. She’s no longer crying, which relieves him, but she’s holding on tightly, and he wonders if this is the first time she’s cried since the end of the War.

Perhaps not, he considers, but maybe he’s the first to see it.

“It’s easier with you,” she murmurs quietly, like his thoughts are bare for her to see. “Maybe because you’re a stranger. A kind stranger.”

“It wouldn’t do for a king to leave a princess crying, don’t you think?” he answers, and he yelps when she finds the audacity to pinch him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says. “I laid myself bare before you, now you must do the same.”

“What?”

She pulls back, and despite the thin sheet of tears glossing over her eyes, her gaze burns right through him. “You’re not the only one with questions, your Majesty. I have some of my own.”

He shakes his head. “Please, I told you. Norman is fine.”

“Then you must call me Emma,” she replies, without skipping a beat. “The War has damaged all of us in different ways, that much I can assume. Ratri was the first to fall at my aunt’s hand, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Norman answers truthfully. “If you’re going to ask why we never participated in the war after that, then it’s because my kingdom was without a leader. Reglavalima laid siege on my kingdom and my parents’ lives were taken as her prize. I was protected until I could assume the throne. That is all.”

“It must have been hard for you,” Emma remarks quietly, her fingers fiddling with the brooch attached to his jacket. “Ray mentioned you were only eleven.”

“I was. But I did not fight the way you did, and we are of the same age.”

“We’re not here to compare,” she answers firmly. “We just.”

“Just?” he prompts.

She lets out a small huff and grins shyly. “We never do talk about each other much, do we?”

“Do you want to talk more?” he dares to ask, and she finds herself endeared by his bashful personality. “About each other?”

“That would…” She ends up pulling the brooch from his jacket in her nervousness, and she gasps, cheeks coloring. She hastily puts it back and averts her gaze from his amused expression. “That would be nice, yes.” 

She sniffles and tries to wipe her nose with her kerchief. “Besides, you’ve already seen me cry.”

He cups her cheek with his hand, as if in assurance. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“To have seen me cry?” She scoffs. “Most would say that’s humiliating, especially for a princess.”

“No it’s not,” he insists, and then he’s tugging on the ribbon in her hair.

“Hey!” she scolds, though there’s not much anger to it. She’s fighting to hide her smile. “Anna worked hard on that, you know.”

“I just want to see something.”

“What do you want to see?”

He tugs on the ribbon again, harsher, over its weak point, and it falls away, drawn to the pull of his fingers. Emma’s lips part in her surprise, and then he’s brushing his fingers through her hair to untangle the braids.

Her curls are freed, and they protrude wildly from her hair like a mane. He grins. “I think I like you better this way.” He hums in satisfaction, and she feels heat flood her cheeks. “I much prefer the way you were on our very first meeting.”

“I was dressed inappropriately then, you lecher,” she teases.

“So was I. Captain Wright says you were drooling.”

“I was not!” She swats his shoulder. “I will either have a word with Captain Wright or with you, lecher, if I find you made that up.”

“Please, call me Norman.” He wraps her ribbon around his finger. “I did not bring you into my secret garden only to have you call me a lecher.”

“It’s too late now,” Emma answers, grinning. “You’ve made your impression. Lecher.”

“You really don’t put the honey before the hatchet, do you, princess?”

“Maybe I’ll be sweeter if you allow us to stay here longer,” she bargains.

“What?” he splutters, astonished. “They’ll be looking for us—”

“Let them.” She settles herself comfortably by his side and stares out at the water. “They couldn’t find you the last time you were here, right? So let’s stay here.”

He gazes at her a long time, then faces the lake with a smile on his face. “You want to stay here?”

“I have a choice, don’t I?” she says, and then she’s smiling too. “I just want to talk with you a little longer. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay, princess.” He squeezes her hand when she laces it with his. “I want that too.”

Chapter 4: Take Away.

Summary:

June 14: TPN has officially given me a bout of depression and anxiety that was difficult to tackle, but here I am with something tacky and heartfelt, and maybe just a tad bit bitter, because wow I did not expect anything that occurred in chapters 179 and 180. In any case, this was a Mafia AU requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr, and it's less of the conventional Mafia and more of something entirely... different. I hope it's enjoyable, nevertheless, and I aim to write something about the ending once it comes (it helps that another anon was kind enough to request something along a similar vein). Anyway, I've rambled enough.

Song-spiration: Takeaway - The Chainsmokers, Illenium ft. Lennon Stella

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

The bullet sliced across the concrete like the line of a pencil cracking harshly against paper.

Emma breathed in deeply, the world coming to a standstill, and then she reached out to grab Oliver’s arm — which had been injured, not good — and she pulled him back, behind the wreckage of the truck they’d stolen from the food factory earlier that night. She grit her teeth and gave Oliver a look that told him she was sorry, he had to suck it up until their friends could come with back-up.

Unless they’d been caught too.

She reloaded her gun, cocked it, held it up and was ready to aim before the madwoman with the club had enough time to swing.

She dodged it. Of course.

These were Minerva’s goons, that much she could tell. And while Emma wanted nothing more than to hold a meeting with their coward of a boss before any of them died — which they were bound to do, in this line of work, cast on the streets the way they were — she certainly had no intentions of spilling more blood than necessary.

Knowing him, or who he worked for, it was a Capture order for her head — for anyone else, it was Dead or Alive.

“Stay still, will you?” the madwoman with the club huffed. 

“What, can’t get a good swing without a still target?” Emma taunted, and with a smirk she dodged another blow and rolled away — away from Oliver, who was staring at her like she was crazy, why the fuck was she doing this — and she bit back a groan when her skin grazed broken glass. She raised her gun again and shot, and this time she felt the recoil in her wrists, felt the way the bullet sped past the madwoman’s shoulder like a papercut.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sonya and Paula, wounded but not as badly as Oliver, and with a mere glance she knew that they knew what to do. Leave her behind, get Oliver to safety. She could handle herself. She could escape.

She held that firm, authoritative gaze on the two girls until they silently complied, pulling a protesting Oliver into their arms and dragging him away into the shadows of the nearest alley. In a few moments, they would disappear, and then she could breathe.

Unfortunately, breathing only lasted a few precious seconds.

Emma wheezed and clawed at the leather boot that stationed itself over her neck. Her nails bit through leather. “You can’t kill me,” she choked out, though the madwoman looked happy enough to do so considering all the bullets Emma had managed to fire at her. 

Not at any critical point, mind. Emma was always careful where she pointed her gun.

“Maybe not,” the madwoman said, teeth glinting. “But this is all about getting even, Sunshine.”

“Is that what he calls me?” Emma asked, and above her the madwoman scoffed, though something of a grin could be measured on her lips. She swung her club again, settled it over her shoulder.

“You’ll find out if you’re a good girl,” the madwoman promised, pressing her foot down harder. Emma gasped uselessly for air. 

She wondered if the thundering ache of the blankness that surrounded her next was the sound of death.

 

///

 

“Get up.”

Emma felt the cool smoothness of tiles below her, though with each shuddering breath she took she cursed the texture, slippery as it was. Water dripped from her bangs onto the floor, and she struggled to her knees, biting back a curse when she felt ice cold water against her neck, all over her shirt.

When she blinked she could see red.

She was bleeding somewhere. The water was washing it out, but the wound wasn’t closed and she had no idea where it was.

“I said, get up.”

“Impatient, are you?” she bit out, and this time she was alert enough to shriek when another bucket of ice cold water was dumped over her head. “How many of those do you have?”

“Considering the last time you were here, I brought two extra.” Emma recognized the voice to be the madwoman’s — Barbara, she knew her name was, though she wasn’t particularly fond of the girl’s abrasive, macabre demeanor when it came to hunting out in the field — and she brushed her hair from her eyes, looking up with a damp smirk.

“Two extra seems a little generous,” she quipped, and Barbara rolled her eyes.

“Considering the Boss wants you alive — even though all of us here think you’d be better off dead — I wasn’t allowed to bring more than four.”

“Really, he’s too kind.”

“I should like to think so.”

Emma’s head snapped toward the direction of the sound; it was a smooth, lilting voice she hadn’t heard since their last quarrel, and she almost hated herself for how much she missed it, that voice, a voice that came to her as the ghost haunting her slumber; the memory that simply wouldn’t fade — a what-if she had no business thinking about.

Barbara stepped to the side, flinging the empty bucket in her hand to a corner where it landed with an irritating clang, and then she saluted, and then she scurried away.

And then they were alone, just like he always wanted them to be.

His blue eyes were paler than she remembered, when he knelt before her and lifted her chin up with his hands.

“Honestly, Emma,” Norman said, and her gaze flicked down to the first-aid kit he’d brought with him. “They told me you crashed a truck. Every time I see you I fear more for your life.”

“Have a little faith,” she answered, rolling her eyes. She winced at the stab of pain that cut through from her abdomen; at least now she knew where the wound was. “It’s not like your goons left me much of a choice. Maybe if you’d leave us alone—”

Norman let out a sharp exhale, like he meant to interject. “The more you run your gang ragged, the more the Queen will want your heads, and the more we play this game of cat and mouse the more I will slip through the ranks and find myself on the guillotine next to you, which is a situation I do not ever want to find myself in.”

The corner of Emma’s lip quirked. “How come? Because you’re going to die or because I am?”

He pressed something white onto her bare stomach and she hissed at the pain of alcohol stinging an open wound. “Do you really need me to answer that question?” he asked, and she laughed a little, the sound bitter and rueful and clinging to his sleeve like her nails, which always held on to him somehow, no matter the situation.

“You should be more careful.” His voice was softer this time, apologetic. She noted that his gentle touch was even gentler now, dabbing away softly at the cuts that littered her stomach. “There could be glass bits stuck in your tissue, and I wouldn’t know. I tried for a hospital room but you should know how that request would have been regarded.”

“I’m a criminal,” she murmured, matter-of-fact, tugging on his sleeve like she wanted him to pull away. “Isn’t that what you call us? What you call your job—”

“It’s just a job,” Norman said.

“Stop interrupting me,” Emma groused, which he ignored. Like he always did.

“Listen, Emma,” Norman began again, like he hadn’t heard her. “There’s still time to change, you know that. You were the Queen’s most favored servant, and considering our orders are still to capture you and not kill you, there’s hope that you can survive. That you will.”

“And my friends?” Emma responded, eyes shadowed like coal ready to erupt into flames. “She’ll kill them all. One of them almost died tonight. Every time we rescue another batch, every time we simply go out for food raids, another one of them sustains a major injury. They’re kids, Norman. Just kids. And you’re going to let them die? At her hands?”

He sighed, and it was considerate this time, rather than sharp. “I wish I could harbor the same sympathy.”

“But you have the same sympathy,” she winced as he continued to dress her wound, “Norman, I know you, you’re kind, you’d never, never—”

“Things change, Emma,” he answered softly, pulling away. She shuddered when the lack of his touch left her feeling cold, though his hands returned to press a bandage over her skin. “I’ve sworn loyalty to the Queen.”

“Bullshit.” She took his hands in her own and gripped them tightly, as though she was afraid they were meant to be torn away from her without consent. Without warning. “Every time they capture me, you dress my wounds. You’re doing it right now. And every time they capture me, I find a way to escape, which no one else has ever done. That’s all you, Norman, so don’t go saying you’ve sworn loyalty to someone whose orders you can’t even obey!”

“You’re deluded,” he answered, trying to pry his hands from her grip. But she’d always been stronger. “You’re the elusive gang leader of Goldy Pond. You’ve rescued the Queen’s cattle children faster than she can produce them, and you’ve adorned your own death bed in the process. My position has been set as well; I am meant to arbitrate disputes and cut down whoever the Queen labels criminals. If any of us were disloyal, it would be clear as to whom.”

“I said bullshit,” Emma hissed, and when she pulled him to her his knees landed in a puddle of water and blood. He gasped at the sudden show of force, and when her face was inches from his he was reminded painfully of who exactly this girl before him was. What she meant to him. 

“Stop lying to me, Norman, we both know your Oath is nothing but a lie.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and not for the first time he felt pellucid beneath that scrutinizing glare. He was as transparent to her as the water that flooded the room — the water initially meant to wake her up. 

“If you think you’re fooling anybody, congrats, you’re fooling yourself.” She silenced him with a look before he could even think about retorting. “I know you, and I know you’re better than this. I know that because why else would the leader of the Queen’s Mafia come down to nurse a captive’s wounds?”

He tensed, and he felt the water soaking through his pants, felt her words sinking into his soul. She was always good at that — at reaching out to his hidden conscience with the utterance of a few pretty words.

After all, that was all they’d ever be. 

Pretty words.

“I loved you,” he breathed, and the confession felt like the weight of bound wrists as they were led to the gallows. Something in the fire behind Emma’s eyes flickered, then, because neither of them had expected the words to come out; neither of them anticipated for that simple truth to surface itself after so many years. “I loved you, that’s why I’m here. That’s all there is to it. It doesn’t change a thing.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, as though the fire meant to burn something away. He could see her soul as it was even in this dark and damp cell; he could see the spark of her determination and the strength of her faith glimmering along the edges of her frame, and in that way his Emma had never changed — it was a part of her that never would.

He felt her fire smolder, and then suddenly it was the mere breath of a candle.

“No,” she whispered, and there was something so broken in her voice that he could resonate with quite clearly. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

He didn’t know when it was that her hold on him slipped, though when he was aware of it he felt the pain of bereavement engulf his entire being once again; the circumstances as they were had never allowed his affection to ebb away, not in the slightest, not even if time was supposed to forge the love out of him and harden it into steel meant to cut and draw blood.

She would always be Emma. That would never change.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he packed up his things. The cut gauze, the bottle of alcohol. She lifted her hand to place it over her bandaged wound and it almost sounded like a thank you. He shook the notion away and stood, squirming slightly at the feeling of water soiling his pants — of her blood dripping from his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, when she didn’t regard him at all. “This is all I can do for you.”

He watched her for a moment, and he wondered what he was waiting for. A bitter reply, a hurtful shout? He wasn’t so sure if anything so unkind could come from Emma’s mouth, though despite everything the one thing he knew would remain constant in her would be her unpredictability.

He watched and watched until he no longer could. He turned to leave.

“Come.”

“Pardon?” He swiveled on his heel, and he cursed himself for the hope that stained his last syllable. She was looking at him now, still so fierce, still so bright, even when the flame that flickered for him could be blown away in an instant, weak as it was.

And even though it felt like she was saying Come back; even though it felt like they would have a chance if he chose to do so, he knew that thought was merely folly. The misguided daydream of a boy who once thought he could conquer the world by her side.

He wondered how it was that fate had split their paths. He wondered if the chasm between them now was unavoidable or if he had let it fester.

No matter the answer, they were out of time. And maybe he loved her, but there was no trust, and that was what mattered most.

He realized then that he missed the green of her eyes the most every time he stepped out of the dungeons and into the gardens.

“Come with me,” she repeated, and it almost felt like death was looming over his shoulder.

“What?” he blurted out, and he could hear the splash of water distinctly as she moved toward him and took his hand.

Her fingers were cold. Her touch was warm. He shuddered at the contrast.

“Come with me,” she said, and that hope from earlier served only to betray him now. “Norman, please. You help me escape every time. This time… this time I want you to do it for yourself too.”

His smile felt weak and wobbly and he was glad it was dark enough that she couldn’t see. 

“Emma, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” and this time when he pulled his hand from her hold it was devastatingly easy, “I have kids to protect, too.”

“Then they’ll come with us.”

“Out of the question.”

“Stop fighting me, goddamn it, Norman, I can’t—” She shook her head, as though willing her words to become something coherent. Something of a promise. “Norman. I can’t lose you like this.”

“What’s to say you haven’t already?” and his own words stung. They stung like a thousand bees, a thousand poisons. He wondered why. His thoughts echoed why not.

“We’re leaving the continent tomorrow,” Emma said, and he almost yelled at her, because goddamn it Emma, I’m the enemy here, you shouldn’t be telling me your plans, “We’ve got all the kids who are Unsafe. We’ll come back for the Harvest in two years’ time. We’re going to find Paradise, no matter the cost. I’ll need your help for that, so please, come with us. With me.”

“Emma—”

“Please Norman,” she gritted out, and he could hear the tears in her voice. He reached out to wipe them away. Force of habit. “Why do you think I crashed that truck? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe — no matter how stupid, so don’t go saying it is because I know — has it ever occurred to you that maybe I let myself get captured on purpose? That I’m here for you and you only?”

He forced down the traitorous hope that threatened to leap out of his own heart. “That’s foolish.”

“Maybe,” she hedged, and even though he was standing and she was on her knees, her words commanded gravity loud enough that they knelt as equals. “But I loved you too. And I know that changes things.”

“Love is never a good reason,” he replied, and his voice was laced with the ruthlessness of logic. His last defense. “Look at Helen and Paris. Orpheus and Eurydice. Romeo and Juliet.”

“I don’t care about them. They’re not our analogy.” She held out her hand, and to him her fingers were the gates to heaven. “You think love’s not enough and maybe it’s not but it’s a start. I’m not going to leave you here. Some part of me can’t, and some part of me just doesn’t want to. So please. Come with me.”

And perhaps this was what tempted the foolery that began the Trojan War; perhaps this was the foolery that caused Orpheus to turn his head; perhaps this was the reason Romeo could withstand the torture of poison as it burned down his throat — this promise of a loved one, beautiful as the goddesses above, even more so, her hand outstretched and meant for only him to take.

She was temptation, and the proof of sin came only with a single choice.

Chapter 5: Vanilla Twilight.

Summary:

June 15: Catch me sobbing wretchedly in the club after reading chapter 181. There was a request to do Norman's quest to find Emma by Maryibee on Tumblr, and I'd planned to write it after I read this last chapter. The devastation certainly proved to be more than enough writing fuel, though I must say this turned out to be more of a reflection than a quest.

Song-spiraiton: Vanilla Twilight - Owl City

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Emma had always loved him enough to stay.

Her devotion was always so blatantly clear. It shimmered in her smiles when she took his hand and led him to play; it gleamed in the foliage of her eyes as they shifted to him in sidelong glance, her wild orange hair brushed from her face by the wind as she ran ahead of him, ten times as fast; it was present in the endurance of a meager string as it was stretched to its limits across a great distance, never faltering, always tight and reliable, carrying the melody of her radiant Hellos to his ear like the ultimate balm for all of his illnesses.

For every aspect in his life, whether he had a choice or not, she was there. At some point he had come to question the difference between having her by his side and having himself stand firm beside her in her goals.

I want to make a boat out of mud too, Ray.

It felt like lifetimes ago — their idyllic life at Gracefield, where the sun always rose at six in the morning and where play time always ended at four in the afternoon. The house rang only with her laughter; with the mornings tirelessly spent greeting her shining face, refreshed and ready to tackle another day, a sibling or two clinging to her, wrapped up in her arms.

It had always been like that. Until it wasn’t.

It never occurred to Norman to miss these little things: his captivity in Lambda meant the majority of his function was dedicated to staying alive, and there was no real reason to ever miss the way her voice sounded in the morning, rough from sleep and high from happiness. There was never any prompt to yearn for minutia — for idiosyncrasies that were taken for granted far more than they should have been.

But two years without her in a world that was relatively safe (or safer, since all Norman could ever do these days was compare) — it was enough to make him realize that God above, he missed her.

It wasn’t just her presence. There was a soul-aching bereavement of her that clawed through his dreams and drenched him in sweat every morning he woke up; there was a scratching, grating sickness that mangled his stomach to the point where even the sight of food — her favorite foods, the ones that smelled and looked golden, the way she always did — was enough to make his fingers quake, his utensils clatter onto an empty plate with a shattering sound.

He missed her in the spaces between cupboards, where everyone kept their toothbrushes. He missed her in the rim of every cup he dared touch, where all he ever heard was Hello, Norman can you hear me?

He wished so much to hear her. 

He wanted her voice to replace every single mind-numbing crackle of the radio as the static dispersed to reveal a nondescript voice announcing, “No, she’s not here.”

He wanted her flesh to replace every single Missing photograph; he wanted her hands to replace his family’s touch as they consoled him day in and day out, after every failure, after every stone turned only to come up empty.

With nothing.

Without her, he was with nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, because Emma had always loved him enough to stay, and now it seemed even that wasn’t enough.

His frustration was spent on poor parchment as he spread open a new map every day. Of everyone, he was always the most vocal, with his brows creased perpetually, thick with the need to find her again, blue eyes scanning every last trace, every last inch of this entire God-forsaken planet if it meant he could find her.

If it’s for her, I’ll use myself to do everything and anything.

And it was only this mentality — this perception of himself as a tool — that kept him from breaking during the moments when the weight of Emma’s loss settled upon him like the weight of the Earth on Atlas’s shoulders. His carelessness extended toward his own health, and he loathed himself a little more every time Ray had to force him to eat, or drink, or sleep.

Because maybe it didn’t matter why Emma was missing. Maybe it didn’t matter where she was.

But God forbid he ever find an answer to whether or not she was even alive, because the seed of doubt that crept in his heart like a cockroach was hard enough to squash when it simply respawned to come crawling back with a vengeance.

He missed her. And he couldn’t afford to miss her, because that meant admitting she was dead.

She wasn’t. She couldn’t be. 

He’d trade his soul to that blasted Demon should he ever land within a foot of the Seven Walls.

And so when she landed within a foot of him, one cold Spring morning, he felt his heart stop as though the exchange of souls had been authorized and completed.

Was this how she had felt, seeing him after all that time, after the shipment? Was this the reason she cried so openly, crashing into his arms, intending only to stay for someone so willing to walk away for her sake?

After all, he had always loved her enough to leave her.

And he’d made his choice back then — the logical, reliable choice — the choice to let himself go, if it meant guaranteeing her life — and that choice must have pulverized her, the way her choice annihilated him, the moment she announced that she didn’t know who they were.

He felt his broken heart mend only to shatter once again at that look in her eyes — a look that told him that she truly didn’t recognize any of them, a look that clearly bellowed I’m scared.

It was a look that he was painfully acquainted with. It was the same quiver in her irises as when they had discovered the truth, and it was the same downturn to her mouth as she mourned his coming death.

He knew that look so well that he felt himself fracture the way she did right then, her eyes darting between the faces staring at her with utmost disbelief and utter betrayal.

Instinctively, he registered that even when the bearer of such an appalling expression was someone unfamiliar, the burden of betrayal would always hang heavy, and if there was one thing Norman didn’t want for her, especially now that she was in this blissfully blank state, it was to bear another burden.

Never again.

Not as long as he was there to shield her from it.

He felt his tears fall before anything else could be said, and through the glassy sheen of his vision he caught her gaze, and felt his heart seize like the first time.

She was still so luminescent. Burning brightly, eyes glittering at the sight of him. The loss of her memories hadn’t obscured her shine in the least, and in the face of it Norman wept.

“Thank goodness,” and his voice cracked in a way it wasn’t supposed to, though the crack left him vulnerable and aching, as real and as familiar to her as he would ever get. “Even if your memory’s gone… I’m glad you’re alive.”

And that was the truth. That was his Truth. Because he promised her that he would never lie again.

You’re a liar though. I can’t trust you! 

You shouldn’t lie to yourself, Norman. Let’s talk it out!

And that was what he did. 

He talked. With every tentative step he took towards her — her, Emma, who was so different in the light of this New World; who was dressed in unfamiliar, comfortable clothing; whose brand of a cattle had disappeared from her neck, along with, and this he hoped with everything in him, all of her burdens — with every tear that slipped past his unwavering, oceanic gaze, he felt the Truth run from his mouth with the force of the high tide. He spoke of how they had made a world for themselves, and when his steps brought him closer to her than she’d ever let anyone, he took her hands in his, and it was the rush of the sea breeze.

Cool, salty, and filled with the secrets of the Atlantic, his formidable glaciers melting once again in the face of her unyielding sunlight.

She gazed up at him, different yet not so different at all, and the way her hands fit in his was the same as it always had — her fingers danced in the spaces between his own, warm and fulfilling, the Sun to his Spring, the Length to his Solstice.

Something in his soul shifted when she returned his hold; it was tight, hesitant and wanting, and he bowed his head before her — spoke his final Truth.

“I want to be with you.”

I want to walk alongside you!

The promise echoed through space and time, as though space and time could never stop the likes of her, and something in the way she returned his hold shifted, something in the way she said Okay! made his spirits soar, made the axis of his world start turning again.

There was a difference in her smile that he couldn’t miss. There were parts of her that were missing — the foliage in her eyes held no secret meaning, and they glimmered now like the yellow-greens of open fields, the freshness of newly watered pastures — and there were parts of her that were new, like the might of a string had been reconstructed in her voice.

“I’m Emma,” she said, and when she spoke there was an air of lightness to her tone that made everything within him ache; that made every nerve in his body fire up with the desire to touch her and hold her close and keep the shape of her voice tucked in his eardrums, where they could forever lyricize to a steady, uncatchable beat.

“You’re Emma,” he repeated, his voice kind, his tears staining the fractures in his syllables. 

He didn’t know who held on tighter, but her expression grew softer at his reply. “You are?”

He felt heat rush to his cheeks at the shyness laced in her voice — that was new, Emma had never been one to be shy — and the difference startled him and grounded him all at once. This was not a dream. Emma was before him, and in many ways she was renewed.

In much the same way, he felt their relationship had raced back in time to mark a definite beginning where before there were no points. There had only ever been her, her, her, a steady presence he had taken for granted and will take for granted only once.

“Norman,” he said, and it was a start, and she was closer to him than she was before.

Their family surrounded them now, and her promise to live with them lingered in the atmosphere, though Norman knew quite well that it wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed. Where Emma was different, all of them were different too. They had each grown in their own ways; they had all made a space for themselves in this world.

Even he, himself, could not deny that there was change in him to rival the change in her, though the one constant would always be a simple fact.

I want her to always be smiling.

That smile was the same, even now, when there was a blankness to the skin of her neck that they couldn’t share. When there was a whole new set of idiosyncrasies to them that he could not miss, because she no longer held the gait of a woman who had been through hell and back, and he could no longer afford to close his eyes when he smiled.

But there were her hands in his, linking them in boundless manner, incomprehensible and incredible as it was.

And looking into her eyes — her eyes that knew nothing at all of the world they’d come from — he appreciated one final epiphany.

It’s okay. It’s okay if you forgot. Even if you can’t remember… even if you’re different from who you used to be. That’s why, once more… and forevermore… screw destiny.

Norman had always loved her enough to leave her. And it was through this that he could find the strength to love her for who she’d become — and who she was going to be.

Chapter 6: Carry You.

Summary:

June 17: The infamous Ratri!Emma AU, requested by aikawahikari and anonymous-san on Tumblr. I played with the formatting of this one, but if it's difficult/annoying to read, let me know and I'll reformat it asap. Another note: the term "Domina Esques" is from shuofthewind's most popular Kuroshitsuji fic of the same name. I like the term (and the term only), so I'm borrowing it hehe.

Song-spiration: Carry You - Novo Amor

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

i.

It was dark outside.

The moon was waning, its crescent grinning down at her like the stories James used to tell. Alice in Wonderland, and her Cheshire Cat, he liked to say, when bedtime was still a mark of innocence and Peter would sit beside her to dote and listen in; I’m Alice, and you’re my Cheshire Cat, because Emma your grin is what lights my way.

She was no Ratri; at least, she wasn’t so by blood. She had been borne of a woman who James considered family, and a child of hers was a child of his. She was meant to be a test subject; she was saved only because of her gender.

They only tested intelligent boys, after all. The genome was easier to conceive; the genome was the only one they could conceive, given all the scientists were male and sterile. Girls were just a double X.

Twice the error.

But she was a glitch in the system; an accidental miracle. She was something. And as such she was raised to be something.

And to be something, one had to be different from all the others.

 

 

ii.

Norman didn’t like the clerical white walls. 

It was one thing to always be dressed in a singular color; it was another entirely to have his environment match with him. Everywhere he looked was a glaring white: from the walls of his room — his prison — to the tufts of kept hair that returned his every morning greeting through the shine of his own reflection.

Chess pieces were also white. He liked to play black.

Black reminded him of Ray. And Ray was home.

He hoped Ray was safe.

He watched mutedly as the White Knight fell from the chessboard, knocked over by his rook and rolling across the table to crash on the floor with a sharp thunk. 

There were sure to be broken pieces. That was good. That meant all this white could be broken.

“22194,” came the timed announcement: a nondescript mechanical voice to match a nondescript mechanical lab, “Your evening meal.”

A covered tray slid through the only slit in the wall. He stood up to retrieve it.

God.

Even the tray was white.

 

 

iii.

She heard about him through Peter.

He had come home from a rare trip. There was barely ever a need to go out when everything about the world around them could be controlled through their own living room, but Emma knew to wait avidly whenever Peter deemed it necessary to go outside.

And Peter rarely ever went outside. Not since he executed the order to kill James.

She hadn’t forgiven him for that. She never will.

But he was still her brother, and she always knew when he was up to no good. (She had to, after all. The one time she was ignorant James’ blood was spilled. Never again. She won’t lose her family ever again.)

“You were out for a long time,” she said quietly when he strode in through the door.

He paused to glance at her, and she held firm beneath his arctic gaze. His eyes were the glaciers that sank the Titanic. She was the survivor with nothing left to love.

“You are supposed to be working, Domina Esques,” Peter said, and his voice was as stern and unforgiving as the weather in his eyes. “Or have you forgotten your duty to locate the Gillian clan and exterminate them?”

“I can deal with threats,” Emma replied, tone harsh. She had perfected this rigid form of speech since the hatred in their family served to divide them. “The heart of the matter is whether you can do the same.”

“Are you threatening me, little sister?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, and she suppressed the urge to smirk when her brother’s gaze landed on the hilt of her weapon, resting at her side and ready to be drawn. “I know better than to do that, big brother.”

 

 

iv.

It came with a new chess set.

He had broken twelve pieces of his previous one, and those that were monitoring him seemed to find it fit to gift him a new set. More durable this time, he noted, frowning at the rook that lay on the ground beside him, perfectly intact.

He’d never been one to play chess violently, but he was thrust into a brand new battlefield, and he had lost his Bishop.

Still, and he fingered the piece tentatively, there was something to be said about the Black Knight.

It was easy to hide it in his palm with a slight of hand, and when the lights in his room were dimmed as a signal to sleep, he curled himself onto the hard mattress and uncapped the bottom of the Knight, where he’d noticed a difference in the structure as opposed to the rest.

He kept his movements to a minimum — they could still see him, after all — and then there was a folded piece of paper in his hands, and he was squinting just to read it without suspicion.

Loopy, bold handwriting sparked a little bit of hope within him.

Be my King, and I will bring you victory.

— Domina Esques

He crumpled the parchment and tucked it into his fists. The name registered in his mind, and he sorted through his scattered thoughts for a possible identity. He had never seen a woman walk through the halls before. But there was meaning to her name, meaning to her piece, and if she could sneak him a brand new chess set for the sake of sending him a message, then she would surely know the way out.

The Lady Knight.

He stored her name in his mind. He will find out who she is, and whether she was to be trusted or simply used. 

She promised him victory, but victory was his own to assure.

 

 

v.

The heat of the fire washed over them in waves, even though they were at a far enough distance.

Barbara was hunched over, heaving, and it was clear that she was exhausted though triumph was written clearly all over her face. Cislo was beside her, crouched on the ground, nursing a cut to his left forearm. He was grinning despite the pain, and he looked like a brave little boy.

Vincent was still off gathering the data he, and by extension Norman, wanted before Lambda was completely destroyed. Zazie was with him in lieu of a bodyguard, to ensure his safety.

Emma wiped the blood off her sword with a torn piece of lab coat. She had left the scientists and demons alike broken but not dead, and her bright orange hair was tucked into a scarf that Norman had thrust at her when they both realized exactly who she was.

“You betrayed your clan for us tonight,” Norman said, and she was surprised that he was still standing next to her.

She didn’t mind. They both had a glorious view. There was something to be said about his face in the glow of the fire.

“I betrayed my clan the moment I appointed you the king of my board,” she answered, and there was a grin on her face to match. “I wanted to do what was right. I needed you to do it, so I sent you a calling card.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. She caught his earnest gaze and felt her smile grow wider. “For everything. For showing me the freedom of the night.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered, and she sheathed her sword. “Though you’re the one who made it all work, in the end.”

“We needed each other,” he noted, and then a smirk to rival even Adonis graced his face. “And we will continue to need each other, to tell the story of tonight.”

“To end this Neverland,” Emma chimed, and she matched his expression. “What are you proposing, 22194?”

“Become my Queen,” he said, and he was serious, his hand extended for her to take. “Shed what they have forced you to become. Tonight I am no longer cattle, and you are no longer a Knight, if you so wish.”

She studied him for a long moment, his proposition too incredible to comprehend, but there was the destruction of Lambda behind them and the creation of Paradise before them, and that was a future she was willing to sacrifice everything for.

She had made the right call, after all, asking him to be her king.

Without hesitation, she took his hand, and his grip was firm — like a vow.

“I do not wish it,” she answered, “I desire it. A future where we humans can live without fear.”

“Then, my Queen,” his lips quirked at the title, and she almost laughed, “Where do we go next?”

“If I’m not mistaken, we have a friend of yours to rescue before his time is up.” Her gaze hardened, like the steel of her sword. “He will be the last, I promise you.”

“Ah.” His blue eyes glistened, and she wondered what she’d said to make him cry. “That’s one thing I haven’t thanked you for yet. For lighting my way back home.”

She squeezed his hand, and when she smiled it was as dazzling as the crescent shine of the waning moon.

 

 

vi.

Ray set a cup of tea on the desk before him.

That was a bad sign.

“One month,” Ray said, sitting down on a chair and propping his legs up on the desk once the tea cup was in Norman’s hands. “That’s how much time you’ve been wasting.”

“Wasting?” Norman echoed, if only to stall. The tea was scalding in his hands, the heat burning through the porcelain to ignite his fingers, and Norman winced because he knew the pain was wholly intended. Ray had a talent with fire. “Between facilitating our transition into the human world and negotiating with Emma’s familial ties regarding safe lodging and educational opportunities for all the children we’ve rescued, I doubt this entire month has been wasted.”

“Tch.” Ray crossed his arms, a pensive scowl set on his face. Norman knew the other boy well enough by now to understand when it was necessary for him to keep quiet, so he simply suffered Ray’s apparent wrath through the harshly brewed tea that tasted more like pain than hot leaf juice.

“You’re being stupid,” the other boy finally said, and Norman noticed him tapping on his forearm. “As a result, you’re making me act stupid too.”

“I’ve never known you to be so indirect, Ray,” Norman remarked, and when Ray sent him another glare it took everything in Norman to keep himself from chuckling. 

“She asked me about you.” Ray’s fingers stopped tapping, and there was weight to his voice despite the innocence of his statement. Norman tilted his head in question, and understanding the subtle sign to elaborate, Ray continued: “She asked about how much you believe in semiotics.”

“Strange.” Norman’s brow furrowed. “If she wanted my opinion on something, she would have thrown her question in my face rather than ask you.”

“Exactly.” Ray lifted his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, like he was mentally exhausted to the point of collapse, and then he added, “I was confused at first. I said the same thing, and then she —” Ray’s scowl deepened further, like he didn’t enjoy talking about this in the least, “— turned red, like a goddamn tomato. And then she stammered out some stupid excuse and ran away.”

“Perhaps it’s her time of the month?” Norman offered kindly. He was rather intimate with Emma’s strange moods — she always said it was due to her menstrual cycle, and the irritability that graced her voice every time she said so was enough to convince him that it was the truth.

“Her time of the —” Ray outright gaped at him, and Norman felt momentarily affronted. “You’re the biggest idiot on the planet, that’s what you are. No wonder she was asking me about semiotics. Everything that shouldn’t be taken at face value flies completely over your big forehead.”

Norman frowned. “All right, I’m stupid, you made your point clear the moment you gave me tea. And for the record, I only suggested her menstrual cycle because she’s told me herself —”

“Wonder if you know anything about what she’s been telling you,” Ray muttered, and Norman set the cup down with a distinct sound.

“Ray, it’s not like you to beat around the bush.” Norman’s fingers were numb with heat. “If I’ve done something wrong — to her or to you — then just tell me. Or tell her she can always talk to me, though she should know that by now.”

Ray sighed, long and suffering. “The issue here, Norman, is not that I’m indirect, but that you are.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not spelling it out for you, Stupid Norman, I didn’t want to be involved at all.” Ray removed his legs from the desk and stood, sending his friend one last pointed glare. “But we’ve been free for a whole month, and the one development you should have made a long time ago, you haven’t yet, so get your ass off this desk and go talk to her already.”

Guilt settled over Norman’s shoulders like a shroud — he never liked it when others had to step in and tell him to talk to Emma. She was his partner in almost everything; their shared communication was one that had no rival.

If others were pushing him to talk to her, then that meant they currently disagreed about something.

And the last time they’d disagreed over something, he’d vowed to himself that it would never happen again.

You asked me to be your Queen, Norman. I’m not someone you need to protect. So let me walk alongside you!

Ray paused through the doorway of the office, and he turned to look at Norman, his gaze noticeably less scowly than it was before. “You’ve done enough for everyone around you, Stupid Norman,” he murmured. “It’s time for you to do something for yourself.”

There was care behind Ray’s sentiment, and Norman smiled at the feeling of it, his expression softening as his gaze landed on his lifetime friend.

“Thank you, Ray,” he whispered, because the quiet moments between them were the ones that were most profound. “I’ll talk to her. And then we can have better tea.”

Ray snorted. “Tea is so temperamental. This is why I stick to coffee.”

Norman laughed at the comment, and he stood from his desk, loosening his tie and shrugging off his vest. “Before you go, could you tell me where she is?”

“Where she always is, when you’re working late,” was Ray’s simple reply, and then he was gone.

Norman was out of the office shortly after, and he knew exactly where to go.

 

 

vii.

“The children find it strange, you know,” Norman commented as he entered his bedroom. “They wonder why they sleep separately according to gender while you’re always found loitering about in my room.”

Emma rolled her eyes at him. She was sitting cross-legged on the love seat situated at the far right, where the window stood behind it and bathed it in light every morning. She liked to sit there and read.

There was a book open on her lap even now, and through the lamplight Norman caught the title. Hollywood Cigarettes and Beverly High Heels: The Importance of Semiotics in the Preservation of Cultural Norms.

He frowned at the title. “That’s a rather lengthy read,” he said. “You’ve been into short fiction these days.”

“I didn’t notice?” Emma’s head cocked to the side, in the adorable manner she held when she was bewildered. “I picked it up because it was interesting. It was also new, so I thought it would be a nice change of pace.”

“Change of pace, you say?” Norman hung his vest and tie on the nearby wall hook, casting her an amused smile as he made his way to settle himself comfortably beside her. “Ray told me you were asking about it. Semiotics.”

She pursed her lips. “Yeah.”

“Is there any reason as to why?”

Pursing her lip turned into gnawing it, and that was how Norman knew something was definitely bothering her. Slowly, he took the book from her hands. When he folded it shut it made a gentle sigh, and he set it on the lamp table, where it was sure to be forgotten.

Emma watched him do all this silently, and when his fingers ghosted her jawline to turn her head, she found she could not meet his gaze. Not really.

“Emma,” he called tenderly, “Talk to me.”

She blinked up at him, and then her fingers rose to cover his own, her hand squeezing his. “I… talked with my uncle today.”

The admission was enough for Norman, and he demanded no further explanation from her. She fit easily into his embrace — it wasn’t their first embrace — and when his fingers were knotted through her hair she knew that he understood how much it still pained her, to be reminded of what she’d been raised to be.

Of who she’d left behind.

She let out a breath which shuddered at the force of the self-reproach that tormented it, because she wasn’t being honest, and she didn’t know how to be.

To be the Ratri’s Domina Esques, she was to shed all accounts of sincerity within her. The death of her brother meant the death of something vital in her, and Peter had wasted no time in forging it to become a weapon he could use. She had always wondered when family had become pawn to him, but she was young and she was devoted, and at the time he was the only family she had left.

She was raised to be a Ratri, but she followed Minerva’s path, and just as James met his doom she had been doubtful of her own capability to succeed. Norman, however, had always been her silver lining. A chance for a future; the Minerva her brother had failed to be.

And where he had begun as a pawn to her, he was now family.

But resting in his arms this way — folded into his embrace, surrounded by the sweet scent of spring — she knew that somewhere along the way he had become something else entirely.

She didn’t know what it was. She had never experienced it. But she was always one to trust her heart; it was only unfortunate that for this one little thing she had no knowledge of how to use it.

“Norman,” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” His breath caught in her ear and she shivered.

“I wasn’t honest with you,” she began slowly, and she felt relieved when nothing in the way he held her changed. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” He pulled away so he could smile at her. “We all lie sometimes, take it from me.”

She laughed a little, and she fingered his collar when she found herself too nervous. “The book on semiotics,” she continued, pausing for a long moment, “It bothered me.”

He brushed her hair from her face. “How come?”

“Semiotics is simply the study of signs and symbols, but the book made a point to note how symbolism is assigned to an object by a person.” Her index finger pensively traced the large, black number two that stained his skin. “We assign symbolism to things. We add meaning to things. That’s part of what it means to be human.”

“Insightful,” Norman remarked, though his smile was now downturned, and she hated it the most when he was frowning. “But what exactly bothers you?”

“Us,” Emma said simply, and when she felt her heart accelerate, pressure rose to her cheeks in the form of a pretty blush.

“What about us?”

“I am a Ratri,” she said. “That will never change. You were a lab rat. That will also never change. But I have chosen to assign you as my King, just as you have appointed me your Queen.” She bit her lip, and this time…

This time she could meet his gaze.

Head-on, like the bullet she was.

“It occurred to me,” she mentioned softly, “that the value of our partnership is thus more than it was assigned to be.”

Her words fell like a hammer on anvil, and Norman felt his breath hitch at the implication. Reforging their relationship — refining it, removing it of all impediments, calling it something else entirely — that wasn’t a new thought in the least. He had certainly pondered over it a great deal, and had come to determine for himself what exactly it was he felt for her, so to have her speak so openly about it now caused him an embarrassment he was absolutely glad Ray wasn’t there to witness. 

A rosy blush to match hers graced his face, and he cleared his throat, looking away.

The issue here, Norman, is not that I’m indirect, but that you are.

“You are my Queen,” he stated roughly, cheeks turning redder with every syllable. “You will always be.”

“Are we speaking in terms of chess, or in terms of… emotional semiotics?”

“We’re speaking in terms of whatever you’ve deemed our relationship to be.”

Emma stared at him in the wake of his answer, and instinctively she raised her hands to cup his face, her green eyes searching every inch of him as she said, “I am a Ratri, but you are not a pawn to me.”

Her thumb traced his lower lip delicately, as if to punctuate her declaration, and Norman knew then that they were both still figuring things out; her especially, because she had never known such a feeling before, and quite frankly Norman was elated to be her first.

He was determined to be her only.

He caught her thumb and pulled it up, studying her reaction as he kissed her fingers, slowly — like a taste — and when she tugged on his collar with her free hand, he responded to her like a magnet, shifting to the force of her attraction in order to claim her for himself.

There was a fragility to the way they held each other afterward, never pushing or pulling, their lips parting and meeting like the low tide to the shore on a calm evening. She held his face against hers shakily, like she wasn’t wholly sure of what she was doing, but Norman was stumbling along with her, and the farther they trekked into newfound territory the bolder they became, their kisses leaving the shallows and diving into the wondrous deep.

They eventually crashed gracelessly onto his bed, limbs pulling at the sheets, at each other, until she had him trapped beneath her, her chest heaving as he said, “What? Is this your show of dominance, my Queen?”

“This and that aren’t the same,” she groused, pouting at the blatant tease, and if he already didn’t find her attractive he would have right there and then. “It’s not a matter of chess or war or anything remotely related.”

“What is it then?” and his question was honest.

“I —” she stuttered, and suddenly she looked a little lost, if not thoroughly challenged. “— don’t know,” she admitted, after a beat.

He smiled up at her, the motion blanketed by the darkness. 

I am a Ratri, but you are not my pawn.

“Do you want to know what we cattle call it?”

There were a million things she wanted to say to that. She wanted to say: you’re not cattle anymore. She wanted to say: does this have to be reduced to a simple label? She wanted to say — “What?”

And suddenly he looked content to be pinned beneath her. Suddenly it felt as though this was just right, somehow, like gravity had always meant for him to fall into her arms. He uttered a single word, and then she kissed him, long and hard, rendering them both speechless.

“We call it love.”

Chapter 7: I'll Be.

Summary:

June 20: Pregnant Emma requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. That is all.

Song-spiration: I'll Be - Edwin McCain

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Ray’s been smuggling sweets. Norman is incredibly suspicious. 

In all the twenty-nine years they’ve known each other, Ray has never been one to be a sweet tooth. He drinks his coffee black every morning and he stops at a scoop of ice cream or none for dessert. He is no glutton like Don, who in his life has stuffed and swallowed fifty marshmallows in his mouth for the sake of a dare; nor does he have the propensity to start becoming a glutton like Don.

The day Ray will willingly stuff his pockets with sweets is the day the world will stop spinning on its axis.

That said, Norman wonders if the apocalypse is upon them.

He makes no comment about it at first; there is no real need to jest, and besides Ray would most likely make him eat dirt for utilizing the opportunity to tease. Norman settles for understanding that there is most likely a reason behind Ray’s sudden sweet tooth — a reason that he itches to know, though he respects his friend too much to pry into his personal matters unwittingly.

So Norman keeps quiet, and observes from the sidelines. It’s the art of waiting: watch your prey long enough, and they will slip up.

Even if it’s Ray.

This is how he finds himself sitting in the living room pretending to read a book at one in the morning. He’s determined that Ray’s three day cycle of sneaking down into the kitchen while everyone is asleep is as rigid as it seems, and he’s sure he’ll find the boy coming down the stairs soon enough.

The book is just an excuse to be there (even though the lights are clearly too dim for anyone to read, but the element of surprise is crucial for this plan of his to work the way he wants it to).

He hears the stairs creaking, and holds his breath. Pretends that he isn’t there.

“Norman?”

He sits up at the sound of Emma’s voice. There’s the telltale click of the light switch, and he squints in the sudden brightness of the room to look at his wife, who’s staring at him bemusedly from the base of the stairs.

She unwraps the quilt from her shoulders and moves to sit next to him. He opens his arm for her and lets her snuggle into his side, her hand coming around him to wrap the blanket around them both.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, pulling her closer and grinning when she pecks his cheek.

“I should be asking you that,” she replies, yawning, “I was wondering where you were. The bed got cold.”

“Sorry,” he replies, “I was just reading.”

“This late?” She pouts, glancing up at him. “Can’t you save it for tomorrow?”

“It’s not incredibly important, no,” he admits, and then he’s smoothing her hair back and kissing her temple. “Come on, let’s go back upstairs. I won’t leave this time.”

She tilts her head to press a lingering kiss to his mouth, and then she’s whispering, “Hey, Norman. I…”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head.

“Are you sure it’s nothing?”

“Mhm. I was just thinking that we should sleep in tomorrow,” she says with a firm nod, fingers fisting into his shirt. “No excuses. Books can wait.”

“Agreed,” he answers with a laugh. He supposes he can check on Ray’s strange behavior another night.

 

///

 

The bed is cold. Norman frowns, eyes fluttering open to greet rumpled sheets and a missing pillow. He sits up, stretching, and rolls over to find that said pillow has been left to fend for itself on the floor.

His confused expression becomes one of concern, and he glances quickly around the room, trying to find any other traces that Emma might have left in her wake. He spots that the bathroom door is open just a crack, and he takes a step toward it.

There’s the gutteral sound of someone purging the inside of their belly, and Norman stiffens for a moment before rushing over, all of his thoughts now concentrated on a single focal point.

He bursts into the bathroom to find Emma hunched over the toilet, and he hurries to her side, hands automatically coming up to press against her forehead. 

“Emma,” he says, and she responds by nodding shakily at him, once, before retching once more into the toilet. He rubs her back soothingly, though he’s no less unnerved.  “You’re so warm — Emma, you’re sick.”

“No,” she chokes out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” he responds firmly, in the rare tone he uses with her when he wants to get his way, no arguments allowed.

She frowns at him, knowing full well the inflection in his voice, but then he’s standing to grab a rubber band from the bathroom cupboard and then he’s tying her hair back with quick, efficient movements. “Stay there,” he commands, “Don’t move. I’ll draw a bath, and once we’re sure your nausea is gone you’re getting in the tub.”

He’s still using the tone with her — and it’s most likely because everything within her is aching to tell him I’m fine, I’m not sick, and given the circumstance and what he knows, Emma’s sure that he’s simply taking countermeasures to ensure that she’s thinking of herself first.

Her mouth quirks a little at the thought — the only times she’s ever really heard her husband take such a stern tone was when he was admonishing Ray for teasing him too much, back when Norman had yet to confront her about his feelings.

Even now, Ray still has the uncanny ability to cause Norman’s stricter side to show, and Emma wishes she wouldn’t find it so amusing but it is, even if it’s in an indirect manner this time.

She stays by the toilet like he’s asked her to, and quarter of an hour later he’s by her side again, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead, frowning, and helping her up. She notes that his grip is as firm as it is warm, though it’s gentle when he helps her out of her nightgown and even gentler still when he’s bathing her.

She finds no heart to tell him to stop, because his care is blatant in the way his brows are furrowed, and in the way he absent-mindedly presses kisses to her skin, like he’s thinking too much — like he just wants her to get better.

It’s a rare event, after all, for her to be “sick”. But Norman has spent so much time being the patient that the way he handles her feels like he’s been doing it all his life.

And maybe he has, Emma reflects quietly to herself. Because he’s cared about her all his life.

“Are you still nauseous?” he asks, when he’s wrapping her in a fluffy towel. 

She shakes her head no, and he sighs in relief. But it doesn’t make him any less careful, because he’s putting her back to bed the moment she’s poked her head through the hole of a fresh shirt.

“Norman, really,” and for all her silence Norman looks at her like are you really going to start arguing now?

She pouts at him. “I’m not a baby, you don’t have to roll me in the blankets and tell me to keep still —”

“No, you’re not a baby.” He presses a long kiss to her forehead. “But you’re my wife, and that means just as much.”

“I’m not sick,” she grouses, but with the way her cheeks are heating up she’s sure Norman will only take that as more proof.

“I’m calling Anna over, just to make sure.” He’s already halfway towards the door. “I’ll bring you breakfast too. Is there anything you want?”

She kicks herself in the shin when she realizes she’s answered Norman with the request to go get sweets from Ray.

 

///

 

Norman comes back with literally the entire family in tow, since news of Emma apparently being ill spread way too quickly and now everyone’s clamoring to see whether this once-in-a-lifetime occurrence is actually real and not just Norman freaking out.

(Because when it comes to Emma the slightest hint of something bad happening to her will kick his brain into overdrive.)

“—baby okay?” It’s a tiny, frail voice, and Norman walks through the open door of their room to find that the younger kids have infiltrated their bed. Emma has her arms wrapped around as much of them as possible, and they’re all looking up at her with glassy eyes.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Emma says, patting their heads. “And so am I.”

“Really?” Rossi asks, pouting widely. “But Norman told us you were sick!”

Emma rolls her eyes. “That’s just Norman being Norman.”

“Yes,” Norman interjects, “And Norman being Norman knows exactly what being sick feels like. This is just a precaution.”

“I know, I know,” Emma sighs loudly, and she’s playing frustrated despite the grin on her face giving her away.

“Come on now, everybody,” Anna ushers the kids out of the bed. “Let me check on her to make sure she really isn’t sick.”

“Use your magical powers, Anna!” Alicia begs, tugging on Anna’s sleeve.

“Yeah! Use your MD!”

Ray snorts in the background. He holds up a bag of treats. “Are you sure you should be asking for sweets when you’re… sick?” He quirks his brow at the word and when Emma catches his unimpressed gaze she feels an embarrassed blush rise to her cheeks.

Norman’s already worried brain goes into hyperdrive. “Your sickness isn’t getting worse, is it!”

Emma shakes her head vigorously. “No, no!” She gestures wildly, “I told you I’m not sick!”

“But you vomited!”

This time Anna quirks a brow. “Vomited, you say? This morning?”

Emma’s blush turns red hot. “Y-yeah,” she stammers, “This morning.”

“Ah.” Anna puts her medical kit away. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing to worry about?” Norman nearly yells, “She vomited!”

“And I’m perfectly fine now, see!” Emma gestures down at herself. “And I’m hungry, so Ray could you hand me the cinnamon bread?”

He chucks the pastry at her with a roll of his eyes. Norman’s brow twitches.

He shakes his head and decides to simply take Anna’s word for it.

 

///

 

The next morning, she vomits again.

“Emma, this is not the behavior of someone who isn’t sick,” Norman says, and he sounds almost angry. Emma winces when she feels him tug on a knot in her hair. He’s pulling her locks back in a rubber band again. “You told me you were fine.”

“I am fine,” she says, best as she can, woozy as she is. “I probably just ate too much sweets yesterday, that’s all. I didn’t expect to vomit twice in a row—”

“Neither did I.” He secures her hair into a ponytail, brushing stray strands behind her ears. “You’re taking a bath to cool down and then it’s bed rest for you today, Emma, no buts. And you’re going to stay in bed until we’re sure your stomach bug has gone away.”

Emma bites her lip. Stomach bug, all right. This one’s here to stay for nine months.

“That’s the thing,” she forces herself to say. “It’s not a stomach bug.”

Norman furrows his brows. “What else could it be?” His face pales. “It’s not ulcer, is it? You’ve been eating properly, right? Or is it gastritis? We’re going to have to call Anna again—”

“No!” Emma grabs hold of his wrist before he can go off and cause their whole family to bombard her again, “It’s not! It’s not, I promise. It’s just—” She chokes on her syllables and averts her gaze. 

Norman’s kneeling down beside her again. “It’s just what?” He waits for her to speak, but she remains quiet for far too long. “Emma, what’s wrong? Just tell me.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

She shakes her head again, and sways on her knees, feeling dizzy at the motion. Norman catches her arm and holds her steady. “Emma, you’re clearly not fine. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No.” She’s biting her lip harder. “I just—” She inhales deeply. “I just need Ray right now, okay? So if you’re going to call anyone, please just call him.”

“Ray?” Norman echoes. “Emma, what aren’t you telling me? What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” She shakes her head again and keeps her gaze firmly away at the hurt look in his eyes. “It’s just nothing, so call Ray, and… and leave us alone for a minute?”

He stares at her a long time, and then he’s standing, his expression passive. “All right, fine. You’d better be in bed when I come back.”

 

///

 

Norman doesn’t bother asking Ray what he knows as they’re walking to the room. There’s a bag of sweets in Ray’s hands.

Norman’s silence truly unnerves Ray, but he doesn’t deign to comment on it, and instead folds his hand over the doorknob like there’s nothing to worry about.

The act doesn’t have the capacity to last long, however, because there is something to worry about, so before anything else he turns to look at his friend. “Don’t take it personally,” he says, direct to the point as always.

“Of course. My wife is obviously going through something and I have absolutely no idea what it is because she isn’t willing to talk to me.” Norman lets himself shrug, and then he’s looking away. “It’s definitely not personal.”

Ray sighs, and then he’s muttering under his breath as he enters the room.

Norman stares at the closed door for a long moment and loathes to admit that he can’t even bring himself to eavesdrop, even when in every other circumstance he would have used such underhanded means to get information.

After all, Emma clearly doesn’t want him to know, so what right does he have to listen? He’s better off walking away.

That is precisely what he does.

 

///

 

“Congratulations,” Ray says, plopping on a stool by Emma’s bedside, “You’ve finally managed to turn Norman into a lost puppy.”

She winces. “I didn’t mean to.”

Ray is surprised by how soft and fragile her voice is. He stares at her for a long moment before sighing and throwing the bag of sweets on her lap. “You’ve got to tell him. It’s been more than a week now.”

“I know!” She’s fiddling with the ribbon that keeps the bag closed, her index finger curling harshly over the thin blue cloth. “I tried to, I just—”

Ray crosses his arms. “He was supposed to be the first to know, but now you’ve made it so that he’s the last.”

She cringes, her fingers leaving the ribbon to curl frustratedly in her hair. “I know, I’m sorry! I’m just…” She lets out a sigh that makes Ray feel just a little bit bad that he’s being so harsh with her. “I’m not in a good headspace, right now, and — and talking to Norman in this headspace is just not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” And Emma is so reminiscent now of who she was before — before she lost her memories, before she changed — she’s still the same Emma in so many ways, and Ray can see it now, in the way her shoulders hunch to show her exasperation, the way she’s burying her head in her hands like she’s trying so hard to think, and Ray almost snorts, because for all her intelligence Emma isn’t really one to think.

“I can’t talk to him about it,” Emma mumbles again, and Ray is tired of hearing the same lament.

“I asked you why not.” There’s a scowl on his face now, but all Emma does is scowl back.

She averts her gaze after some time (if there is one thing in the world Ray is guaranteed to win it’s a scowling contest) and she looks out the adjacent window, where through the parted curtains she can see the outside of their house, where everyone who knew her but she didn’t know lived; where she had come to figure out who exactly they all were to her — the her before — and it wasn’t much of a surprise when she realized that Norman was, among all the others, the one she loved most deeply.

Deeply, because her love for him ran even in the darkest waters of her own subconscious, so much so that she could recognize him — that he was the only one she could first recognize, no matter how vague the memory, how blurred — and this promise of a life with him, this promise to spend the rest of her life by his side, it was so, so natural that she didn’t quite understand why being pregnant terrified her so much.

She should have expected it — she did expect it, the subject of kids was not one she and Norman had glossed over, in the weeks before their wedding — but for it to actually happen, for it to actually be happening, that is one thought she’s never considered and some part of her just aches because — 

“I have a kid inside of me,” Emma whispers, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Ray shift in the manner that tells her he’s listening, “Norman and I are going to have a kid together and I’m so scared because… because this could go wrong in so many ways and this is the one thing I don’t want to go wrong.”

She turns to look at her best friend, and sniffles a little because she feels the sting of tears in her eyes and God knows she’s had enough of crying this way (crying means she’s missing something and she’s had enough of that already, why can’t she just remember?).

“I’m already just half the woman he fell in love with before,” she admits quietly. “I don’t want to fail at this one other thing. But he’s just so — he’s always so devoted, he’s so kind, and that never changes, I know that’s never changed because in the dreams I used to have he always looked at me with the same warmth.” 

She shakes her head, folds her hands over her stomach. “But I’m not the same, and some part of me — some part of me wonders if that’s going to affect everything else. I’m so scared and I don’t know why and I don’t know how to say it — but all I want is to give Norman the life he deserves — the wife he deserves, a wife who can love him with everything she’s got and a wife who can give him children that make him smile.”

She doesn’t realize she’s been doing a poor job of keeping her tears at bay until Ray reaches out to wipe her cheeks. “Don’t you love him with everything you’ve got, though?” he tells her, and his voice is stern but his care is effective. “Isn’t that who you are? Someone who can love with everything she’s got?”

“But I’ve got nothing, Ray,” she answers, and she’s crying now, harshly, and Ray wonders if it’s just the hormones or if the hormones are amplifying every single fear she’s got. He momentarily curses biology.

“What are you even talking about?” he answers. “Stop being stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid!” she cries, which only makes her weep harder. She hiccups, trying to dispel her tears through the cloth of her sleeve. “Sometimes I s-still don’t get it, that he was able to look at me the way he did that day, the day you guys found me. I-I don’t understand — I don’t understand how he can still love me like that, even when I remember nothing. What did I do to deserve someone like him? What did I do?”

“That’s something I can’t tell you,” Ray replies, patting her on the head. “But I can tell you this: that guy’s loved you forever and there’s nothing you can do that will ever make him stop, so right now all you are is an idiot.”

“Thanks, Ray.” She glares at him through the spaces between her fingers. “Don’t make me spill my guts when you aren’t even going to help!”

Ray scoffs at that, and then he’s pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her. “Well the good news is, now you know exactly what to tell Norman.”

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes at her. “Everything you just told me, you tell him. Can’t be that hard.”

She reaches out to slug him in the shoulder. He nearly falls off his chair. 

“Geez, Emma!” He rubs his shoulder and returns her glare ten-fold.

Emma sniffs, lifting her chin. “Is it that difficult for you to understand my feelings, Ray?”

“Can’t say that it’s not.” He shrugs. “That’s all you’ve ever been to me: difficult.”

She punches his shoulder again, but the force of it is weaker than it was before, and she’s laughing a little. Ray grins at the sound of it. 

“So. Are you feeling better?”

She shrugs, pursing her lips. “Kind of.”

“Good.” Ray points at the door. “Now get your butt off that bed and find your husband.”

“Bossy,” she grumbles, but she’s slipping out of the covers all the same.

“I need to be bossy,” Ray crosses his arms, “You’re both too high-maintenance and you’ve wrangled me into becoming your custodian.”

Emma huffs at that, but she sends him a smile that says thanks and he pats her shoulder like you’re welcome.

 

///

 

It surprises Emma when Norman is the one who ends up finding her.

She blinks up at him, and notes that his hair is side-swept and messy, the way it gets when he’s just been outside and Ayshe has set her dogs on him. Both of them have come to a reluctant acquaintance over time, and while it’s certain that Ayshe won’t be the reaper of his life, she still takes every opportunity to order her dogs to pounce on him and play.

Over the years it’s become less of an act of retribution and more of an opportunity to get a good laugh.

When she studies him, his vest is certainly dirty with paw prints, and when she lifts her gaze to find his face she’s not too surprised to see a light scratch marring his cheek.

She feels her heart clench when he grins at her in greeting, because aren’t you supposed to be mad at me? Why in the world are you smiling?

“I’m glad to see you’re fine,” he says, taking a step toward her, though the way he hesitates to come closer makes her feel like the worst person on the planet. “And walking around. Did you need something? You’re not dizzy anymore, are you?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m okay. I was…” she forces herself to push on, “...looking for you, actually.”

“Oh?”

She breaches the distance between them and takes his hand. “Come on. We need to talk.”

His gaze softens at her words and then he’s squeezing her hand. Relief floods through her system, and her shoulders relax. 

“Of course,” he says, and that’s all it takes for her to lead him out the back door again and into the garden, where she waves briefly at Ayshe (who’s brushing her dogs’ fur) before guiding them through the small field and into a secluded area, where a small little creek trickles through their property and off into the unknown.

She sits by the bank and shuffles so that her shoulders brush against his, and she smiles a little when he leans against her like a silent I’m listening, so talk whenever you want.

She doesn’t need to dwell too long before blurting out, “I’m sorry.” She fiddles with her fingers, and continues, “For not telling you, and being mean.”

“You weren’t mean,” Norman answers, and he’s grinning slightly, which makes her feel a little less horrible. “But I’m not going to forgive you just yet.”

“I know.” She fingers a small pebble and hurls it into the water. It breaks the surface with a plop. “There’s actually… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s… going to be shocking.”

“Okay…?”

She gazes at him sternly. “Please don’t freak out.”

“I’m not going to freak out.”

“Yes you are.” Emma pauses. “Maybe.”

“Emma, just tell me.” His hand comes to rest over her wrist. “I’m not someone who’s easily surprised.”

“That could change,” she mutters, and then she’s looking him in the eye and declaring, “I’m pregnant.”

She’s privy to the way Norman’s eyes widen — privy to the way his hand closes over her wrist tightly — to the way he momentarily stops breathing, lips parting in a soft oval of what looks like surprise.

See, I told you, you’re going to be surprised. At least, that’s what Emma thinks, but then he’s releasing a long breath and suddenly the sound of surprise is one of relief.

“Thank goodness!” he exclaims, and Emma’s confused because he’s pulling her into a tight embrace and he’s saying, “I was so afraid you were going to tell me you have cancer or something—”

“Cancer?” she echoes, befuddled. “Norman, that’s what you’re focusing on?”

He pulls away, shaking his head. “I just — forgive me.” He grins at her in such a lopsided, lovestruck manner that it makes her heart race and her cheeks color. “Today I thought I was going to lose something, but I’ve gained something instead.”

The declaration makes him glow and then he’s pressing his palm over her stomach in wonder, and Emma knows she should feel endeared by the look on his face but all she does is tense and feel terrified. 

So scared. So, so scared.

“You’re pregnant,” he’s saying, and he sounds so shocked, sounds so overjoyed, that Emma finds herself thinking she would loathe herself if that joy in his eyes ends up becoming disappointment instead. “Emma you’re —” he chokes on his syllables and he’s laughing and laughing, completely elated, not privy at all to her fears, “Are you sure? Is that why Anna said there was nothing to worry about? Why didn’t she say —”

He cuts himself off there, and Emma winces, because she knows exactly what realization on Norman looks like. “Wait. Anna knew. She knew but she didn’t say anything.” He furrows his brows. “Your conversation with the children yesterday…”

He pulls away, blinks at her. “I’m the last to know?”

She bites her lip, then nods.

“Why didn’t you…” He shakes his head. “No. You don’t have to answer that.”

“Norman?”

He takes both her hands in his and squeezes. “Emma, it’s okay if it’s something you can’t tell me. I’m the last to know for a reason, right?” He’s smiling so gently now, the curve of his mouth so rich with understanding that it makes her cry.

“Emma!?” He holds her by the shoulders and shakes her gently. “Emma, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she sniffles, and she hates herself for crying too much, “Nothing’s wrong.”

He’s frowning but he doesn’t say anything and instead just pulls her close. A harsh sob escapes her mouth at the motion and then she’s grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, pulling herself as close to him as possible. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, I just, I feel so— so—!”

“You’re scared,” he murmurs gently in her ear, and then she’s pulling him closer, crying a little harder, because how did you know?

“Shh.” He rocks her slowly, fingers curling into her hair like stability. “It’s okay. Emma, it’s okay.”

She feels him gift a kiss to her hair every time he tells her it’s okay, and she holds him close to her until the ache in her chest has given way into numbness, and the wetness of her cheeks have hardened into a brittle layer over her skin.

“How is it that you love me so much when I’m not me?” she asks, fists digging deeper into his shirt. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she sniffles, “I’ve lost my memories. I’m not me.”

“Emma,” and his voice is the steel of an unbreakable sword, “You’re not lacking just because you’ve lost your memories. Even if you’ll never get them back, it doesn’t mean I’m going to love you any less.”

“How?” she asks, distraught. “Why? I don’t — I don’t even know how to be me sometimes, and everyone treats me like I’m going to be such a good mother, the kids all insist I must be, but how do they know that? Who I was before could have been, but what if that’s not who I am anymore? How am I supposed to know?”

She tears herself away from him, lips quivering as she confesses, “I am less, Norman — such a vital part of me is missing and I’m never going to get it back!”

He says nothing in the wake of her outburst, his eyes wide again with what she’s sure is surprise this time.

“Emma…”

“I’m sorry.” She tears her gaze away. “I know I’m being difficult.”

Norman frowns. “Now that sounds like something Ray would say.”

She can’t help it — she laughs a little at the remark. Norman grins, and his arms are coming around her again, his thumbs tracing circles over her shoulders. “Emma, you’re allowed to be difficult. I vowed to be with you for better or worse, didn’t I? So I’m going to be here at your worst whether you like it or not.”

Before she can say anything else, he continues: “And before you let your doubts make you cry again, I made that vow to who you are now, and that’s a promise I intend to keep, no matter what.” He narrows his gaze at her, like he’s notching Cupid’s arrow and aiming it straight at her heart — where he wants it to stay. “Falling in love with who you used to be — that was by chance. But falling in love with who you’ve become? That’s a choice that I made, and that I will continue to make, over and over again.”

He brushes her hair behind her ear, smiles at her like she’s everything to him — and she is, even when she’s lost it all. 

Even when she’s nothing.

“I love you, Emma,” he says, and she wonders if she’ll ever run out of tears to shed, “And I love our kid, who I know you’re going to love with everything you’ve got, incomplete or not.” He cups her cheek, smiles a little sadly this time. “And listen. I know that a few pretty words aren’t going to make your fears go away — that’s something you’re going to have to face on your own. But I’m with you, and I’ll always be. Every step of the way. You’re not alone.”

Something about his words pulls on her heartstrings — something about the way he says it makes her feel like she’s been uprooted from the present and sent through another misty haze of I should remember this, why aren’t I remembering this?

But that something in his words makes her feel like her world is still turning on its axis, the way it’s supposed to be. He’s the gravity that won’t let her fall, that will keep her orbit steady, no matter how far away her fears aim to fling her.

Resolve settles in her heart, and she feels renewed, somehow. Norman tends to do that.

Renew her.

She surges forward to kiss him, because he’s everything to her too, and the way she opens her mouth against his sounds like I’m not going to fail you.

He wraps his arms around her, tight and secure, like a response. 

Oh Emma.

You never have.

Chapter 8: Hold On.

Summary:

June 21: "What if Peter Ratri really intended to kill Emma even when they tried to negotiate with him on chapter 171-173...?"

Song-spiration: Hold On - Illenium, Georgia Ku

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Mercy is above and beyond him. Perhaps that is why it is Emma who surprises him with the notion of it.

There is only so much capability left within him to argue with her now; she has made a place for herself in the systems of his decision-making, and she is a glitch unwilling to pull away. He knows that despite their infallible hatred — their shared loathing — she will always be the moral high ground, and she will always serve to shock him with her steadfast idealism.

He relents to her wishes; it’s not the first time. Long ago he relented to her in the darkness of the night, his own resolve strengthening in the wake of their losses; and long ago he himself had sought her opinion on the line of action for the traitor in their midst: whether he be convicted in their eyes or saved.

He must have known, somewhere deep inside, that she will choose to save. Even when anger strikes in her eyes, and even when their sins are etched into flesh for her to see, she will always choose to save. But salvation does not warrant forgiveness — nor does it guarantee forgetfulness.

Norman’s hand is not one to be extended in order to save the likes of which he sincerely loathes.

Peter will receive no sympathy from him.

But he remains quiet, anyway. He sews his mouth shut when Emma confronts the deranged leader of a broken clan, and he casts his gaze away and pretends not to notice that he has a knife in his sleeve, because if he does acknowledge it then there is always room for something trigger-happy to alight in his bones.

There will always be one person whose words are worth more than Peter’s actions, after all, and he will follow her to the depths of this Neverland so long as it means building the world she wishes to see.

So he bottles up his anger and casts it into the waves; hurls it away with all his thoughts, his animosity, and everything he wishes he could have spat in Peter Ratri’s face the moment he shut down that wretched experimental site for good.

Revenge will not look good on a face meant to stand by Emma’s side.

Retribution is not within a tool’s jurisdiction to decide.

Even Ray, who does not bear the same mentality as he does, remains quiet as Emma attempts to convince Peter Ratri to re-evaluate his life. It’s something that logic alone can’t accomplish; ideals are not meant for the mind to fulfill.

But even in their silence, he knows the line of Ray’s shoulders well. He carries with him the same tension, the same bated breath, watching Ratri’s every move, waiting for him to take one wrong step and ready for it when he does.

So it comes as no surprise — to Norman, at least — that his gun is smoking with heat and his wrist is trembling with recoil at the bullet he’d just buried into Ratri’s hand, the moment he decides killing Emma is the better option.

Norman draws out a long breath, and then he’s increasingly aware of Ray’s stare, of Emma’s aghast expression.

“Norman!” the sound of his name is high from her lips, and he cocks his gun again, pointing it at Peter, whose bleeding hand writhes along with him on the floor. “I would’ve been fine, you didn’t have to—”

“There’s only so much patience left in me,” he answers, grimly, his blue eyes flicking up to meet Emma’s gaze like the fractured points of a crystal. “I do not intend for him to take anything else.”

Emma sighs, but there’s a harsh outline to her face, as though she’s only frustrated because Norman’s hands are bathed in even more blood, this time. She had given him his gun but she had also asked him to shoot only when it was absolutely necessary, and given the situation, given the irritated twitch to her fingers, he knows she curses herself for being too slow again — for being unable to put to action her promise to be the one to protect him.

But this isn’t a situation that requires protection. The damage has been dealt and cannot be undone.

Norman will admit to the satisfied smile that graces his face — perhaps it hadn’t been necessary to shoot, but all Peter Ratri has ever needed to do was give him a reason.

 

///

 

Emma pulls him aside, later, when they’ve set up camp and their departure from Gracefield will begin tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises.

The children are all sleeping, incredibly exhausted, but the oldest ones are still awake and keeping guard, because this is still the world of demons, and there is still so much blood that can be spilt.

At first she says nothing, and they sit by the glow of a dying fire, beneath the watchful eyes of the weary moon. The azure shadows of the evening blanket her frame and the contrast makes her look like sparks.

“I wanted to do it,” Norman tells her quietly. “I’ve wanted to do it for so long. I held back only because you asked me to.”

“I’m not angry with you about that,” she answers him, and then she’s offering him a grin that makes his heart flutter like the blue butterflies she used to try to catch in her hands when they were kids. He wonders if she’s already grasped the wings of his beating heart. “I was just, you know, hoping that you’re okay.”

He blinks at her response, and then her grin grows serene, her hand coming over to grasp his tightly. “We never really did get to have a long talk about how you’re feeling.”

He huffs a little at her sentiment, and then he’s averting his gaze simply to hide the fresh blush coating his cheeks. “Long talks are terribly boring, aren’t they?”

“I guess.” She shrugs. “But never when it’s with you. And we’ve got all night, Norman, so spill it.” He wonders if he’s dreaming or if the sadness tainting her gaze is real. He catches guilt lining the corner of her mouth, but before he can ask her about it she’s falling forward, burying her head in his shoulder, and then she’s saying, her voice brittle like ash, “Let’s talk and greet the sunrise together, okay?”

He lets out a shuddering breath, and then he’s holding her against him, fingers buried in her hair, the way he had done when they were eleven and he was willing to walk himself to death’s door for her sake. 

Always for her sake.

“I just don’t want you to die,” he whispers quietly, and it’s a confession. “Not you. Never you.”

“And I won’t die. Not now, at least.” He feels a humored grin spread across her face through the cloth of his polo. “If we’re going to live together then we’re going to die together, that’s a promise.”

“That’s quite a promise to make.” But he doesn’t doubt that she will keep it.

She pulls away to grin at him, and cupping his face she draws their foreheads close together. “No matter what knife or bullet this world is going to throw at me, Norman, I’m always going to be alive. As long as you’re with me. As long as you have me in your heart. You hear?” She draws an X over her chest, grinning widely. “Keep me there. Cause you’re always going to be in mine.”

He laughs a little, and draws an X over his heart too. It’s incredibly childish, but Emma has always had the soul of a child.

And children know how to keep their promises.

 

 


 

(He comes to realize this, two years later, when the memory of her is alive in his heart despite the wavering lack of recognition in her eyes.)

Chapter 9: Free Fall.

Summary:

June 22: Tangled AU, but as with all things there is a little bit of an unwarranted twist to the narrative.

Song-spiration: Free Fall - Illenium ft. RUNN

Bon appétit!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

This is the story of how he dies.

There’s dirt beneath his clothes, grime between his nails, and grease along the strands of his hair. His cheeks are hollow like driftwood tunneled through the most merciless of tides, though his eyes still look on at the tempest before him with an intelligence to rival those of kings.

His blood is not one of royalty, but he is no less noble, even as the guards escort him to the gallows, where they will tie his life to the end of a string.

The nobility look on with apathetic indifference: to them he is simply another criminal, even when wrought with chains he strikes fear into their hearts with the defiant threat of a man who will stop at nothing to achieve the cause he’s fighting for.

William Minerva, the auspicious leader of those that remain Unnamed, dubbed by the people as their benevolent Robin Hood and scorned by the patricians as their vexing Jonathan Wilde. A former nobleman and philanthropist — one of the greatest minds to have ever been borne on the shores of Corona, now washed away and broken by the high tides to reveal a common thief.

One whose hands have gone far too deep in aristocats' pockets; one whose hands have been revered as ones that have been touched by God.

They are now chained, and his feet are now bound, and the fine silk that once adorned his shoulders are now but filthy rags, hanging off his body to reveal the striking red evidence of what happens to those who defy the king’s rule.

Even now as they drag him off to death, King Leuvis can place that wintery fire in his eyes, bold as the glaciers of the Atlantic as they dare to look up at him, perched on his gilded seat as a spectator. A grin curls over Leuvis’s mouth, and it is one that is highly amused, because William Minerva is the first criminal in the history of Corona to raise his head at the king despite knowing full well that there is no further hope for him to survive.

William spits on the wood, blood and saliva both, as large rough hands tie the noose tightly over his neck. There will be no mercy shown toward him, even when it comes to something as simple as rope.

A bitter smile crosses his face when he is forced to look on at the crowd. Those that remain seated are glaring at him contemptuously, as though glad for the day they can finally execute the cockroach slipping through their walls. William scoffs at their hubris; today he may fall, but the Empire that he’s built will last as long as the people will need it.

“Nor-Norma—!” A gloved hand clamps over the little girl’s mouth, its owner baring his teeth with a mouthed order to stay quiet. William’s expression softens at the sight of the girl, whose usual headband is gone from her head, replaced instead with a black shawl to signify mourning.

His gaze flicks upward and blue eyes find the piercing violet of his lifetime friend, whose returning stare is laced with ascetic, shrouded over with sour contempt and disappointment.

William is not one to say I’m sorry, Ray, and even in the face of death the bitterness of his smile creases into one of misplaced gratitude. Thank you for doing as I asked.

“William Minerva,” some bloated, pompous voice announces, and William rolls his eyes at the sound. “To be executed for his transgressions against the throne of Corona, those of which include—”

“I must say I’m rather pleased to have a list of my accomplishments doled out on my biggest day,” William says, loud enough to be cheeky — loud enough for the King himself to raise a fine brow. “It was rather nice of the nobility to recognize my daring feats and sing me praises.”

In the crowd, Ray suppresses a snort, because his friend has always had a penchant for dramatics, even when oftentimes misguided and used entirely to project this fake persona of himself. He wishes he wouldn’t put up such a brave front — he wishes William Minerva could just be himself for once, even now, especially now, when every passing moment could hold his dying breath.

He wouldn’t have brought Sherry for this, but Sherry insisted, and Ray knows that his friend is stalling only for the sake of the little girl. William Minerva has no qualms with death; Ray should know, he can read the acceptance on his features clearly, like the pellucid surface of an undisturbed lake.

His friend is formidable that way, but there is no escaping the grasp of mortality.

“It is rather bold of you to assume that there is room for any praise, Minerva, given your current predicament,” Lord Bayon, Duke of the West, says. His baritone is clipped with the subtle venom known only to the members of the high class. 

“I must say that it is also rather bold of you to assume, my Lord, that I view any allegation against me as proof of my crimes.” William Minerva grins — composed, serene, undisturbed. “As far as the people of your country are concerned, the only crime here is your insatiable avarice and its continuous service to the dishonor of your family.”

“Watch your tongue, you mongrel,” Viscount Luce snarls, always at the ready to paint a generous public picture of himself. “Such eloquence will not excuse the lies you spit from your mouth.”

“Ah, dear viscount,” William volleys, “I quite assure you your sense of fashion is as horrid today as always.”

“Why you—!”

“I fail to see why we are wasting time sparring with a man who is supposed to be dead,” Marchioness Nouma interjects derisively. “I came here to see a show, and the prelude will only drag itself further the more you fools respond to the meaningless jests of a criminal.”

“Quite,” the Marquess states, as he is one to conform to the whims of his wife. “Shall we move along and have him hanged now, then?”

“That would be best,” Marchioness Nouma says, turning to face the king and bowing her head in show of respect. “If you shall issue the order, my King?”

King Leuvis bristles in his seat; he does not like being asked things. He is the leader of this godforsaken country, and he will rule it as he sees fit, without the input of any and all around him. As such, he rises from his chair with the grandeur of one who thinks himself too high, and the impassivity of his face breaks into an expression of lethal amusement.

“I rather like this criminal,” Leuvis announces, to the astonishment of the entire crowd. He steps forward, bringing forth his cane and tapping it once on the marble tiles beneath his feet. “I believe his execution will be a waste of resources.”

“What in the world are you proposing, your Majesty?” Lord Bayon asks, moving to rise abruptly from his seat in protest before remembering his place. “Surely you’re not suggesting we spare him—”

“Of course not,” Leuvis snaps, and the sheer tenor of his raised voice is enough to shut the nobility up for good. “I simply want to exhaust this man of all his capabilities, and put him through the guillotine once he has nothing left to offer.” There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes when he inclines his head to study William Minerva’s stiff form. “This is not a request, William Minerva. I will make use of you.”

Only a moment later, the noose is untied from his neck and then he’s being dragged off again, heels digging into the soil, and unlike before his limbs fight back in protest, because he will gladly choose death than become Leuvis’s little pet any day.

A cry of protest is silenced when the guards holding him up strike a blow to his head.

The last thing he sees is Sherry’s frail form, tears falling uncontrollably from her eyes as she tears herself from Ray’s grip and reaches out toward him.

 

///

 

He is branded like the weapon he has been forced to become.

In the aftermath the burn continues to sting as though the branding iron is still hot and fresh against his skin. It disturbs his sleep and makes his nerves jump and causes his entire body to quake at the weight of it, so terribly unused to the trauma of being beaten down and broken until he’s simply been reduced to a tool that the wretched king can utilize to his heart’s content.

He spits bile on the ground and and it comes to him, quite distinctly, like the shaft of an arrow piercing its target: the thought that they are only beating his body down so much in order to render him useless to escape, and they have the complete freedom to do so because all they need from him is his mind.

He wishes he is capable of defending it from their greedy hands, but Sherry had made a mistake, and now they’ve put her life on the line for the sake of his compliance.

He will not let her die. He won’t. She’s just a child, and she’s his, and god forbid they lay a finger on her head lest he sell his soul to the demon and corrupt his entire being for the sake of destroying them.

They will not take anything from him. They will take none of his family’s life but his own.

So he dons his act in the darkness of his prison cell, between every scratch of morse code through the stone walls, and shedding away his own dignity he allows himself to comply to their every whim. He hangs his head and bites his tongue as they render him weaker than he was before; he shuts his mouth and curls his fists when they leave him on the edge of starvation for days; and he says nothing, nothing at all, when he is finally washed and dressed and presented to the king as a hollow with a mind they deem is still intact.

“Good,” Leuvis says, and there is nothing Norman wants more than to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face. “I suppose you have an idea as to why I have you on your knees before me, William Minerva.”

“Running out of subjects to control?” William spits, and he is promptly slapped across the face by the guard.

Leuvis tsks, folding his hands together. “Given your avowals on the day of your execution, I rather thought you had more of an eloquent tongue than that.” He casts another glance over his captive, the tilt of his chin prideful, and then he turns to look at Lord Bayon, who is standing dutifully to his side. “You are now assigned to Lord Bayon’s patrol as a strategist.”

“What?” William blurts out, raising his head. “Patrol—? You’re keeping me alive to serve as one of your guard dogs?”

“Not just any guard dog, Minerva,” Leuvis sighs, like he’s talking to an insolent child. “Lord Bayon’s duty to me, and subsequently to his kingdom, involves a task that has been a well-kept secret of the nobility for eighteen years.” He pauses, pursing his lips, and for once there is an expression flickering across his face that is unrelated to his hubris. “Finding the lost princess.”

Norman’s eyes widen at the title. “But she’s dead. She died with the Queen before you, during the Gillian clan’s raids—”

He is slapped again.

“She is most certainly not dead, I assure you,” Leuvis sneers. “She possesses magic within her that is coveted by many, though there is none whose interest outmatches that of my Aunt, Reglavalima. She orchestrated the Gillian clan’s attack as a cover, killing my sister Musica in the process, and fleeing with the baby into the night. The princess is the only heir siphoned from purely royal blood: she is necessary for the continued purity of the family succession. You will spend the rest of your pathetic life aiding to this cause, or else die along with that little brat who simply won’t stop crying.”

William’s eyes narrow. “What did you do to Sherry?” His fists tremble when the king fails to answer him. “Tell me!”

“She is in custody of my wife, Minerva, so you can stop your pathetic groveling,” Lord Bayon says, a threat laced in his tone. William does not wither in the face of it, and suppresses his smirk at the information. “You will dedicate yourself fully to this cause. We begin our search by daylight tomorrow. Should I find any impression of incompetence from you, my wife is only an owl away, and she will slit your precious girl’s throat, and you will be publicly executed as you ought to have been.”

“As I said, Minerva,” Leuvis adds, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, “I have no intent to request anything from the likes of you.”

William sends the king a heated glare, and once again he is slapped, his bruised cheek hitting the floor as his entire body quakes at the force of impact.

 

///

 

The smell of stew graces his nose, but his stomach does not succumb to it as the gluttons that surround him do.

William sniffs, frail fingers dusting over a recently charted map of the kingdom’s surrounding forests, and with a thin piece of graphite he notes all the points that indicate small villages whose occupants claim to have seen a cloaked woman fitting Reglavalima’s description. From there it is easy enough for him to graph out a pursuit curve, teeth biting his lower lip as he strains his mind to figure out Reglavalima’s possible path, given she’s on the move and the sightings aren’t hoaxes.

He marks a point off the map, due East. He frowns at the revelation and promptly disregards it. This is the pursuit curve that Bayon has been tirelessly and fruitlessly following all these years. There is a high chance that who they’re chasing possesses a capable mind, and that she’s been leading them astray in order to guarantee her safety and preserve the lost status of Corona’s princess.

After all, to claim that Reglavalima is hiding at a point off the map is the work of an amateur, and that is the one thing William Minerva is not.

Taking into account the predicted path, he goes over his work again to issue out a different calculation, factoring in the possibilities that Reglavalima isn’t on the move at all and there’s a stationary point among these villages where she’s hiding.

The guards he is with drink merrily all night long, with Bayon cooped up in his tent far away from them. If this is the kind of work they’ve been doing for eighteen years, William is not surprised that they haven’t yet found the lost princess, considering they are content to find themselves a different woman to sleep with every night.

In the dawn of the coming morning, the gray of the graphite turns red with the mark of success, and William collapses onto the map, thoroughly exhausted.

 

///

 

They come across a tower.

William, whose hands are chained now, catches Bayon sending him the slightest look of approval, though he’s sure he must have only imagined it in the delirium of the noon’s merciless sun, which hangs high above them. The tower looks deserted, and the guards all have their guns raised and ready, most of them in defensive stances and studying the area warily, for fear they might be ambushed.

Lord Bayon does not carry with him the same fear, and instead he studies the tower, spear curling in hand as proof of thought, and then suddenly he has the shaft piercing through the stones in the wall, strength evident in his muscles as he continues to land blow after blow until an entire section comes crumbling down to reveal a hidden entrance to a winding set of stairs.

“I believe we may have found our lost princess,” Lord Bayon announces, and with a flourish of his cape he enters the tower with the gait of a man who does not know what defeat tastes like. “Come.”

The guards are still weary, and the one who holds William’s chains in his hands tugs him harshly along. He glowers at the guard — whose treatment of him has been callous since the very beginning — but he voices none of his protest aloud as his bare feet grace the old weathered wood of the stairs.

They creak loudly as Bayon marches on, dust falling over William’s eyes as he is tugged along as the last, and he shakes the dirt from his hair, shields his eyes from the onslaught by tilting his head to the side and keeping to the walls.

When they reach the top, Bayon hurls his spear at a slab of cement, and it comes open without defiance, landing harshly on colored tiles to reveal painted walls and an open sunbeam.

The filtering rays of the sun serve to blind the notorious Duke, and so he does not come to expect the frying pan that comes flying at his head.

The strength of the blow is enough to knock him over, and the guards before William erupt in pandemonium, firing their guns at an unknown assailant, who from every corner of the room is utilizing every possibly fatal object — a vase, a guitar, another frying pan — to render them unconscious. William finds himself dragged along when the guard attending to him surges forward with a loud battle cry, but soon he too is rendered immobile, and William finds himself in a room of five unconscious bodies and the flat of a frying pan aiming straight for his nose.

He screws his eyes shut, ready for the incoming blow.

It does not come.

“You…” William slowly opens his eyes once more to find that the sun has cast a spotlight on a woman, whose hair is as blonde as the heavenly body it reflects and as long as the tower that confines her. Her eyes are wide and green like the foliage of the gardens his mother has planted back home, sparkling like the waves of an ocean as they catch the sunbeams, and the line of her mouth is as resplendent and inviting as the songs of the nymphs he’s read about, in the stories of old. She blinks at him, and despite her confusion the expression on her face only serves to make her look more beautiful.

She lowers her weapon, eyes scanning the length of his body. There is compassion in her voice when she says, “...You’re already hurt.” 

He doesn’t quite know what to say to that, and his eyes widen owlishly when she reaches forward to touch his face, wincing when the tips of her fingers brush over the bruise on his cheek. “Mother told me that humans on the outside are dangerous,” she whispers slowly, “But it never occurred to me that humans could be dangerous to each other. What…”

He’s arrested by the innocence in her gaze. “What did they do to you?”

He bows his head meekly. “It is nothing you must concern yourself with, Princess,” he offers, “But I must tell you that these men are only here to take you home.”

She furrows her brows. “What do you mean? I am home.”

It occurs to William that she was taken from the castle as a baby, and thus she will have no recollection of her title.

He holds his breath, wondering how he should tell her, but then he remembers that the reason Bayon had guards with him (the reason why Bayon was leading this platoon in the first place) was because Reglavalima was a very real threat, known to be able to wield her swords like a Valkyrie, using them to cut down any and all enemies who stand in her way.

William starts, casting a furtive glance around the room, and looking at the woman before him once more, he asks, “Where is your Mother?”

“Out.” She smiles, warmly, and it feels like an invitation of friendship. He’s taken aback by how unabashedly open she is. “She’s gathering hazelnuts, you see — it’s almost my birthday. She trusts me to be safe alone in this tower, but I suppose even she didn’t expect that anyone would break in.” She furrows her brows in thought. “In fact, I’ve never spoken to another person my entire life. You’re the first.”

Her smile widens. “So, what’s your name?”

He blinks at her. “Aren’t you wary of me?”

“What reason do I have to be wary of you?” she responds. “You’re chained and I’m the only one with a weapon in my hands. If we’re talking about distrust, then you’re the one who’s in a position to be wary of me, not the other way around.”

He nods at her with respect. “You have a point, milady.”

“So?” He notices the curve of her smile is punctuated with a dimple, and he wonders how the gods above have managed to sculpt such a beautiful woman. He doubts even Pygmalion’s Galatea can hold a candle to the beauty of the life that thrives behind the vividness of her eyes. “I’m Emma. You are?”

“William,” he says, settling for the alias, and casting a glance around him to check if any of the guards are waking up, he continues, because he knows that they will not harm her, “And you’re safe with us, I promise.”

“I doubt it,” she answers, and he notices her grip on the frying pan is still tight, strict with the impression of a mother’s teaching. “But I’m safe with you, I’m pretty sure, William the injured bird.”

She points the handle of the pan at him. “No one who beats their companion up the way they have you is ‘safe’. Now tell me. How do I remove those heavy chains from your wrists? You’re turning more purple by the second.”

He stares at her for a long time, mouth turned into a pensive frown. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because you need it,” she answers simply, poking at the keyhole that binds his chains to his wrists. “Do I need any other reason?”

In the face of her genuine kindness, William finds that he would hate to see her corrupted by Leuvis’s reign — lost princess or not, this is a girl whose kindness rivals the intensity of the sun and the sincerity of a man who knows no lie. She will be a far more useful ally on their side, and William finds that he is now determined to show her the kingdom through the eyes of its people, rather than through the eyes of its leader.

Kindness, after all, is so pure that it is easy to corrupt, and if she is not safe with Leuvis then neither is she with Reglavalima.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to go outside?” he says, slowly, gauging her reaction. She’s looking up at him with wonder, and he feels he’s on the right track. “You’ve been trapped here your whole life, haven’t you?”

She lowers her head. “I must stay here, with my mother.”

“And what has your mother ever done for you?”

She frowns at him. “She keeps me safe.” She backs away, and her sudden wariness of him makes him wince. “This is — you’re not tricking me, are you? She’s told me about men who dress themselves with sweet words and empty promises; she tells me all they do is lead me astray. You’re not… like them, are you?”

“I must confess I am a liar,” he tells her honestly, “But trust me when I tell you that you are not safe here; not with these men who seek to bring you back to your kingdom, and neither with the woman who has dressed herself with sweet words and empty promises. You are not who she says you are, and she is not who she says she is.”

Emma scowls at him. “Those sound like the words of someone who plans to take me for himself. And what if I go with you? You expect me to leave my mother behind only to find these men? They could kill her.”

He narrows his gaze at her. “Do you truly believe that? Your mother is Reglavalima, is she not? She is the most feared swordswoman on the continent. These men stand no chance against her.”

She blinks up at him again, and hesitantly, she says, “So she is, but even though that’s true, I will have you know that I am her daughter. She raised me.” She returns his glare two-fold. “She trained me as well.”

He inclines his head at the bodies that surround their feet. “I have no doubt. But the fact remains that there is a kingdom for you to see… to save, if you so wish it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t explain here.” He shakes his head. “We’re running out of time. Bayon has a legitimate weapon — you do not. I’ll tell you everything you wish to know. I simply ask you to run away with me.”

“Run away with you?” she echoes, befuddled. “And what will we be running from, pray tell?”

“The people who wish to use you and corrupt you,” he answers. “Your hair is spun like gold and is said to hold the magic of the sun; that is why Reglavalima keeps you. Your blood flows pure with that of the nobility; that is why the King of Corona seeks you. But neither of them you can trust, so please, I implore you. You can kill me if you deem me a liar, but let it be known that I have warned you.”

“I do not wish to kill anyone,” she says quietly.

“Then do you trust me?”

“Why are you so insistent—”

“Emma,” he calls, and her name fits the sound of his voice, flowing from his mouth with abrupt cadence. “Have you ever wanted to go outside?”

“Of course,” she responds. “Always—”

“Are you not a prisoner here, then?” He extends his chained hands. “Are we both not alike?”

“I do not wear shackles like you.”

“But you are bound here by your mother.” His gaze is steely. “Have you ever truly stopped to consider why?”

She frowns at him, but there’s no mistrust in her gaze. “And what guarantee do I have that you’re not just seeking to use me as well?”

“Because I have no position for you to fill, and no role for you to play,” he tells her. “I’m giving you a choice, right here, right now. My kingdom — my people — they have suffered beneath the hands of royalty for far too long. Whether you understand it or not, you have influence. You are royalty. You are a princess, and I offer you this chance to be with your people, because —” he sucks in a breath, and then he’s falling on his knees before her, like a beggar, “— they need someone to save them, and that has never been me.”

“William—”

“You have a choice today, Emma. You can stay here with your mother and be this tower’s prisoner forevermore; you can choose to go with the guards when they wake and become the successor to a corrupted throne; or you can come with me, and help me build a better world for the people of Corona. For my family. I am selfish — we all are. But this is your choice to make, and I give you the freedom to do so.” He bows his head. “I simply beseech you, and your kindness.”

She studies him wearily, incredibly conflicted. “You do know I don’t fully comprehend what you’re talking about.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t even know you, William.”

“I know.” He bites his lip. “I don’t know you either, but I feel I know enough.”

He himself feels foolish but he is lost at sea and she is the only lighthouse for miles. His body is frail, and his mind frailer still, but the vengeance in his heart has a flame that cannot be extinguished, and finding the lost princess — a member of the nobility who has the blood to be listened to and a heart whose alliance it has not yet chosen. Reglavalima will hunt her down if she chooses to come; Bayon will too.

There are enemies all around them, and she has nothing to gain. He has nothing to offer her. But he will try, because either way, he will die.

He is startled when she inserts a key she swiped from the guard beside him into the lock of the chains which bind his hands.

She catches his surprise. “Well, William the injured bird, I still have no idea what you’re asking of me, but I need someone to guide me if I ever want to see the world. And if I’m not mistaken, there will be a multitude of shooting stars lighting up the sky in three days’ time, and that is the one thing I have always wanted to see.”

“Shooting stars?” he echoes, bemused.

“They’re floating lights, that coat the sky—” she falters a little, looks at him with a serious expression, “You do know what I’m talking about, right?”

He smiles, and it’s the first smile she’s seen him wear. “Of course. And I know just where to go.”

“So where are the shooting stars, exactly?” The weight of his chains clatters to the ground like a punctuation mark and Norman feels freer than he has in months. “For reference.”

He rubs his wrists, which are raw and red, and when he meets her gaze again there is warmth in his eyes. 

“My hometown.”

 

///

 

“William!”

He stumbles on his feet, breath knocked out of his lungs, but Emma’s hand is still firm in his and they’re still running with everything they’ve got. Bayon’s guards are behind them, hot on their heels, after their unfortunate run-in at the Snuggly Duckling, a run-of-the-mill bar that functions as headquarters for missions that he and his team go on — at least, it had been headquarters until William had walked to it and realized it was swarmed with palace guards. 

William curses himself to realize that the location of his bases have been compromised, as his capture had lowered his comrades’ morale and attention; they had failed to protect their safe locations in his absence, but he finds no fault with them — after all, he had failed to be their leader.

He yelps when Emma scoops him into her arms as they run. 

“Emma?!”

“You’re slow!” she yells at him, and she’s panting heavily but her legs are still running strong. “You’re only going to hurt your feet more if you keep stumbling on roots!”

“But—!”

“I can carry you no problem now stop wasting my breath!”

He snaps his mouth shut and clings to her as she hurries past a dam in construction, his fists grabbing on to her hair and gathering it in his arms to keep it from snagging on anything and hindering their escape.

He holds his breath when she leaps over an abyss, nails digging tightly into her dress, nose buried in her shoulder. They hit the other side gracelessly, William rolling out of her arms, landing nose-first in the dirt.

She scrambles to her knees. “William! William, are you okay?”

He nods and grabs her hand when she extends it, allowing her to pull him up. They glance backward — the guards are on the other side, hesitating to follow them, and with a satisfied nod Emma tugs on his arm and they run away.

“You should have told me you’re a criminal!” she yells at him as they run away into the shadows of a cave. “Asking me to help you run away would’ve made much more sense!”

Despite himself, he lets out a small laugh.

 

///

 

When they are relatively safe and far, far away from where the guards had first found them, William is the first to collapse between them, and despite all her strength when Emma reaches out to catch him they both fall beneath his weight into the soft grass of the forest clearing.

“I’m sorry,” he exhales, trying to scramble off her, but his limbs are on fire and his mind is too scattered, high on alert in case his tactical ability has failed them and they’ve left too many traces of where they are. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

Emma laughs, cutting him off. He blinks down at her, face slicked with sweat, glimmering like magic in the setting sunlight. “That… was… fun!”

At the announcement she’s beaming up at him, wide and beautiful and enchanting, and suddenly he feels so grateful to be alive.

 

///

 

“I should have known that criminals would have so many secret passageways memorized,” Emma murmurs quietly at him as they stalk through the outskirts of a village. The twilight shadows them adequately enough as they avoid the roaming guards, and then he’s guiding her through a hole carved in at the bottom of a large tree, hidden by a blanket of sewn leaves.

“Come on,” he gestures, and he helps her down into the man-made tunnel. “This leads into the basement of my childhood home.”

“Won’t we cause a ruckus if we suddenly burst in?”

“No.” He momentarily looks back to offer her an assured grin. “They’re expecting me. We won’t cause any trouble, I promise.”

“If you say so.” She winces when her hair tugs on a root.

He sends her a sympathetic smile. “The girls will definitely love to keep your hair so it doesn’t snag so much.”

“I would be incredibly grateful,” she replies, near dramatically, and he laughs at the tone of her voice.

He reaches a familiar dead end and pulls on a string thrice. There is silence for a long moment, but then it’s broken by the sound of hurried footsteps, and William is incredibly relieved to find the light and greet his friend’s face on the other side.

“You goddamn mother-fucking pea-brained idiot,” Ray grouses, slapping him in the face. “You do know we all worry when you stop sending us messages, right? Even the owls are getting antsy.”

William laughs, rubbing his assaulted face, and behind him Emma crosses her arms, frowning. “Is that really how you’re going to greet him? He’s been beaten enough, hasn’t he?”

Ray’s eyes widen. “And who the fuck is that?”

William shrugs. “Who they ordered me to find.”

Ray blinks, then facepalms. “C’mere—”

“Norman!” a stern soprano sings, and before Ray can haul Norman up himself the boy is being grasped by the armpits and pulled forward into the embrace of his mother. “You had us worried, you know? I went out to find you and all I could find was that they tripled the bounty to your head. I thought I told you to stop doing stupid things? Honestly. What a stupid son.”

Norman sighs deeply. “Mama, I told you I’m not Norman anymore—”

“And scorn your given name?” Isabella scoffs. “I gave you that name and you have no right to shed away from it completely—”

“Norman?” Emma echoes, and the owner of the name cringes. “Wait, your name is Norman?”

He deflates a little. “Yeah.” The gaze he sends her is almost akin to that of a kicked puppy and Emma wonders if he’s doing it on purpose or that’s just genuinely the representation of his feelings. “You’re not… angry, are you?”

“Well, how can I be?”

Norman lets out a long sigh. He turns to look at Ray. “Please tell me you got to her.”

Ray smirks, crossing his arms. “Of course we did. The moment she got captured we took measures to get her back — though your tip was certainly helpful. She’s been recovering this past week. Anna actually just went to wake her—”

“NOOORMAN!” a childish wail echoes through the house, and Isabella releases Norman from her grasp to allow the ginger-haired six-year-old to take her place in Norman’s embrace.

“Shelly~!” Norman greets, and Emma feels endeared by the way he says the little girl’s name, soft and fond, like she’s the world to him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—” Shelly sniffles, still crying harshly, and Emma frowns when the girl turns her head and she can see her cheek is bandaged. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! Stupid Norman! Stupid big brother! I don’t—don’t want you to go! Ever!”

“I’m here now, Shelly,” Norman assures, and he’s patting the younger girl on the head and lifting her in his arms. “You can stop crying.”

“She’s a darling,” Emma tells Norman softly, taking a few tentative steps closer.

Ray snorts. “She’s a crybaby.” Isabella whacks him by the back of his head.

“And who are you, my dear?” Isabella asks, moving closer to study Emma, her mouth curling in distaste when she takes note of the girl’s soiled clothes and dirty hair. “Feel free to tell me if my son has caused you any trouble. I did not raise them to treat girls so callously.”

“Ma- ma,” Norman intones, unamused.

Ray huffs. “As if Norman will ever overpower a girl.”

“He treated me just fine,” Emma shakes her head, “Nothing to worry about. I’m Emma.”

“Emma?” Isabella echoes. “The name suits your face. Now come. We’ve dwelled in the basement for too long. Ray, if you and Anna could go heat up some milk in the kitchen.” She grabs both Norman and Emma by the arms. “As for you two, it’s a nice long bath for you both.”

 

///

 

When they are clean and seated in the kitchen together, twin mugs of hot milk in their hands, Emma scoots closer to Norman on her chair and peers up at him with curiosity.

“What is it?” he asks, mildly amused by her behavior.

“Nothing. Just,” she pouts as if in thought, “Norman suits you better, so why change your name to William?”

“It was out of necessity,” he answers, specific enough to satisfy her curiosity and vague enough to keep his secrets his own. “This kingdom’s leaders are corrupt and treat the people poorly. I decided that had to change, so when I embarked on the path I chose for myself I took care to make sure my family will never be tied to anything I’ve done. They don’t deserve that.”

Emma frowns. “You don’t deserve to carry all the burden on your shoulders, either.”

He shrugs, smiling at her like he’s deeming the topic closed. “It’s not exactly your choice to make, Emma, and neither is it theirs. It is mine and mine alone.”

“But they’re your family, are they not? They are so willing to help you when you’re in trouble — they are even kind enough to help me; to bathe me and dress me and offer me sustenance, even when I’m just a stranger.” She reaches out to him, folds her hand over his. “Does your family not exist to support you in whatever endeavor you choose?”

“It is a line of business that will put them in danger,” he tells her firmly. “You saw Shelly. She was injured at their hands and she’s only six. They were willing enough to use her life to control my actions — they don’t have mercy. They will not spare it for innocents. It is better — safer — to keep my family away. I do not expect you to understand.”

Emma growls a little. “You always do that. When I ask you something personal — you avoid it. You asked me to trust you, did you not? Well, here is my trust. I will take it back if you continue to hide from me.”

“And what would a woman of noble blood gain from listening to the sorrows of a criminal?” Norman asks, and overturning her hand in his he brushes her hair from her face. “No. I promised to show you the stars, and that is all I will do. Where you go afterward is your choice and yours alone, just as the path of William Minverva was one I chose to take.”

“And if I choose to tread this path with you?” Emma asks. “If I choose to fight for these people by your side, will you let me?”

“Emma—”

“Will you let me?”

“What reason do you have to choose this path?” he grits out, frustrated, because everything this girl does is always above and beyond his expectations. It is impossible to predict her, and the people he cannot predict are the people who can defeat him. 

“Because of you,” she answers, simply. “I’ve fought every step of the way since leaving that tower, Norman, and I only left in the first place because you gave me the choice to. I saw how the guards treated your comrades in the Snuggly Duckling — I saw the scar marring Shelly’s cheek, when I came out of the bath to find your sister-in-law replacing the bandage on her cheek. I’ve seen all this and I’ve yet to see more, and through it I’ve come to understand why you’re fighting so hard.”

She frowns at him, determined and bold. “Let me fight with you, Norman.” She bows her head, and the action is reminiscent of their first meeting. “I implore you.”

“You surprise me, milady,” he breathes, the hand buried in her hair pulling her a little bit closer. “You surprise me at every given moment. So much so that I understand Nerval’s lament and Hades’ fidelity.”

“And you frustrate me,” Emma murmurs, her answering grin both beseeching and affectionate. “So much so that I’m going to dump this cup of hot milk on your head if you continue to be so indirect with your feelings. Do not sing to me Homer’s epic and do not serenade me with a pining Frenchman’s verses; tell me your feelings with your own words, using your own heart.”

“And if I know not how to do so?” he replies, “I have always found it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don’t.”

“Then let me stay with you,” she offers, “So I can teach you and translate the verses of your guarded heart.”

“You strike a good point, milady.”

“And your answer?”

The heat of his breath ghosts over the skin of her cheek. “You will have it once you see the stars.”

 

///

 

It is from Anna, Ray’s wife, that Emma learns why the shooting stars exist.

“It’s a symbol of hope,” she says, looking up at the princess from the embroidery in her hands. “We celebrate the Summer, and the recent Harvest, and we lift the lanterns to the sky as a prayer for continued fortune. It makes the people happy — so much so that this is one of the few festivals throughout the land to remain celebrated.”

“So I see,” Emma responds.

“And when the lanterns are in the sky, you pick one and you make a wish. It is certain to come true if you do.”

“Is that so?” Emma hums thoughtfully.

“You’ll also have to wear something white tonight,” Anna winks, pointing at her closet, “White in this festival symbolizes the purity of companionship. Pick any white dress from my closet; they aren’t fancy but on you I’m sure they will look beautiful. It will suit you. I can have Gilda — our neighbor — make any adjustments you need.”

“That’s terribly kind of you,” Emma stammers, blush rising to her cheeks, “I couldn’t possibly—”

“But you must!” Anna insists, grinning broadly. “White will compliment Norman’s hair, after all. There’s a bonfire dance at midnight — you absolutely must take him, he hasn’t taken the opportunity for his first dance at all!” She shakes her head. “He is a dedicated worker but a pitiful man.”

Emma laughs slightly. “I can’t say I agree.”

“I can say that was mostly in jest,” Anna reponds, laughing along with her. “My husband’s cynicism is highly contagious, I’ve come to learn. And we’ve only been married recently, since he just turned eighteen!”

“Seems to me that Norman isn’t the one in need of a dance.”

“Ah. Those brothers seem so dissimilar but I assure you they have more in common than the sky to the sea.”

Emma grows endeared with Anna’s laugh — it is lark swift and soft, melodic and peaceful. A contrast to Ray’s hard baritone, but complementary, and she finds herself falling more and more in love with this family with every passing minute.

Sherry comes through the door with some of her sisters in tow. “Anna! Emma! Help us get dressed for tonight?” The young girl is sprightly now, her tears having watered her face and giving it a pretty shine. “Norman said I should look pretty tonight, but he told me to tell you not too pretty or else a boy will steal me away. I don’t want to be stolen!”

Emma laughs at the innocence of her remark. “It is utmost disrespect for a man to tell his lady not to dress as best she can. Come, we shall make you look finer than the swans, and then we shall see who will do the stealing tonight.”

 

///

 

Norman is dressed impeccably that evening, and this in comparison to the rags he had worn before. The cloth of his shirt is cotton and the design is simple, but he smiles at her warmly in the coolness of the night, and when she takes his hand it is the first time throughout this long journey that she feels like a princess.

“You clean up rather well, I must say,” she teases, and he squeezes her hand tightly in response. “Hey — is the festival not that way?”

He tugs on her hand again, flashing her a secret smile. “It will be your first festival outside your tower. It is only fitting, then, that I offer you the best view.”

Emma grins lopsidedly at his sentiment and allows him to tug her through unfamiliar pathways, and further still into an old bell-tower, abandoned now as everyone has headed to the bonfire. The door gives way beneath a gentle push — it isn’t locked — and they make their way upwards, where Emma finds herself gazing at the widest horizon line she has ever seen in her life.

She tucks the skirt of her dress behind her knees and takes a seat along the edge, where Norman sits next to her, her fingers finding his.

“It’s a beautiful view,” she whispers.

“Wait until they lift the lanterns into the sky,” he tells her, “It will be even more beautiful.”

“Do you always watch the lanterns alone?”

“Hm?”

Emma shrugs. She swings her legs. “It’s just that you know it best to watch the lanterns from here, but we are incredibly far from the rest of town. It’s beautiful but secluded,” she turns to him meaningfully, “like you.”

He chuckles softly. “I should have known you to make such an observation, milady. But yes, you are the first that I’ve brought here with me.”

“Then I am honoured.”

“No,” he responds, and his returning gaze is fierce, “It is I whom you have honoured tonight. There is none I would wish to see the stars with other than you.”

“You are simply too full of flattering words to still be single, Norman. Are you sure no other lark in this town has stolen you away before me?”

“None, because I am not attracted to larks.”

“And you are attracted to what, exactly?”

“Golden pheasants.”

“What unique taste.” But her heart is beating wildly. “You flatter me.”

“I say to you nothing that is not true.”

“Then you must know that I am attracted to a rare bird as well. But I will not tell you what it is.”

“Oh?”

She brings a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret.”

Norman smiles. “Then keep your secrets, milady, and I will have mine.”

“That is to say, if I reveal myself to you then you shall do the same?”

Instead of answering her he points out into the distance, where sparks of light erupt through the roofs and the trees. “The stars are coming.”

“So they are.”

They light up the indigo sky slowly, flickering like candles before rising to the sky aflame, blotted against the horizon like colored ink to paper. It is the progression of a story, this motion of the lanterns, and as they cross the sky like shooting stars she finds herself enraptured, filled to the brim with the hope that Anna mentioned they symbolized.

Their light reaches so far that it lifts a subtle glow over the curves of Norman’s face, when she turns to look at him. He catches her gaze and smiles warmly when she extends a hand to cup his cheek.

“You look like a dream,” she whispers.

“Then perhaps you’ve got your eyes closed,” he answers, and it sounds like an attempt to joke. This makes her smile, and she writes her secrets on the stars for everyone to see.

Out of all the lanterns littering the sky, she chooses him.

“I think that if I were ever to have a dream fulfilled, the best night to do so would be tonight.” She lowers her hands to grasp his, and pulls to have him stand along with her. “Will you please grant me a single wish tonight, Norman?”

“Anything,” he answers, and he punctuates the promise with a light kiss to the back of her palm.

“Then come along with me. We shall go down to the bonfire and dance the night away.” She smiles broadly, and it’s brighter than the lanterns coated against the evening sky. “I do not want you to be alone.”

She had no need to prompt him further in order for him to take action. With their hands still linked, they rush from the tower and into the fire, where the whiteness of her dress twirls around her form as she leads him to dance. Her joy is unmasked by the people around them and the lanterns above them; by the present beneath them and the future before them. He knows that she has made her wish for tonight, and he allows his heart to beat in the wake of it, strong and sure, the sound of it meant for her ears and her ears only.

I do not want you to be alone, she’d said.

And in the promise of the night it is a futile dream, but a granted wish.

 

 

/ / /

 

 

There is Reglavalima’s weapon before her, and Bayon’s forces below them. A tower that was once her home and is now his gallows.

Emma’s hair is falling over her eyes, which are tear-stained and determined. He loves her determination. It gives him fuel.

The shard of glass is curled within his fingertips.

The last thing he sees is the shock that writes itself clearly on her face, his only lifeline cut as he pours all of his remaining strength into the force of his final act. 

She will live, he knows. She will live and become the Queen that Corona was always meant to have. She will have Ray’s unquestionable support, Isabella’s infallible strategy, and she will have his final gift: her freedom from the magic that devalues her into a tool; her freedom from a mother who sought only to maintain her own vanity; and her freedom from a lineage that aims to fit her into its villainous mold. 

As his vision fades, her cut hair curls around her face like a halo, and he sees its original color return — a wondrous orange, the rising of the sun, the setting of his. It burns brighter than the blonde ever had, framing her face delicately, lighting her up, and he soaks in the sight of her as he breathes his last.

His hand falls to the floor.

It is his dream come true.

Notes:

“I have always found it more difficult to say the things I mean than the things I don’t.” — lifted from W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

Chapter 10: Not Bad.

Summary:

June 23: CEO/Janitors AU requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. This one's short because there was a whole other... risqué... part to the writing of this that I wasn't sure anyone wanted to read in a collection that's (mostly) been pretty wholegrain since the beginning. But hey, if that's something you'd be interested to read, let me know?

Song-spiration: Not a Bad Thing - Justin Timberlake (Boyce Avenue cover)

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

It was a pitiful meeting. A pitiful, frustrating, migraine-inducing meeting, with incompetent colleagues and a close crisis that Norman was lucky enough to arbitrate before anything else got worse.

He rubbed his temple — that migraine was definitely coming now, end-of-the-meeting be damned — and he muttered a string of insults beneath his breath that would have made Ray proud. Norman’s secretary, a man who could do anything and everything (including baby-sit the overgrown infant who called himself CEO of Minerva, Inc.), was both a lifelong friend and an unceasingly reliable pillar, the proof of which was the cup of coffee currently resting in Norman’s hands (laced with a gracious amount of aspirin).

He made a mental note to thank Ray later as he walked through the Marketing floor to hand-deliver a set of documents (because none of the insolent bastards above-floor were competent enough to complete half the job of a mere mail carrier).

And granted, Norman could have simply sent Vincent for this job, but sometimes there was something to be said about doing things yourself. A few faces lit in recognition as he walked past, and the friendly (albeit still professional) nature of his company made itself known as a few daring employees lifted a hand to wave at him.

It was nice, sometimes. 

He felt too haggard to stop and chat as he usually did on the rare occasion he left his desk during office hours, though the clipped smile he sent their way seemed enough to abate the prerequisites of social interaction.

They respected him enough not to ask — or approach.

That is, until out of the corner of his eye some whirlwind of a woman started rushing past a cubicle and yelled at him to Stop!

He furrowed his brows at her unsolicited warning and wondered at the cause of it until he felt his feet giving way below him.

Of all the goddamn things— 

“Sir!” Somebody grabbed his hand and pulled.

Documents went flying, and so did a mug of coffee, and the whole floor seemed to momentarily stop and gawk as though a tornado had just passed through the room.

“Ah!”

Norman came crashing anyway, the wind knocked out of him. He landed squarely on top of a girl, who through a frizzy mane of orange hair was blushing madly up at him, her hands now clutching on to his shirt.

“Are you okay?” she blurted out, and Norman blinked down at her, because holy fucking shit she was gorgeous. 

“Um—” he stammered.

“I’m so sorry!” she continued, her blush intensifying, and red, he thought, was a good color on her. “I forgot to put the Wet Floor sign, it was incredibly stupid, I know — I hope you’re not hurt? And — oh. Oh no! Your shirt, it’s stained, I’m so sorry—”

He shook his head wildly because there was absolutely nothing this girl had to apologize to him for. “No, no! I wasn’t looking, I’m sorry — here, let me help you up.”

“No, no it’s okay—” But his hand was already clasping hers and something in her breath shuddered because if a storm had just graced the room then his touch was the accompanying lightning. Her wide eyes met his owlish gaze and when he pulled her up along with him some irrational part of her wished he wouldn’t let go.

“I’m so sorry about the shirt,” she murmured, straightening her uniform. “I’ll get it cleaned I promise, you don’t have to wait for the laundromat, I know how to wash clothes fast—” Her face heated up again. “I mean, not that I’m — I’m not asking for your shirt now or anything, please don’t get the wrong idea —”

“I wouldn’t have minded giving you my shirt.”

Her breath hitched.

A gear in Norman’s head seemed to click back into place and his ears suddenly found themselves aflame. “Wait I didn’t mean —”

Something of a laugh escaped her mouth and she promptly lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle it, her gaze both sheepish and intrigued as she continued to take him in. Norman shook his head, and clearing his throat, he hoped to salvage a little bit of his dignity.

“You don’t have to do anything, Miss, I was the one who wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. You’re the one who was just doing her job.”

“Yeah,” and she looked so guilty that something in Norman exploded because she’s so cute, what the fuck, “But I didn’t do it properly and now both your shirt and your documents are ruined!” She stooped down to pick up the soiled papers. “Please forgive me—”

“I told you there’s nothing to be sorry about,” he insisted, kneeling to help her, and when their fingers brushed again Norman knew he was screwed.



(And for all his rationality, he came to the conclusion that perhaps there was something to be said about falling for someone.)

Chapter 11: Feel Good.

Summary:

June 24: Here's a small segment that was initially written in the first draft of yesterday's piece (set about a few months after they meet). This was slightly embarrassing to write, because /really/, it's not a CEO trope if they don't do anything naughty on the desk, but also... sfdjkgh. Well, if anyone enjoys this, then my job is done.

Song-spiration: Feel Good - Gryffin, Illenium ft. Daya

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

These days she wonders why she even bothers to ponder over his unceasing duality because really, beneath the iron-willed business man and the bumbling, adorable boyfriend, he’s just a tease.

A very gentle, a very sensual, a very slow kind of tease.

She sucks in a breath, bites down hard on her lower lip, because on most days she’s the one turning him into pudding beneath her hands, but for all her sweetness there’s a little bit of spice in him too, and she knows that he knows that she knows— 

“Norma-aah—!” 

And really, she should just keep her mouth shut. 

“You’re so adorable.” Something of a chuckle escapes his mouth at her smothered whimper and she digs her nails deeper into his shoulders, because god-dammit he knows exactly what he’s doing to her and he has the audacity to let her know he’s enjoying it.

“You should really just let it out, Emma,” and his tone lowers at the sound of her name, hot and and bothersome and shamelessly laced with unmistakable desire. He punctuates it with a subtle flick along the traitorous nub hidden beneath her entrance and she almost hates how quickly her body responds to the motion, teeth biting down harder if only to keep the mewl from escaping her mouth. 

She knows his game. She’s been playing it long enough now, and she will not give him the satisfaction.

And no, she’s not vying to inch closer to him, and no, she isn’t quivering beneath his ministrations, because that means admitting that he has her lingering on the cusp of pleasure and admitting that means he’s winning this little game.

Which he most certainly will not…!

“A-ah!” His fingers lift ever so slightly to execute a brush stroke he knows so well and her teeth slip and her back arches like the Ponte di Rialto, a work of art — his work of art, and for every stroke he paints against the marble of her skin she finds herself less and less able to constrain the whimpers of satisfaction that she’s been trying so hard to keep to herself.

“Emma,” he murmurs again, and she knows that for all his teasing this is affecting him as much as it is her, and she takes advantage of that when she locks her ankles around his waist, rocking her hips, breath coming out in short gasps as his continued rhythm refuses to relent. “Emma—”

Her fists are curled into his polo now, eyes squeezing shut as his caresses quicken in pace, his lips now pressed against her sweat-slicked skin, tongue grazing the sensitive patch of skin below her ear, and the movement is smooth enough, the pressure hard enough to act as a lever of release— 

His name escapes her mouth in a high-pitched, lark swift, unrestrained moan that makes her toes curl and her body concave.

And this is what he’s been waiting for, she knows — because he knows how to keep her hanging just long enough.

She hasn’t even climaxed yet.

“You—” Her fingers curl into his hair. “You—really—”

And she doesn’t get to say anything afterward because he places just the right amount of pressure to her clit that she quakes uncontrollably, lips parting into a breathy exclamation as she feels herself give in to him, hips bucking, back arching. 

And then he kisses her, mouth open against hers, and he’s drinking in the sound of her, she knows — he’s taking it all in, reveling in his victory, and she thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to win (at least, just this once).

They stay locked together even a long time after his fingers have stopped, and she tastes mint on his mouth as he says, “Feeling better?”

And gods above she’d actually forgotten that she was here with him in the first place because she’d been frustrated about something.

Something…

She smiles lopsidedly up at him, breath still unabashedly harried. “I actually forgot what it was I’m supposed to be feeling better from.”

At the admission he laughs, and the sound is smooth and soothing, and she pulls him closer to her, lips brushing his ear. “But you haven’t wiped the floor with me just yet, Norman. We both know who’s better in bed.”

“Please,” he scoffs, but he knows she isn’t fibbing in the least. “Today was supposed to be about you. This was all just for you.”

“No fair,” she pouts, and bending forward she reaches over his desk to grab the car keys. “You can take a little time off, can’t you? And you don’t have to worry — I’m good at washing clothes.”

He nearly chokes. “Emma—”

“I’m trying to drive a point here, Norman.”

He actually chokes this time. “Was that an innuendo—”

“Come on,” she beckons, smirk alighting her face as she takes hold of his fingers, “Let’s go home, I’ve got some cleaning up to do.”

And for all his teasing there is rarely very little he can do to win her over. She’s a take-charge whirlwind of a woman with an initiative to rival those of the gods, and even when her legs still shake with the after effects of having been pleasured so thoroughly, she’s still the one leading him on.

He smiles a little at the thought, because he’s perfectly okay with that. 

After all, soiled fingers must be cleaned, and really, that’s her job.

Chapter 12: Perfect Strangers.

Summary:

June 25: For some reason College AU (requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr) = Emma falling off her bike like a dork. Because I'm in need of more romcom worthy Noremma. And it's not falling in love until somebody literally falls in my fics XD

Song-spiration: Perfect Strangers - Jonas Blue ft. JP Cooper

Bon appétit!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It is a beautiful summer afternoon.

And when the sun is high with the crux of the season, people naturally flock into the green grasses of home — or temporary home, Norman must amend himself, because they’re all still in college for this particular moment in time, no more and no less (unless some pitiful soul has decided to fail all of their classes).

In keeping with the whims of summer, Norman goes out. But that is really because the dorm room is hotter than the outside, where at least Mother Nature has the decency of a breeze where college-funded dorm rooms do not.

(They don’t have air conditioners in the rooms. Norman can’t wait until freshman year is over and the stay-in conditions of his scholarship contract will wither away.)

Until then, he must keep the gears of his mind fresh and running. It is no use allowing his mind to disintegrate in the heat.

And so this is how he finds himself in the quad, which is bustling with students of all colleges within the university. He’s far off to the side, where the benches give him a view of smooth, rolling grass rather than the admittedly unsavory sight of men and women alike stripped to the nude and sun bathing.

No, siree. He is a man of pure thought.

In his physical seclusion he holds with him Rousseau’s philosophy and Tocqueville’s thesis; he is an explorer of ideas and today that is thus proved when he lifts his worn copy of Milton’s Paradise Lost and opens it to the recently annotated page.

“What is dark within me, illumine…”

Norman settles into his seat, a mere vessel of introspection, and in this state there is truly nothing more that can provide him with such content.

 

///

 

She’s thirty minutes early.

Emma grins to herself — ha, take that, Ray! Who’s perpetually tardy now? — and in one graceful motion she’s on her bike and pedalling away.

The University of Neverland is honestly too big for its own good, but that is also what’s made it so highly respected around the globe. Even in Gracefield, her little nook of a hometown tucked away in the provincial planes of the uncharted, she’d heard about Neverland’s grandeur, and sometimes sending out the application form still feels like one of the best decisions she’s ever made.

Because it’s so big, there’s really so much — too much! — to explore! 

It excites the adventurer in her, and the old brick walls of this university cannot fathom to keep its secrets from her! 

Unfortunately that means she often — okay, maybe sometimes — all right fine, maybe always — ends up being late to things. A lecture hall meeting? She’ll come stumbling in two minutes after her name is announced. A policy amendment presentation? She’ll walk in with her powerpoint smack during the middle of someone else’s presentation.

A meeting with friends to kick summer off to a great start?

She’ll walk into Starbucks fifteen minutes late if she can’t help it.

But today is the beginning of her New Year’s resolution, and she’s grinning quite satisfactorily to herself as she bikes all the way from her dorm across campus. The exit is just around the quad’s bend, and soon after that she’ll be on the streets of Capital City, wheeling herself away into the nearest Starbucks on time for once.

She’s rather enjoying the looks on her friends’ faces in her head as her fantasy plays out.

And as her fantasy plays out, life sees it fit to place another one before her.

It’s his shine that draws her eye first. Through the daffodils of light piercing through the foliage of the surrounding trees, her gaze catches on his frame, glimmering ethereally in the summer shade, his skin pale like marble, his hair spun from silk, and to her he looks so exquisitely magical, like a noble elf come to greet her in the midseason sun to bless her endeavors of coming to a meeting early.

The line of his body is elegant, his ironed polo crisp against the smooth line of his arms. He has one leg crossed over another, eyes — dear god, what color are his eyes? — scanning some magical tome with utmost interest, the quirk of his lips avid, and — 

Fuck. Shit.

She yelps when she realizes she’s almost run into someone else, and swerves on her bike just in time.

The abruptness of the motion makes her fall hard on her butt, grass staining her shorts mercilessly. Her clumsiness is punctuated by someone cursing at her (and really, she could care less about that, she only wishes she were alert enough to apologize), but they’re long gone when she’s less dazed and something in her ankle is throbbing like the fires of Hell.

“Are you okay?!”

Emma looks up at the sound and immediately colors when she sees that her mystical elf has wandered over to kneel by her side. There’s a look of proper concern on his face, and she sighs a little because this wasn’t at all how she thought she would garner his attention.

And shit, there must be a God out there because his eyes are a crystalline blue that shimmers like finely cut fractals in the sunlight.

Dammit, did she really just use crystalline in a sentence? Unacceptable. She tries to pull herself together. 

“I’m fine, really,” she assures him, and she doesn’t have to try to look like she’s able as she hoists herself up. “I was just careless—ah!”

He grabs her arm with his hand when she stumbles back on a sprained ankle.

“Shit,” she curses, scowling down at herself, before blushing immediately again when she realizes she’s just cussed in front of an elf.

The elf doesn’t seem to mind. “I can take you to the nurse,” he offers. “You’re not in a position to be walking on your own, or biking for that matter. You’ll only hurt yourself more.”

“No, no!” she insists, “I’m perfectly fine, and —” she checks her wristwatch and blanches— “I’m already running late to a meeting, I really can’t—”

“Then let me help you to your meeting?”

“What?” she blurts out, eyes wide.

This time he looks a little bothered himself, the tips of his ears tinted pink. “I’ve got a whole afternoon,” he says meekly, “And I was raised to be a gentleman.”

“Ah, you really don’t have to…” She wishes she wouldn’t heat up so much because her shameless gawking is what got her ankle sprained in the first place.

“If I may be a little forward,” he clears his throat, and the pinkness of his ears spreads to his cheeks in a healthy blush, “You’re Emma Valley, aren’t you? I’ve been hoping to talk to you about your thoughts on education and public policy since I saw your keynote over a month ago.”

And his words are enough to make her melt into an incoherent mess, because holy shit her elf knows her name.

“Are you actually magical?” she asks, full of curiosity and lacking in tact.

“What?”

“Uh—” She shakes her head, embarrassed. “Nothing. I just—” She crosses her arms. “How did you know my name?”

“Like I said, I saw your keynote last month,” he tells her, grinning slightly. “And how could I mistake that head of hair? Your thoughts were provoking, if not idealistic, but I made note of you.” He taps his forehead and the action makes her laugh. “Philosophy major — I dwell in thought.”

“Philosophy, huh?” She’s admittedly impressed. “I’ve yet to meet anyone from your building, but that’s probably because the majority of students here are studying more… lucrative courses.” Her offered smile belies her respect. “But don’t expect any ground-breaking quotes from me, …?”

“Norman Minerva,” he introduces, extending a hand for her to shake. “And please, you’ve already gone far and beyond any expectation.”

She laughs a little, shrugging. “Guess falling off a bike will do that, huh?” When her laugh subsides her subsequent grin is soft as a meadow. “Say, Norman… um.” She blushes harshly, her following sentence coming out as a mumble. “...if you’re really interested in… talking… and helping me… maybe we could grab some dinner after I meet with my friends?”

She backpedals when she sees his flabbergasted expression. “I mean — not that you have to, um, go out with me or help me or anything—”

“I would…” he clears his throat, pulling on his collar in embarrassment, “... really love… that. Helping you or anything… and…” he struggles to form his syllables, “going out and... having... dinner.”

His face blooms with the color of the setting sun and Emma finds him so heart-wrenchingly adorable in that moment that she almost falls over herself again.

“So…” She checks her watch again and decides, fuck it. “I’m already late to that meeting anyway, want to help me waddle over?”

He stoops down to lift up her bike. “Sure.” When he smiles at her Emma knows then and there that she wants to see more of it. “Lead the way.”

And so she grabs his hand and does just that. They exit the quad together.

It is a beautiful summer afternoon.

Notes:

Sidenote: Funnily enough, as I edited this piece, a bird (maybe Norman's spirit) came crashing through the atrium to land squarely on the living room floor, right before me. I picked it up and it was stupefied, but otherwise unharmed. It now rests in the garden where I hope it will recover. But really, life must have a sense of humor, because when I said characters falling I did not mean for it to give me birds crashing from the sky.

Chapter 13: You're Mine!

Summary:

June 26: Anonymous-san on Tumblr requested flirty post-canon Emma and my brain translated that as "time to search for lame pick-up lines on the Internet."

The story Norman narrates here is "A Long Walk to Forever" by Kurt Vonnegut.

Song-spiration: You! - Hollywood Ending

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

They’re strolling down a wayward road, some unknown distance away from their home, and their boots tread old footsteps as they walk the same Autumn path they’ve tread on for two months now.

It’s been some months since she was found, and they’ve been beautiful months. Her family is loud and vibrant, everything she resonates with, and every morning is refreshing when she wakes up to their loud chatter as they excitedly rush about the house to get ready for school.

As the older siblings, school isn’t exactly a necessary staple, so she, Norman, Ray and a few others tend to the housekeeping alongside a few freelance jobs. They are given a generous stipend every month — as do all the other cattle children living in all the other houses around the world — but it is hardly enough to feed every mouth, so the extra money is definitely needed.

And so between cleaning up the house every single day and working on a few commissions here and there, she’s hardly had time to simply enjoy herself, though that’s where Norman generally comes in.

“...and Catherine said to Newt, ‘You know what happens next?’” His tone is soft and full of expression, though it is faded like the late Autumn wind. She turns her head slightly to convey her curiosity. “‘Nope,’ Newt answered. ‘We shake hands,’ Catherine said—” And here Emma wonders at the fragility of his tone as he recounts this story for her— “‘We shake hands and part friends. That’s what happens next.’”

“What!” And Emma is genuinely disappointed. “Catherine can’t do that—she obviously loves him, that’s why she’s walking with him, right? You said she was walking with him — over leaves, over bridges —”

“It’s a long walk to forever,” he shrugs, “Do you want me to continue the story?”

“Yes please!”

He laughs a little at her tone and swings their intertwined hands. “‘All right,’ Newt said. ‘Remember me from time to time.’” Norman pauses here, and it’s poignant enough that she takes notice. He clears his throat, and there is the most curious hint of pained inflection in his voice when he recounts: “‘Remember how much I loved you.’”

“Catherine burst into tears,” Norman continues, and Emma frowns because she can tell his moods. Today he is not simply telling her another story. “She turned her back to Newt, and she looked into the infinite colonnade of the woods.”

“Colonnade?” Emma asks.

“A row of trees,” he explains with a grin, and in teasing fashion he leans a little closer to her when he continues: “‘What does that mean?’ Newt asked.”

Emma huffs. “Just tell the story, please.”

“I am telling the story.” His expression is amused when he pulls back. “‘Rage! You had no right!’ Catherine answered Newt. ‘I had to find out,’ Newt said. ‘If I’d loved you,’ Catherine said, ‘I’d have let you know before now’.”

Emma snorts. “Would she have?”

“I doubt it as well.” Norman chuckles. “The story has its own sense of humor, and really, Emma, you have a knack for predicting lines.”

She laughs at his observation and nudges him to continue. He complies.

“‘You would have?’ Newt asked. ‘How would I have known?’ ‘You would have seen it,’ Catherine said. ‘Women aren’t very clever at hiding it.’”

“Then she isn’t doing a very clever job of hiding it from him at all,” Emma quips. “Please tell me they kiss because he can see right through her.”

Norman nods, and the motion is satisfied. “They kiss.”

“Then that’s the end!” Emma declares. “Happily ever after.”

Norman rolls his eyes. “The story isn’t over until I tell you every last word that was written by—”

“Nope. They kiss, they get together, and that is a completed love story.”

Norman grins wryly. “And if I tell you Catherine walks away after that?”

“Oh she walks away all right,” Emma answers, “She walks away and he’s right by her side.”

He shakes his head. “You’re very stubborn.”

“Our agreement was that you tell me one happy story everyday. There’s no room for sad endings here.”

“And I was telling you a happy story,” he turns to her, and when he cups her cheek the motion speaks of familiarity and loss, “Because you’re right. I’d rather not have a sad ending.”

“Then it seems we’re on the same page,” she replies, beaming up at him, and when he laughs she’s glad that she’s wiped away that sense of loss.

It comes far too often for comfort.

His hand drops shortly afterward, his affection toward her restricted as always. Emma frowns at the observation, wondering why he’s always holding back. She often gets the impression that she was much more to him before — in the before that she’s forgotten — and everything he does is only more proof of that.

But if they were more, then why hasn’t he done anything about it?

As they continue their walk through the gardens, she mulls over this thought, and comes to the conclusion that perhaps she should put Catherine’s logic to motion, because Norman clearly isn’t going to take the first step.

“Hey, Norman,” she tells him.

“Hm?”

“If I had to write a love story then we’d both be in it.”

“Is that so?” His cheeks color lightly. “Ray too, I believe, as well as everyone in our family, because you love us all.”

She blinks up at him, mouth agape.

Did he really just say that?

 

///

 

Winter has finally come to grace them with its merciless frost, and in keeping with seasonal traditions, Norman lies sick in bed.

Emma brings up some eggnog.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asks, and the question is answered by his timely sneeze. “Guess not.”

He shrugs. “It’s not the worst, really,” he assures her, “It’s not as bad as when I was young.”

“Still, you’re sick, and that means you’re resting until you stop sneezing all over the place.” She sets the mug of eggnog on the bedside table when he shakes his head at it, and then she’s climbing onto his bed to snuggle by his side.

“Emma!” He wriggles away from her. “You’re going to get sick too!”

“No I’m not,” she answers, absent-mindedly, “Ray said idiots don’t get sick.”

When he’s silent for a long time, she looks up at him inquisitively. Normally he would be spouting off a string of protests by now. 

“What?” she asks, because he looks so dazed.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, “You’re not an idiot.”

“And I won’t get sick so come here,” she opens her arms wide, “I’m cold.”

“I should be the one telling you that,” he sniffs, and then she’s folding him into her arms. He relaxes in her hold.

“Don’t you want to go outside?” he asks softly, mouth parting against the cloth of her shirt. She can feel the heat of his breath through the fabric, and shudders. “See the winter sky? Ray said the aurora borealis was going to show today—”

“It’s okay,” she says, “If I wanted to see the sky I’d just look in your eyes.”

He grows a little more warm at the response and she simply holds him tighter.

 

///

 

A week later, and she walks into his study to find him reading.

“How’s your fever, Norman?”

He blinks up at her, because she should know the answer to this question. “It’s gone.”

“Are you sure?” She’s rocking back and forth on her heel, hands folding behind her back. There’s a mischievous, toothy grin on her face. “Because you still look hot to me.”

And Norman spasms, falling down with his book onto the (thankfully carpeted) floor.

 

///

 

Sherry’s birthday is celebrated with her friends from school at a fast-food restaurant decorated with a pretty little fairy theme.

Norman, her ever-doting, most-favorite member of the family, has gifted her with a matching set of fairy wings that makes the young girl glow, her smile sparkling with utmost love and devotion. It is there that Emma knows age will not hinder her love for Norman in the least; she will always be one to show it, and really, Emma can empathize with her.

She catches the affectionate smile on his face when he’s looking at Sherry — it’s soft and light, evident as he looks on, watching her enjoy herself with her newfound school friends.

The restaurant’s designated party host calls for people to come onto the dance floor — they’ve just begun to play upbeat disco music — and Emma takes the opportunity to grab Norman’s hand, her smile matching his when she asks, “Wanna dance with me?”

His eyes soften, and his smile transforms into one she knows is just reserved for her.

It makes her heart flutter.

“Always.” He takes her outstretched hand and she leads them into dance.

Out of the corner of her eye she spots Ray lifting his camera with a smirk, and she laughs when she realizes they’re the only people on the dance floor who aren’t below ten.

She spins around in his arms, and then leaning closer she tells him, “You know, you’ve got me flying like Peter Pan, because dancing with you is my happy thought.”

She hopes Ray’s camera has captured the ferocious blush on his face perfectly.

 

///

 

He’s reading Winnie the Pooh to the younger children, who’ve gathered around him in a pile of sleeping mats and blankets, bodies strewn across the floor of the nursery as they listen to him narrate Chirstopher Robin’s adventures with his fairytale friends.

Emma watches him from the doorway, having just finished putting all the infants to bed. He’s always had a knack for telling stories so enchantingly — she’s lucky to have had those Autumn days with him.

When he finishes the picture book the kids are all fast asleep on top of him, and with a wobbly grin he mouths ‘Help’ at Emma when he realizes he can’t exactly move without waking them up.

She laughs silently, padding across the room to gently move the kids over and tuck them in properly, her mouth ghosting their temples in silent kisses good night as she does so. She catches Norman’s eyes on her and without need for thought, she leans forward to press a kiss to his temple as well.

“I must be Winnie the Pooh,” she whispers, “Because all I want is you, honey.”

His muffled screech almost makes her laugh loud enough to wake the kids.

 

///

 

“Question,” he tells her one day, when she walks into his study to return a borrowed book.

“Shoot,” she says, turning to face him fully. He’s standing now, regarding her thoughtfully.

“You’ve been saying a lot of… interesting things… lately.” The admission backfires because he looks more embarrassed by it than she does. She grins amusedly at the expression on his face and shrugs.

“Is it bothering you?”

“Not really, no,” and his face is red as he says so, “But I was wondering… why?”

She blushes a little at the question. “Do you remember Newt and Catherine’s story?” 

He nods.

“I just thought… maybe I shouldn’t be clever about hiding my love for you,” she admits quietly. “Because I want to walk with you forever. And I thought… I thought maybe that was something we already had, before.”

He blinks at her. “You… thought we were together before?”

“Maybe?” She shrugs again, a little helplessly this time. “It’s just — you act like we were, and even if we weren’t, I really do want to… try this with you. Be with you… like Catherine and Newt. Even better than them, because I’d never walk away, or get married to someone else.” Her smile is open when she finishes, “I want to be with you, simple as that. And I really do think you’re hot as hell, among other things.”

He blushes hot as hell at her words and she laughs at the sight of him, though her laugh is cut short when he cuts the distance between them in two strides and captures her mouth with his.

“Mmph!” 

The surprised sound tastes delicious on his lips and when she returns his affection with a fervent kiss of her own he feels like everything in his world has just fallen into place.

It takes a long time for them to part, and even longer still to catch their breaths, though when they do he’s only kissing her again and declaring, against her mouth, “I’ll be Burger King and you be McDonald’s.”

“And why is that?” she asks, gasping slightly when he’s got her pinned by the desk, his mouth leaving no room for her to speak again.

“Because I’ll have it my way, and you’ll be lovin’ it.”

Chapter 14: Lunar Excitation.

Summary:

June 27: Big Bang Theory AU requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. I focused on emulating Shamy's first meeting for this one, and I got a little too carried away with the boys' dynamic, but TBBT starts off with the guys until the girls come to kick their asses when they need it, so I rather thought it was fitting.

Video-spiration: TBBT S03E23 The Lunar Excitation (Sheldon meets Amy)

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

The coffee shop bustles with the unassuming, everyday air of customers lounging about and enjoying frappes to their heart’s content. There are students littered in the corners of the building, and freelance artists sketching from the centre of the room, in front of the bar. A large group of friends — high school, they seem to be — are enjoying themselves immensely at one of the bigger tables, and as the group laughs at an inside joke, the café’s wind chimes jingle to the sound of someone entering the building.

Norman looks up, looking much like an agitated cat, his foot tapping lightly on the ground. Ray notices the nervous tick and rolls his eyes.

Don, meanwhile, leans forward in anticipation. “That’s not her — I’d definitely be able to tell. She has weird hair. Like a clown.”

Norman winces. “You set me up with a clown?”

“It’s Don,” Ray snorts, crossing his arms, “What did you expect?”

“Hey!” Don pouts, because he’s not one to take insults lightly. “If anything, I used Ray’s input when I scoured a match for you on that dating site. All the questions were one hundred percent answered the way you would have answered them!”

“There is no way that statistic is remotely possible,” Norman criticizes, but it’s pointless. Don is also not one to take scientific claims seriously.

“Listen, I input all your data correctly because I’ve known you since sixth grade and we’re like brothers—”

“And you made me back-check,” Ray grouses, “Twice.”

“— and I uploaded all your preferences accurately based on your wonderful personality—”

“As if ‘Vanilla or Chocolate’ is the basis of accurate personality testing.”

“ — and the site is the best matchmaker this side of the Internet! And it found a match! For you!”

Norman’s nose crinkles in that offended manner of his. “Why do you say that like I can’t get a girlfriend by myself if I wanted to?”

“Because you can’t,” Don answers proudly, patting his own chest, “And that’s why you have me.”

Ray rolls his eyes. “What Don failed to tell you is that you’re too uptight and rigid for your own good and no matter how hot the software engineers think you are, you’re going to end up sad and lonely for the rest of your life.”

Norman sighs lengthily. “Your input is invaluable as always, Ray.”

“Besides!” Don cuts in. “She’s a real sunshine! Nothing better than a ball of sun to melt off all your frost eh, Norman?”

Norman offers the boy a rather pained look. “And how do you know she’s a ball of sunshine?”

Don shrugs. “That was her description.”

Norman buries his head in his hands. “Why did I ever agree to this tomfoolery? If this is just going to be an afternoon of mindless chatter then I’m better off going home and working.”

“Is work the only thing that’s on your mind?” Don whines. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Unfortunately, Norman’s not one to make jokes,” Ray remarks, which makes Don groan.

“She better be coming or else I’m going to have to slave over that site’s questionnaire again,” he complains, “Man, perfect matches are so hard to find.”

Norman shoots him a nasty look from between his fingers. “You don’t say.”

The sentence is punctuated by the sound of the wind chimes, and when Norman looks up at the sound of it his gaze meets the penetrating stare of a pretty young woman, wild orange hair framing her face like a mane, her features bold and her fashion sense even bolder, though her gait is down to Earth and just a little playful when she spots the three boys at their table and makes her way over to them with a pleasant grin on her face.

“Excuse me, you’re Norman Minerva, aren’t you?” she asks, and her grin widens, lopsided and open. “But I feel like I shouldn’t be asking, you look exactly the same as your picture.”

“Emma Valley.” He nods politely up at her, though his disinterest doesn’t seem to faze her in the least because she’s plopping down onto the last empty seat.

“So.” She folds her hands on the table, expression glinting with mischief. “I wasn’t aware I was going to be walking into a double date. You didn’t tell me you were a package deal, Norman.”

Interestingly enough, Ray notes amusement in the quirk of Norman’s mouth. “I’m afraid I didn’t tell you anything, because it was these two who decided it would be a good idea to make me a profile on a dating site.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“You’re his first date and he’s already anxious to go home,” Ray chimes in, his tone laced with a bite at his friend’s expense. “The mistress calls.”

Emma laughs, and the sound is rich and enchanting. “Paperwork or a Star Wars figurine collection?”

“Both, actually.”

Don starts to laugh with her, and Norman feels doomed, because the fact that she’s making such an impression on his friends is sure to screw him over at some point.

“You forget that the Star Wars collection is three-fourths your contribution, Ray,” Norman remarks, and Ray scoffs. 

“Well that’s one thing on your profile verified,” Emma says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “You’re a big nerd.”

Norman’s eyes widen and he whips his head to glare accusingly at Don.

“What!” Don raises his hands in mock surrender. “Are you really going to deny it?”

“This is the last time I’m letting any of you coerce me into dating—”

“Oh right! This was a date!” Don stands noisily from his chair and moves over to grab Ray by the elbow and drag him off. “Bring him home by ten, Emma! Even big boys like him still have a curfew!”

“Will do!” She salutes, and behind her Norman glowers a little because maybe he’d been feeling better about the entire ordeal because his friends were there. They were much better at socializing than he was — and maybe Ray was a moot point, but Don definitely was the most charismatic of the group — and he wasn’t sure exactly how he was supposed to entertain this girl on their supposed “date”.

She smiles at him, and the expression is soft with understanding. “First time selling yourself out on the market?”

“I assume this is rather ordinary for you?”

She shrugs. “Not really. I just have an agreement with my mom that I should date once a year.”

“Funny,” Norman replies thoughtfully, “I have the same agreement with Ray about modelling.”

“Modelling?” Emma’s brows raise. “You’re a model?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head abruptly, “Ray’s just a photographer — very well regarded in his field, actually. He uses me as his muse.”

“Are you sure you’re not already taken, Norman?”

The statement makes him laugh. “I assure you, there’s a reason they’ve set me up.”

“Well, since we’re already here,” Emma proposes, and Norman finds he’s come to like that mischief in her eyes, “Let’s go have some fun!”

 

///

 

“The museum?” Norman intones, mouth agape.

“The 2045 Neverland Museum,” Emma corrects, and then she’s rushing forward. “Now come on! This is one of the greatest museums in the world! Their section on the anthropological and biological rise and fall of the old demonic society is one of a kind!”

“You’re… interested in the biological evolution of demons?” And he sounds so dumbstruck Emma wonders if she’s done the right thing.

“I mean, if your mistress is paperwork like your friends say then I’m sure you’ll enjoy this, right?” She rocks back and forth on her heel, suddenly looking very shy. “This is something that I like, but if it’s something you don’t we could always find somewhere else—”

“No, no!” He takes a step forward. “I just. I’ve been researching demons for my doctorate, I’ve wanted to visit this museum for ages.”

“Oh? Could you tell me about your research along the way?” Emma’s eyes are shining like the sun, full of wonder and curiosity, and somehow she’s gone from pretty to outright gorgeous in three seconds flat.

Norman is definitely screwed.

“That’s okay with you, right?”

“Yeah.” And his eyes soften, like he’s seeing her in new light. “Yeah, it is.”

Chapter 15: Strange Magic.

Summary:

June 28: Hogwarts AU requested by Anonymous-san on Tumblr. I admit my HP knowledge is extremely rusty after all this time, but that's what the artistic license is for haha! I hope you enjoy this one.

Song-spiration: Strange Magic - Strange Magic

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

The Goblet of Fire spits out the last name, and the folded parchment flutters into the air with the flames of a phoenix, spiraling softly down into Dumbledore’s outstretched hand.

The arena holds their breath in anticipation, and Emma reaches a hand out to grasp Ray’s wrist tightly, because Oliver had seen it fit to drop her name in the goblet and make a spectacle of it, garnering everyone’s support in the process and causing everyone to believe she will be Hogwarts’ Champion.

She hasn’t quite figured out yet if she wants to be or not.

Dumbledore’s bespectacled gaze glides over the parchment only once, and then there is a knowing smile on his face.

When he lifts his chin, the light of the Great Hall catches on the rim of his glasses, gifting his next announcement with a spark of light, like a blessing from the gods.

“The Hogwarts Champion,” and Emma’s stomach drops with dread, “Emma Valley!”

 

///

 

She makes it a point to sigh loudly when Ray comes slithering down from the Restricted Section to drop a rather absurd pile of tomes at the foot of her bed.

“I regret telling you the password,” she mutters, to which Ray makes it a point to throw a book at her head.

She catches it, but it’s so thick she ends up falling backwards with the weight of it instead.

“Honestly,” Ray reprimands, settling himself into an Indian cross over her blankets, his lithe fingers pulling on his blue scarf and adjusting it so he’s a little less warm (really, the Gryffindor commons are simply too hot; he wonders how any of the idiots here actually survive), “If you’re going to win this competition and bring glory to the school yadda yadda, then you’d better be willing to read a little extra.”

“You say that like I like to read in the first place.” Emma pouts. “I don’t know Ray — I really want to win, but also…”

“This isn’t how you expected your seventh year to go?” Ray assumes, and then he’s rolling his eyes at her. “You’re not one to be a coward, Emma. The fact that you’re in this room right now is proof enough.”

“I’m not scared,” Emma huffs, twisting her hands into the sheets. “Did you see how Leuvis looked at me earlier? He really wanted to be the Champion, and he’s extremely suited for it as well, so who am I to go trampling on someone else’s dream?”

Ray stares at her for a long moment. “All right, since when did you care about that insufferable Slytherin? Last time I checked the only Slytherin you get along with is Sonju, and that’s only because he’s a Quidditch geek like you.”

Emma throws the book back at him, shrugging. “I’m just a little empathetic, is all—”

“You know, you really suck at lying,” Ray deadpans, “You get all thoughtful and icky and indirect.”

Emma groans. “Just once,” she gripes, “I have yet to fool you at least once.”

“You lead a very sorry existence, I’m well aware,” Ray quips, and in keeping with the traditions of their friendship he volleys the book back at her. “Come on, spill it. And be honest, because I know when you’re lying.”

She sighs a little loudly again, but the grit in her breath lengthens out into a sound of yearning.

“Uh oh,” Ray intones.

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“You sound like one of the third years, you don’t have to say anything.”

She pouts again. “Am I really that obvious?”

“Yes,” Ray shrugs, “But I get it. He’s pretty hot.”

“Bloody—” She yanks on his scarf with a scowl. “Are you talking about who I think you’re talking about?”

“The Beauxbatons Champion all the third years have been fawning over?” And it’s not a guess.

“Ugh.” Emma buries her head in his lap. “Okay, you caught me. Maybe I like him. Just a little.”

“Since when did you go around falling for hot guys?”

“It’s not because he’s hot!” Emma whines, punching Ray’s chest lightly. 

“You’re abusive,” Ray groans. “That’s not attractive at all. So?”

Emma looks up at him with that puppy-eyed look that won him over when they were in first year, and Ray rolls his eyes again, because Emma really is too adorable for her own good, and it’s something he has always been careful to never relay to her because God knows what she would do if she found out he actually thought she was cute, of all things.

Anna still teases him about it. Stupid Hufflepuffs and their stupid abilities to see right through people’s feelings. At least Emma’s dense.

“So what?” his best friend prompts him, and he pats her head in pity.

“What do you like about him?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not going to scout him, are you? I know you get Anna to do your dirty work for you. Speaking of which, who’s the abusive one now?”

“Can we please stay on topic?” He rolls his eyes. “I was only asking because having him on your mind is clearly distracting you.”

“Are you not going to deny that you’re abusive?”

He curls his hand into a fist and drops it down hard on her head. “Anna’s an angel. You, unfortunately, are not.”

“Ow ow ow!” She rubs her head and scowls up at him. “Geez, I get it, I’m your punching bag, what else is new—”

He pulls on her ear. “Will you stop avoiding the topic and just get straight to business? We don’t have all night. Some of us need to sleep.”

“A-a-ah!” Emma swats his hand away and holds her palm protectively over her ear. “Fine, fine!”

Ray makes a sound of approval and crosses his arms impatiently. Emma sighs again — that lengthy, schoolgirl sigh, though Ray has to admit she does it with a lot more dignity — and then her expression softens, her eyes fluttering in such dreamlike manner that Ray just knows.

She’s whipped.

Very much so.

“He’s… really smart, and kind,” she starts, and Ray doesn’t think he’s ever heard her voice take on such a gentle quality before. Emma has always been abrasive and direct, hard-headed and a real piece of work. But he discovers new sides to her everyday, and Ray thinks he’s just stumbled across his greatest discovery yet. “And he always smiles in such a soft way…”

“Have you met him?”

And at the question Emma beams, bright enough to light up the evening. “Yeah! I bumped into him at the library last week — he was lost because he went off exploring, you know how weird this castle is, so I thought it’d be nice to give him a guided tour!”

Ray quirks a brow. “And exactly how many times have you taken him ‘on tour’ since bumping into him?”

“Um.” Emma colors. “Everyday since then?”

“Are you serious?” Ray rubs his temple; everything has just clicked into place. “No wonder you were so tense during the ceremony. You froze up right after his name was called.”

“Gilda told me it’s no good competing with the guy you like,” Emma pouts, “I want to win this but I also don’t want to blow off my chances with him, you know?”

She fiddles awkwardly with her fingers after the declaration and Ray sighs, long and suffering, because Emma in love is probably too cute for his system to digest.

So he reaches out and pats her head again. 

“Well, let me tell you this. A guy who doesn’t want to date you just because you won against him in some stupid competition is a guy not worth thinking about at all.”

 

///

 

Emma gnaws the inside of her cheek as she takes a few notes on mythical creatures. Ray has a knack for finding the best books about certain subjects, and she isn’t one to take his knowledge for granted.

Still, though, she kind of really hates the sitting down part of studying. Why can’t she study while flying off into the sunset on her broom? Her butt hurts.

“You seem hard at work.”

She jumps, heart pounding out of her chest because she knows that voice, and with a pitiful yelp she falls off her chair and onto the ground in a flurry of ink and parchment.

There’s a warm, tinkling, bell-like laugh that permeates the air, and she feels the familiar warmth of magic as he waves his wand and removes the ink stains from her robes before holding out a hand to help her up.

“I’m so sorry,” Norman says, and his accompanying smile is the world to her, “I didn’t mean to frighten you like that.”

“Nah, I’m just a klutz.” Emma brushes off his apology with a shrug, and when she accepts his hand she feels a spark between their fingers that doesn’t feel at all like it came from magic. “You can ask my friends. Or anyone, really.”

She grins lopsidedly, a little abashed, hand pulling on her scarf. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, actually,” he says, and she realizes he hasn’t yet let go of her hand. “I wanted to wish you luck. I look forward to competing with you.”

“You… do?” And her last syllable rises with the height of her shock.

“You are a formidable opponent, Emma Valley,” he says, voice lowering, and she knows a tease when she hears one. “I may be in your home court, but I still have the advantage. There are things about you that I know, and things about me that you don’t.”

“Oh yeah?” Her eyes narrow. “Don’t get too cocky, Beauxbaton. Hogwarts is still, and will forever be, the best school. And this year we’re going to prove it for the fifth time in a row.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“That should be the least of your concerns,” he replies, smooth as silk, and when that smile of his transforms into a cunning smirk she feels something within her fire up. “But I didn’t come here to start an argument.”

“Then what did you come here for?” She crosses her arms. “Because really, it sounds like you’ve come here to gloat.”

“We French don’t gloat.” He huffs, and out of thin air he conjures a small primrose to appear between his fingers. “May I?”

She blinks up at him, though she’s quite used to his duality by now. Without a word she lowers her head, and feels herself shudder beneath his touch as he tenderly places the stem behind her ear, brushing a few stray strands from her hair in the process.

“I did hear that Frenchmen were lovers, not fighters,” she jokes, looking up at him with a smile. “I look forward to challenging that notion.”

“Ah,” and he hums thoughtfully, “But what is love if it’s not worth fighting for?”

“You’re really too full of yourself, you know that?”

“And I simply adore how direct you are, Miss Valley.” When she crinkles her nose at the formality he laughs, and she knows he’s only done it to get the reaction out of her.

“You’re like a Slytherin, you know,” she remarks. She taps the flower in her hair. “Every rose has its thorns, doesn’t it?”

“You can take that to mean offense,” he answers coolly, “Or you can view the thorns as an act of defense. It is a matter of perspective.”

“And…” Emma studies his eyes carefully as she says, “What is your perspective of me?”

“You are my fellow Champion,” he answers, and then he’s turning around, graceful and noble, everything they said the Beauxbatons students were trained to be and more. “But… you are also the first and only friend I have made since setting foot in Britain, and I value friendship more than competition.”

“Are you saying you’re going to let me win?”

He stops, and turns to look at her once again. “Who said I meant to give you the Cup so easily?”

She crosses her arms. “Good. I don’t like a man who doesn’t do his duty and fights.”

“Then I am glad to have gained your approval.” The smile he sends her then is genuine, and it makes some part of her melt. “Until the First Trial, Emma. I do not intend to lose.”

“Neither do I.”

He laughs softly, winking. “I’m counting on it.”

 

///

 

It is later when she’s folding the rose into the pages of a book that she realizes the petals have been tampered with to convey ancient runes.

She bites her lip, settling down to work through each rune, and when she finishes decoding the text in her mind she’s leaning back against her seat thoughtfully.

Be wary of dragons.

 

///

 

It is surprisingly difficult for her to slip away from the crowd — more so than usual. She’s gotten used to Oliver hoisting her up on his shoulders to celebrate their Captain after another Quidditch match won, but she hasn’t exactly acclimated just yet to the reception she receives from her peers as they congratulate her on winning the First Trial.

The egg in her hands is gold, but it is hard and frosty and feels more like a curse than a treasure.

The sound it makes only proves that thought.

She stores it in her trunk and sneaks off to the hospital wing once everyone’s celebration has reached its burn-out point and she’s free to do whatever she likes.

Norman looks surprised to see her in the shadows of the evening.

She grins at him, coming down to sit by his side. “I didn’t expect you to get injured.”

He grins wryly. “Unfortunately it did not come as much of a surprise to my peers. They are still happy I won the egg, however.”

“It was still very smart though, what you did,” she commends, “Everyone else — even me — walked into that arena expecting a fight. I did not expect you to try and gain the dragon’s trust first.”

“You succeeded where I failed, however,” he replies, and she opens her mouth to console him, but he’s rendering her speechless instead when he continues, “To learn from the mistakes of your opponents — that is both extremely cunning and highly resourceful. If I did not hold so much respect for you already, I would have bowed at your feet the moment you stepped out of that ring without a scratch.”

“I didn’t want to win at your expense.” She frowns. She reaches forward to rest her hand over the cast on his arm. “I only did it because I wanted to show everyone that what you were trying to do was incredibly brilliant. You’re incredibly brilliant.”

A flustered blush blooms over his face at her admission, and Emma grins at the sight of it.

“You’re too kind,” he says softly, and his uninjured fingers reach over to cover her hand with gratitude.

“I hope your arm heals soon.”

“It will heal in the morning, don’t worry.” 

She bites her lower lip thoughtfully, and then she says, “I owe you a lot, really. I won only because of you. I saw the runes on that rose.”

His eyes shine with deep-rooted respect as he processes her words. “I’m glad you were able to decode it. Most shy away from ancient runes.”

“You said you don’t like to lose,” she points out. “But you put us on equal footing when you shared with me what you knew. Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s simply no fun to win against an opponent who knows only half as much as you.” He looks up at the ceiling, a pensive expression on his face. “Have you yet discovered the secret behind the egg?”

“Nope.” She shrugs. “I don’t doubt that you have, though.”

He smiles secretively at her, and then he’s squeezing her hand. “I don’t want to talk about the tournament with you tonight. You’ve broken the rules by visiting me here; it will be a waste of time to talk about things we can cover during the day.”

“Exactly,” she nods firmly, “I came to make sure you’re all right.”

He looks her in the eye when he says, “I am now.”

Her subsequent smile is shy, and then she’s resting her chin over the blankets, yawning. She feels his hand tentatively leave her own, and when she looks up at him inquisitively, she finds his fingers hovering in the air with stark hesitance.

“What is it?” she asks. “Is something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “No, nothing. I was…”

“You were?”

His answering grin is wobbly. “I’ll tell you some other day.”

She furrows her brows at that. “All right. But if there’s one thing you could tell me about, can you tell me about France? What is it like there? Do you think I can visit it with you someday?”

He chuckles amusedly at her onslaught of questions, and his hand which hovers in the air now gestures animatedly as he paints to her a picture of France, capturing all of her interest and admiration — though not for the first time.

 

///

 

Ray gasps for air.

“Oh thank God,” Emma breathes, and then she’s folding him into her arms, burying her nose into his neck. “They took you for the Second Trial, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know — are you hurt? Please tell me you’re not hurt—”

“I’m—fine,” Ray hacks, and seawater dribbles from his mouth to drip on Emma’s already wet clothes. “Fuck this school, though. It can go burn in hell.”

Emma laughs wetly at his sentiment, and Ray furrows his brows when he hears her laugh is laced with the familiar sound of tears. “Dear Merlin, please don’t tell me you’re crying right now—”

“I’m not… crying…!” Emma sniffs, pulling away to punch his shoulder. “I’m just happy you’re okay! You really looked dead there for a second, you know, you wouldn’t wake up at all…!”

“Thankfully,” the voice is also familiar, and Ray whips his head to the side to find that Anna’s looking up at him, her hair tumbling out from her usual braid, and that’s how he knows she’s a little shaken herself. “A little bit of gillyweed was enough to go a long way.”

Ray momentarily panics, his hand coming up to brush along the skin of his neck. Anna laughs, and of the two girls Ray registers that she’s the one who’s been crying. “Don’t worry,” she says, smile damp, “I modified it just a little. You’re not going to grow gills any time soon.”

“Anna’s a lifesaver,” Emma says, sounding all levels of thankful, “Literally.”

The girl in question blushes a little prettily at the remark, though she’s still looking at Ray with copious amounts of relief. “I’m just really glad you’re okay,” she says quietly, and with a fond sigh Ray reaches out to wrap both girls in his arms.

They hold on to him tightly, and Ray is not one to ever let go.

 

///

 

Norman doesn’t seem to care about his appearance today, because the tenseness of his shoulders is palpable from a mile away.

Emma frowns, studying him as he tries to play it off by perusing the library shelves, but she’s been by his side consistently for months now and there is no way he’s fooling her by this point.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, for the fifth time that winter afternoon.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he answers, for the fifth time that winter afternoon.

“What’s wrong?” she asks again, because years of friendship with Ray has taught her that intellectuals are irascible in the face of repetition.

“That’s the sixth time now, Emma,” he says with a sigh, pulling what she knows is just a random book off the shelf. “How long until you’re convinced I’m perfectly fine?”

“That’s never going to happen,” she retorts, “Because I know you’re not fine.”

He inhales sharply. “Then I suppose you should know by now that it’s something I don’t want to talk about.”

“It’s clearly bothering you, though,” she points out, and then frowns when Norman deems it fitting to ignore her for the time being. “Are you being serious right now?”

He starts to walk away. She rolls her eyes at him, and reaches out to grab his hand. “Please, something’s obviously wrong, I’m just here to help…!”

Silence reigns between them for a long moment, her grip on Norman growing tighter with every millisecond. He stares back at her, looking pained, his eyes quivering with barely contained emotion.

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,” Emma tells him gently, “I just want to hear you admit that something’s wrong.”

“And why is that?” he asks slowly, like he’s not sure if he wants the answer to that question.

“Because admitting that is the first step to solving the problem,” she answers simply. “And I like it better when you’re smiling. You need to smile more.”

His eyes soften at her remark, and then he sighs in defeat, taking a step toward her. She’s surprised when he collapses in her arms, forehead resting against her shoulder blade. She lifts her hands up to hold him. “Norman…?”

“Emma…” His voice is muffled by the cloth of her robes, but she catches his every word and holds on to every one. “Ray… talked to me.”

“He did?” She frowns. “What did he say?”

Norman is silent for a long moment. And then, his voice weak, he says, “He told me he loves you.”

Emma blinks. “He what?”

“Wasn’t he the one you had to rescue for the Second Trial? And I’ve seen you with him, I have no doubt you love him too,” he continues sullenly, and she’s surprised when his hands reach up to clutch on to her robes, shoulders quaking. “But I’m a little selfish, you see. I don’t like to lose… I don’t like to lose the people that I care about.”

Something in her chest thumps and Emma feels her face fill with heat. 

“Honestly, you boys are unbelievable…” She runs a hand through his hair soothingly, hiding her smile in the strands. “Don’t you think you’re focusing on the wrong words, Norman? What else did Ray tell you?”

She feels him frown through the fabric of her uniform. He’s silent for a moment, and then he recounts, “He said he loves you, so if I overstep my bounds and treat you with disrespect he will skewer me alive and feed me to the trolls.”

Emma chokes a little before stifling her laugh, because technically they’re still in the library, and while they’re lucky enough to be alone Madame Pince has legendary ears and she will not hesitate to throw them out with a detention slip.

“What are you laughing for?”

“He was only saying that because I told him I wanted to ask you to the Yule Ball!”

Norman stiffens, and then he pulls away to look at her, completely and utterly dumbstruck. “What?”

She takes both his hands in hers and squeezes, her expression filled with mirth. “Ray and I love each other, that’s true, but we love each other like siblings,” she explains. “He only went out of his way to threaten you because that’s how he shows he cares.”

Norman’s face flushes with the color of embarrassment. “I…”

She has to stop herself from laughing again. “Though I don’t blame you, Ray probably just phrased it like that to mess with you a little… He’s like that. But believe me, I’m the last person he’ll ever have romantic feelings for, especially since he has Anna for that. Besides…”

She grins up at him then, wide and serene and full of affection. “You’re the one I want, Norman.”

His eyes widen at her confession and he looks just about ready to faint.

Emma finds this endearing, and reaches out to steady him, pulling him close in the process. “It’s really sweet though,” she whispers in his ear, because she will always be one to tease him just a little, “That you got a little jealous.”

He shakes his head at her, though he cannot hide the ferocious blush on his face. “You’re a vixen. Truly.” He looks at her with adoration, and she leans into his touch when he raises his hand to cup her cheek. “Though… you do know Champions are technically not allowed to take each other, right?”

“Screw the rules,” Emma declares, and in their little corner of the library Norman thinks he’s just fallen in love with her a little more.

 

///

 

She is breathtaking in the evening light, the bodice of her gown wrapped enticingly over her torso, the sweetheart neckline showing off the smooth line of her shoulders, the tough build of her arms, her muscles well-defined after years of playing Quidditch.

His fingers trace the surface of her skin, delicately, eyes never leaving hers as his hands glide from her shoulders to her wrists to her waist, like he’s taking her in, memorizing her the way she is, lit beautifully for him by the moonlight.

Her smile graces him from the shadows of the night as she does the same with him, her touch explorative as it steps over the buttons of his dress shirt, flighting over his collar, before resting over his face, her thumb tracing his lower lip in silent permission.

They hesitate only because it is new, but when her mouth brushes over his like feathers fluttering in the wind, Norman feels he’s taken flight for the first time.

 

///

 

She is filthy, coated in soot from explosions, her clothes torn in places and her cheek marred with a wound from a spell that’s grazed it.

He is no better, his leg bleeding from the force of the binding spell that blasted Durmstrang Champion flung at him, but he’s smiling when he sees her, and the expression on her face is a reflection of his.

The bluish, magical glow of the TriWizard Cup lights their faces in the darkness of this maze, and it is here that they must decide who will win: they must determine who will have the honor of touching that Cup and bringing home all the glory.

They stand in the final ring, and the thrum of heavy magic in the air pauses as their gazes meet.

“Together?” Emma says, and her grin is wicked, laced with all the conviction he needs.

Screw the rules.

“Together,” he answers, and their hands reach for the Cup — at the same time.

Their names go down in History.

Chapter 16: To Stay.

Summary:

June 29: yuseirra on Tumblr requested for Norman to go through with his pinky promise to Emma in the Drama CD/Novel (wherein he promises to tell her someday that he wants to be with her). Buuut she also put "child" in the same ask so... this was born.

Pun intended.

Song-spiration: Someone To Stay - Vancouver Sleep Clinic

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“Norman. Psst. Norman.”

He stirs slowly, turning around to blink blearily at his wife. “Is something wrong?”

She nudges him to move faster. “Turn the lights on. I want to show you something amazing!”

He blinks at her choice of words, stunned into alertness by the one-sided nostalgia it gives him, and then he’s rolling over to switch on the bedside lamp, sitting up with a fond smile when Emma tugs on his sleeve impatiently.

“Here, here.” She takes his hand and places it gently over the protrusion of her belly, and she beams when she notices the familiar tenderness of his expression as she lays his palm over the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Wait.”

“What am I waiting for?”

“Shh!”

He has to stifle a laugh with his free hand upon seeing the exasperation on her face. When she furrows her brows at him pointedly he does his best to school his face back into a more passive expression, though Emma only amuses him further with her blatant excitement as she returns her gaze to her stomach.

Norman is about to ask again when he feels it.

A light thump against his palm, piercing through his flesh to reverberate in his soul, his eyes widening at the feeling, his gaze meeting hers and matching her expression down to every last detail.

“She—!”

Emma nods enthusiastically, her grin widening with every second. “She’s kicking!”

“She’s kicking!” he repeats, giddy, and then he’s spreading both his palms over her stomach in wonder. “She’s so strong too, she’s just like you.”

“Of course she is,” Emma answers proudly, “She’s going to be even better than me.”

“I don’t know about that,” Norman murmurs, “You’re both of equal unfathomable greatness to me.”

“It’s too early in the morning to be using words like ‘unfathomable’, Norman,” she teases, to which Norman snorts. She covers his hands with her own, squeezing tightly. “But I’ll let it slide, just this once. Because she’s alive. She’s inside of me and she’s alive and that’s — that’s unfathomable.”

He shakes his head, laughing, and then he’s leaning forward to kiss her sweetly. “You’re right,” he says, nuzzling his nose against hers. “You’re absolutely right.”

“She’s almost here,” Emma breathes, snuggling closer to Norman when he wraps his arms tightly around her, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I’m so excited.”

He presses his mouth to the top of her head in response, fingers running through her hair. “It’s kind of terrifying for me,” he admits, and she hums in thought. “A terrifying kind of excitement.”

“How come?”

“She’s a child,” he says softly. “Our child. We were children once, too.”

Emma sighs, closing her eyes. “I wish I could share the pain with you.”

“No.” And his fingers curl tighter into the cloth of her nightgown. “No, I’m glad you don’t remember any of it. I’m so glad.” There’s a poignant pause, and then he says, “She won’t ever have to experience it either.”

“That’s true.” She tilts her head up to press languid kisses across the skin of his neck, over the bold black numbers that stain it. “But it’s not a free pass for you to go carrying the burden around by yourself. You made a vow to me. I expect you to keep it.”

“Much like you to hold me to my promises,” he remarks, and she pulls away to smirk at him in response, reaching up to pinch his cheeks. He chuckles softly at the gesture, and leaning into her touch, he says, “I love you.”

She smiles, and leans forward to kiss his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “Don’t be afraid,” she tells him. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

“She’s a big event,” Norman answers, pressing his lips to her palm. “The biggest event.”

“Are you afraid of big events?”

“Big events are bound by time,” he confesses, and there’s an old sadness in his eyes that she wishes she could wipe away with the simple swipe of a hand. “And we never know how much time we have.”

“We’re not going to lose her,” she tells him firmly. “Not the way you lost me.”

“Emma, I…” He traces the line of her face, takes her in as she is in the lamplight. “I was lucky. I keep getting lucky. It’s hard to believe the streak will never end. But I believe in your strength.” His shoulders sag as he sinks a little further into her embrace. “I just don’t know if I believe in mine.”

She smiles softly at him in understanding, nuzzling her nose into his fingers, her breath warm against his open palm. 

“That’s okay,” she says. “That’s why I’m here. You believe in me, and I’ll believe in you. We’ll never run out of time.”

His answering smile is bitter, stained with unshed tears, and his voice is fragile when he says, “If this god forsaken universe decides to prove us wrong again, I only hope I die before you and her. Because I wouldn’t know how to live with myself if I was the last. I couldn’t bear it. I’m not as strong as you.”

“Norman…” And there’s a determined frown on her face. “Don’t say that. We live together and we die together. Always together.”

He exhales sharply at her response, once again flabbergasted by the woman in his arms. He lets out a small, shaky laugh, and with his mouth just a minuscule breadth away from her ear, he murmurs quietly, “Then could you promise me one last thing?”

“I can promise you anything and everything,” she answers, tucking his head into her shoulder, pressing a kiss against his hair. “There’s nothing in this world I won’t do for you. Both of you.”

He quivers slightly beneath her touch as he realizes for the millionth time that the force of her conviction will always be enough to move mountains, and that alone has always been more than enough. His hands fall over her stomach once more, fingers gliding in wonder over the curve of her belly, and then he says, his words weighted with all of his selfish desire, “Let me stay with you and her. Let me walk with both your hands in mine for the rest of my life.”

He inhales deeply, clutches her tighter, like she’s his lifeline. “Please don’t ever let go. Don’t ever leave me alone. Because all I’ve ever wanted… was to be with you.”

“I promise.” It comes out so easily but Norman can believe it — he has never found fault with his faith in her. She takes hold of his hand again, and when he turns his head to gaze at her there’s a loving smile on her face, dedicated and full of boundless devotion.

“Pinky promise,” she emphasizes, and Norman feels like he’s eleven years old again when their fingers intertwine. 

And to feel eleven even after all this time — to reforge the promise of children with her — it is enough to make him feel immortal.

Chapter 17: Come Slowly.

Summary:

June 3: Took a break, then realized I missed writing something daily. Crazy, isn't it? This was requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. And really, anonymous-san, I bet you knew exactly what you were asking for when you sent me this prompt.

Song-spiraiton: Despacito - Luis Fonsi ft. Daddy Yankee (Boyce Avenue cover)

"Si te pido un beso ven dámelo, yo sé que estás pensándolo." — "If I ask for a kiss come give it to me, I know that you’re thinking about it."


Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Sherry tugs on his pant leg.

“What is it?” Norman asks, stooping down to regard her kindly. After so much time spent with the girl, he has come to know each and every one of her moods, and today she looks about ready to burst into tears with the weight of frustration. He reaches out to pat her head, because sometimes that’s all she really needs to calm down.

“I-I lost my headband,” she sniffs, and Norman blinks because she’s right. He wonders how he hasn’t noticed it yet — the softness to her hair where the headband would have been. “I can’t find it, I’m so sorry—!”

“Sherry, you don’t have to worry. We’ll find it later—”

“But I promised I would wear it every day because you gave it to me!” She stomps her foot down, resolute, and Norman tenses because he knows what Sherry on the verge of tears looks like. “I lost your headband! I’m bad!”

“No, don’t say that.” And really, Sherry is the only other girl he would kneel for to wipe away their tears. “Say, where did you last put it?”

“On the table beside my bed,” she says, and Norman is a little moved when he notices she’s trying her best to control her crying. “It was there last night! Promise!”

“Then it probably just fell and rolled over somewhere,” he tells her.

“It wasn’t under the bed though!” she frets. “Phil even helped me look for it!”

He hums in thought, and with a quick glance at the clock he knows there’s still half an hour before breakfast starts. Ray can manage the rest of the preparations without him.

“Tell you what,” he says, dusting off his knees as he stands, “I’ll make use of a little magic, and by the time the breakfast bell rings, your headband will be back on your head again. How does that sound?”

“Magic?” Sherry repeats, eyes wide.

“Yes,” he nods, smiling, “Magic.”

“Norman’s so amazing!” She latches on to his pant leg.

“Sherry, I can’t find your headband if you’re holding on to me like that now can I…!”

 

///

 

As it turns out, the headband just got stuck between the wall and the bedside table, so all Norman has to do is pull the table away and retrieve it.

That doesn’t even take five minutes.

He rubs the headband against his shirt to remove all traces of dust, and with a satisfied hum he turns to walk out of the girl’s room, moving down the hallway leading back to the dining room.

Unfortunately the moment he opens the door is the exact same moment Emma comes barreling in, eyes wide and arms wet.

Wait. Norman stumbles back.

Arms wet?

“N-Norman!” He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Emma blush as red as she does now. “What’re you doing here!”

“I was just getting Sherry’s…” His reply trails off into a squeak when he notices she’s currently half-naked.

His traitorous gaze settles on her bare chest, where proof of her womanhood lies beneath the towel she’s clutching tightly. 

And then he promptly turns as red as she is.

“E-Emma! Why aren’t you—why are—how—I mean—!”

“I thought no one was here anymore!” she yells back—if only to be heard over his flustered commotion. “Gilda said I could sneak off in ten minutes cause that’s when everyone’s gone!”

“Sneak off?!”

“I forgot to bring my clothes!” She’s huffing now—out of breath and full of embarrassment. “And the boys were running around, Gilda said I should only go out when they’re gone, but I didn’t think you’d still be here!”

“I-I…” Norman realizes a little too late that she’s only half-naked because she forgot to bring a change of clothes to the bathroom. This is not a dream.

Shit. It’s not a dream. Emma’s actually just clad in a towel and she’s right in front of him— 

His already red face turns even redder because having… those dreams are bad enough already. They aren’t supposed to come true!

He covers his eyes. Pokes his cheek with the headband. “I’m so sorry!” He straightens, like a cadet. “I-I’m going now!”

“W-wait!” She grabs onto his wrist, and damn it, because they’re now in contact.

He’s going to die.

“What is it?” His eyes are still squeezed tightly shut, and his back is turned toward her, because those dreams are not winning, and no matter how much it invariably makes dopamine course through his short-circuited brain, he is not going to disrespect her this way— 

“If… if I had no choice but to run into someone today,” she starts, her voice quiet and stuttering, like she’s just as embarrassed and as elated as he is, “I’m glad it was you.”

Something in Norman implodes, and channeling his inner-Ray, he thinks, What the hell is that supposed to mean!?



(Enter timeskip.)



“Oi, where’s Emma?” Ray’s dumping a huge pot of porridge on the dining room table, which earns him a little grief from Gilda for being so callous. 

“Hm? Oh.” Norman glances at the clock. “She’s probably still taking a bath.”

“Well could you tell her to hurry up,” Ray says, and Norman laughs a little because Ray only gets snippier the older they become. “We don’t have all day.”

“Who gave you the idea I can convince my wife to do anything she doesn’t want to?” he responds, his totally-just-reserved-for-Ray cheeky smile on his face. Ray scoffs at the reply. “Really, she’ll be here on her own time. Besides, she’s not one to miss breakfast with everyone.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Noooormaaaan!”

The call is distant, and thus not too loud, but Norman straightens like a cadet at the sound anyway. He hears Don snicker from somewhere behind him, because even after all these years his devotion for Emma is still a topic for the occasional tease, mostly at his expense.

So what if he loves his wife so much he’d do anything for her?

“Speak of the devil.” Ray crosses his arms, raising a pointed brow.

Norman simply grins, shrugging, and then exits the dining room without another word. Ray calls for everyone to just sit and start eating — if Emma’s going to be late they’re definitely not going to starve waiting for her — and with a brief chuckle Norman heads up the stairs of their house to the second floor, down a long hallway until he’s in their bedroom, where Emma beams at him from the bathroom door.

“You called?” he greets.

“First thing’s first,” she answers, “Everyone’s eating already, right?”

“Well, yeah.” He crosses the distance between them and observes that she’s dripping wet, like she hasn’t wiped herself off properly, her towel soaked down to the last fiber.

“Okay, good. Could you help me dry my hair?” she asks, pulling on a damp strand. 

“Sure.” He follows her into the bathroom and grabs another towel, wrapping it around her frame as she settles herself on top of the sink. “Want me to dry the rest of you while I’m at it?”

She laughs, grinning at him, and there’s a flash of affection in her gaze when she says, “You speak my language.”

He snorts, dumping the dry towel over her head. “Lazy little cat. What brought this up?”

She shrugs, tugging lightly on his shirt as he makes work of her hair. “I was just… thinking.”

“Hm?” 

“I thought it would be nice.” And it is nice, because she can feel the impression of his nimble fingers through the towel as they rub against her head, as gentle and firm as his touch has always been. A satisfied sound rises from her throat as he continues, and she further explains, “And drying it these days is a pain. It’s getting too long.”

“Do you want me to cut it?” he offers. She smiles at the kind thought, though it can be argued her smile is more a consequence of having him dry her hair. That puts him only an arm’s reach away, less of an arm’s reach away, and with her so exposed before him the water dripping from her hair down to her bare shoulders only makes her shudder with want.

“No, it’s fine,” she answers, and he halts for a moment because—was that a purr? “I like it.”

He huffs, because he can see right through her. “Of course you do.”

“Hehe.”

He hums teasingly, and Emma pokes his chest. She lifts her head up to catch his gaze. “What are you thinking about?”

“Who said I was thinking?”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “When are you not thinking?”

“Touché,” he concedes. “It’s just… more comfortable now.”

“What is?”

“This.” He pulls the towel away, and she grins up at him with a frizzy mane of hair framing her face. The rest of her is still dripping wet, and he notices her shivering like she’s cold. He frowns slightly, his fingers brushing her cheek only to trail down the length of her neck to rest on her shoulder, and even he can feel the heat of his touch against her skin. “You looking like this.”

“It’s not a crime to say ‘half-naked’ outright, you know,” she replies, her smile transforming into a coy little smirk, eyes twinkling with mischief. She swings her legs, purposefully making her knees brush against his inner thigh. “And maaaybe I didn’t call you up here just so you could dry my hair.”

He has no time to react to her implication because she’s cupped his face with her hands, pulling him closer to kiss, and all Norman can really think at that moment is ‘arms wet’.

“We’re going to miss breakfast,” he points out, pulling away, but it’s no use because she’s had him in the palm of her hands for far longer than this. 

“So what?” She pulls him back, closer this time, and then locks her ankles around his waist for good measure. Norman’s gaze darkens just a little when the towel around her body slips slightly with the weight of her actions. “They can wait five minutes.”

“You’re wet,” he argues needlessly, and the mouth that captures his is damp and too alluring for its own good, this feeling of being so unabashedly close to her as exhilarating and intoxicating as it was all the times before. He returns her kiss with both fervor and expertise, his fingers curling threateningly over the material that dares to stand between them and one hell of a good time.

“Oh,” she murmurs in response, biting his lower lip when he breaks the kiss at the sound. She tugs on his shirt, impatient, and Norman fingers her hair, tips her head so he can plant his mouth over her neck. “Correct as always, love.”

Chapter 18: Go Missin’.

Summary:

June 4: Requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. I found the story behind such a simple prompt so intriguing, hence this one-shot became longer than it probably should have. But I like the feeling of a having a story run away from me, even though I went and stole some lines from the manga at some point, haha!

Song-spiration: Glowing - The Script

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Norman’s eyes sweep the crowd, his beige business coat allowing him to seamlessly blend in with the rest of the plaza. People scurry past him, some in a hurry, some quite leisurely, though none are whom he’s looking for.

His nose scrunches slightly in that frustrated tick of his and he turns to exit the plaza when someone grabs hold of his arm.

He yelps, and is given no time to pull away or recover when a bright young woman pulls him close, bending him down with surprising strength and whispering panickedly in his ear, “Please pretend you know me! Someone’s following me!”

Norman’s instincts give no room for his mind to kick into gear, and with a single motion he has the girl’s hand wrapped tightly in his, reciprocating her actions and leaning down to place his mouth a breadth away from her ear. He’s careful to make the gesture look affectionate, and under his breath he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Mm.” She nods, and something akin to relief breaks across her face, though her shoulders are still tense with a readiness to run away. “Tall. All black. Bald. Please believe me. I’ve noticed him following me around all day, I’m not delirious—!”

“I believe you,” and that’s the truth, because he knows exactly who’s following her. “Name.”

“Uh—” and she’s right to hesitate— “Emma.”

He nods once, firmly, and tipping his head back he gives her only one order: “Play along.”

She blinks up at him, mouth agape, and the seriousness in his tone isn’t reflected on his face, which instead houses a brilliant smile, his hand coming up to brush lightly over her cheek. She feels her breath stutter at his touch, the hint of his fingers against her skin causing her hair to stand like it’s been struck by lightning, and she’s quite sure the antenna on her head is giving her away, curling happily the way it does when she’s elated about something.

The reaction is strange, but useful, and Emma returns his smile with ease. “Sorry I took so long,” she says, and suppresses a shudder when his hand drops to trace her outline, running down the length of her arm to lace their fingers together. “You’re not late to anything, are you?”

“I’ve booked the whole day to be with you, love, or did you forget?” 

Emma feels herself blush when she locates the hint of an accent to his timbre, something rich and flowing and flowery, enough to make a lesser woman crumble to her knees. But Emma is no lesser woman, and she stands her ground, hesitating for only a moment before tiptoeing up to press a feather light kiss to his cheek.

“No, I didn’t forget,” she matches the sentiment with an affectionate grin, “Let’s go home, please?”

She finds that she must have the same sort of effect on him as he stares at her windedly for a long pause. And then he squeezes her hand, and pulls her along to the exit.

“Do you still see him following?” He’s walking briskly now. “Don’t make it obvious that you’re looking.”

She frowns because she knows that, and then she sneaks a suspicious glance out of the corner of her eye, hoping with everything inside her that she won’t see that threatening mass of black anywhere in her peripheral vision, where it’s been haunting her since she entered that clothing store this morning.

“No, I don’t,” Emma informs him, and it’s only then that she notices he’s been tense this whole time because his shoulders sag with relief.

“Do you mind taking a detour?”

Alarm courses through her. “Wait. You’re not his accomplice, are you?”

“Far from it. We’ll be heading to the nearest Starbucks.” He halts in his stride to look at her fully, and she finds something so undeniably kind in those ocean eyes of his that she finds no reason for him to ask what he does next. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you trust me?”

Their hands are still linked, so she squeezes his fingers tightly and nods. He offers her a small grin (she wonders where that heart-stopping smile from earlier went) and then he’s leading her down the sidewalk again.

“I think you owe me a name at least,” she tells him, matching his stride step for step, though she realizes they are far apart in height when she has to tilt her head back a notable angle just so she can look at him.  

“Norman,” is all he says, and then she deigns to ask him nothing further until they’re entering the nearest Starbucks and beelining towards a table in the middle, where a lone college student is typing away at his laptop.

The lone college student looks up at them as they approach, his large side swept bangs lifting from his head with the force of a frustrated puff from his mouth, and his formerly apathetic demeanor is broken in an instant when a shit-eating grin breaks across his face.

“Was wondering when you’d get here,” he says, looking straight at Norman, “Love.”

Emma feels herself blush again — so he’s gay? — and Norman rolls his eyes, pulling what looks to be a bluetooth headset from his ear. Emma stares wide-eyed as he places the device on the table, and looking between both men she blurts out, “Are you sp—”

“Ray’s working on his master’s in mechanical engineering,” Norman interjects, and there’s a scary smile on his face when he pulls a seat for her. “Just a friend.”

Emma doesn’t really know how to react to that, so she simply plops herself down on the seat Norman’s offered her and leans forward conspiratorially to regard Ray. “So you were listening in?”

“Catches on fast, this one,” Ray remarks to Norman, who shrugs his agreement.

She frowns. “Okay, so. That man from earlier...?”

“A criminal,” Norman says, voice low. Ray pushes a half-filled grande cup of chocolate chip frappe toward him. Norman receives it with a furrowed brow. “Did you seriously drink from mine when I explicitly told you not to?”

Ray shrugs. “Ran out. And I was thirsty. Yours was the only one left and it looked pitiful just wasting away.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why am I still partnered with you.”

“Okay, kids,” Emma butts in, “What’s going on?”

Norman gestures at his cup incredulously. “He drank from my cup! And I told him not to. Thrice!”

Emma gapes at him. “I wasn’t talking about that!”

Norman scowls — not at her but at Ray — and he takes a rather pointed sip from what’s left of his frappe.

Across the table, Ray smirks in triumph before cupping his chin with his hands, blowing on his hair like he’s too old to be dealing with this shit. “Technically Norman’s told you all that we’re legally allowed to tell you,” he explains, fingers tapping on his chin disinterestedly. “You’re only here so that we can fit you with a communication device and tell you to watch your back so that the next time you find yourself followed, you can tell us without dragging Norman into your fake acting. Isn’t that right, love?”

“You’re having too much of a field day with this,” Norman grumbles. “What else was I supposed to say?”

“Literally anything else but ‘love’, dipshit.”

“Ah. Much better.”

Ray flings a pack of sugar at his friend, who catches it with practiced ease. Emma glowers at the both of them, crossing her arms. “Are any of you even taking this seriously? You just told me there’s a criminal running loose in Gracefield. What the hell is he doing here?”

“That’s none of your business, shorty,” Ray quips, and he flings a pack of sugar at her too. It hits her square on the nose, though she doesn’t hesitate to pick it up and throw it back. Ray doesn’t seem to have expected this, because his eyes widen slightly and he fails to catch it before it smacks him on the forehead. He glares at her, offended, to which Emma simply glares back.

“Don’t call me ‘shorty’. And if you’re fitting me with a communication device, best to just let me in on all this, so tell me everything.”

A deeply unimpressed ‘tch’ leaves Ray’s mouth as he glances away from her. “Just play along like Norman told you to do and this whole thing’ll be over before you know it.”

Emma scowls. “That was just for the pretending part. I’m not just going to play along for the rest of it. If you’re both sp—” she catches herself when both Norman and Ray cast her a look— “chasing a criminal then that means he’s dangerous, right? And if he’s tailing girls then that means he’s a…” Emma crosses her arms, shuddering at her own implication, and lowering her voice so it’s barely under a whisper, she finishes, “...a rapist. Right?”

Ray shrugs. “Close, but not close enough.”

“Well if I’ve already gotten this far might as well tell me the rest of it.”

“You’re not in a position to be making demands here, shorty,” Ray snaps, glaring, but Emma stands her ground and glares back in a way that tells him he should know better than to threaten her with a simple look by now. “We’re the professionals, so we’re going to handle it. You’re just an extraneous variable Norman decided to make use of. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“I’m a person. I’m not just a pawn for you to move around!”

Ray’s brow twitches, and it’s then that Emma realizes why it’s Norman out in the field and Ray sitting behind a computer. While Ray might be the talkative one, he’s hot-headed, which makes for explosive reactions. He might as well have a huge button on his head that’s labelled ‘press me and I’ll fucking explode, so get ready to die by fire, you piece of shit’.

On the other hand, Norman is quiet and volatile, most likely the one between the both of them who can read situations and come up with solutions to them in the blink of an eye. So if some random girl starts grabbing on to him and telling him to pretend, then he’s going to connect the dots straight away and take appropriate action.

Which means if she wants to get a word in with the pair of them, then her best bet is to convince Norman.

The only problem is: he looks just as steadfast and stubborn as his hot-headed friend. If she’s going to change his mind, then it won’t be easy.

Emma’s used to things not being easy.

“Listen,” and she’s turning to Norman now, “You’ve seen me work firsthand. I didn’t panic. I played along just fine. I can be useful — it’ll just have to be on my own terms.”

He raises a polished brow at her, lips parting from a straw that looks like it’s just been chewed on. Heat rushes to Emma’s face again, and she hates herself a bit for thinking he’s a little sexy when he does that. 

“I wouldn’t say you weren’t panicked, Ms. Valley,” he answers smoothly, and her eyes widen when she realizes he’s just used her last name. She hadn’t told him her full name. So how did he—? “And while your reaction time is commendable, it’s still in our job requirements to ensure that civilians aren’t caught in the crossfire or involved. You’re deliberately putting yourself in a position to do both. That’s completely reckless, and Ray’s right. You’re better off doing what we say. We just want to guarantee your safety, that’s all.”

She frowns. “So what? Am I a target? Is that why you know who I am?”

Both boys look a little floored — ‘she catches on fast’ is definitely the understatement of the year, and Norman turns his head away, coughing lightly, like he’s impressed and doesn’t want to show it because it will only encourage her more.

“I told you, shorty,” Ray growls, “We’ve told you all that we’re allowed to tell you. So fuck off already and mind your own damn business. Contact us when it’s needed and not a moment before.”

“I said no!”

“And I said you’re not in a position to argue so just stop already, goddammit!”

“The more you swear the more it’s convincing me to refuse!”

Ray scoffs, already past the limit of his patience, and looking as though he’s ready to pull his hair off his scalp he points a finger at Norman. “Oi, Guardian, please tell your little girlfriend over here that she’s out of her goddamn mind!”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes you are, shorty!”

A highly amused sound escapes Norman’s mouth, and both people turn towards him, one more incredulous than the other, and Norman presses a hand to his face, trying to keep his laughter at bay. Though when he catches Emma’s eye it’s for naught, and a rich laugh escapes his mouth, his arms coming around to hold his frame if only to reel it in and control himself from laughing even louder.

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“No, no.” Norman’s amusement ebbs away into a smile (and Emma recognizes that smile as a more genuine version of the one from earlier) and he regards Ray with those kind blue eyes. “As much as I would like to keep her out of it, she does have a point, and I’m not as much of a stickler for the rules as you are, Ray.”

“Are you telling me we’re actually going to use her?”

“We’re not using her. That’s far from what she’s negotiating. Am I right, Ms. Valley?”

“Emma’s just fine,” she amends quietly, and then lifting her chin, she confirms: “I want in. That’s all. If I’m a target then I deserve to know why, and if you’re fitting me with a communication device anyway then want in on your plan to catch this criminal.”

Norman’s amusement doesn’t fade in the least at her declaration, and folding his hands together he turns his head to look back at Ray. “Well now, that isn’t so bad, is it?”

Ray sighs sufferingly, and shooting one last warning glance at Emma, he stands abruptly from his chair to grab Norman by the collar and drag him out. He casts her another glare. “Don’t move. We’ll be back in five minutes.”

It doesn’t take Ray much strength to slam Norman against the nearest alley wall once they’re outside. The taller man cringes, rubbing his shoulder, and casting Ray a dirty look he says, “I don’t think you’ve used that much force since we were training under Mama.”

“Yeah? Well you’ve never given me any more reason until now!” Ray gestures widely, though mindful that they’re in a public place he lowers his snarl into a hiss. “She’s a motherfucking civilian, have you lost your mind? She doesn’t have the same training you and I got, and she doesn’t have the same experience, how do you expect her to protect herself? That guy’s a psychopath! Put her in his line of sight as bait and you’ve only got her blood on your hands.”

“You think I haven’t considered that?” Norman crosses his arms, though the expression on his face is less irritated and more pensive. “But it’s better if we can keep an eye on her and have some control over what she decides to do instead of keeping our mouths shut and letting her run off and do something reckless on her own.”

Ray kicks the asphalt with his heel. “Tch. Fine, you have a point there, but I still don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it either, Ray.” Norman sighs, and looking out into the street, he scowls. “But Leuvis has five targets and she’s his first. She’s lucky enough to have gotten away when she did, but if we send her out there again with just a communication device, we could be too late.”

Ray eyes his friend scrutinizingly, then exhales, pressing his palm to his face. “You’re still thinking about what happened in Goodwill Ridge, aren’t you?”

“I won’t let what happened to Barbara happen to her, Ray. Not on my watch.”

Ray lets out another ‘tch’, but it’s one laced with understanding this time, and he curls a hand tightly over Norman’s shoulder. “You’re not the only one who still regrets that day, so you’re not allowed to get all saintlike, not without my approval.”

“And isn’t that what you dragged me out here for? To give me your approval?” A knowing smirk glides across Norman’s face, and Ray curses him for it. “You’re not going to let me do anything on my own, are you?”

He lets Norman go, pulling back to match the smirk on his face briefly, before hiding it away with his bangs. “Of course not. Dipshit.”

 

///

 

Norman walks Emma home after that. Firstly because Leuvis might still be around. Secondly because Ray doesn’t “want to deal with her shit any more than he has to”.

His and Emma’s hands are laced, if only to keep the act up in case they’re being watched, though Norman has to tell her under his breath multiple times that she should really stop playing with the headset in her ear, it’s really not going to help anyone if the enemy figures out that she’s in league with them and not just being escorted home as a could-have-been victim.

“Sorry,” Emma says for the nth time, her tone as sheepish as it had been the last time she apologized, and unlike Ray Norman really doesn’t have the energy or the desire to be so angry with her.

“Just please don’t do it anymore,” he tells her, and she hangs her head slightly, as though she’s a little embarrassed she’s being scolded this way only ten minutes after she got the job. 

“We’re going to have to take the train,” she informs him, if only to take the topic away from her prying hands and the headset in her ear. “It’s really cramped this time of day, so if you’re not comfortable with it…”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t be comfortable with it?” Norman asks, bemused.

“Well…” She colors a little. “You just look a bit… pampered.”

“Pampered?”

“You definitely look richer than me, that’s for sure,” she comments, gesturing between their coats as if making silent commentary on the staggering difference in the quality of each. “And you kind of give off the ‘stay away from me’ vibes that snobby rich people do, which is why I approached you in the first place.”

Norman snorts. “Do I really give off such a vibe?”

She shrugs. “I did say ‘kind of’. You could be worse.”

“I’m flattered.”

She laughs a little, grinning up at him. He returns her smile because it’s surprisingly easy to do so, and when she turns her head away to look back at where they’re going, Norman finds himself wishing that she could look at him with that smile for just a little bit longer.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says, startling him out of his own thoughts and causing his ears to tint slightly when he realizes what he’d just been thinking. “I understand that I’m asking a lot by doing this. So thank you for giving me the chance.”

“Well, Emma,” he answers, and there’s something so profound about the way her name rolls from his tongue, like he’s always been meant to say it, “Instinct tells me that giving you a chance is our best bet right now, so remind me to thank you when this is all over.”

“When?” she remarks, raising a brow.

He smirks at her again, that smirk that can level her to her knees. “I don’t plan to leave Gracefield empty-handed, I promise you that.”

“Then I promise you that’ll come true,” she answers, “No matter what it takes.”

The expression on his face wanes, and she notices that he looks shuttered again, like he’s just opened a window only to draw back once he’s caught a glimpse of the outside. “It would do you well not to make such reckless promises.”

She hums in thought, and squeezing his hand they stop in front of the train station, where the nearby clock indicates three minutes until the next train will roll by.

“Instinct tells me that making you a ‘reckless promise’ is your best bet right now, so let me make it, Norman. I keep my promises.”

He glances at her, amusement dancing behind his eyes, and she thinks she must be imagining it when he tugs on her hand, pulling her one step closer to him, as though folding invisible wings around her in an act of protection. He says nothing further, but Emma doesn’t think he really needs to.

They step on the train and leave it half an hour later, their hands still linked, and her feet still one step closer.

 

///

 

Emma’s apartment building is run down and decrepit, nestled in the backlogs of poverty and decay, on a street Norman is fairly sure won’t show up on the map if he searches for it. When she’d brought him to Third Avenue he’d been sure she would lead him to a decent building at the very least — Third Avenue is known for its superior architecture and unparalleled hospitality — though she had pulled on his hand and led him down dark alleys anyway, looking so at home in the broken sidewalks of near destitution.

It had surprised him even further when a lot of the locals (some of them with humble abodes, and others who were quite obviously informal settlers) greeted her like she was family to them, and the way she returned their greetings with a smile had caused him to realize that she knows these people, and treats them like family.

Through a haze of cigarette smoke, she leads them through the front door of the building, and then leads him up a creaky set of stairs to the highest floor. She smiles sheepishly at him when a floorboard cracks beneath his feet and he, for the lack of a better description, freaks out, and with a bell-like laugh she informs him that “It’s totally fine, you won’t have to pay for it or anything, I can fix it tomorrow.”

“Fix it?” Norman repeats, quite frankly in disbelief.

She shrugs, tugging on his hand impatiently and leading him to a door labelled 302. “I run repairs for the building with help from my neighbors downstairs, no big deal.”

He tries to keep his eyes from bulging out of his head because it most certainly is a big deal. The tenants mustn’t be in charge of repair; Norman makes a mental note to talk to the landlord of this building the first chance he gets.

Emma shoves a key into the door and kicks her shoes off, switching on the lights to reveal a rather humble apartment, decorated with all sorts of knick-knacks set atop old cupboards, her socked feet padding over a worn rug as she heads into the living room to set her bag down on a leather couch, turning around only to gesture him to come inside.

“Are you done gawking yet?”

Norman picks his jaw up the floor in one swift motion, turning to shut the door gently behind him and casting Emma a shy glance as he removes his shoes. He sets them properly by the doorframe, adjusting Emma’s own boots in the process, and when he straightens she’s gone.

He blinks. “Emma?”

“In the kitchen!” she calls, and he follows the sound of her voice to find an open archway leading into a small nook that can barely be called a kitchen, squashed as it is in the middle with a wooden dining table. 

He glances for a long moment at her kitchen window, which is big enough to double as an entrance into the fire escape, and he has half a mind to pull the curtains open. But before he can decide to do so, she’s reaching for a tray of tea in one of her cupboards, and then she’s asking him, “Green or black? That’s really all I have.”

“Green is fine,” he tells her, hesitating by the open doorway. His gaze shifts back to the window before settling over her frame. “Are you sure? I just had a frappe, so…”

“Just for hospitality,” she says, placing a filled kettle over her stove. “Mama taught me that way. And will you please sit down, if she were here she’d pull on my ears for not entertaining my guests properly.”

“Ah, sorry.” He takes a seat, folding his hands over the table, which he notices is decorated with a prettily patterned floral cloth. He watches her move around for a moment, then offers, “Your apartment is very cozy for its size.”

“I’d argue it’s cozy because of its size,” she quips, turning around to face him. She looks almost hesitant, like she doesn’t want to see any sort of judgement in his gaze. He figures she must be used to that — to being judged for her living conditions, though with another glance around he finds absolutely no problem with it, other than the fact that it’s quite shocking to deal with at first.

Emma’s the kind of girl, he thinks, who looks as though she deserves the world. And to her the world must be this cozy little apartment, tucked away in the middle of nowhere.

“You’re right,” he tells her, and his voice is wrought with so much sincerity she looks at him with both surprise and relief. He feels his face turning red once more, and he tears his gaze away from her earnest green eyes, clearing his throat in the process if only to save face. “Anyway, down to business.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, flipping the stove off and settling the kettle along with two mugs on the table. “Tell me everything.”

“Where to start?” Norman attempts to joke, and it’s mostly just to stall, but when she laughs a little he feels slightly more at ease in her presence. His heart doesn’t seem to be close to slowing down, however, racing as quickly as it is.

He tries to keep his heart from beating so loudly, but instinct has never failed him before. He lowers his voice down, and answers her quickly. “His name is Leuvis. That man you saw earlier.”

She frowns, finally sitting herself across from him, and she pushes a mug of tea into his hands. He accepts it gratefully, then continues, “He’s a psychopath, that much is true, and he’s… relatively new on our radar. He’s a serial killer whose first crime occurred in Goldy Pond, where our organization retrieved five bodies, all women, and he’s been going through city after city, five girls each.”

Emma frowns, gripping her mug tightly, and then she asks, “Why five girls? And out of all the women in Gracefield, why am I one of them?”

“Those are questions I can’t answer for sure,” Norman says, then hesitantly, he adds, “Though from analyzing all of his victims they all seem to be young women, mid-twenties, and all of them virgins.”

Emma blinks. “How did you single out that fact over all others?”

Norman clears his throat, uncomfortable with the topic. He debates his words for a moment, and then quietly adds, “Leuvis is a former member of a cult that my organization has been tracking down for years. They’ve had an influential hand in the human trafficking business, and they’ve been conducting… summoning rituals for a ‘demon god’ by offering what they deign to be ‘pure beings’, such as children and, well… virgins.”

“Former member, you say?”

Norman nods firmly. “We have reason to believe that he has deviated from the goals of the cult and is seeking only to fulfill his own desire to kill.” He traces an invisible star into the wood of the table. “Their ritual is governed by a five-point star — some demonic symbol that they trace with the blood of the innocent.”

“So one girl for one point,” Emma says, frowning. “And you know my profile because you’re positive he’s going after me?”

“He’s not the only one who was tracking you this morning, Emma,” Norman contributes wryly, pulling the mug up to sip from his tea. “He’s been in Gracefield for a week now, scouting out his victims. We’ve been tracking his whereabouts, and have determined the first three women he’s had his eyes on. Ray and the rest of our team should be on their way to confirming the safety of the other two right now.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Emma says, “Who are the other two?”

Norman pauses for a long while, returning Emma’s headstrong gaze with a stubbornness of his own, then with a sigh he says, “Violet Sanderson, a low profile drummer from a local band, and Anna Komoriuta, a nurse from—”

“Gracefield hospital!” Emma’s palms slam on top of the table, and Norman’s eyes widen with surprise. “Are you positive she’s one of his targets?”

He frowns. “I wouldn’t doubt my own deductive reasoning, Emma—”

“Then we have to stop him!” Emma declares, chair scraping back noisily against the floor with the force of her. “Today! Tomorrow! I don’t know—this week!”

“Be quiet!” Norman hisses, and Emma withers a little at his tone of voice. He notices and pulls back, telling her silently that he didn’t mean to be so callous. “You know her?” he asks instead.

Emma purses her lips, sitting herself back down and clutching her mug tightly. “Anna’s a year younger than me, so she was my junior back in high school. She’s a sweet girl, I wouldn’t want—” She chokes on her own voice, and Norman is taken aback because this is the first he’s ever seen Emma so emotional about the situation, and now he finds her on the verge of tears because she’s worried to bits about someone else.

Just how selfless is this woman before him, that she would cry for the sake of others? That the poor people of this district would look to her with a smile where in others all he’s ever seen from their faces are misery and hunger?

He slowly reaches out for her, his hand covering hers and garnering her tear-filled attention, and with his most assuring tone he tells her, “Your friend is going to be all right. I won’t let anything happen to her. Or you.”

She sniffles like she’s pulling herself together and then she’s turning her hand under his so that she’s gripping it tightly. “Mm.” She nods, and it’s the only form of confirmation he needs. He moves to pull his hand away, but she’s still holding on, unwilling to let go. “Norman, I…”

He tilts his head at her, inquisitive. “What is it?”

She purses her lips, and then with a sharp inhale she blurts out, “You’re still staying tonight, right?”

He blinks at her. “What?”

Her cheeks flush red and she looks hotly away from him, though her hand is still squeezing his tightly. He catches her gaze wandering over to the kitchen window. “I’m just making sure. Because I… feel safer when you’re around. And… and if this criminal does come knocking you’ll be the distraction and then I’ll knock his head out with a frying pan. Just like we planned.” She frowns, determined. “I’m not letting him get to Anna.”

He smiles bemusedly at her, though he doesn’t find a reason to pull his hand away if she’s gripping it so tightly. “I’ll make sure to be a proper distraction then.”

She gazes up at him, her cheeks still red, though Norman doesn’t want to point it out because he knows his own face is just as red as hers. 

There must have been some other reason she grabbed onto him earlier that day. And maybe he’s a fool for thinking it, but perhaps that reason was something called fate.

That, or retribution.

 

///

 

There’s a familiar click in his ear, and then a familiar voice.

“Who told you that you’re allowed to play house while I’m away?” Ray gripes in his ear, and despite himself Norman smiles, his keen blue eyes still scanning the windows of her apartment as diligently as he’s been doing since she retreated to her bedroom.

Keeping his posture relaxed, he raises the volume of the TV show that’s playing and then says, “Instinct, when it told me she was compromised.”

“I know that part,” Ray says, and it only serves to add weight to his rapidly piling dread. “Been tailing you since you left, remember? Spotted him once, at the station, and then he slipped away, that bastard.”

“He may or may not move tonight,” Norman whispers. “You know he doesn’t hesitate even when someone else is involved.”

“I know, dipshit, and I also know you suck at physical defense.”

“Hey, if I’m on the field then that means I’m decent enough to make sure he doesn’t get what he wants from her.”

Ray huffs from over the line. “Should’ve known that when you start calling women ‘love’ you’re screwed over.”

“It’s not—she’s not—” Norman scrunches his nose, frustrated. “This is not a conversation we ought to be having right now, Ray. Tell me your status.”

“The other two are safe. Got a sniper ready two blocks away. I’m outside by the alley with the strike team positioned around the building. We won’t let him get in, but if he does, then you’ll know.”

“Good.”

“Are you armed?”

“Yes. Are you worried about me?”

“Shut up. I’m not dragging your corpse all the way back to headquarters just so Mama can yell at me.”

“Because you’re definitely not her favorite, Ray.”

“Cut the sass, dipshit. Just make sure you know what the hell you’re doing.” There’s a crackle of static over the line, indicating movement, and then Ray adds: “And make sure she knows what she’s doing too, or I’ll stick a knife in both your throats.”

“What happened to not wanting to be yelled at?”

“Tch. If you think you’re going to die from a knife to your throat think again.”

“You’re a walking contradiction as always, Ray.”

“Yeah well—shit. Window, ten o’clock. We’re in pursuit.”

Norman rises abruptly from the sofa, turning his head in the given direction only to be met with Emma’s door. Color drains from his face and he finds himself moving before he can even think, his hand pulling the gun from his belt without another thought, and he pushes the door open to find that Emma’s crouched low by the wall opposite her assailant.

He recognizes the toothy grin that greets him from within the shadows of her darkened bedroom, and he pulls on the gun’s safety, ready to shoot but unwilling to move lest he provoke Leuvis to do something he shouldn’t.

“Ah, Agent 22194,” he greets, voice as lilting smooth and taunting as it was the first time Norman had come across it. “The young man who promised me revenge after he couldn’t save little Barbara Wright. I must commend you, you know. You always find such pretty little girls for me.”

“Bastard,” he spits, eyes shadowed. “You’re not touching her.”

“Is that not what you told me before as well, 22194? How is that threat working out for you?”

“I’m not playing your games, Leuvis. You’re cornered this time.”

“So I am.” The hooded murderer shrugs, as though it is simply another Tuesday night for him. “I have to say you’re rather brilliant, catching on to my plans this quickly. Unfortunately, that will be the only form of ‘catching’ you and your partner will do tonight. Adieu.”

And just as Leuvis turns, cape billowing out before him, just as Norman fires his gun, just as Ray comes bursting in with the strike team on his heels, Leauvis jumps out the broken window from whence he came and disappears into the darkness of the night.

Ray kicks the ground with his heel. “Fucking piece of shit. How did he know—?”

“He’s toying with us,” Norman answers, scowling, tucking his gun back into its holster. And turning swiftly on his heel, he closes the distance between him and Emma, who looks shaken but otherwise unharmed. He draws her up with his hand. “What did he tell you?”

She blinks mutely up at him. Norman frowns, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Emma. What did he do?”

“Anna,” she manages, her eyes wide, her lips pursed into a grim line. She takes a shaky breath, and then she says, “He said he’s going after Anna.”

Ray cusses creatively enough to rival the devil, and then he’s pushing past Emma’s bedroom door, stomping angrily out the apartment.

“Well that’s just fucking great. Who the fuck told him he could lay a damn finger on my wife?”

 

///

 

Norman knows Emma hasn’t told them everything that occurred in her bedroom that night, but he’s also not one to push.

They relocate her to the same hotel they’ve been occupying since setting foot in Gracefield, making sure to keep the move as tightly under wraps as possible. They do the same for Anna, with Ray setting their shared apartment up as a decoy in case Leuvis decides to go after her there instead of at the hospital, as he had done with Emma.

Norman has the hotel’s building plans memorized, so all he does is concentrate protection around Emma’s hotel room, directing members of the strike team to take up routine posts around the hallways, making sure that they’ve got an exit strategy for every potential situation.

It’s three days after the incident that he decides it’s time to push, and he does so by entering her room with a bag of takeout in hand.

“It’s Chinese,” he tells her, sitting next to her on the couch when she moves to give him space. “Steamed fried rice. Do you want the spicy bowl or the regular one?”

“Spicy is good,” she tells him quietly, “Thanks.”

He smiles at her as he passes the box of take-out over, and then gently nudges her with his knee. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“Is that why you’re giving me take out?” She grins, tapping the box lid with a pair of chopsticks. Then with a sigh she nudges him back, deflating as though there’s weight over her shoulders. “Thanks for worrying. It means a lot.”

“How could I not worry?” he answers, absent-mindedly wiping away the rice grains that stick to the corner of her lip when she takes a bite. “You were headstrong and wouldn’t take no for an answer the day we met, it’s a little disconcerting when you’re suddenly quiet and pensive.”

He sets his own meal down, reaching to clasp her chin between his thumb and his index finger, tilting her head so she has no choice but to look at him. “He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

“No.” She shakes her head, and he’s surprised when she leans into his touch. “No, I promise. I just…” She frowns, closing her eyes, and then she’s grasping his wrist with her own hand like it’s a source of strength. “He broke in and tried to grab me, but I kicked him off and rolled away before he could. But when I did, something in his eyes just… changed, like it didn’t faze him in the least that I was fighting back… Like he was glad for it.”

She shudders. “I understand what you meant by ‘psychopath’ the moment his eyes just took on that… that hunger. And now he’s after Anna, and I just.” He feels her grip on him grow tighter, and only feels more concerned. “I’m so angry, because who does he think he is? Why do such horrible people exist? Why does he make it seem like it’s so… so satisfactory to take someone else’s life?”

“The world is never going to be what we want it to be, Emma,” he tells her softly. “Even if you don’t understand it, there are simply too many people like Leuvis walking more freely than they should. I should know: I’ve been trained my whole life to track them down and capture them.”

Emma frowns, though she doesn’t broach the topic further. Instead, she segways into another entirely. “I’ve also been wondering. You mentioned virgins, so why go after someone who’s married?”

“Ah.” Norman shifts uncomfortably, and then he offers, “It’s not my place to explain, but just so you know… Given the nature of our line of work, there’s hardly any time to form family or even settle down with them. Since we were born and raised in the facility, so we must give our lives to work, though we are given certain freedoms. While Ray and Anna are married, they are only married through paper, and that only happened because they eloped.”

Emma’s brows raise, and Norman shrugs. “You know Ray. Getting married was his choice, that’s for sure, but doing so with an outsider was just a big bonus. A ‘fuck you’ to the system, if you will.”

She barely manages to contain her laugh, and Norman shares her amusement, though he sobers much quicker. “Ray received a lot of… punishment for that, and he was caught before they could seal the deal, so they haven’t… consummated it. Anna was relocated to her hometown under orders from our superior, and while she gets monthly compensation from Ray, they hardly ever see each other.”

“That’s cruel,” Emma remarks, frowning.

“It’s what comes with the job.” Norman shrugs, and then his face is schooled back into that pensive expression. “I’ve had reason to suspect that Leuvis is going after Anna not only to keep his streak but also to strike a chord with us. It’s not the first time we’ve clashed. Ray was simply in denial about it until you confirmed yourself that he was going after her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Emma whispers. “Ray doesn’t deserve that. Both of them don’t.”

“That doesn’t keep it from being a reality,” Norman answers bitterly, pulling away from her. Emma frowns, feeling cold over the places that he last touched, and she reaches for him this time.

“Leuvis mentioned a ‘Barbara Wright’. Was she your…?”

“She was my niece,” Norman answers for her, and at the pain that burdens his voice her heart only aches for him. “She was twenty-one, and a real piece of work. My older brother, James, died in one of his missions when she was only nine, so I was entrusted to take care of her ever since, young as I was. Barbara was…” He grips the cloth of his pants tightly, before letting out a shaky breath and releasing. “She was everything to me. And then Leuvis came, and I couldn’t save her. She trusted me and I couldn’t save her.”

Emma folds him into her arms without a second thought, squeezing tightly, and tighter still when he says, “That was months ago now. I shouldn’t be feeling this way anymore, policy dictates it, but—”

“She was everything to you, you said so yourself.” She hugs him as hard as she can, tucking his head into her shoulder, wishing not for the first time for the power to just erase everything evil from the world. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” His voice is plain, and somehow it hurts when he pushes her away. “It was mine, and now I must live with it.”

“Norman…”

“You should finish your food,” he tells her, and when he smiles she knows it’s fake. “Gather your strength. You wanted to help us, right?”

She frowns. “Yeah, but Norman—”

He leaves her no room to pry any further.

 

///

 

Emma rolls away from the force of an explosion, and as her back makes contact with the cabinet that houses the Komoriuta’s china collection, she thanks whatever God out there that she used to run cross country when she was in high school.

The blast had been small, and she’d been far enough away that it didn’t hurt her as much, but she knows that the flash bomb had come from Ray, and she knows he only threw it because Norman told him to.

Norman, that self-sacrificing, I’m-not-trusting-you-with-this-for-your-own-safety idiot, like hell she’ll just stand back and watch him take the fall for something that was clearly her idea.

“Ray, where are they?” she hisses into her headset, pulling herself up to her feet and running across the decimated living room. 

A click, and then: “Second floor, we’re in pursuit. Stay put.”

“Like hell!”

“I said stay put, shorty! This doesn’t concern you!”

“Bullshit! You better not be fibbing Ray, if I don’t find him on the second floor—”

“Jesus, if you’re going to be stupid do you at least have your gun on you?”

“I can get a clear shot if I’m just in range.”

“And since when were you an expert at guns? Leave it to us, Norman’s running. We have a sniper—”

“I’ll be there just in case the sniper doesn’t do his job—”

“Are you fucking kidding me, you have no experience, you can’t just run headfirst into every god damn thing, idiot!”

She rips the headset off and crushes it with her boot, unwilling to listen any further to Ray’s doubt. This was all her fault, after all. She’s the one who asked Norman to put her out here as bait. She’s the one who dragged all of them into trouble the moment she realized she’d miscalculated and Leuvis was ready to respond to that miscalculation.

She’s the one who hesitated, moving to save Anna first and get her out of danger.

She’s the one who left Norman to fend for himself. The one who turned her back for a split second and let the situation go awry.

And goddammit, he did not have the right, Norman didn’t have the fucking right, to whisper in her ear, to tell her through the stupid headset that she did a good job, thanks for keeping Anna safe. She’ll be the last, I promise.

And he didn’t have the right to look her in the eye like that, like she was the strongest person he knew, like he was glad he met her, like he was glad she cared the way she did. And he had no right, no right, to smile at her so brilliantly as he decided to put himself up on a silver platter and blast her away from danger with the last of his flash bombs.

No, he didn’t have the right at all, and she’s going to show him just how brilliantly wrong he was once she gets a bullet through Leuvis’s legs and immobilizes him for good.

Stupid Norman. Stupid, amazing, magnificent Norman, whose selflessness is really going to do her in one day, because if there’s one thing Emma is she’s selfish.

She’s selfish because she wants to live in a world she thinks is right. She’s selfish because she puts herself in the line of danger the moment it comes barrelling in, screw the rules and screw the law. She’s a civilian, headstrong and bruised all over, and they spent all this time worrying over her when really, they should have been making sure Norman didn’t get any ideas to fling himself off to death for her sake.

Goddammit, not Norman. 

Not on her watch.

She skids across a damaged hallway, out of breath but not out of fight, and she pushes the muscles in her calves even further when she catches a glimpse of that familiar white coat, stained disgustingly with patches of red, a sinful shadow looming over him as though glad to be feasting on someone so kind and so selfless.

“They’ve been conducting summoning rituals for a ‘demon god’ by offering what they deign to be ‘pure beings’.”

Emma scowls, her grip on the gun tightening, and just like that first night, the night Leuvis had first made himself known to her, she doesn’t hesitate to go on the offensive.

In fact, there’s a burst of speed to her run where there hadn’t been before, a rush of adrenaline through her system, an innate desire sparking within her to just keep Norman alive.

Because he’s the one who makes her feel safe. The one who makes her feel like she can achieve any dream with that single smile.

She’d caught sight of him in a crowd once, thought him to be a guardian angel, and tonight she returns the favor, grounding herself once she’s in range and firing a bullet with everything she’s got.

The force of recoil makes her wrist ache, makes her stumble back with a vengeance, but her heart is pounding in her chest and her breath comes out ragged, and she knows her bullet hit its mark when she sees Leuvis falter, leg twitching with barely contained pain, and while he does not howl with any indication of suffering, he does not need to because in the next moment another bullet comes flying, this time much higher, and Emma is brought back to the present the moment Ray passes by her, roughly, their shoulders bumping like he’s saying ‘thanks’.

Leuvis, despite having an injured leg, still tries to make a run for it. He’s moving pretty fast, but he’s losing a lot of blood along the way, and Emma trusts Ray and his team to catch him. She’s only here for one thing, and one thing only.

“Norman!” 

She doesn’t remember when it was she dropped her gun, but her hands are free, and she skidding on her knees to settle by his side, fingers fisting his polo and eyes scanning him quickly. “Are you hurt? You’re bleeding, I’ll carry you on my back so please—”

“Idiot,” he murmurs, breath shuddering, and when his hand comes up to clutch the bloodied cloth over his abdomen Emma follows his lead, removing her jacket to wrap it around the wound. “I know you’re reckless, but this is too far, Emma. That wasn’t what you should have been doing—”

“Shut up!” she snaps back, unamused and unwilling to put up with his stubbornness. “I won’t let you die.”

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he remarks, but he allows himself to be folded in her hold all the same when she turns around and gestures for him to get on her back. His head feels too weighted that it buries itself of its own volition on her shoulder. He wheezes slightly when she stands up, hissing when his wound complains at the motion, and then he’s croaking out, “Should’ve known that even a bomb won’t stop you.”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth like that’s correct, and even with all the training dictating what his facial muscles are capable of doing at any given moment, Norman feels himself smile genuinely at her response.

She’s very earnest, this girl. As earnest as she is strong.

And as she carries them out of the rubble and into the light of the sunrise, he thinks that it must have been fate, meeting her, because there’s no way he could have met her on his own.

She’s the one who came barrelling into his life; the one who pulled on his sleeve and decided he was trustworthy, out of the hundred other people she could have asked, and there’s really no logic in that so all he can do is chalk it up to a little bit of magic.

And it is only this thought that makes him reach out to her as he’s being wheeled away on a stretcher, holding on tightly even when he knows he shouldn’t, his fingers curling around her wrist and begging her silently to stay.

She climbs into the ambulance with him, in an act that so very clearly says you didn’t even need to ask.

 

///

 

He is in the throes of recovery when she asks.

“What was… Barbara like?” There’s hesitation in her voice, and he knows it’s only there because the last time they’d broached the topic of his niece he had shut her out inelegantly. He hasn’t yet figured out how he wants to deal with the memory of her, and any form of grief he may have harbored had manifested itself into the one-minded pursuit of tracking Leuvis down and making sure he stays down.

He doesn’t like talking about Barbara, but Emma bathed in afternoon sunlight, her head ducked like she knows exactly what she’s asking from him, makes him realize that he probably should.

He sighs gently, like the old spring breeze that used to ruffle his and Barbara’s hair when he walked her down to the field. “She liked playing baseball,” he says, and it’s a start. “Her hair was brown, she got it from her mom. Everyone from my side of the family is blonde. She used to joke a lot about competing with Ray to become my partner instead, because technically Ray is my nephew, even though he feels more like a brother to me, so there was a little bit of rivalry there.”

Emma’s mouth crinkles into a grin. “Ray’s your nephew?”

Norman shrugs. “My brothers and I have… large age gaps. I’m the youngest, with my brother James being the eldest, and Peter being the second eldest. Barbara was James’ daughter. Ray is Peter’s son. His mother, Isabella, is the one who handled our training.” He pauses for a moment, and then he explains, “Our family doesn’t typically marry for love but for profit. Like I told you before, all of us were born and raised in the same agency. It’s how they keep moles from getting in, because no one from the outside is granted even the lowest of positions.”

“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard.” Emma wrinkles her nose. “What is it like, growing up in a place like that?”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Norman shrugs. “I had Ray, after all. And then later I had Barbara.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Emma remarks quietly, and when she reaches for his hand, he lets her touch him. Lets her get as close to him as she wants to be. “I know a pretty little flower shop along my place. The owner is very kind and has the most beautiful flower arrangements I’ve ever seen. If you’d let me, then I’d be really happy to buy some for her.”

“I think...” Norman answers, squeezing her hand gratefully. “...she’d like that.”

Emma beams, though it falters when she catches his eyes shining with tears. “Norman…?”

“She’d like that,” he repeats, voice cracking, and then there are tears flowing from his eyes, like a dam that’s been waiting for an excuse to be broken. “She’d like that very much.”

When she pulls him into her arms it is enough to make him weep openly, as much as he’s needed to, as much as he’s never allowed himself to. And when he buries his head into her shoulder, hands curling into the fabric of her shirt like thank you and I’m sorry, Emma knows right then and there that she would gladly walk by his side for the rest of her life, because she wants to as much as he needs her to.

She holds him close and doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t find a reason to.

 

///

 

It is when he’s discharged from the hospital that a reason comes dropping into her lap unbidden.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Norman says softly, unwilling to meet her gaze. She’s standing inside her apartment, looking at him as he remains on the other side of the door. “Ray and I will be leaving Gracefield tonight. We received another mission, so we’re heading out. Our job here is done.”

“Wait, so—”

“I don’t think… I’ll ever see you again.” She catches the regret in his eyes plain as day, and that’s how she knows he’s more affected by this than he’s letting on, if he’s not even trying to hide it from her. “Gracefield is a relatively peaceful city. It’s never crossed our radar before, so logically speaking Leauvis was the exception, not the norm.”

Emma purses her lips, gripping the door jamb tighter than she probably should. “So… you’re here to say goodbye, then?”

“Yes.” He pauses, leaning forward slightly and then pulling away, like it’s the first time he’s ever been so indecisive about something and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He remains shifting in her doorway until he comes to a decision, and it’s one she doesn’t like because he simply tips his head toward her, taking her hand briefly to shake it before letting go.

“Thank you very much for all your help, Emma. I’m… glad to have met you.” 

He sends her one last smile, but before he can even complete his turn she’s grabbing hold of his hand, pulling him back, her grip as tight as the first time she’d come crashing into his orbit.

“Emma…?”

“What about Barbara’s flowers?” she asks quietly, if not a little frustratedly. “Why does this have to be the last time? Can’t you—come back? Can’t I follow you?”

“I don’t want you to follow me. And I don’t want to come back.” Her breath hitches at his words, though when he cups her cheek she understands. I don’t want you getting hurt.

“It’s not about what you want, Norman,” she answers, her grip only growing tighter with every word. “I’m going to follow you whether you like it or not.”

He looks just as frustrated as she is, right then, and he asks, “Why?”

“Why not?” she fires back, gaze determined. “I don’t need a reason. I just know that I want to walk beside you for every step moving forward.”

He frowns at her, but his eyes betray him. “You’re too stubborn for your own good,” he repeats.

“I know.” And then she yanks him down and kisses him, hard and sure, her teeth muffling his gasp of surprise and her hands keeping him in place, though they don’t necessarily have to because he’s responding to her as soon as they’re in contact, his fingers running through her hair so he can tilt her head back and kiss her better.

When they let go there still isn’t any distance between them. 

“If you walk away right now,” she tells him, breath hot against his mouth, “Then you’re going to do it knowing that I’ll follow you. I’ll track you down, 22194, and I’m going to be the first outsider to ever get accepted by your agency, because I’m not just going to sit around waiting for you to come back when I can find you myself.”

He laughs a little. “Is that a promise?”

“That’s a promise.”

“Then—” He steals one last kiss before pulling away for good. 

“I hope you catch me.”

Chapter 19: Variety Studio.

Summary:

June 5: Actor AU requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. This one had me watching a lot of interviews, though none did inspire me as much as Chris Evans & Scarlett Johansson's Actors on Actors convo, so that made its way here just a little bit. The actor dynamic is one that still flummoxes me (I don't think I'll ever want to share my partner's mouth with someone else even if it is for acting) but over the course of writing this I realized that Norman and Emma just shared this mutual trust, and that coupled with a unique love I don't think any other person's kiss will ever come close. So yeah, that's my two cents on it, and I hope this one will entertain you as much as NE entertained their audience. :)

Video-spiration: Chris Evans & Scarlett Johansson - Actors on Actors - Full Conversation

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

SHOW: ON

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s show, where we gladly welcome Emma and Norman Minerva, who’ve got the cover for the Hollywood Reporter as 2065’s Couple of the Year, given their phenomenal work both inside and outside the industry. We are grateful to have these two game changers on our joint interview today and —  could you tell me a little more about those incredible matching vests you two’ve got there?”

It is Emma who laughs at the question, head tilting back at a practiced angle, the sound of her voice mellifluous and arresting as she tucks herself further into Norman’s side, the curve of her body fitting generously against him as though she has always been meant to stay there.

“She’s the one who insisted on the ‘matching’ part,” Norman supplies, and if Emma is tucked beneath his arm then he almost looks to be pudding sitting next to her, as though they’re entirely comfortable sharing their spaces — overlapping those shared spaces — and there’s something so openly intimate about the simple way they sit that causes the women in the show’s audience to swoon like there’s no tomorrow.

Because they are the Couple of the Year, and not only this year but six years ago as well, when both their engagement and expected pregnancy was revealed to the media. They were wed in January of 2059, and with the year beginning so serendipitously it only befitted them to be blessed with a beautiful baby girl by the time the year had ended.

“Do you see how pretty the patterns make him look, though?” Emma remarks, both to entertain the audience and to jest at Norman’s expense. She traces a line of fabric-glitter, patterned onto his vest in impressions of white-gold roses, and a satisfied smile nestles itself over her lips. 

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been told by our personal designer that I need to ‘upgrade my wardrobe, because I still dress like a try-hard intern’.”

The interviewer laughs; barely five years into the entertainment business, Gillian Montague is an amicable woman who looks slightly younger than them, with dirty blonde hair brushed back and gelled professionally. She is a charismatic reporter, and a successful one to boot, though she does not outshine any of her guests in the least.

“In our designers we trust.” Gillian grins, and Norman can tell by the way Emma bristles next to him that she likes her already. “So, Emma. Last week we saw you walk the red carpet for the premiere of your latest film, ‘By the River’.”

“Yes, I did, I did—”

“I actually just saw it three days ago, to prepare for this interview, you know how it goes—” The sentiment is punctuated by another round of laughter, and there’s a shift in the air that lets everyone know that this interview is just going to be good— “And wow, the film is simply magnificent. I was left in tears, in pain, it was so heart-wrenching and it tore my soul out like I’m sure it was meant to—”

“Oh, it was definitely meant to.” Emma snorts, eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Yeah and — wow. It’s just a heavy topic, you know? How did you do it — acting for a film that’s so deeply unafraid to explore the facets of marriage and divorce?”

“Well.” Emma pauses, humming in thought, and next to her Norman cracks a grin.

“I did tell her that she shouldn’t be getting any ideas.”

The comment warrants a light elbow to the side, and Norman’s cheeky grin is subsumed by Emma’s good-natured chuckle. “It was definitely an experience, yeah… It actually surprised me. As you know, I’ve never been one to star in drama films like ‘By the River’. In fact my acting career did debut with ‘The Promised Neverland’, and it continued to thrive with my roles in popular thrillers and action films, so it really surprised me when I got the offer.”

“Yes, definitely. I don’t think anyone expected you to be playing the role of a love interest after so many films being the heroine!”

“Well, I still think the ‘love interest’ has a sort of heroine role.” There’s substance of thought flickering across Emma’s face as she says so, body shifting in a manner conveying deep thinking. “It was very eye-opening, playing this role, getting into the wife’s character and seeing through her eyes the… disintegration, of her life, her marriage. It’s very much a love story told through divorce, and it made me very emotional a lot—”

“I can vouch for that,” Norman remarks, tone smooth. “I have the call history from when she was shooting in Goodwill—”

“You called her every night while she was filming?”

“No, she called me every midnight, because I was out of state working on a few business ventures—”

“Don’t interpret him wrongly,” Emma interjects playfully, lifting a finger in the air. “He’s the one who’s always telling me he missed me.”

“Of course I missed her,” Norman shrugs, and the movement is minuscule but he pulls her closer. “How could I not?”

That gets a reaction from the audience, inciting a few breathy sighs and barely suppressed squeals.

Gillian arches a brow, amused. “Definitely Couple of Year then.”

“We’re hardly a ‘couple’ some days,” he answers. “Did you know tonight was the first night we’ve seen each other since — hm, when was it you went back to GR?”

“I think a month ago? I forgot,” Emma answers, tapping her fingers on her lap. “Forgive us, we’re getting old.”

“You two definitely don’t look like you’re getting older!” Gillian says, in good humor. “Has it been difficult to balance both your careers and family life? If I’m not mistaken you both have a six year-old in the house, right?”

“Oh, it’s not too difficult. I have a lot of faith in her, and she always seems to make things work. She’s very stubborn like that.”

Emma’s cheeks color slightly, though the camera doesn’t capture that. “Yeah, as much as I hate having to go out months at a time, this is still my job. We’re very lucky to have my brother, though, he’s the doting uncle when we can’t be there to be the doting parents. ‘By the River’ will have to be the last film I do in a while though — it made me realize how important time is. She’s not going to be six years-old forever, and as much as I love the job I love her more, so I don’t think I’ll take on any more offers in the near future.”

“‘By the River’ must have taught you a lot, then? Say, when you were acting the role of divorcee, did you inject any aspects of your marriage into that?”

“Mm, no.” Emma shrugs. “It’s probably proud of me to say, but I think Norman and I have a… kind of marriage that’s just — well, it can’t just be used to portray feelings on the big screen, it’s something more intimate than that, you know?”

“We don’t really get into big fights,” Norman adds thoughtfully. “Sometimes we squabble over the small things, but Emma has always understood me far better than anyone else, so fighting is almost always pointless.” He smiles, then jokingly, he adds: “Better to just give the wife what she wants, you know?”

The audience, along with Gillian, laugh heartily. “Oh, definitely. Though I must say, it’s not an interview until something a little spicy comes out of it—”

“Oh no.” Emma clamps her hand to her mouth in mock surprise. 

Gillian’s lips stretch into a cat-like, droll grin, and leaning forward collusively, she asks in mock whisper, “Viewers all over the world have commended the film for its brilliance, but none more than the heart-breaking kiss scene you shared with co-actor Oliver Queen towards the end that only sealed the deal. Many fangirls online have been making edits about it, and even professional critics name the moment as ‘one of the finest’ the movie has had to offer.”

Gillian arches a brow, like she’s not exactly digging for anything juicy, but if they do decide they want to share a little tidbit, then she’d be perfectly fine with that. “It’s normal for actors to be sharing kisses on the big screen, but to have such a moment become the film’s most popular scene — most mind-blowing scene — a lot of us wonder: does it leave any room for jealousy?”

Despite herself, Emma tips her head back and lets out a laugh — this time it’s no longer mellifluous; it’s a genuine, guttural, was-I-really-just-asked-that laugh, that amuses both Gillian and the audience the longer it continues.

Next to her Norman looks as though he’s faring no better, his smile wobbling in a manner that conveys he’s trying his best to contain his own amusement.

“I’ll have the Internet know,” Norman sniffs, “That I don’t need visual effects to give her a kiss that’s mind-blowing.”

“Oh?” Gillian looks elated, like she’s just been given more than she bargained for, and leaning back into her chair with an air of someone who’d like to exploit that for all its worth, she challenges, “Then will you please enlighten us — and I’m sure the audience would love this—” she gets a stunning round of cheers at the statement— “as to how you can give her a kiss that’s more mind-blowing than the one in the film?”

“Certainly.”

When Norman turns his whole body toward her, Emma’s still laughing, and through gasps of breath she says, “Norman!”

“First,” he announces, raising his voice dramatically and catching the audience’s unequivocal attention with the sound, “I do this.”

He raises his palm to cup her cheek — a cheek that’s red from mirth, pulled upwards with the force of her smile — and the audience screams, because the way he holds her is so undeniably soft yet possessive all at once, and if there’s one thing the audience will gobble up in a heartbeat it’s this.

“And then I will probably tell her ‘I love you’.”

The audience only grows louder at the proclamation, wolf-whistles and glass-shattering squeals melding together as one, and through the cacophony it’s only Emma’s mic that allows her response to be heard.

“‘Probably’?”

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and smirks — a smirk that will later be zoomed in on and cut into a GIF for the benefit of every single woman worldwide — and then he says, “I don’t need words to tell you that I love you.”

“Just get on with it already!” someone from the audience shouts, which garners a variety of sounds of approval.

“Kiss her!”

“I agree!” Gillian pipes up, looking as though she’s ready to spin on the axis of her seat. “Show us exactly what a mind-blowing kiss looks like!”

Norman retracts his hand from her face — to the many ‘boos’ and disappointed sighs from the audience — though he curls it into a fist, and pointedly glancing at their noisy audience, he gestures for them to be silent, his eyes glinting with mischief beneath the spotlight.

The gesture does its job, the audience quieting into bated breath. It does nothing much to prolong the silence however, when his gaze returns to pin itself on his wife and his wife only, and they can hear Emma’s soft exhale when he touches her again, fingers threading through her hair, tipping her head back, his touch slow and tempting, gentle and alluring, their bodies inching closer together as though pulled by each other’s gravity.

His fingers trace the length of her neck, across her shoulders and then down her arm, and it is to a collective, unabashed screech from the audience that he lifts her hand up and presses a long kiss to her knuckles.

The room explodes, with Gillian laughing loudly into her mic, with the audience hanging on the edge of their seats and yelling bloody murder for being left there, and after a few moments, when the noise dies down, Emma histrionically lifts her palm to her forehead, and then she announces, “Oh. Oh, I think my mind was just blown.”

The rest of the interview passes by swiftly, with both husband and wife answering questions back and forth, their amiable smiles a muscle well-pulled on their faces, their fingers lacing together when they think nobody will notice even though everyone will, later, when reruns are played and Norman’s little scheme garners more than two million views on Youtube.

Because as far as mind-blowing kisses go, those happen when the lights are off and the cameras are shut, when they’re in the comfort of their own home, their daughter tucked between them like the lifeline that she is. His blue eyes will sweep over her in the loving way that only she’s privy to, because she can trace the lines of his face better than anyone else, and when their lips connect it will always feel like the first time, when he stole her heart away and vowed to never give it back.

She’ll keep these kisses to herself, tucked into her bosom where they fill up the space where her heart used to be, because they’ve always done their give and take without the eyes of the world there to judge them.

And she’ll play along to his little schemes, will let him tuck her in close and play her like a flute when they’re in public, because she’ll win his games behind their bedroom walls, and between the both of them it has always been Norman who can put on a show.

Chapter 20: Need You.

Summary:

July 16: I don't know why AO3 has suddenly decided that I'm posting things one day before (I swear it's July 16 but what does AO3 say? It's July 15. Why is this happening? This never used to happen before).

Rant aside, here is this very vague take on a Mafia AU, requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr. IT'S RATED T! Possibly M? I never really get explicit though, so if they do risqué things you can count on heavy prose from Ise, haha.

Song-spiraiton: Believe - Safetysuit

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Emma’s pushed against the wall, forcefully, and she must’ve overdone the act because now she finds an unwanted pair of lips fighting to claim dominance over hers.

She snorts against this aggressive busybody. Fat chance.

She has all the information she needs, anyway.

It’s easy to take care of him—entitled aristocrats are so easily disposed of: one hit and they’re out like a light—and she steps over his unconscious body, wiping her mouth. It hurts to be a woman in this field of work.

“Couldn’t you have done that before he forced himself on you?”

The voice in her ear is stern, and she stifles a derisive snort. “If I could then I would’ve,” she quips, scowling distastefully at her target. “You know I hate going undercover like this. He tasted bad too. Cigarette smoke and rum.”

“He’s poorly behaved,” Norman admonishes, tongue clicking against his teeth. “Teach him a lesson.”

A grin settles itself over her mouth, and then she’s pulling a pair of handcuffs from the hidden pocket of her dress. “Sure will.”

 

///

 

It’s one stop to the police station to get rid of a liability and then she’s kicking into their tightly secured apartment bedroom, throwing her heels away and flopping onto bed with a gracelessness that does no justice to her fighting prowess in the field.

Her husband eyes her with a measured gaze—she raises her brow at it, turning so that the zipper of her dress faces him. She stretches. She doesn’t need to ask.

“Cigarette taste is so hard to wash away,” she complains, when he reaches over to pull the zipper down. “I’m lucky Gillian had her mints with her. Do you know how strong those are? It touched my tongue once and I was practically drooling.”

She turns over to face him with a satisfied sigh, her body now free from the confines of a poorly sized cocktail dress. Poorly sized because they’d made it too tight—it accentuated her breasts the way they were supposed to be emphasized, giving her a décolletage worthy of envy. That entitled aristocrat had certainly expressed his appreciation of it soon enough, much to her distaste. But he had intel, and her job was to gather it under any means necessary.

That lack of restriction didn’t seem to sit well with the man before her, since his face was turned away, something cold and menacing simmering behind his Arctic blue gaze.

“Talk to me,” she says, and it’s not a plea. She pulls her dress off as she waits for him to decide that he wants to answer—like he even has a choice—and then she’s balling it up, throwing it into the trash bin. “So?”

He makes a strange sound—a scoff or a snort, critical and disapproving in nature, his accompanying glance furtive. He crosses his arms.

“I don’t like it when they do that,” he grouses, finally. She inches closer to him, listening. “You’re not—you’re not just some ragdoll they can have their way with. They can’t touch you like that. You’re not an object. I hate it.”

“Mm.” The sound belies understanding, and then she’s inching closer to him, pressing her cheek against his back, arms coming to wrap around his torso. “That’s why it’s your ring on my finger, you know.”

He tenses at her touch, voice strained. “Emma.”

She makes a dismissive noise, fingers rubbing against the fabric of his shirt, unbuttoning it slowly. “That’s why only you get to touch me like this, isn’t it?” She presses her chest flush against his back and he hisses her name, prompting a coy grin to curl itself over her mouth. Her fingers find flesh, her palm parting the cloth of his polo so she can lay it flat against his chest. “I think there’s a better solution for this than Gillian’s mints. Don’t you agree?”

She can feel him frown through the movement of his jawline, her chin perched on his shoulder. “I just told you I don’t like you being touched like that. I’m not going to do the same thing.”

“But it’s not the same thing,” she argues, rolling her eyes. When he tries to move away she wraps her legs around his waist, keeping him in place. “He was a job. You’re not.”

“Still—” he stresses. 

“You’re mad about something else, then,” she determines, teeth biting the lobe of his ear in reprimand. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Ah.” The tenseness of his shoulders sag away in wake of defeat. “I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

She snorts, her hands parting the last of his buttons. She tugs on his shirt harshly. “You’re never going to get away with anything, Norman. Not while I’m around.” She throws his polo away and bites his shoulder, prompting him again. “So?”

“Emma,” he breathes, when her tongue slides lazily across his skin. “Please—”

“I’m not going to stop if you won’t tell me.” She locks her ankles, mouth tracing a line across his shoulders to his neck. “I’ve got all night, so feel free to take your time.”

“You’re obstinate.” He pouts.

“And you’re not?”

He sighs, his long fingers curling around her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I just… wish I didn’t have to send you on missions like these. I don’t like it when they try to take advantage of you—but it’s my fault for putting you there in the first place.”

She softens at his confession. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers in his ear. “I’m the one who chose this line of work.”

“And I followed you to keep you safe,” he replies, nails digging tightly into her skin. “It’s not just men like them. How many times have I had to watch from the sidelines while you risk everything for the mafia? How helpless do I have to be? There was that incident with Leuvis, too—”

“Oh, Norman.” She lets go of him only so she can turn his head to face her, their gazes meeting with the sweltering hiss of fire against ice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

“Angel, you’re not hurting me.” He brushes her hair from her face, palm resting against her cheek, the motion of his thumb causing her eyelashes to flutter. “You could never hurt me. I just wish I could do more for you.”

She frowns, poking him in the chest. “You’ve done more than enough for me already, Norman. You keep me in check. You make sure I always handle a mission with the best strategy possible. You are keeping me safe. Without you I’d be dead by now.” She grasps his face, pulls him close to her. Holds on tightly. “And I’m not just saying that. So stop blaming yourself. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

She kisses him softly, her lips washing over his like the gentle touch of the waves against the timid shore. “I love you,” she murmurs, when he accepts her affection, her hand sliding over his neck to support his jawline. “I can’t promise you that I’ll keep safe, because you already do that for me.”

He breaks away from their kiss to shake his head, his throat clamping as though he’s struggling to reel his emotions in, and she presses her mouth over his heart. “Don’t hide from me,” she murmurs. “Tell me everything.”

He fingers her hair, holding her close. “I just don’t want to lose you,” he answers, voice cracking. “I want to love you forever.”

“Then love me,” she orders, tugging on his hands so that they’re resting over her skin again. “Your love has always been more than enough.”

There’s a distinct inflection in her voice whenever she uses it to make a command; there’s never any opportunity for argument, never any opening for dispute, and even now Norman allows himself to surrender to her, because she has never left room for any doubt.

And he loves the way that they make love; fingers curled teasingly over perked breasts, hands digging harshly into thin biceps. They touch each other and get tangled up, so when they pull away there’s always the lingering knot.

Where she goes, he follows. It has always been that way, each of them tied to the end of a string no force on Earth can ever cut.

 

[And if she charges recklessly into battle, then by god, he will do anything and everything to keep her safe.]

Chapter 21: Call Me.

Summary:

July 21: Drunk Emma confessing to Norman requested by anonymous-san on Tumblr! Does anything else need to be said?

Song-spiration: Call Me Maybe - Carly Rae Jepsen

Bon appétit!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Call me baby.”

Norman’s breath stutters, eyelids fluttering with stark surprise and disbelief. Emma’s grinning lopsidedly at him, her hair falling over her darkened green eyes, lips parting in small hiccups. He’d absent-mindedly called her cute—because she is, even though she’s probably just as blind-stinking drunk as Don—and she’d seemed to see that as an opportunity to invade his lap and cause him premature brain malfunction.

“Ah—uh,” he replies, because there’s no other appropriate reply for the fact that the woman he’s been enamoured with since freshman year is now sitting on his lap and staying there.

“Isn’t that how the song goes?” she prompts, that lopsided grin now wobbly as she tries to balance herself on his thighs. He’s only glad she’s not wearing a skirt because—well, because. “Hot night, wind was blowing—”

“Hot!” Norman blushes madly, hands finally kicking into gear, landing on her shoulders to push her slightly away. “Don’t you—ah, uh—isn’t it hot in here? Maybe you should go get some fresh air—”

“But you are fresh air,” she responds, insistent, and Norman’s sure his face has just exploded. “Let me stay here, baby.”

“I’m not—I’m not—” your baby, he fails to finish. 

The way she continues to push against his attempts to get her off his lap speaks of a stubbornness that most certainly belongs to Emma, but the way she’s adamantly dubbed him “baby” is most definitely drunk Emma, who Norman’s had a fair number of associations with.

It doesn’t help that she and Don like to drink and play sports together sometimes because she likes the thrill of competition. High competition.

But right now she’s determined to play a new game, and he seems to be caught in a set of rules he’s yet to figure out.

“Babe,” she sniffs, and he stiffens. “Stop moving.”

The nickname has the intended effect.

She lets out a satisfied sigh, and then she’s cementing her position on his lap, legs tightening around his waist, arms coming over to rest on his shoulders. She smiles, and it’s that lopsided smile again, her cheeks rosy.

“I like this,” she announces, “Don’t you?”

“Um—” And she takes it to mean yes.

“It’s like we’re dancing,” she continues, burying her head into the crook of his neck, and he feels so breathless he’s almost afraid he’s having an asthma attack. “Except I’m too tired to move my feet. You’re tired too, aren’t you?”

“Um—” And she takes it to mean yes.

Her scent inundates his nose, something rosy and sweet and pleasant, mixed with sweat and a whiff of whatever cocktail she just had. He’s used to her scent, has loved it since the very first night she’d taken him out to a bar with her friends, and even though he never touched a single glass she never failed to get him intoxicated by the end of the night.

Tonight is no different.

In fact, and he knows this because of the invigorating feeling of having her soft, soft flesh flush against his, tonight may be worse.

“Let’s go home,” he manages to choke out, and he thanks God that he still has some shred of rationality within him.

“But you are home.” It’s the same tone she’d used with him earlier: matter-of-fact, don’t-argue-with-me. He sighs into her hair, and she takes that as a sign to hold onto him tighter. “I want to stay like this forever with you,” she hiccups, “Babe.”

“Emma,” he groans, because goddammit, goddammit, you’re convincing me.

“Home,” he repeats, opting to utilize his authoritative tone. “Bed. It’s one in the morning, we were supposed to leave hours ago.”

“Well—well we can’t go yet!” She tears away from him, pouting, her arms leaving his neck to cross over her chest instead. “You still haven’t called me baby yet!”

He blinks at her. If Emma on a normal day is wild and unpredictable, Emma on a drunken night is a tropical hurricane. He thought he’d gotten used to it, but apparently she will always maintain the power to surprise him at every single turn.

“I—uh.” He pulls on his collar and clears his throat, averting his gaze. “All right, then. Let’s go home… baby?”

The amorous monicker leaves his mouth with a squeak and he feels his face burn hotter. Emma’s still staring at him intently, her arms crossed, her brows much the same, and then she says, “Let’s date.”

“What?”

If “baby” had been a squeak then “what” is a high-pitched yell, his brows rising to cross the distance of his large forehead and his heart pumping like the high-powered engine of a fast-paced locomotive.

Emma’s heart doesn’t seem to be faring any better, her face turning as beet red as his—as though it wasn’t already the color of a cherry to begin with—and he wonders if that’s why her arms are crossed: to keep her heart in its rightful place.

“Um,” she stammers, for the first time that night, and Norman is alarmed because Emma doesn’t stutter even when drunk. “I made a bet with Ray that I… um…”

“You… what?” he prompts, even when he feels his heart fall at the notion that maybe she’d only said what she did because of a meager bet.

“That I wouldn’t let you take me home,” she blurts out, because if she slows down then she might not get the words out, “until I told you how I feel. So there.”

Her hands rise to cup her own cheeks, and she shakes her head, embarrassed. “I want to—” she murmurs, “—be your girlfriend. Please?”

He stares at her for a very long time, his lips spreading into a slow smile meanwhile. “Call me baby, huh?” he echoes, and when she nods abashedly he laughs, covering both of her hands with his and squeezing. 

“I’ll take you home, then.”



[They talk about it twenty-four hours later, when she’s a hundred percent sober and he can lean over to kiss her, lips parting to murmur “baby” against her mouth as she lets out a happy laugh.]

Notes:

So...! Here's a wonderful announcement: A few others and I are currently organizing a Noremma Zine, to be released in early 2021! Details and official announcements are yet to be made, but are any fic writers/artists interested in contributing? Would anyone be interested in buying as well?

(*It must be noted that this zine is going to be digital considering the pandemic. Physical publishing and shipping will be considered if the zine is successful and the world is in a better place by next year.)

I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts on this! And thank you as always for reading! Let's keep our fingers crossed for this zine.

Much love,
Ise. ♥️

Chapter 22: The End.

Summary:

July 23: End of the world AU requested by Rose on Tumblr. The accompanying song was very inspirational too, Rose! So inspirational that you get the credit for today's song-spiration! This prompt was very interesting because of it.

Song-spiration: If the World Was Ending - JP Saxe ft. Julia Michaels

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

He takes care of Anna because he treasures Ray.

They’d both been at the hospital when it occurred—the lights flickering overhead as he worked, his hands stiffening only for the slightest of moments in fear of his patient, and then the world had gone still, deathly quiet, before erupting into madness and decay. The patient had flatlined and so had the building around him, and he could still hear the nurses scream vividly, his hand reaching out toward Vincent, one of the only people he’d been able to save.

He stumbled out of the hospital fighting to keep his legs upright with the multitude of frantic people vying to push past him; he’d held on tighter to Anna, who’d been looking up at him with so much fear, and in the face of her terror all he could do was smile tightly in a vain attempt to assure her.

Ray could have done a much better job.

“There’s another one.” The soft, pliant voice is familiar to him after all this time, and he heaves out a sigh, worn blue eyes creasing when they find Anna’s form behind him, crowded by bandaged people and tearful children.

“We also just ran out of sedative, so.” She doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

“Thanks,” he replies, rising to his full height, offering her another reassuring smile. He’s mastered that. He’s had to, now that the world in 2062 is ending like 2012. “I’ll manage. Cislo’s a good alternative.”

She smiles briefly in show of good humor, but he knows the disheveled look to her hair all too well. Anna’s schema is made up of pleasant smiles and golden braids. Now she is only faded grins and split ends.

She doesn’t tie her hair anymore—cannot, because they’d been singed when their last evacuation center caught on fire. They now fall choppily to her chin, tucked behind her ear to keep it away from her face. She reminds him of a child, some days, with her short hair. The length makes her look innocent. It endears her to him, like a little sister.

He’s always had a thing for short hair.

He brushes past her, lifting a hand to place it on her shoulder momentarily (much like Ray would have, because it is gestures like these that are truly effective at assuring her), and then he makes his way to the hospital ward, where he finds Vincent struggling to stop the bleeding of a man whose head looks like it’s been crushed by a boulder.

It’s a miracle he’s breathing enough that Anna deems him capable of saving, but as he rushes to help Vincent he thinks that it is a miracle that a lot of them are still alive.

He wonders why he hasn’t found them yet if that’s the case.

 

///

 

Anna places a mug of coffee in front of him, its rim wiped twice, with a crack that reduces its capacity to a meager half.

Still, half a cup is better than none these days, and he lifts his head to smile at her, who has a smaller mug situated between her fingers. He notices the bags under her eyes are worse. He doesn’t have to ask what she’s dreaming about.

“I thought I saw him today,” she says softly, and he listens. “Oliver and Gillian rescued a few more survivors on their patrol, and one of them looked so much like him that I thought—” She shakes her head. “It hurt when it wasn’t. Him.”

“I’m sorry,” he offers. He wishes he can say we’ll find him soon but there is no guarantee.

He wonders how long it’s been. He’s stopped keeping count.

“Do you think he’s…” Anna stops, pursing her lips, a shadow crossing her face. Her knuckles are white, so Norman reaches a hand out to soften her grip. At his touch she releases a shaky breath, and he thinks she might’ve cried if she still had any tears left to shed. 

“Better to keep that hope alive,” he tells her kindly.

“That’s what she would’ve said, right?” This time Anna can grin, though it’s bitter and rueful. She shakes her head when she catches his gaze fracture. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Don’t worry about it.” His hand drops, and then he’s picking his mug up again, frowning slightly when the coffee tastes acrid on his tongue. “I—” He pauses, gaze furtive. “—miss her.”

“It’s normal,” Anna tells him.

“It shouldn’t be.” He turns away from her, keeps himself from shutting his eyes. If he does so then all he can see is orange, her voice in his ear, a shaky whisper—

“To you, maybe,” Anna insists, head turned down meekly. She plays with the hem of her shirt for a moment, before deciding she has the courage to move and face him, eyes cast over his face sternly. “But it’s normal. The world is ending and you miss her. That’s okay.”

He is silent for a long moment, though he maintains the hold of her gaze. And then he sighs, hands running over his face, breath stained with bitter coffee. “It’s hard to miss someone, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” she agrees softly. “It is.”

 

///

 

Heavy snores permeate the air. The child lying on the cot next to him is shaking terribly with fear, and his mother tries vainly to soothe his suffering by holding him closer. He sleeps surrounded by tragedy, though there is none more potent to him than his only regret.

He shuts his eyes, and he sees orange.

He remembers the way it feels to have her pressed against him, arms around her petite frame, their legs tangling up as the TV displays another soap opera. She likes—liked—to turn the volume down and dub the characters sometimes, just for fun. Other times she deems there is a far better use for her mouth, and she teases him with her taste, reminding him why he loves to keep her in his arms.

Life is enough when she’s with him. The stars are bright and the days are sunny and the world isn’t splitting into halves and quarters. 

So it had been painful to read that promotion letter over her shoulder.

“It’ll just be for a couple of years,” she says, turning to face him, the letter drifting onto their kitchen countertop. “I’ll gain better experience, then come back and do a whole lot of good.”

“I know. I’m not stopping you.” He fingers the thick braid in her hair, smiles when she reciprocates his touch, her lips ghosting over his knuckles. “It’s definitely a great step for you. I just wish I could come.”

“I wish that too,” she whispers. “But it’s okay. Just two years. And we have Christmas and New Year and—Skype.”

His nose crinkles at the suggestion, and she laughs, because she knows he hates Skype. 

“Cheer up,” she tells him, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his nose. His cheeks. “Maybe I’ll call on good days.”

“Only on good days?”

“Are there any other kinds of days?” she quips, beaming brightly. “I’ve got your number saved and memorized. Every day will be a good day. Unless you decide to work shifts overnight again, you owl.”

“Consider the time zone you’ll be in,” he counters. “It’ll be a good excuse to work overnight. If you’re going to call every day then I’m going to make time for it, no big deal.”

She snorts, though her smile sobers, and she pulls him closer to her in a tight embrace. He catches sight of the letter peeking through the curls of her hair. “I love you,” she murmurs, mouth over his ear. He feels her voice quake, so he holds her tighter. “So much.”

I love you too, and the words escape his mouth soundlessly even now, in the darkness of a decrepit warehouse, surrounded by the woes of people less fortunate than him. They’ve seen their loved ones die before their very eyes. He’s listened to the children’s stories enough that he knows they’ve seen their parents swallowed by a crack in the Earth; they’ve seen their siblings crushed by buildings; their friends drowning in the mercilessness of floods.

They know they will never see these people again.

He has no such guarantee.

 

///

 

“Sonya mentioned there was another earthquake here,” Norman says, pointing to the west-most region of the map. “We’ve yet to sweep the area, so it’s even more of an excuse to check. If we can handle a five-day rescue operation, then these people can be shipped off when the government ship comes back. Can we do that?”

“Five days?” Oliver huffs, already pulling his gloves on. “Make that three. That leaves more than enough time for Anna and her team to make sure they’ll be stable once they leave.”

“Stable, huh?” Nigel echoes, chewing on a piece of gum from a pack he’d been lucky enough to find during one of their excursions. “That’s a horrible way to put it.”

“What would you call it, then?” Gillian challenges.

“Sane,” the boy answers, matter-of-fact. 

There’s silence for a beat at the answer, and then Oliver is picking up his rucksack, swinging it over his shoulders. He turns to nod briefly at Norman, and then he’s leading the team out of the evacuation center, where the beginnings of a sunrise peak through a ruptured horizon.

Norman watches them go, and he no longer wonders who they’ll come back with. She left a long time ago. The world is splitting the way they had and their call history hadn’t even gotten a chance to be updated.

The last memory he has of her is her smile and her wave, the way she kissed him goodbye at the airport.

 

///

 

Anna drapes a blanket over his shoulders.

The younger girl has always had a gentle touch. It is why she was renowned amongst the pediatricians in their neighborhood. Children flock to her and trust her easily: she is graced with the halo of angels and it is a blessing for those whom she cares for.

He smiles gratefully at her even now, when telling him to go to sleep has become such a habit that his gratitude is useless in the face of it. She disregards his thanks, as she always does, because she insists he doesn’t need to. Hers is only a small contribution.

She stays by his side because they only have each other left.

“Do you still have hope?” he asks, and Anna seems caught off-guard by the honest question, her hands stuttering for a moment before continuing in motion, spinning a bent spoon around another cup of coffee. 

She looks at him for a long time in the wake of his inquiry, and then she smiles, and it’s no longer brief or bitter.

“Better to keep it, right?” she answers, her pale blue eyes meeting his. They look like siblings, but he doesn’t need to know that to treat her like family. When she settles by his side, it’s comforting.

He hums his agreement and accepts the mug she offers him. They’ve adopted many habits. He’s also learned a lot of hers: the way she’s always so ready to look back, waiting for Ray to materialize in her field of vision. Unlike Emma, he’d been in the neighborhood at the time. They should know by now whether he’s alive or not.

But of all the bodies, both dead and alive, they have yet to find sight of him.

“I was thinking we should go,” Anna says quietly. He turns to look at her sharply, and she shrugs helplessly beneath his inquiring stare. “We were going to leave anyway, weren’t we? We obviously can’t stay here forever, and the government ship’s coming from—”

She sucks in a breath. He can understand.

“Oliver will come back in three days’ time,” he mentions quietly. “The ship is set to arrive two days after.”

“Okay. We leave by then,” she says, “Because there’s no one left to find.”

He purses his lips in consideration, and stares at the muddy brown drink in his hands. He briefly thinks that the future looks like this.

“No, I suppose there isn’t,” he replies, because he knows that this might very well be the last rescue operation in their region. If they do not find Ray amongst those people, then there is no one left to stay for. There hasn’t been, for a long time now.

She aims a thankful smile at him, and when she takes his hand to lead them out of the room he holds it just as tightly. They remain side by side as they’ve always been since the End, their empty mugs left on a wooden table.

He takes care of her because he treasures Ray, but he only stays alive because he’s waiting for a call.

He doesn’t own a cellphone anymore, but there is nothing else to live for.

Chapter 23: Nothing Changed.

Summary:

August 9: Ah, my summer one-shot collection is now becoming a whenever-school-gives-me-free-time collection, haha. This was requested by anonymous-san on tumblr. "Emma is the new transfer student and Norman is guiding her around au?"

Song-spiration: Everything Has Changed - Taylor Swift ft. Ed Sheeran

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

The daycare bell rings, signalling that someone has just entered, and bright blue eyes peek out from behind a shelf to look at the door, blinking sadly when they notice that it is only their caretaker.

Norman, shy and behaved, with a quiet intelligence serving as fuel for only the most mischievous, slumps onto his butt on the ground with a petulant huff. Soft, thin strands of hair fall over his forehead, barely grazing his eyebrows, and he’s only kept it so long because she likes it that way, and even though his Mama’s always saying she’ll have it cut soon it never happens.

He’s good at hiding, which is why he remains slumped on his butt on the ground long after the morning has passed, and he’s just missed lunch with the other kids.

“There you are!” Musica is a nice caretaker—much nicer than all the other ones he’s been given over to—and she serves as one of the reasons he stays. Reasons, he thinks. Plural.

“Come out, please,” she coaxes him, because he’s huddled in the darkest corner of the playhouse and she can barely fit through the door. “I saved your lunch for you. You have to eat or you’ll regret it later.”

He’s one of the only kids in the daycare who knows what “regret” means, and he hunches over himself even further when his thoughts sour at the word. He has regrets, surely.

Like taking goodbye for granted.

“Where’s Emma?” he asks instead, and it’s not an unusual question. His father drops him off an hour earlier than the others everyday, so it’s a question asked to pass the time as he waits excitedly for his favorite peer to come barrelling into the room. They have an odd friendship, but a close one, and it disheartens Musica to notice that the usual exuberant question is now tainted by melancholy.

“She’s not here,” she tells him softly. “Just like yesterday, and the day before that.”

“Why isn’t she here?” he presses on, his voice as demanding as a four-year-old can get. And the bar’s set very high. 

Musica exhales, patient and understanding. She settles herself on the ground as well, because she knows this might take a while.

“We just received word from her… aunt,” Musica cringes because she knows, she just knows, that even this four year-old can see the hesitation in her voice. “She won’t be coming here anymore. She’s… going away.”

Norman frowns, and it is only the resilience of a child that allows him to turn his head and ask again, as though he hasn’t heard, “Where’s Emma?”

This continues until a week later, when too many meals have been skipped and the facility can no longer give its care.

 

///

 

“Where is she?” It’s a harsh question, passing through gritted teeth and punctuated by furrowed brows. “She’s twenty minutes late.”

“You don’t have to remind me, Norman,” Ray answers dryly, lifting his watch as he does so. “You don’t reckon she got lost, do you?”

“Professor Sanderson told me she was guided through the admissions office, the dorms, and here,” Norman answers, gesturing to the large expanse that comprised the university’s quad, “So she should at least know how to get here.”

“Unless she forgot.” Ray shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time, right?”

“First time it took them twenty minutes though,” Norman grits out impatiently, and Ray almost snickers because he knows Norman has a strange tick about wasting time. 

“Should we go look for her?” he suggests, but he comes to expect the other boy’s decline.

“It’ll make the situation worse if we go off on our own and she ends up coming while we’re not here,” he points out, before taking a seat on one of the shaded benches. “How about yours?”

“Has yet to be late,” Ray says, “Since we agreed on eight-thirty.”

“Has yet to show up though,” Norman answers, to which Ray snorts and plops himself down beside his friend. “They’re foster-siblings, right? That’s what the records said.”

“Yeah,” Ray confirms. “Anna and Emma Valley, all the way from Sector BO6-32. No wonder they’re opting to transfer—universities there suck.”

“For-profit universities don’t necessarily suck.” Norman has to bite back an amused laugh at Ray’s cynicism, though his eyes betray him, as they sometimes do. “But I heard there isn’t much promise for students’ careers.”

“Yeah, well.” Ray leans back, crossing his legs leisurely. “Whatever their reason for coming, I’m only glad I get to skip a few classes.”

Norman scoffs. “I still marvel at how you’ve gotten this far with an attitude like that.”

“Yours is the only brain I can’t contend with,” Ray answers, sending a subtle smirk his way, “Valedictorian.”

“It was a point-two difference,” Norman returns, “Salutatorian.”

“I’ll take what I can get, I guess,” Ray says, closing his eyes. 

Norman frowns, noticing. “You need to take better care of your health. No matter how many times you try to convince me that studying by candlelight is more effective for you.”

“No promises,” Ray snipes.

“Anna Valley is taking the pre-med course, is she not?” Ray’s eyes snap open when they pick up on the teasing lilt of his voice.

“Did you just—”

“I’m just saying,” Norman shrugs, innocently, even though innocent is the one word Ray will never associate with this boy. “Perhaps she can teach you a thing or two.”

“Shut up, Guardian,” Ray grouses, kicking his shin. Norman winces, and it’s his only victory. “Who are you to play matchmaker?”

“Who said I was matchmaking?” he answers cheekily, which earns him another kick to the shin. “Ow. Stop that.”

“Only if you stop insinuating things,” Ray quips. “But considering your degree, I shouldn’t be surprised. Insinuating is all you’re good at.”

“Says you,” Norman replies, “Forensics.”

Ray huffs. “A necessary evil. And a minor, so get your facts straight.”

“No promises,” Norman snipes, and Ray scowls at him.

“Smartass.”

Norman simply checks his watch again. “It’s eight-thirty.”

“Hm.” Ray’s gaze sweeps their surroundings, and then a pleased smile settles itself over his face. “Guess who isn’t late.”

“Good for you.”

They both stand when they notice Anna isn’t coming alone. There’s a pleasant grin on the blonde’s face, her hair as long as her picture suggests it to be, her cheeks rosy and plump, dimpled when her smile grows wider.

“Sorry she’s late,” Anna says, and a wild orange mane of hair peeks out from behind her shoulder, bashful and contrite.

“Sorry I’m late,” Emma echoes, her voice soft. Norman’s brows crease at the weakness of the sound, though he doesn’t comment on it.

“You’d better be sorry,” Ray crosses his arms, “I had to deal with this piece of shit for the last thirty minutes.”

Norman sighs. “Why do you always do that?”

“It’s more fun that way.” Ray gestures at Anna to come with him. “Chem’s in ten minutes, we better get moving.”

“Mhm.” When she falls into step beside him Ray makes it a point to glare at Norman for his suggestive gaze, his hands shoving themselves deep into his pockets. Anna turns and waves. “See you later, Em! Good luck.”

Emma offers her sister a wobbly smile in response, and then she’s turning to Norman, green eyes searching his face. 

“Sorry,” she says again, and it’s less weak this time, more bold. “I was just…”

“You’re going to be late for class,” he says, turning in the opposite direction Ray’s just gone. “Professor Minerva is not one to be kind, even if you’re new.”

“Oh.” Whatever it was that was simmering in her gaze seems to cool. “Yeah, I—okay.”

She falls into step beside him, swinging her bag around, gnawing her lip. “Do you and I share most classes?” she asks suddenly, and it surprises him even though it doesn’t show on his face. His perceived passivity seems to make her fumble again. “I mean—if you were asked to be my student bud—uh, guide, then we share most of them, right?”

“All of them, actually,” he says, offering her a small smile. “So you certainly won’t be adjusting on your own.”

“Right.” She seems to perk up at the sight of his smile, no matter how small. He thinks he should do it more, so he does. “What’s Mister Minerva’s class like?”

The term for authority is colloquial and serves to amuse him greatly. “Professor,” he corrects smoothly, “And he’s good. Strict, certainly, so no slacking off.”

“Please,” Emma huffs, “As if I got into this university by slacking off.”

“Good attitude,” he appraises, “You should keep it. Tardiness, however—”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” Her cheeks turn red at the reminder and she averts her gaze. “I had a perfectly good reason, I swear.”

“Perfectly good reasons will only last you a while. Professors here deduct points for tardiness, so make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t.” She nods firmly, and it’s enough to convince him. 

“Come on,” he says, as they enter the liberal arts building, “This way.”

There isn’t much room left for talking after that.

 

///

 

She’s playing harshly with the dough, rolling it without mercy and beating it into shape. He eyes her curiously, perceptive as always.

“Again?” he asks, offering her the clay butterfly he’d made.

“Again,” she answers, accepting his gift and pushing away the deformed lumps that only serve to worsen her frustration. “Do you wanna play?”

“Okay,” he says, because Emma’s beautiful when she’s smiling.

 

///

 

“Ray and I usually meet up at the quad again after the first day,” Norman tells her, as they’re walking out of their last class. “He has discount coupons for the nearest Starbucks, so we can get a frappe or two.”

“Really?” She nearly hops in excitement. “I’ve never been to a Starbucks before.”

His brows rise. “Then as Ray would call it, let us enlighten you.”

“Please.” She’s glowing now, with the force of a thousand suns. “But it’s so generous of you guys—”

“Not really,” Norman answers, adjusting his book bag, and steering them back into the quad, “I told you he had coupons. I didn’t say we were paying for it.”

“That’s foul play,” Emma accuses, though she’s grinning. “Anna would love that, though. She’s super shy, so this is all overwhelming for her.”

“Is that why you were late?” Norman guesses, and she nods, looking surprised. Norman waves it off with a smile. “At least she had the foresight to schedule her meet-up thirty minutes late, unlike someone I know.”

Her jaw drops, affronted. “You—!” she splutters, having no excuse. “I—”

“Come on,” he cuts her off, smile widening at the sight of her flushed face, and then he’s taking a sharp left.

“Where are we going?” Emma asks, catching up, her head whipping back in the direction they came. “Isn’t the quad that way?”

“It is.” Norman’s walking briskly now, his leather shoes scraping against the brick walkways of the campus. “But your lateness this morning will serve to be a handy excuse.”

She pouts. “Excuse for what?”

“This.”

He stops, in front of a small fountain, where a few other students are sitting and chatting. No one looks up to pay either of them heed, and Emma stops next to him, breathless.

Paper lanterns dance on the surface, small and lit to showcase painted butterflies. It is a simple display—an overlooked one—but in the blooming sunset they glow softly, vivid and surreal.

He turns to her and fishes a coin from his pocket. “Better make a wish,” he says, “It’s called Butterfly Fountain for a reason.”

“Butterfly Fountain?” she echoes, bemused.

“It’s a remnant, you could say,” he explains. “Towards the end of our freshman year, Ray and I instigated a charity project. I worked with the fine arts students to organize a butterfly themed event, and these paper lanterns were one of the projects. We donated the money to cancer patients, as well as to organizations that help drug addicts and the like.”

“That sounds amazing,” she praises, awed. “But why butterflies?”

He offers her a grin she does not see, though it is reflected by the lanterns as they glide smoothly across the water. “Butterflies symbolize change and endurance.”

She can barely come up with a sufficient answer to that when he’s pressing a coin into her open palm, his touch feather-light and soft, a meager brush and then it’s gone again. It makes her shiver; she meets his gaze.

“Make a wish,” he says, and then his lips slant, humorous. “It’s just a cent, and it’s no longer for charity, so I can assure you no one will be fishing for it.”

She snickers. “Very funny. I don’t know if I have a wish, though.”

“I’m sure you do. Everyone does.” He lifts his own coin, and it glints preciously in the late afternoon sun. “Even me. Let’s make one together?”

“Together,” she repeats, and this makes her smile. Her fingers close tightly around the coin he’s given her, and then she’s raising her hand. “Okay, I have a wish.”

“Then let’s make it,” he says, “In three... two... one.”

Two coins break the surface at the exact same time.

 

///

 

The first time it happens, she’s been absent for a day and the kids all vye for her attention when she walks into the daycare with gauze on her cheek. She takes to their questions as well as any child can—with spunk and a whole lot of genuine peachiness that serves to catch even Musica off-guard—and once the novelty of the patch on her face wears off, everyone’s minding their own business as always.

And as always, it is Norman who sticks his nose farther into her business than anyone else.

“Did someone hit you?” he asks, when they’re playing with the puzzles.

She hums, trying to see if two pieces fit together and grinning when it happens. “What do you mean?” she answers eventually, when she realizes he’s asked her something.

“It’s not normal,” he says, though his brows furrow, like he’s frustrated he can’t say any more than that. “It’s not normal,” he repeats.

“It’s normal,” she insists. She’s still smiling. “In my house, it’s normal.”

Later, when she’s playing roughly with the others, the gauze falls off to reveal an ugly purple mark on her cheek. He looks for the paint tubes after that, because whoever had decided to paint her face like that was bad at choosing colors.

 

///

 

“So this is a Starbucks,” she breathes, and she does breathe, Norman is entertained to notice, because she’s inhaling the scent of ground coffee and mocha like there’s no tomorrow. 

Ray seems to notice it too, because he snorts loudly.

“What better place to be educated than university, huh?” he gripes sarcastically beneath his breath, and Norman laughs. “So. Problem number one: finding a seat.”

“I’ll find one,” Norman offers, and then he turns to the girls. “You guys go with Ray and choose something, I’ll wave you over when you’re done.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ray says, “As always. Come on.”

Anna follows him easily, though Emma lingers for a moment, looking torn.

“What is it?” he asks, concerned.

“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “Nothing, so…”

She breathes in again, and this time he’s sure it’s not just for the sake of savoring her first time stepping into a Starbucks. “I’ll… um… go,” she stutters sheepishly, and then she’s stepping away from him despite the fact that their gazes are still locked.

She hurries away, and he keeps his smile to himself, aiming it at his shoes. He catches her talking animatedly with Anna and Ray later, when he’s found a table by the window, and he buries his mouth in his sleeve, watching her until people block the view.

 

///

 

She places a crown on his head, plopping back into her seat with a satisfied sound.

“You’re the prince,” she dictates, “And I’m the princess.”

“Okay,” he answers, because he has no problem with this turn of events whatsoever. He places a hand over the plastic block shaped into a railing. It still smells new—the playhouse is a recent addition to the daycare centre. “This is our castle.”

“Yup!” She seems happy he said so, and then she’s scooting as close to him as she possibly can. “We’re gonna rule the world forever!”

“Forever!” He follows, and he doesn’t know it then but in his heart he feels he’ll gladly follow this girl for the rest of his life.

 

///

 

“I was thinking we could head to the park, since it’s still six,” Norman suggests, when they’re twenty minutes into their iced coffees and Ray’s on his second round. His friend eyes him with accusation, and he simply gestures discreetly in response.

“I don’t know, it’s getting a little late…?” Anna pipes up, sounding bashful.

Ray snorts. “Late for you, maybe. Late for Norman is eight in the morning.”

“Eight in the morning?” Emma ducks her head, embarrassed, though a little annoyed, if Norman is reading the subtle scrunch of her nose correctly. “I already apologized for that, okay, I didn’t mean to be so late—”

“No, it’s not you,” Ray corrects. “It’s late for him because he’s fucking nocturnal.”

“Really?” Anna asks, surprised. “How do you keep your skin so clear, then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Ray comments, smirking into his cup. Norman rolls his eyes—so what if he has a legitimate skin care routine?

“Here’s a better question,” Emma says, “How are you still so attentive in class?”

Ray snorts. “Wouldn’t we all like to know.” The remark causes everyone to laugh this time, a gentle smile resting on Norman’s lips when it dies down and the conversation moves on to something else.

They’re throwing their cups away in the bin when Emma approaches him.

“I’d… still like to go to the park,” she mumbles softly. She glances at Anna, who’s chatting with Ray, and then she turns back to him, something resolute and fiery sparking behind her irises. “Just the two of us.”

“Okay,” he agrees easily, because the offer has always just been intended for her. “Ray can walk Anna back.”

“Mhm.” She steps closer to him, and seems pleased when he makes no attempt to move away. “She knows, and she—” Her cheeks color again, “—agreed, so we can go now, if you like?”

“Excited?”

“No!” she blurts out, and he’s endeared by the way her face turns even more saturated at the outburst, a healthy red coating her cheeks, pink tainting the tips of her ears. “I mean—I just thought it was a good idea, and the park’s always nice, and…” She stops herself mid-ramble at the knowing look on his face, and resorts to averting her gaze. “...okay, fine. I’m excited.”

“Excitement looks good on you,” he compliments, and it only causes the red of her face to stay a little longer, which is what he wants.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, still heated, and he bites back his laughter if only to let her keep her dignity.

She’s still trying to finish her frappe—she got the venti, which hadn’t fazed Norman in the least, because Ray always gets a trenta—though it’s almost done when they’re stepping out into the September air, humming as they stroll along the busy sidewalks.

She takes one last, final gulp, and then she’s cringing as her brain freezes over.

“I told you not to do that,” he tells her, teasing, and she sticks her tongue out at him in reply, chucking her cup into a trash bin as they walk through the park gates.

“I can do whatever I want,” she sniffs, and he offers her his handkerchief when she sniffs again. 

“You’re still so childlike, did you know?” he remarks, when she gratefully accepts the hanky and pats her nose with it. 

She freezes like her brain for a moment, the chill coursing through her spine speaking only of familiarity and remembrance. “Still?” she repeats, her voice almost lost to the strength of her breath as she looks at him, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. “You mean…?”

He’s smiling at her but it’s shy this time, far from the collected and composed college student she’d met earlier, and far from the stranger she’d feared him to be.

“How could I forget you?” he confirms softly, though his blue eyes are piercing, intense and intelligent, as they’ve always been—as she remembers them, in the fragments of memory she still has, even after all these years.

“Norman,” she says, and this time she almost looks like she’s going to cry, “I missed you.”

“Yeah.” He blinks, steps closer to her when her tears fall. “Yeah, me too. I looked for you everyday.”

She almost laughs—she kind of does, even though it’s mixed with her sniffles. “Mama’s always saying the first thing you always asked was ‘Where’s Emma?’ Every single morning, without fail, you’d ask ‘Where’s Emma?’ until she dropped me off and I went through the door.”

The corner of his lip tugs upward at the memory, and he laughs with her. “Yeah, Dad still teases me about it sometimes. You definitely made your mark. Even…” he pauses, eyes shadowed, “...even after you left, I’d still ask for you. I don’t remember much, but I’ll always remember asking for you.”

“I’m so happy,” she says, wiping her tears away, “I was so scared that you wouldn’t remember me.”

“You were late because you realized it’s me, huh?” She pouts at his observation, and he pulls the hanky from her grip, does a better job of wiping her face. “Something tells me Anna wasn’t the one who was overwhelmed.”

“Stop being smart,” she gripes, though she’s grinning, and she’s leaning into his touch. “What a coincidence though, right?”

“A good coincidence,” he answers, brushing her hair behind her ears and clearing her face. “A monumental one.”

“I found you,” she says. “You found me.”

He smiles, then his hand is falling away. “What did happen to you? After…”

Her lips stretch secretively, and then she’s turning away from him, though he doesn’t fail to catch the way her eyes darken for a moment. “I’ll tell you some other day,” she says. “I want to catch up! I want to know if you went anywhere, what you did—we can start with that charity project, maybe we can make another one this year!”

He chuckles. “Slow down,” he tells her, and then he’s offering her his hand, “Catching up is a good start.”

She beams brilliantly at him, slipping her fingers into the spaces between his.

“I missed you so much, you know,” she says, and he’ll never get used to the pretty color of her cheeks when she blushes, “I still want to be with you forever.”

He pauses at the sentiment, and she freezes with him, opting to apologize for being too forward, but then he’s pressing his lips to her cheek, just over the corner of her mouth.

“Forever,” he answers, and his cheeks are red too, “Sounds good to me.”

Chapter 24: Say It.

Summary:

August 16: The sort of sequel to "Nothing Changed", but incorporating another prompt: "Norman and Emma playing truth or dare au? ♡"

Timeline goes backwards.

Song-spiration: Say It Now - We the Kings

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“Your hair’s so long,” Emma remarks, and he makes a happy noise when she presses herself to his side, her warmth breaking through the chill of the frigid December air.

“Only because I wasn’t able to brush it back and gel it,” he mumbles, pulling up his scarf so that it’s covering his chin.

“You really don’t do well in winter, do you?” she says, and it’s an observation that requires no reply. She wraps her arm around his waist, nuzzles her cheek into his shoulder. “Come on. One last class and then we can go get some hot chocolate.”

“Sounds good,” he agrees, breathily. “Ray got a Swiss Miss box, did you know? It was forty-percent off.”

“Ray’s so good at finding discounts,” Emma crinkles her nose, “How does he do that?”

“Introduced him to… something a while back.” Norman cringes, though his mouth spreads into a droll smile. “He hasn’t looked back since.”

“Oh? Introduce it to me too!” She tugs on his sleeve, and pouts when he shakes his head.

“A path to the dark side it is,” Norman says, lowering his voice into a dramatic baritone. Emma laughs, and the sound causes him to break character and level a gentle smile her way.

“Nerd,” she comments, pulling him closer. “Wanna go on a Star Wars marathon later?”

“Hot chocolate and Star Wars,” he says, his arm coming around to rest on her shoulders and completely nestle her into his side, “Sounds like the perfect Friday to me.”

“Now if only we can get through Philosophy.”

He snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

“Aw, it’s not my fault I don’t spend my free time reading Plato’s Laws for fun.”

“You should consider it,” he tells her, “You might learn a thing or two.”

“I learn enough hearing you talk about it,” she sniffs, “Like a nerd.”

“Stop,” he chides, pinching her shoulder, “You’re learning from Ray.”

“Who said I learned from Ray? I was the first, you know,” she says, grinning proudly. “Ray can’t claim monopoly over teasing you.”

“Hm?” He twists her around, impishness lighting behind his intelligent blue eyes. “Well, you’re right about that. You comprise a lot of firsts for me.”

She hums in satisfaction when he leans over to steal a kiss, her fingers twisting into his hair, soft now that he’s forgotten to gel it.

She brushes the strands away from his forehead when he pulls away, and then she’s pressing her lips to his cheek. “You should stop gelling your hair,” she says, “I like it better when I can touch it like this.”

He laughs. “Next thing I know you’ll have me growing it out.”

“Norman in a ponytail,” she teases, “That would be a real sight. I want to see it now. I dare you to grow your hair out.”

He arches a brow. “We aren’t playing a game. I’m not obligated to listen to you.”

She kisses him deeply in response. “Well, now you are.”

 

///

 

“Dare,” Norman says, because Emma’s been harping all morning about how he’s always picking Truth.

She grins exuberantly at the notion, the green of her eyes and the shine of her smile so vivid to him that he finds he harbors no regret for this choice.

Even later, when Emma’s got him walking the monkey bars with wobbly legs.

She seems to notice the wobbly legs. “Norman!” she calls, and she looks so tiny to him from down below. The playground is so vast, but she’s hard to lose sight of. “You can come down if you want! It was just a dare!”

“I can do it!” he says, because he’s a four year-old with pride and Emma asked—dared—him to do it, so he will.

Even when his wobbly legs make him fall.

She’s there trying to catch him despite that.

Musica bans them from the playground for a week.

 

///

 

“Do you remember that yummy mushroom thing you made for Ray’s birthday?” 

“Hm?” Norman only has to think for a second. “The garlic mushroom cream sauce?”

“Yeah!” Emma spins around—in time with the music blasting from their speakers, surprisingly—to regard him fully. “Can you show me how to make that?”

“Okay,” he complies. “But finish marinating the chicken first.”

“Bossy.” She sticks her tongue out. “Did you learn that from Ray?”

He recognizes the reference from earlier and rolls his eyes. “Bold of you to assume it’s me who learns from Ray and not the other way around.”

She shrugs. “You can never be too sure.” 

He doesn’t reply because she’s singing along to the music again, and he grins instead because she makes even a humble kitchen turn into a sun-kissed paradise. And she almost spills the marinated chicken all over the floors, but Norman’s always been good at keeping her upright.

“We’re running out of instant noodles,” she tells him, when she’s cooking the chicken and he’s just finished showing her how to make the sauce.

He snorts. “Good riddance.”

“It’s basic sustenance!” she insists, and it’s an argument she’s made so many times before that he knows she’s only doing it for fun, because no matter how many times he lifts his nose in distaste she will always fill his shopping cart with instant noodles and they will always end up eating it for dinner when coursework is eating up too much of their time.

“Of course,” he agrees wryly this time, and she laughs, because he’s so strict about everything else.

“How sweet of you,” she remarks, tilting her chin up so she can meet his gaze. “No, really. You’re so sweet.”

“Because it’s you,” he tells her simply, and she will never admit it but his honesty will always serve to make her weak in the knees.

Her cheeks, however, give her away. Norman beams when he notices, and he reaches over to pinch them. “Cute,” he mentions shyly, and for all his sincerity she’s endeared by how bashful he can be when it comes to his feelings.

“You’re cuter,” she replies, because it’s true—at least for her—and the way Norman’s brows furrow only serves to prove her point.

“You’re cooking,” he tells her, “You’ve no room for argument.”

“It’s almost done!” she defends herself. “And shut up because you’re the one with a skin-care routine!”

“Don’t use my habits against me,” he says, though his cheeks are red enough with mirth to match hers. “You’re the cutest.”

She gapes at him. “Don’t use grammar against me either!”

He laughs at her flabbergasted expression and takes the saucepan so he can add the finishing touch to their Friday meal. She pouts at him, though she knows when she’s lost an argument and she’s already turning to get a plate.

When they nestle on the couch with a blanket draped over them both, they have a shared plate of good food settled on their laps and a stress-relieving marathon coming their way.

The Star Wars title appears on the screen, and she turns to him, her face illuminated in blue: “You’re adorable.”

“Were you trying to think of a synonym this whole time?”

“Hush, marshmallow.”

He buries his laughter in her hair.

 

///

 

“You eat chicken like that?”

Norman frowns derisively. Emma decides to swipe his gravy and pour it all over her chicken in retaliation, because his reaction only serves to encourage her.

One of their fellow daycare peers is celebrating their fifth birthday, which means the parents have arranged for a small party at the center. There’s chicken and fries from the nearest fast food joint, and pizza to come later, the notion of which is enough to make the children even more hyperactive than usual.

Which doesn’t bode well for a child who’s already extremely hyperactive by default.

“That’s gross,” Norman says.

“Okay,” Emma replies, because she doesn’t really care.

“You should it eat properly,” he persists.

“Pro-per-ly?” she struggles to echo. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know?” He’s too surprised for it to be normal, so she kind of listens. (As well as she can, anyway.) “Mama’s always telling me I should eat properly. That means using the spoon and the fork and eating slowly.”

“So I can’t use my hands?” Emma’s pouting now, and Norman finds he doesn’t like that reaction from her. “But I’m always using hands at home! My Mama doesn’t care about pro-per-ly!”

“Really?” He matches the expression on her face and seems to ponder for a moment. They don’t talk much after that, there’s no need to, and then Emma’s swiping the chicken from his plate when he tells her he’s not hungry.

“Let’s get pizza together later, okay?” she tells him, with a mouth full of fried poultry.

He nods. “Wanna play?”

“Play what?”

“Truth or dare?”

“Mmm…” Emma seems to have learned from last month’s incident, because then she’s saying, “Truth!”

 

///

 

Their first kiss is the consequence of a Truth.

He’s tweezing her eyebrows on a lazy Sunday afternoon, because she asked and he already had tweezers on hand. She’s filtering through his “kit” as he does so, her brows furrowing—“Emma, don’t do that.”—when she notices that he actually has all the materials for a legitimate skin-care routine.

“Wow, Ray wasn’t kidding,” she marvels, lifting up a bottle of night oil.

“Of course he wasn’t,” he replies, pinching her nose. “Ray doesn’t kid.”

“Huh,” and her voice comes out rather cute, because he’s still pinching her nose. “Can I do it with you today?”

“What?” He looks baffled, and she beams at the sight.

“Why not?” she insists, facing him as he returns the tweezers to his manicure set. “It’ll be fun! And I don’t have a routine, so it’ll be a good cure for my dry, flaky skin!”

“Your skin isn’t dry,” he replies, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing just below her eyelids so that her lashes flutter prettily in response. “Or flaky.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“No I’m not.”

“Still!” She takes his hand in hers and squeezes. “Wouldn’t it be fun?”

He manages a smile at that. “You think going through a skin care routine would be fun?”

“Why not?” 

He sighs in compliance. After all, excitement does look good on her, and who is he to refuse her requests, no matter how strange?

“Only you,” he comments, shaking his head. “But if you want to do it with me, then… stay the night?” His cheeks flush tomato red. “Maybe?”

She seems to perk up even further at the suggestion. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Norman!”

 

///

 

“Okay, first. Towelette.”

“Towelette,” Emma repeats, retrieving the said item from the kit. She looks at him through the bathroom mirror, and it’s strange to look at him this way, because he’s a reflection that she can touch.

“Wipe your face with it,” he says, doing just as much for himself. “This is like a preliminary step for wiping the dirt away.”

“Preliminary step?”

“Cleaning usually takes multiple steps, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she answers, looking pensive. “It does.”

He catches the melancholy that passes through her face at the notion and decides to pluck the towelette from her hands, gently running it over her cheeks, her nose, her forehead.

“Norman,” she says, her voice muffled, “I can do it myself!”

“I know,” he replies. “But can I?”

He pulls the towel away and finds that her eyes are twinkling. Maybe it’s the reflection of the bathroom lights, maybe it’s just his imagination, but she’s already looking brighter and he’s sure it’s not because of any cleaning agents in the towelette. “First steps can be difficult,” he tells her.

“What’s so difficult about wiping my face with a towelette?” she answers, but there’s gratitude in her eyes. “What’s next?”

“Cleanser,” he responds, and she rolls her eyes.

“Should’ve known.”

“So, take one pump of cleanser,” he says—“Ou, peach,” she interrupts, reading off the bottle— “Then wash your face.”

“Wash it?” There’s that mischievous spark to her expression that serves as his only warning. Splashing their faces soon turns into splashing each other, and her laughter reverberates throughout the bathroom, echoing in his ears, filling up the caverns of his heart. He likes to hear her laugh.

He loves to see her smiling.

“Okay, next,” he says, when he’s patting her face lightly with the towel to dry her off, “We exfoliate.”

“Sounds fancy,” she responds, and her cheeks look as fluffy as the towel that he wants to die. “What’s that?”

“I’m pretty sure you know what exfoliate means,” he remarks.

“No I don’t,” she tilts her head innocently. “I’m dumb. What’s that?”

He tugs on her antenna because he’s tall enough to do it leisurely. “You’re not dumb.”

She hums, smiling sweetly, and then she’s saying, “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” he answers, because it’s automatic now.

“Hug me.”

“You didn’t have to dare me to do that.”

“But you said I’m not dumb,” she mocks a swoon, falling into his arms, “That’s romantic.”

“Emma,” he groans, “You’re heavy.”

“Sorry.” She immediately stands straight again. “I forgot you were a pickle. Don’t sweep girls off their feet if you can’t carry them, Norman.”

He huffs, and then he’s folding her into his arms. “You’re the one doing the sweeping here, you know.”

“Cause I’m stronger than you?”

“That, for one,” he acknowledges. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth!”

He hesitates, but she’s still in his arms, and it’s time to exfoliate. “What happened to you?”

She seems to deflate at the question, her shoulders sagging as though she’d expected it, and he’s only glad she isn’t pulling away.

She’s quiet for only a moment, and then she’s looking up at him, her fingers curling into his shirt. “Papa was… abusive,” she says softly. “Mama usually took the blows for me, but sometimes he’d hit me too. She worked hard and saved aside some cash so she could send me to daycare, because at least there I had you.” She smiles bitterly at the thought, and he runs a hand through her hair in comfort, palm brushing over the cheek that was, more than once, colored purple.

“Eventually, she decided she didn’t want to take care of me anymore,” she continues with a sigh, her eyes shadowed with withered anger. “Not when he was there, not when she couldn’t protect me always. So she tried to call up some old classmates, looked for every resource she could, so she could keep me safe. A family in Sector BO6-32 eventually responded—an old classmate, Dina, was sympathetic—so she sent me away. I haven’t seen or heard from her since, so I came back for two things: to find her again, and to find you.”

She rises on her tiptoes, presses her forehead to his. “Already accomplished one goal, so that makes me happy.”

He holds her close, breathes her in. “I’ll help you.”

She blinks, pulling away. “What?”

“I’ll help you,” he repeats, “find her.”

“Norman, you don’t—”

“No, but I want to.” Their noses bump, their breaths mingle. “Let me do this for you, please.”

“You’ve done a lot,” she says.

“Maybe,” he hedges, “But I haven’t done enough.”

She nudges him, palm resting over his chest, where his heart would be. “Don’t say that,” she admonishes, emerald fire burning in her eyes. “Don’t you ever say that, Norman Minerva.”

He smiles against her skin, and the line of his mouth is resolute. She glares up at him when she sees it, though he’s avoidant, and reaches for the face mask bottle instead. He waves it in front of her face. “Time to detoxify.”

She snorts, but she’s swiping the bottle from him nonetheless. She stares at it for a moment, and then she’s looking at him again. “Truth or Dare.”

“Truth,” he says, for variety.

“If I asked you to, would you kiss me?”

He blinks.

She kisses him.



///



Ray walks into the dorm room later that night to find Norman rubbing coconut milk and lemon into her hair, because hair needs nourishment too. There are twin masks on their faces, and twin lovestruck smiles on their lips.

“Great,” Ray grouses, heading for the fridge, “Now I have to deal with two cucumbers.”

Chapter 25: Final Destination.

Notes:

October 8: You can thank BizLawGal for kicking me in the butt about this one-shot collection. This chapter is fresh from the drafting stage, so it is 95% unedited and doesn't even have a song-spiration because who knows at this point? It's a Final Destination AU where everyone dies except Norman and Emma, and I think this was... a rather interesting take.

I don't know what I was thinking, but I love it as it is.

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

They were simply too noble for their own good, Death thought, as it maneuvered around cobblestone streets and cotton candy stands and the occasional bike. The day was bright, which was good, because that meant it was easier to see the pathways— the strings that dictated who would die, how they’d die, how they’d try to evade it. Because even when they are bound by fate humanity will continue to struggle; even when Death itself, gifted with foresight after the Fates deemed it worthy of the task (ironic indeed, the Fates were, it liked to think they sat around in the cosmos drinking hot tea brewed from erupted stars and eating cookies sprinkled with asteroids on top).

In any case, there were two people Death could not touch, no matter how many times it tried to unveil the pathways they bore; no matter how many times it tried to convince them into committing suicide with every single death that plagued all they came into contact with.

Simply put, Death could not understand why it could not see these mortals’ threads, because every other mortal for all the time that it’s been around has had that thread wrapped around their necks, their hearts, their feet, their stomach—it led to whatever sucked the life out of them, and it weaved into every single object necessary to their demise.

Such as this green-haired fellow with the big round glasses; her pathway wraps around her body like a Mummy’s wrappings. Death serves to make an example and so it does, with a coincidental screw rolling about to skewer an unsuspecting skateboard and send the girl flying into an abyss of watery cement. Death thinks she might have made a wonderful statue if she’d been able to die upright, but lo and behold, here come the mortals without the threads, working together to disrupt her fate, glasses and all.

Death watches, frustrated and amused, though not at all resigned, as one mortal (her hair so bright Death thinks it might have been made of silk spun from the stars) sticks a hand out to catch the green-haired one before she enters her doom, and the other mortal (his eyes so clear Death thinks it might have been made of the purest glass) pulls both girls back with a well-placed belt and a dash of what Death thinks humans call Physics.

It’s maddening, whenever these two show up.

They just won’t die.

And they won’t let others die with them, either.

So Death sets a trap.

 

///

 

It is a good trap.

It takes place in a shopping mall built on what was once a mausoleum, and Death believes it to be befitting the two people he wants so very much to kill—just to prove something, maybe. It wonders why it thirsts for their souls so; perhaps that is why humans are given the privilege of the strings, so that Death may not find them and take them as it pleases. But there is no stopping Death—not even two mortals who have learned to stick to each other like glue and work with each other like gears.

The trap begins with a stuffed bunny. 

It belongs to a little girl Death had chosen himself, because her pathway was short enough to begin with that he could tamper it a little—tie a knot and pull. She’s walking home from school to the East, humming a strange lullaby, and Death’s Most Hated mortals enter from the West, their hands held and their faces flushed and one’s mouth roaming in places it should not be roaming when in public, but Death cares not for propriety.

It is the girl’s frightened shriek that snaps the two out of their amorous daze, and they spring into action faster than Death can expect after such a tryst, rushing after the girl. But the pathway never usually fails, and so it shall not fail now, as the girl’s bunny rolls into the traffic, evading spiked tires and drunk drivers better than the girl ever could on her own. 

One mortal takes her right hand; the other takes her left hand, and they cross the street together, but Death isn’t done yet.

The bunny stops rolling when it hits the curb, and just a metre away is the butcher’s shop, where the new hire parades around with a scalpel as he rushes to return all the meat he’d gotten caught stealing. He slips on the floor that the janitor is mopping at the same moment a stranger enters the door, and the scalpel goes flying out, whirling in the little girl’s direction as she stoops down to pick up her bunny.

One mortal, the one with hair like starlight, is quick to catch it, but as she leans forward to do so and her partner grabs her by the arm to keep her from falling over and accidentally stabbing herself, a driver with a blood alcohol level of 0.2 decides to play Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae) on the radio and follow along to the dance moves, effectively rendering the mortal with eyes like glass to move in protection of his partner and leave the little girl sprawled between the front of a truck and the back of a sidewalk, as glassy-eyed as he and with her heart out in the open for everyone to see as blood seeps into the fur of her stuffed bunny.

The girl without a pathway screams, and the sound is brutal to everyone who hears it, wrenched with guilt-laced agony for being unable to protect a single girl. The boy beside her is frozen, his eyes surveying the scene, his hold on her tightening and untightening as though contemplating whether he would have taken the risk to save the girl or if he was inclined to accept what had happened like the wretch he was and somehow this set of reactions almost makes Death relinquish its desire to crush these mortals without a pathway for it to see, because why did it cause remorse to coarse through an entity that defies all laws of existence?

Still, a trap is a trap, and while they remain frozen the antenna to the radio station from across the street comes undone when a pigeon crashes into it, confused by all the commotion down below. It falls on rusty hinges, perpendicular to the two people Death targets, but again the girl is quick to move, and she is shoving them both out of the way only to leave an entire café of innocent citizens collectively stabbed through by the devil’s horn of media broadcasting.

An unattended blender decides to spasm and cause a spark of electricity to surge throughout the café’s main circuits, frying some already dead bodies and causing the oven with casserole in it to promptly burst into flame, the gas it was already leaking causing the explosion to filter into the outside, where chaos is raining in the streets. If the fire won’t prove enough to kill this Unkillable Duo, then Death deems they can be stomped down six feet under.

This, of course, is too easy of a way out for this stubborn couple, and their hands are laced when they run in the flow of the crowd to avoid getting pushed over and crushed. The antenna from before, connected as it is to the cables attached to the street lamps, serves as an unnatural conductor of the Blender’s Electricity Surge, therefore causing a district-wide black out. 

Telephones go out. Washing machines stop tumbling. Vacuum cleaners stop sucking.

Two boys in their backyard with illegal ownership of a set of mini-rockets find their experiments going awry and run to take cover as a series of unauthorized take-offs occur, their rockets flying so high into the sky at such a speed that they cut through the wings of a passing airplane. Death would grin at the sight if it could—timing was the key, after all, and if it were to beat the mortal who defied it with Physics then it would need to use the same principles as well.

Bullet rockets cause an entire plane to hurtle down the Earth at meteorite-speed, and if Death has made its calculations correctly then it will land just over the place the Unsquashable Pair will find themselves running to in the next three minutes.

Screams drown the world and Death almost revels in it; but there is no cause for celebration yet. If this trap is set to work then the couple will die in a blaze of glory—a fitting and respectful end, Death thinks, for a girl whose hair resembled the heat of a thousand suns and a boy whose eyes resembled the product of sand heated at such a temperature. They truly are a pair, in all aspects, and so they shall die as such.

Three minutes pass, and Death finds its blaze of glory causing an entire town to erupt into flames. It searches through cut strings for a pair of burnt bodies that remain unattached except to each other, and it is to Death’s frustration that it cannot find two such fried chickens.

And the fallout was such a delicious sight too—Death looks around, trying vainly to find these mortals through all the blood and all the damage. 

It finds them huddled together in the emptied storage space of a rather large ice cream stand, slightly injured but otherwise alive, and Death almost screams, because of course the only two people in the world who couldn’t die would live through the most ridiculous of means.

It kicks the asphalt, beaten.

And realizes for the first time in its existence that it is just a petty, ebony-haired cattle-child who died too early and couldn’t even find the means to kill his two best friends.

Chapter 26: Weaknesses.

Summary:

October 28: Someone said BNHA AU but BNHA means nothing without Bakugo, so it ended up becoming a crossover instead. I've joked about Norman-Bakugo interactions many times before, but never guessed I'd actually end up writing it. Crazy.

Try to guess their quirks?

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“Oh great,” Ray grates, stretching his leg over the rough surface of the training grounds. His bangs delicately frame the signature scathing look that is his one-eyed stare, and he caps his remark off with a dirtily said, “Now there are three idiots.”

“Oh yeah?” Bakugo Katsuki is a menace, and he proves it when he returns Ray’s dirty look with an explosive one of his own, punctuated by two warning shots that echo from his sweat-laced palms. “One of them’s you, Cyclops, now get outta the fuckin’ way.”

“The training grounds are open for everyone at this time, you know!” Emma hollers — literally the only person in class besides Ochako who dares approach the self-dubbed King Explosion Murder with sincere peachiness. “We’re all training to be heroes just like you!”

Bakugo opens his big fat mouth to deliver some big fat line he thinks is intelligent, but he catches a sturdy blue-eyed gaze and finds his words dying on his lips.

His eyes narrow combatively, and with an aggressive huff he storms out of the training compound.

Emma pouts. “And here I thought we could have helped each other train.”

“Mm, I suppose,” Norman offers, eyes sliding closed. Ray eyes the spring curve of his smile warily. “You shouldn’t have called him an idiot though, Ray. Bakugo’s far from it.”

“I call ‘em like I see ‘em, Guardian,” is Ray’s pithy response, and then Emma’s flipping into a somersault overhead, three arrows zipping through the air to land on three earthen targets Ray just made.

 

///

 

Bakugo’s pitted against Nat in hand-to-hand combat the next day, and the entire class sits bored at the edge of the arena as spectators for a match that’s already been won. While Nat’s quirk allows him to dodge physical assaults elegantly for a period of time, Bakugo’s sharp reflexes and undeniable combat ability still place him at an advantage.

Momo points out that this match was well-assigned, as it would boil down to a battle of attrition unless one of them comes up with something creative enough to end it quickly. Either way, Nat can’t dodge forever — his stamina won’t last for long — but Bakugo sure acts like he can punch forever most days, so it’s not looking good for Nat at all.

“This battle isn’t about winning,” Norman says, and next to him Momo nods in agreement. “This class isn’t focused on training us how to win. Nat’s weakness is that he gets tired too easily. Aizawa-sensei intentionally pit him against Bakugo to refine that weakness.”

“Well-put as always, Norman,” Momo praises. Deku hurries to take quick notes in his corner, muttering vehemently under his breath. As the two smartest people in the class discuss the ongoing battle further (to Deku’s excitement), a stray kick eventually winds up a needle’s breadth away from Norman’s perfectly breakable nose.

The entire class quiets, and Norman blinks. “Your stance was off there,” he shifts, smirking, “Kacchan.”

Bakugo’s shoulders ripple like water that’s been disrupted by a boulder, and he spins around, abrupt. Nat whines at having been forgotten so easily.

“Call me Kacchan again, highlighter, and let’s see whose balance is off.”

“You’ve got to find a better insult,” Ray scoffs, angling himself defensively by Norman’s side.

“Then find a better nickname!” Bakugo barks back, looking ready to ignite both boys in front of him till kingdom come.

Norman’s gaze slides from Aizawa, who’s watching the situation unfold from across the arena, to Bakugo, whose red eyes burn like hellfire. There’s something rigid about that stance, he notes, Bakugo’s muscles tense as though he’s itching to throw a punch but can’t.

A quick assessment of the situation causes him to step forward in challenge. “You hold a grudge against me, don’t you? It’s not vengeful like the one you hold for Deku, nor is it competitive like the one you hold for Emma or Todoroki. No. You don’t hate me—” Norman’s eyes flash like moonlight glinting off ice, impenetrable as glaciers as they collide with the fiery tempest of Bakugo’s gaze. “You’re afraid—”

“Shut the hell up, butter boy!” 

As always, Bakugo fires the first shot.

Ray’s quick to pull Norman aside. Simultaneously, Emma fires off four of her arrows from her spot nestled among the girls, all of them meant to pin Bakugo down to the ground. They pierce through a column of smoke and fire, missing their target by mere millimeters.

Bakugo emerges from the wall of flame, and catches Norman by the collar before Emma or Ray can act any further.

The boy doesn’t seem fazed however, the curl of his platinum locks impeccable as ever as he stares down at the raging beast lifting him by the claws. That stupid smirk is still on his face, and Bakugo growls with the need to wipe it clean off!

He pulls his open fist back for a punch, and Norman acts quickly at the opening, using his feet to tap on pressure points he’s studied relentlessly over the years to protect himself if ever the need arose. He’s physically weaker than every single one of his classmates, except perhaps Nat and Mineta, but he’s knowledgeable and can place just enough force behind a pressure point to reduce his target into a useless popsicle.

Still, Bakugo is not to be underestimated, so while he’s released to land nimbly on the ground, the angry little pomeranian still rages at him like he’s a bull and Norman’s dressed in red.

“Oh no you don’t!” 

Emma’s the force to counteract that bull-headed fury, and it is with all her might that she punches Bakugo Katsuki right in the face.

Her quirk ensures that she never misses a target, after all.

Bakugo crashes into the ground, and Ray stomps on his chest before he can get up a second time. 

“Had enough, hot stuff?” the sullen boy asks. “Cause Emma’s probably going to stomp on you harder if you keep this up and scratch him.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” Emma defends.

“Yes you would,” the entire class choruses, and Emma colors at the collective accusation.

“But Emma’s so nice,” Norman comments, like he wasn’t just assaulted a moment ago. His expression softens, and he strides forward to press a light kiss over her bruised knuckles. “I know you could have broken this by swinging at him, you reckless girl.”

“But I didn’t!” she assures, grinning, and he laughs at the chipper reaction.

“Norman,” Aizawa calls, sounding bored, “Could you please inform Bakugo how many points he’s just lost in today’s class?”

“Five, sir.”

“What do you mean I lost points!” Bakugo flails beneath Ray’s rock-hard boot. “Get off me, motherfucker!”

“The point of today’s class wasn’t about winning battles, but it wasn’t about losing them like an idiot, either,” Aizawa says. “Either way, you saved Nat the embarrassment. Now Emma, you’re up against Kirishima. Get your ass off the floor Bakugo, you’re wasting our time.”

The class titters apprehensively at the notion that there are other criteria being judged in today’s activity, though Emma’s only skipping happily to one edge of the arena like she’s not worried about losing points at all (and knowing her, she really isn’t, because she doesn’t care for points).

Norman makes his way to Bakugo and offers to help him up, but his hand is shoved away with an indelicate smack. 

“What the hell breadstick, it’s not you I need to fight, it’s her!”

“Hey,” Norman scolds, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t look at my girlfriend that way. I’d be obligated to punch you in the face.”

“Yeah?” Bakugo nurses his jaw. “I’d like to see you try, dipshit. You’d probably break your own bones.”

Norman laughs. “Well yeah, probably.”

 

///

 

“I don’t understand,” Mina whispers in Ochako’s ear later, when they walk into the training compound to find Norman facilitating drills for both Emma and Bakugo. “Do they get along or not?”

“Well…” Ochako considers the situation thoughtfully.

Across from them, Emma grabs Norman’s whistle and blows it. “Get on the Kacchan express, Norman!”

“The what now!” Bakugo whirls around to yell some more but Ray has him tripping onto the ground in three seconds flat. “Oi!”

“Sit on him quick!” Emma shoves Norman onto his back. “That’s two hundred sit-ups for you, Mister! Norman’s light as a feather! You’re not too wimp, are you!?"

“Who you callin’ a wimp, Shit Hair!?” he yells. Across campus, Kirishima feels a sudden chill run up his spine and sneezes. “Breadstick’s better off sitting on you!”

“As nice as that sounds, we’re training right now!” She blows hard on Norman’s whistle again. “Now hop to it! We don’t have all day! You want to be indisputable number one, right!?”

Not a moment later, and Norman’s already counting all the sit-ups Bakugo’s doing while sitting cross-legged on his back. Emma cheers energetically beside them, a timer in Ray’s hand. Ochako stifles a laugh behind her palm at the sight.

“Oh yeah, they get along,” she tells Mina. “Bakugo just hates how Norman’s quirk can see all of his weaknesses.”

Chapter 27: Only Place.

Summary:

November 1: Anonymous-san on Tumblr asked for a Weathering With You AU. The way films like that are composed and visually told remind me of abrupt poetry: like you're being told such a wonderful line but aren't given the chance to dwell too long on it, or understand it. You just feel it, like a truth you can't deny. I tried to translate some of that feeling into this piece; I love the movie and the thought of Emma as a sunshine girl so much that I can't bear to do it anything else but justice.

Song-spiration: Only Place I Call Home - Every Avenue

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“I want,” she hums like she’s thinking, but he’s been with her long enough to know that she’s not, “ice cream.”

“Ice cream?” he repeats, genuinely surprised. There’s a completed set of orders situated in his right hand. He’d just finished marking every single box on the page with a check mark. When he glances up from the paper to look at her, she’s wearing a smile that’s as vibrant and frayed as the crayon drawings Phil had carved into the corners of his spreadsheet.

Her expression reflects an upside down rainbow, he thinks bemusedly. It’s fitting for the girl who can turn the weather around.

“Strawberry,” she continues, like he’s already said yes. She knocks the clipboard out of his hands and replaces the empty space with her fingers instead, connecting them the way the sky touches the sea. “You like strawberry, right?”

“Vanilla, actually,” he says.

“That’s so plain.”

“A plain guy for a sunshine girl,” he answers, grinning awkwardly, because he’s not sure if a line like that translates as flirting or not.

She seems to get the message. When she squeezes his hand, he thinks he’s stupid for even worrying about miscommunication in the first place.

 

///

 

“Who do you pray to?” he asks one day, when they’re staring up at a cloudy sky, the wind blowing all around them as if they’re one moment from being picked up and whisked away into the stratosphere.

“I really don’t know,” is her answer, and he knows she’s not hiding anything from him. “Sometimes it’s my mom. Sometimes, I think it’s god. And…”

“And?” he prompts, because he’s curious. Something mischievous alights behind her eyes then, something far away and incomplete, and she shrugs, brushing against him like she’s always been meant to fit by his side.

“Mostly it’s you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he replies, brows creased. “I’m just the manager. You’re the line between us normal people and the weather gods.”

“That’s right,” she says pointedly, nudging him. She rolls her eyes like she thought he’d be smarter than that, and he concedes that perhaps some of his brain cells become preoccupied with… other things, when she’s around. She grins at him then, and he knows for sure he’s lost more brain cells to that smile than any other thing in his life.

“You’re the manager,” she repeats, “My manager. So stay with me, because you’re the reason why the sun comes out.”

He thinks she’s poetic—more poetic than this pragmatic side of him, hardened by the trials of running away and trying to forge a life beyond what his family had in store for him. He thinks of the dreary days drilling business strategies and filling out balance sheets in a dull office; he thinks of Uncle Peter’s lectures and his father’s recent negligence. He thinks of her, and decides that if he makes the sun come out then it’s only because she’s dispelled all the dark clouds in his life.

A line like that warrants a kiss, is his final thought, and he bends over to do just that, his mouth catching the puff of breath she exhales when she lifts her chin up in shock, his gaze lingering long enough to catch the way her eyes widen and her cheeks dust pink.

Kissing her for the first time is as awkward as all his attempts to flirt, her top lip caught between his own, their noses brushing a little when he tilts his head this way and that, trying to find some way to settle.

But the weather doesn’t settle, not for long enough anyway, so when they’ve finally got the hang of it she’s pulling away, blinking like she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.

 

///

 

“If a girl pulls away, does that mean you never had a chance to begin with?” he asks dejectedly over instant noodles, and Yuugo stares at him like—

—well, the way adults look like when they walk in on their children having sex.

“You didn’t—”

“No,” he interjects firmly, his pale skin turning an embarrassed shade, “God, no.”

“I mean, if you did, then you’re better off not hiding it, cause, you know, I’d know, anyway—”

“Stop!” He shakes his head, and then stuffs his face with noodles if only to get rid of the burn in his cheeks. “I didn’t—we didn’t—it’s not like that, okay?”

“Then what is it like?” Yuugo asks, leaning over the counter like he’s been ready to have this talk for quite some time now. Norman knows it’s recompense; he’ll be fired from the job in order to avoid the police sooner or later, and for all his brass, Yuugo won’t do jack shit about it, even though every single person in the world who’s seen them knows he cares, more so than he lets on anyway.

And he sighs gratefully, because Yuugo’s the kind of uncle he wishes he could have had. He’ll be dragged back to Ratri Corp. kicking and screaming, fighting all the way, but he’ll be dragged back all the same and this world he’s built for himself will fade into memory.

Life is like weather. Always changing. Never the same.

Temporary.

“It’s…” He wonders what to tell Yuugo: that he’d tried to kiss her, or that when she pulled away he’d turned tail and ran like a wounded puppy to avoid the fallout. “...complicated,” he finally says, because it is.

Yuugo snorts. “It’s always complicated. Who made the first move?”

“Me.” The admission makes him cringe.

“And did she tell you why she didn’t kiss you back?”

“No,” he manages to stutter, and then reluctantly, he adds, “I didn’t let her.”

“Then what the fuck are you sitting around here for?” Yuugo’s hand smacks the table, and Norman stares incredulously at the wad of bills that materialize on the kitchen counter where they hadn’t been before. “Consider it severance pay. Do whatever you want with it—treat her to something, I don’t know—but I want your stupid ass out of here by tonight.”

A small smile curls itself over his lips. Perhaps there is still a chance for him to stay in the sun.

“Can I visit?”

“What do you mean, can you?” Yuugo grumbles, grabbing a can of beer from the fridge and stomping off into their cramped living room. “You already walk in here like you fucking own the place.”

“Thanks,” he says, pocketing the money. He stays long enough for Yuugo to know that he means it, and then he’s running outside, grabbing his bike and pedaling like that’s all he needs to do to make things right.

 

///

 

“She’s gone.”

“She’s what?” The bike falls onto the pavement, and his feet threaten to give out on him. Phil’s staring at him, eyes filled with tears, and Ray stands next to him, looking like he’s ready to kick the world in the face like it’s a bucket. “She can’t be.”

“She disappeared right in front of me!” Ray grits out, bangs framing his face wildly as the words fire out of his mouth like self-aimed bullets. “She—she went to look for you, she was saying shit like goodbye and I’m sorry—god, she didn’t even tell us about this, about any of this, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“She didn’t—” Once again, Norman’s brain cells are lost in the wake of her, and he might crumble to his knees if he isn’t so numb. Emma? Gone?

Just like that?

Even the sun doesn’t disappear so suddenly. There are always warning signs: sunsets, eclipses. She can’t just be gone, that’s not how the weather works.

And even if she knew, even if she hid the warning signs, she’s still a weather girl. There will still be patterns to trace, cycles to follow. Even if nothing is temporary, the sun is always permanent.

“Sunsets,” Norman breathes, like an epiphany. Ray stares at him, Phil buries his fist into the cloth of his pants. “There are always—sunsets. And sunrises. Always, like clockwork.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s not gone.”

“I told you—”

He shakes his head. “She’s not. She can’t be. She’s just—in the night time.”

Ray blinks at him, perturbed, but there’s a twist to his expression that relays his reluctant sense of hope. “Night time? How do we—” he cringes like he can’t believe he’s playing along, but doesn’t know what else to do, “—how do we get there?”

“The horizon,” he points, and miles beyond his fingers lies the gate that stands on a building between the earth and sky, lit by the stars like a spotlight. 

“Where the sky meets the sea, even when they cannot touch.”

 

///

 

She looks like a rainbow. A trick of light.

He laughs, because he knows the science behind light. He runs to her, three point zero times ten to the eight meters per second and even faster than that, because the sky is a vacuum, and she is his only goal.

He remembers wondering, as a child, if he could touch the clouds. And when he was more knowledgeable, he wondered if he could touch the rainbow: if the stories were real, and that he could slide down its colorful bend to land in a pot of gold.

Now, the stories prove true, because he crashes through the sky to the end of the rainbow, and when she reaches out to grasp his hand he knows he’s struck gold, because she’s never going to pull away again.

“You,” she whispers, like she’s known all along that he’d come, like she was afraid he wouldn’t.

“I’m here,” he says in assurance, his grip on her tightening. The world spins around them like they’re a fixed point, and he likes the thought of that.

A fixed point.

She reads his expression and beams. It’s that upside down rainbow again, except she’s no longer as transparent, and she’s solid and warm to touch. She’s alive.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and he thinks that she’s crying, though her tears evaporate before they can spill onto her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “I didn’t mean to, either.”

He’s talking about that kiss, and she looks at him like she thinks he’s lying. But he’s not. He didn’t mean to kiss her like that: like a novice, like he was unsure.

Because she’s the one thing in his life he’s sure about, and he’ll cross the boundaries of earth and sky to prove it to her, over and over again. Because nothing in the world is permanent, but this is.

“Kiss me again,” she says, and her voice is carried by the wind like they have the heavens’ blessing. “When our feet touch the ground. Sweep me off my feet and kiss me again.”

“You’ll have to do the sweeping,” he says, and she laughs, “But I’ll kiss you. Over and over again.”

“Good.” 

The world spins one last time, and then they’re back where they started, lying over the edge of a broken building, surrounded by plants. They stare up at a blue sky, the rays of the sun blinding them, and when he finally registers that he can move he rolls over to his side, flinging an arm around her torso, and then he’s kissing her, just like he promised.

Her top lip is caught between his again, so he can feel it when she smiles like she’ll never let go.

Chapter 28: Young God (II).

Notes:

November 15-December 25: Merry Christmas, everyone! This only took so long b/c exams came in the middle and studying gave me massive writer's block. Who knew?

This one's the second part of that Royal Marriage AU prompt, featuring scenes I drafted along with that initial post but had to cut out in the end. As with the nature of BMG's stories, it focuses more on character than plot. I hope it's an enjoyable read, nonetheless.

Song-spiration (though it's less inspiration and more 'the thing that kept me going this whole time'): Apple Seed - AOT OST

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Her hands glide over the ivories, the pads of her fingers flat against the surface. They tremble whenever she reaches for the black keys, F-sharp trilling against G, her left hand fumbling over her chords. She laughs whenever she makes a mistake, and Norman finds this part of her… attractive.

His bow glides across the strings of his violin one last time as the pleasant chords of a Tifarian melody is butchered by her fingers and replaced by her unabashed mirth, as she tips her head back to express her own amusement again.

“You’re not very good at this,” Norman says, entertained.

“No, I’m not,” she agrees without offence, a rosy flush to her cheeks the only remnant of her laughter as she settles her hands over her lap, fingers lacing in contemplation. “I did warn you.”

“That you did,” he acquiesces, handing his violin to a ready servant, who quietly places it back into its polished case. “I’m surprised. I was informed you were rather decent at music.”

“I’m rather decent at a lot of things,” she answers with a smile. “I was never quite exceptional, though my father said I was a quick learner.”

“I quite think the opposite,” he says, and then he’s gesturing for someone to bring him another stool. “But I would very much love to test that learning ability. May I teach you to play something?”

“Sure,” she says, sounding almost eager. “But don’t expect mastery. It is much more realistic to expect decency.”

“I expect nothing from you, princess,” he answers, flashing her a fleeting smirk. She catches the hint of competition behind his countenance all the same, and returns it with equal alacrity, her fingers twitching as though ready to rise to his challenge. “You always did like to turn things into competitions.”

“You are my rival, after all,” she answers easily, tilting her head innocently. The fire in her eyes gives her away, and this is another thing he finds attractive about her. 

He’s found many attractive things about her, since they began to regard each other as equals.

“A worthy rival, I presume,” he responds, seating himself once the bench he’s requested has been brought. 

“Definitely.” She’s looking at the piano keys now, so her hair frames the blush on her cheeks, pinker now than it was before. “One I’ve yet to best.”

“That might take an entire lifetime,” he says, placing his hands on the keys. They press down into a major chord, the sound sure and strong, and then he’s looking at her in a similar way. “Won’t you get tired?”

“I won’t,” she replies simply.

That manages to make him smile, and he begins to play a simple melody without being prompted. Emma catches on quickly and watches his fingers closely. She finds his major chords. When the music swells, she finds his tonics, and pinpoints the leading tones that stabilize the music and guide it forward. She feels calm as he continues to play, and when she stops observing the notes his fingers press, she starts to see the whole piece for what it is. There is a sensual undercurrent to the harmony she cannot deny, and the way the notes blend together seems romantic, almost. Solemn.

“It was beautiful,” she says, when the last note stretches for four counts and rings silent when he lifts his foot from the pedal. “What is it called?”

“It was never given a name,” he answers, folding his hands in his lap. “My mother composed it one winter, when she was sick.”

The answer allows her to understand the music’s solemnity, and she flashes him a small quirk of the mouth: not quite a smile, though the curve of it belies understanding. “She must have been beautiful.”

“She was.” Norman nods. He seems unaffected, and she knows why. He’s already processed the grief. Her death was a long time ago now. But to Emma, it is a fresh wound. Reglavalima had begun her war by slaughtering his parents in cold blood. Now she knows that they were beautiful people, who made melodies just like this.

Norman had allowed her to listen to such a piece. She will do it justice.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and recalls the notes she observed. She slowly releases a lengthy exhale, her fingers coming to rest upon the keys. “Okay. I can play it now.”

“You can?” Norman echoes, sounding intrigued. He doesn’t seem to doubt her. She flashes him a smirk that says Good, you shouldn’t.

She plays the piece an octave lower, but the romanticism is still there. Solemnity still guides it. She doesn’t trip over her notes like she did before; in fact, she looks surer now than she did when she was trying to accompany Norman’s violin beforehand. A gentle smile settles over Norman’s mouth as he listens to her play, absent-mindedly tapping his foot on the ground to keep count, and she releases the pedal four beats after the last note just as he had.

“So you are exceptional,” is the first thing he says, and she whips her head to look at him—first in confusion, then in outright shock.

“You tricked me!” she shrieks, and it is his turn to laugh now, his hand flying to his face to wipe away a few tears. 

“You tricked me first,” he points out once he’s calmed down. “Your playing was so horrible I was sure you were just pretending.”

She pouts, disappointed that her ruse had come undone so easily. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Would you tell me if I did?” His eyes glint knowingly when she clamps her mouth shut. “I was wondering about that the entire time we played. Why would someone pretend to be a novice when they can, in fact, widow an entire piece after only hearing it once?”

“I suppose I haven’t lost yet then, if you haven’t guessed the reason behind my doing so.”

“You are an exceptional rival, Emma,” he praises, emphasizing the adjective if only to remind her subtly of her deception. She brightens instead at the use of her name, her hands reaching over to clasp his. 

“So are you.” She returns the compliment genuinely enough. “It should be four o’clock now. It’s our last day here, so I’d like to stroll through the kingdom once more before dinner, please.”

“That is quite the request, princess,” he remarks, though he’s already helping her to her feet and guiding her towards the door. “But it is one I can absolutely grant.”

He’s startled a bit when he feels a light pressure over his arm, his gaze tilting to find her looking up at him with an expression he can’t quite decipher. “Thank you,” she tells him, and he knows she means it, though he’s called to question what exactly she’s thanking him for.

He doesn’t wonder for very long.

“This past week was in—” She draws in a breath, seeming hesitant about something, and when she continues he’s already confirmed that what comes next is not at all what she’d been meaning to say. “—insightful. You are a wonderful man, and I was lucky to see that, even though I didn’t really want to at first.”

Her stark honesty makes him chuckle, and he rests his hand over hers. They were given a week to “court” each other: a week to get to know each other better, a week to decide the future of both their kingdoms.

She sounds like she’s trying to say goodbye. 

He’s already made up his mind.

 

///

 

“I received a letter from Oliver while you were out this afternoon,” Ray informs her the moment she returns to her room. “Your agricultural project in the westernmost region was a failure. The crops that showed signs of growing were unhealthy and died over the last week, despite the amount of care the farmers put into it. The Royal Vineyard is still providing rations for everybody, but it’s barely enough. He hopes that our exploits in Ratri will prove fruitful for the benefit of everyone, especially now that winter is coming.”

“I know I requested you to be honest with me earlier this week…” Emma sucks in a breath, her cheeks red from the effort of holding back her tears. “But Ray! That’s completely brutal!”

“There’s no denying the gravity of the situation any longer,” Ray answers, handing her the open envelope signed with the name of the Tifarian captain of the guards, “You’re just not used to it.”

“And whose fault is that?” Emma grits out, and Ray shrugs like he agrees. Anna glances between them, observing silently as she removes the ribbons from Emma’s hair. “While I’m sitting here acting like a buffoon my people are suffering. Not only that, but my own court and advisor sought to downplay the gravity of the situation from me for an entire year thinking that it was the right course of action.”

Her glare burns like fire, and Ray expels a heavy sigh. “I already apologized for that. I thought it was the best thing to do at the time.”

“I’m not your pawn, Ray,” she replies, and Ray winces at her firm tone of voice. She’s always been one to raise her voice at him, so it isn’t necessarily a shock, but there are times when she scolds him and it stings like a slap to the face. “I asked you to be my guiding voice. Hiding things from me is going against your duty.”

Ray lifts his head to speak—sincerely, this time—but when he catches Emma’s gaze he finds that the fire in it has been extinguished, reduced to mere embers. She looks away, and when she opens her mouth, her voice is quiet. 

“But I’m not one to talk. I opposed this courtship like a child, you were right about that. And soon we will have to return with news that the King of Ratri turned us down, just as the rest of the world has, and that their princess has failed them for the final time.”

“He hasn’t turned you down yet,” Anna says softly.

Bewildered gazes turn to face her, and the petite blonde tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ears, her cheeks coloring ever so slightly. “He hasn’t turned you down yet,” Anna repeats, a little louder this time. “You shouldn’t be so forlorn over a verdict that has yet to be announced. I know you’re better than that, Emma.”

The princess blinks at her, her wild mane of hair falling out of place as she turns to fully face her lady-in-waiting. Emma takes her hands and squeezes them appreciatively. “You’ve always known all the right things to say, Anna.”

“Only because she’s more sensible than you, bonehead,” Ray grouses, but this time the insult incites a legitimate laugh. Ray smirks at the sound, and he crosses his arms when he meets both women’s gazes. “If that bastard turns you down, we’ll make an appeal. We’ll find another way, or something. You never stopped coming up with new projects and solutions for the benefit of our country, and you’re not going to stop now.”

Emma grins at his words, blinking away the tears in her eyes before they can fall. “Oh, what would I do without you two?”

“Publicly embarrass yourself, for one,” Ray answers bluntly.

She sticks her tongue out at him, and it is purely because they are in the privacy of her chambers that she can get away with it. 

“You two can talk more about plans later,” Anna says, gesturing for Ray to get out. “Right now, Emma’s filthy and needs a bath. How in the world did you manage to soil your dress this badly when you were just out on a walk?” Anna notices Ray’s pointed look and shakes her head. “You know what, milady, forget I even asked.”

“I’ll leave the letter with you,” Ray says, pulling the door open. He flashes one last, sharp look at Emma, and she can trace the faint lines of encouragement behind his face. “Dinner’s in an hour. Separate dining room, as usual.”

“We’ll be there,” Emma murmurs softly, and she meets Anna’s kind gaze through the mirror. 

“Sit for a moment. I’ll ring for the maids to draw a bath,” Anna says, turning in the direction of the bell system. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking at all,” Emma answers, shaking her head. “For the first time I have to agree with Ray.”

“About what?”

“That I’m stupid.”

Anna releases a gentle laugh, her cheeks reddening. “You really are exceptional, my lady.” She reaches out to grasp Emma’s shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly. “But believe me, you are exactly what our kingdom needs. I have faith that whatever you’ll do next is for our people’s benefit, regardless of what happens.”

“Of course.” Emma nods, though she ducks her head away shyly, hands toying with her skirt in contemplation. “If I may ask you a question.”

“You don’t need permission from me,” Anna reminds her, though she pulls on a stool and sits next to Emma all the same. “What is it?”

“It’s selfish.”

“If you weren’t selfish, our country would be wiped out by now.” Anna schools her face into an expression similar to Ray’s, her stare firm and direct. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Emma sits quietly for a long moment. Anna notices her lips trembling, and understands that she’s having a particularly difficult time voicing her thoughts aloud, though it’s not the only sign of Emma’s unusual behavior. For the first time, Anna sees her princess’s eyes clouded with the faintest sense of conflict, as though the sunshine emanating from her soul has been blocked by a storm. It worries her slightly, and she sits patiently, hoping she will be enough to alleviate Emma’s turmoil.

“What do you think?” Emma blurts out, suddenly, her eyes wide. “Of him?”

“Him?” Anna repeats, blinking. Slowly, it registers. “King Ratri?”

“Norman,” Emma says, almost as if she’s correcting her. “What do you think of Norman?”

“Norman—?” Anna’s brows furrow slightly in thought. “Well. He’s… certainly a respectable leader.”

“As a person,” Emma presses.

“Well,” Anna sucks in a breath, slightly flustered, “I can’t say for sure, my lady, I’ve never spent much time with him.”

Emma sighs. “You’re right. What am I thinking?”

At that, Anna shakes her head, smiling. She picks up a brush and works through the knots on Emma’s hair. “You’re not thinking at all, remember?”

 

///

 

Sunlight streams in through the window at the sound of the curtains being drawn, and Emma blinks, turning around to stretch and get out of bed.

She’s surprised to see Ayshe’s face outlined by the light when her eyesight adjusts to the brightness of the morning. “Where’s Anna?” she asks, sitting up abruptly, her stance rigid.

“Right here,” a familiar voice calls, and Emma relaxes, turning to face the woman in question. There’s something cheery about her disposition today that Emma finds odd, though Anna turns around to fish through the wardrobe before she can put a finger on it.

“Anna, what happened to the clothes you prepared last night?” Emma asks, confused, because normally Anna is so on top of things that everything to get her ready for the day should already be picked and set out.

“Obsolete,” Anna says, “I should have known better.”

“But you do know better,” Emma insists, springing out of the sheets. She notices Ayshe move the moment her bare feet touch the floor, and feels her confusion multiply tenfold. “Ayshe, there’s no need for you to make my bed.”

“Of course there is, my lady,” is Ayshe’s curt reply, accompanied by a meek bow of the head.

“‘My lady’?” Emma echoes. “What’s going on?”

“The king has assigned me—along with some other staff—to include you in our list of duties. Starting today,” Ayshe explains, though the clarification barely proves helpful.

“Why only today? We’re leaving in the afternoon, so it’s a little too late for—”

“Leaving, my lady? Why on Earth would we be leaving?” Anna asks, shaking her head. “As you can see, we’ve barely packed.”

The fact that Anna had to look through the wardrobe clicks in Emma’s brain. “Hold on. Are you saying that… we’re staying longer?” She frowns. “Why didn’t anybody tell me about this?”

“It’s not in our place to break the news,” Ayshe says, and having already finished making the bed she ushers Emma in the direction of the bath. “Now come, my lady. We haven’t much time. Breakfast is in an hour.”

“What—!?” 

Emma’s confusion rings in Anna’s ears, and she covers her mouth with her hand to stifle an amused giggle.

 

///

 

“This is…”

“Fancy, right?” Anna grins. “You look great.”

“Thanks to Gilda, really. She makes the best dresses,” Emma says, fingering the lace of her gown reverently. “But I don’t understand. This is one of the fancier ones. Gilda made this specifically for special occasions.”

“I’m almost glad you’re not thinking too much right now, princess,” Anna says, laughing lightly. “No offense. I know your mind’s too preoccupied with our country’s state of affairs, so it leaves you little room to think of anything else… But your confusion is endearing, and will serve to surprise you. In a good way, I’m sure.”

“You’re a little too vague today, Anna,” Emma remarks, tugging on the intricate braid settled over her left ear. “Vague and over-the-top. Is this your way of comforting me for the news to come?”

“Perhaps,” Anna answers, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “I’ll always be by your left, my lady, just as Ray has always been at your right. You have the support of all the important people. You only need to focus on looking ahead.”

“Ahead, huh?”

“Yes.” Anna’s grinning fully now, her cheeks tinted pink as if highlighting the expression. She guides her into the breakfast room. “Right in front of you.”

Before Emma can ask, Anna gives her a push and then she’s nearly stumbling into the next room, though experience has gifted her the reflexes to right herself before she can make an embarrassment of herself in front of the Ratricans’ king. Speaking of which, she looks up bewilderedly, because the only times they’d ever shared a table was for lunch in the gardens or afternoon tea. She’s never seen him for neither dinner nor breakfast, and when she’d asked about this strange custom Norman had dodged the issue with a dissatisfying, “I’m simply following tradition.”

Now, he stands in front of her, regal and refined as usual, with his hair brushed back and his coat of arms pinned onto his chest, over his heart. He offers her a smile—just as polished, if not lop-sided at a corner. “Good morning, Emma. I hope you rested well.”

“I... did,” she manages to answer. She blinks at him like she’s making sure he’s actually real.

He almost laughs. “Surprised?”

“Very.” Her voice cracks at the last syllable, gaze settling over his collar, and she clears her throat, cheeks red. “You look… nice.”

“I’m glad.” He seems to be bolder today than he usually is, because he gently takes her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. She wonders at the jolt that courses through her at his touch; she’s always wondering. “I spent much effort on my appearance today, so it elates me to see that you’re pleased.”

“You’re acting strange today,” she says. She knows it when Norman’s not himself. Today, however, he seems even more himself than usual, and it puzzles her. “Everyone is.”

There’s a glint in his eye. She tries to catch it but she misses. “Is that so?”

“I usually enjoy your games, Norman, but I also know when I’m about to lose,” she replies, squeezing his hand. The gesture is vaguely familiar—she knows she’s done it before, when they were strolling along the sidewalks, looking into shop windows and playing with the children. It’s a comforting gesture, a knowing one.

“Strange, because I find myself to be the loser, princess.” He bows his head slightly, and she catches the flutter of his eyelashes, sees the translucent sparkle behind his eyes. “And I couldn’t be more than happy.”

She’s spent enough time with him to learn all of his little gestures. She knows that the flutter of his lashes means he’s embarrassed, knows that the sparkle means he’s telling her the truth. She notices him remove his glove before he’s even doing it, and knows that what’s about to happen next will change the outcome of her future.

Forever.

He lowers himself onto one knee, and the sparkle in his eyes becomes diamond fire when he presents the ring.

“I know you asked me first, but I would be no proper gentleman if I didn’t return the favor.” He smiles, and she finds a strange sort of elation in the way his cheeks transition from a pale color to a pinkish rose. “Princess Emma Reglavalima, heir to the throne of Tifari, daughter of Musica and Sonju... will you marry me?”

There is silence. Silence for a long beat, a long pause. Silence for the moment where Emma finds herself breathless for the first time.

And then—she doesn’t know which comes first, the cheers or her answer—she says, “Yes.”

 

///

 

“That was terrible, wasn’t it?” Ray comments over a stack of legal documents.

“Terribly romantic, you mean,” Anna says, pinching his sleeve.

 

///

 

“This is inappropriate,” he says.

“You’re going to be my husband in three days, it’s hardly inappropriate,” she quips, settling herself down by the bank of the lake. The water is still clear, shining like melted gems beneath the sunlight, and she turns to smile at him—feels her heart flip when he returns it with a lopsided grin.

“Husband,” he repeats, enunciating every syllable. “Yes.”

“I’m still surprised.”

“Hm?” It seems he’s finally decided she’s right about something, because he stops reminding her about propriety before the wedding (as if they’d ever exercised any sort of propriety over the last week by coming alone here, anyway) and decides to sit next to her. “Is it a good surprise?”

“It’s good,” she answers, and he almost searches her gaze before realizing that she’s always sincere. “My people won’t have to suffer anymore.”

“I meant for you.” He reaches for her hand—they’ve gotten more and more used to it, lately. She likes the way he fills the spaces between her fingers. “Is it a good surprise for you?”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t hesitate when she answers, and it relieves him. She closes her eyes, leans her head over his shoulder. “You’ve done so much for us this past week. Have I ever thanked you properly?”

“Countless times,” he answers, smothering a laugh. “Have you forgotten how you’ve thanked me after every single meeting?”

“You’re giving my people a place in your kingdom after all,” she remarks, and Norman notices something defeated in the way she slumps against him when she says so. He understands how her own sense of duty also gives way to a feeling of failure, so he simply holds her, because he understands that sometimes people need to fall apart. “They’re safe with you, and so am I.”

“You inspired it,” he tells her.

“Hm?” Her hair tickles his nose when she tilts her head to look at him, her green eyes brimming with both confusion and curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“When I watch you lead,” he begins softly, “You inspire others, including me. You’re so… strong. Strong-willed, strong-minded. Reckless, granted, and naïve. But honest. That’s the kind of leader I see in you. The kind of leader who can spark faith and hope.”

“And now I will lead by your side, King Ratri,” she says, lifting her hands to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks. His eyelashes flutter. “An equal rule.”

“As promised,” he murmurs. “Ray was very thorough with the marriage contract.”

“He’s my advisor for a reason.” She smirks, and she’s so close now that he thinks he can feel it, etched across his own skin. Emma must feel it too, because she sighs, burying her face in his chest. “Three days.”

“Three,” he repeats, because now it’s all he can think about.

“Should we…” she mumbles against his dress shirt, “...practice?”

“Practice what?”

“The kiss.”

Something inside him malfunctions. “Excuse me, what?”

Her face must be just as red as his, he thinks, if he can’t see it at all. “I just—it’s been a long time now. I don’t know if I remember how to… kiss.”

“Ah.” He thinks maybe he’s accidentally swallowed a rock or something. “Good… idea.”

“How do we…?” Her voice feels far away, somehow. He doubts he’s lost in the moment.

He wonders why she’s asking ‘how’.

She pulls away when words fail her, and as she does so the breeze ruffles through the leaves of the tree overhead like the distorted chimes of her ruptured Tifarian melody, and he’s good enough with the strings to know when a note is as untuned as the look in her eyes. At that moment, he knows—he just knows— that maybe she’s lying, for once.

“It’s my first,” he says, because he thinks that no other sentiment will fit. “You’re my…”

“...first,” she echoes, her mouth open, and she’s really pretty like that. Innocent, bold. “Yeah.”

“It’s just practice,” he continues, and he wants to thread his fingers through her hair, but she’s taken hold of his hands and he doesn’t want to let go.

“Just practice.” She nods. “Nothing to be…”

“Definitely nothing…” The words that fall from his mouth are strange. “Nothing… special.”

She nods again, mouth pursed. “Just practice.”

He decides, right then and there, that he likes it better when her mouth is open. 

She’s the one who closes the gap.

It’s swift, short. Sweet, but gone so quickly it turns a little bitter. When the feeling of her lips lingers over his mouth, he knows that this is her first, too. Her first kiss, her first lie. He wants to do it again, honestly this time. But it’s just practice, like the sound of his bow against the strings and the deliberate mistakes she makes on the piano.

Neither of them say a word about it. They skim along the music until the third day passes them by.

 

///

 

Everything is beautiful.

The skies are a clear blue, pale like the pastel roses lining the streets and the blue-tinted icing on the wedding cake. The citizens of both Ratri and Tifari are gathered around the town square, spilling over into the nooks and crannies of the kingdom in freshly ironed suits and newly bought dresses. The Tifarians, who couldn’t afford the luxury of fine clothes, had been given a collection of donations from the Ratrican people by order of their king, though they would have been happy to do so without the official decree.

It’s the Ratrican navy blue against the Tifarian salmon pink that dominates the crowd, and the people move along the streets like the current of a river, flowing into the castle’s grand ballroom, where the ceremony will be held.

Emma looks out the window of her newly assigned chambers, wishing she can glean a closer look.

“Princess, honestly. It doesn’t look good for the bride to be so dazed on her wedding day,” Ayshe says, sparking a soft giggle from Anna, who’s placing the finishing touches on her wedding gown. 

“I can’t help it,” Emma intones, lifting her hands in the air. Ayshe slaps them back down to her side. “I’m nervous.”

“There are worse men than King Ratri,” Ayshe mutters beneath her breath. “And believe me, that’s a real compliment.”

“You were always one to give your king a hard time, Ayshe,” Anna remarks. “Why is that?”

“He makes it too easy,” is all Ayshe says in response, nimble fingers securing the veil tightly around Emma’s crown. 

“But Norman’s so…” Emma begins, though she soon trails off, looking pensive.

“So what?” Anna teases as she wraps a satin sash around Emma’s waist. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen head over heels now, princess.”

“I’d honestly expected much more rebellion from you,” Ayshe comments, pinning the last few strands of Emma’s hair back. “Everyone in the kingdom knew you had our king won over by the second day. I was waiting to be entertained.”

“What do you mean I had him won over? We barely talked!” Emma frowns, looking away. “We barely talk even now.”

“There’s plenty of time for that.” Anna pats her arm reassuringly. “It’s your wedding day, Emma. Arranged or not, it’s still a special occasion. So smile.”

“‘Arranged’...” Emma repeats, humming. “I said yes, didn’t I? So it’s not arranged.”

Something behind Anna’s grin sobers, and she takes both of Emma’s hands in hers, gripping them tightly. “You asked me what I thought of him, my lady. What you said just now… that is my answer.”

Anna lets go, and smiles. “He’s always giving you a choice.”

 

///

 

The wedding bells ring, signalling the start of the ceremony.

Norman fixes an invisible wrinkle in his suit, and wryly notes to himself that it’s the first time he’s ever been so openly nervous in front of a crowd. He’s never seen the ballroom so packed before, rows of pink and blue governing the pews along the aisles. The two colors go well together, he thinks. A garden of peonies and bluebells. Something like that.

He wonders what she’ll look like, among other things. He doesn’t know if she will blow him away as much as she did that first day, with her battle-worn stature and her fiery gaze. A wedding doesn’t seem to suit her. 

He wonders what she’d look like, if he’d seen her on a battlefield instead.

“All rise.” The priest’s voice is deep, resonating throughout the room as though God has truly spoken through him, and the people do so silently. It’s a sign of respect for the union to take place before them, and the brightness of the future they will all be facing the moment the rings are exchanged—the moment the marriage contract is signed through a showcase of physical intimacy.

It almost makes him laugh at the heavens. To think that a single kiss can change his world forever.

The wedding march plays as soon as everyone is standing, and Norman stops trying to smooth over invisible wrinkles. The door to the Church opens, and light floods in. It’s fitting, he knows, for the future queen of Ratri, to walk in as the rays of the sun spill around her like a golden halo, the lace of her gown lifting slightly as the wind breezes through, almost playfully, brushing past his face and opening his eyes.

A wedding doesn’t suit her, he concludes. Her beauty is too contained in the layers of satin and lace that she wears; her ferocity is dampened by the traditional white and the gloves over her hands. She possesses a spirit that’s meant to soar, and he almost wishes he could stop his own wedding, if only to give her a ceremony befitting the boldness that shines in her aspect and in her eyes.

The veil is the worst part of this entire ensemble, he thinks. It covers a face that is meant to be seen.

“Are you all right?” he asks quietly, when she’s standing right in front of him. He almost reaches for her hand—he stops himself just in time. He can’t see her expression, but he can tell she must be confused. He’s asking strange questions.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her instead, because it’s what he’s supposed to say.

“Liar,” she answers, something playful hidden in the bite of her tone, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face.

“You caught me,” he answers easily, and he’s surprised when it’s her hand that slips into his. He laces their fingers and holds on tightly. He doesn’t pay much attention to the priest. “I much prefer the way you were on our first meeting.”

“So do I. But this is for the people, not you.”

“Every word I hear from your mouth only serves to make me admire you more,” he confesses, and when she doesn’t answer he can picture the redness of her cheeks.

He wonders when he became so good at guessing her expressions.

“You’re talkative today,” she whispers.

“I’m compensating.”

“For what?”

“Your discomfort.”

He feels her stiffen through their intertwined hands. “...How did you know?”

“I’m wondering that myself.” He takes a chance, and turns his gaze toward her. He knows everyone can see—he can hear the bemused stutter in the priest’s voice, most likely wondering why the king has turned his head in the middle of the ceremony—but his only focus is the woman in front of him; his bride, whose face is veiled but her feelings laid bare for him to see.

“I want to spend the rest of my life,” he says, his voice low enough that only she can hear with clarity, “figuring out the answer to that question.”

She stares at him then. She stares for such a long time that the priest’s voice turns silent and the crowd begins to murmur, their voices rising to carry sounds of puzzlement and curiosity into the sky.

Then Emma tears the veil from her head, to the unified gasp of the crowd, and this—

The way her hair tumbles out of its intricate knots as the crown slips off; the way she has to tilt her head up to look at him, the light from the stained glass glinting in her eyes; the way she’s beaming up at him, the curve of her mouth wide and open and unparalleled, more beautiful now than she ever was before.

—this is a wedding that suits her.

“I want to give this man the rest of my life,” she announces, and something in his heart gives, like she has a piece of it—all of it—in her hands now. He wonders what the audience might be thinking; what Vincent and Ray might be thinking; and ultimately he decides he doesn’t care.

“So do I,” he announces in turn, and he thinks she might laugh, because they’d definitely gone and turned the wedding around.

“Er—” the priest stutters, at a loss. “I now pronounce you husband and wife?”

“Husband,” Emma repeats, and he hadn’t thought it possible but she holds his hand even tighter. “Promise me patience.”

“Wife,” he echoes, stepping toward her. “Promise me honesty.”

She stops. He thinks of her hands, pressing down on the piano keys. The melodies she disrupts and the songs she masters. He wonders what she’ll do next—what note she’ll play.

“Done.”

She grabs him by the lapel of his jacket, pulls him down even as she’s rising on her tiptoes, and their noses collide for a brief moment, their meeting clumsy and eager and honest. They find their footing soon enough, his other hand resting on her waist to support her, their fingers still laced. His eyes flutter close.

He likes this kiss better.

But he isn’t given much time to dwell on the thought.

 

///

 

Emma pushes him down. A gunshot rings through the air.

“Emma!” Her name tears itself from his throat, and she looks at him, her eyes dark and wide, the priest slumping to the floor beside them. “What’s—”

“Sorry,” a nasally voice emerges from the crowd’s rising alarm, its owner sporting the rough leather badge of the infamous insurgent group from the West. His companions reveal themselves along with him, all of them sporting Tifarian colors, though they wield guns that none of Emma’s countrymen own. 

Norman catches sight of the leader. Tall, bulky. Sporting a pair of glasses that he only recognizes from his nightmares of the night his parents were betrayed. “We were waiting for the objection, see, didn’t want to cockblock or anything. You always were unorthodox, weren’t you, Ratri?”

“Norman,” Emma hisses, tugging on his arm. “Come on. You’re not—”

Safe, maybe, is what she’d been about to say. Fine, is another contender too. He can feel himself shaking. Emma drags him away before another bullet can find its target, and gritting her teeth she shoves him against the wall, and then all he can see is her back, protecting him.

Something in his heart siezes.

It takes one glance around the room—at the guests, panicked and screaming as they are each grabbed and assaulted, Barbara and Oliver both springing to action on the opposite ends of the room with Ayshe, Cislo, and Ray providing back-up. 

It takes one long and simple look at his wife—her skirt flying, her hands reaching for the hilt of a knife she’d strapped to her leg—it takes that single look for him to understand that if she flings herself into the fray and finds herself harmed, even in the smallest of ways, her people will never forgive him. No matter how much they may respect him now, they will start riots in defense of their Queen, whom he had failed to protect from an attack by insurgents while she remains on foreign soil.

And he cannot deny it either: the personal investment he has in ensuring her safety.

He grabs her wrist and pulls her back with all his strength, calling out Zazie’s name and shoving her into the arms of his most trusted bodyguard.

“What the hell are you doing?” Emma is obviously mad.

“Saving your butt,” and she’s shocked because he’s frazzled enough to have a loose tongue, “That’s what.”

She struggles against Zazie’s iron grip. “You don’t have the right to save my butt, Norman Ratri, now have your bodyguard let me go or else I’ll—”

“You’ll what? The king is the one with the jurisdiction to make decisions,” —what is he saying? He doesn’t know. All he knows is that there’s panic in his voice and it’s clear as day and god the rebels are closing in, can’t she just—be— “And you’re now my queen. You have to listen to what I say.”

“Bastard.” He thinks there might be panic in her voice, too. “I can fight. And those are my people!”

“Exactly! You are their Queen. Do what you want, but your people need you, and it will do no one any good if you’re waving that sword around and getting yourself killed. You’re hiding. That’s that. Zazie, please. You know where to keep her.”

“Norman!” Her voice pounds against his skull, but he tries to ignore it—tries to ignore the way she looks at him as Zazie pulls her away.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, struggling to his feet. “I can’t—”

“My King!” Cislo slams into him, and for the second time he’s brought to the ground. Cislo’s quick to bring them cover. “Please be careful! Why didn’t Zazie bring you to the saferoom!?” 

“I asked him to bring Emma instead.” Norman shakes his head, narrowing his eyes. “Cislo. Ayshe is having her maids evacuate the guests?”

“Yes,” Cislo nods. “She’s doing her best, at least. Barbara’s with the Tifari guy—Olive, something? But there are too many invaders. I don’t know how they—”

“They snuck in as citizens of Tifari.” Norman sets his jaw. “And that man—”

“You know him, Your Majesty?” Cislo asks, realization dawning over his face. “You’ve remained here to facilitate a capture.”

“Yes. Where are Barbara and Oliver?”

“Keeping the invaders busy, east and west. The entrance is blocked, Ayshe is taking the guests through the hallways. She’s got the maids and the princess’s—Queen’s—advisor helping her. We’ve lost a couple of guards, but they’re slowly pushing the attack back.”

“All right. Cislo, I need you to move in when I say so. Signal Barbara. If Oliver’s as good as Emma’s told me he is, he’ll understand. We’ll set up a pincer attack and contain the threat. Then we strike to capture, and nothing more until we learn why they’ve attacked us today.”

His general salutes him, eyes fierce. “Yes, my King!”

 

///

 

The council room is filled with grim faces. 

Ayshe sits at the corner, nursing a broken arm. Two of her most trusted maids remain firmly by her side, there only for the sole purpose of looking after her. Oliver sustained a major injury to his abdomen, but had absolutely refused to sit out of the meeting, so he supports himself now with crutches. Barbara is sitting next him with a look of guilt on her face. Norman had learned that Oliver had taken a shot for her; she doesn’t like it when she has such a debt on her shoulders. Cislo sits next to Ray, the latter of whom is staring at Norman silently, as though trying to read him.

They are only waiting for Vincent, who Norman had asked to escort Emma to the council room along with Zazie.

A few minutes later, the door bursts open, and Norman feels his heart jump at the sight of his wife, her hair still mussed, her gown still ripped and her eyes still brimming with that hurt from earlier—that silent plea for him to place his trust in her.

“Emma,” he stands the moment he sees her fully, and he steps forward, “I’m so—”

She’s closed the distance between them before he can even finish the sentiment.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been manhandled before, but as she twists his wrist behind his back and applies pressure like she’s done this countless times before, he figures that there’s a first time for everything.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Cislo leaps to his feet, immediately on the offensive. Barbara mirrors him, scowling.

Emma ignores them, lowering her mouth instead by Norman’s ear, her voice a low growl. “Are you sure that you’re the one with the power in this room, Norman? If you want me to act as your wife, you’ll have to give me the ‘jurisdiction to make decisions’ too, or else I’ll be giving you a very, very hard time for the rest of our lives. How does that sound?”

Well— 

From the corner, Ray snorts. “Sounds kinky, that’s what.”

“Not the time, Ray!” Emma glares. Ray just shrugs.

Norman sighs, ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “I didn’t want—”

“My people, I know. I’m valuable, I know. I shouldn’t get hurt, I know.” Emma lets him go, shaking her head. “I’ve heard the same lament over and over my whole life, Norman. I don’t want the same attitude from my husband, especially when he’s just as important as me, if not even more so.”

He turns around to face her, his expression softening. “Emma…”

“Save that for later,” Ray cuts in, crossing his arms. “Explain yourself, Your Highness.”

“Right,” Norman hedges, looking hesitantly at Emma. She doesn’t seem so angry, but he doesn’t know what she’s feeling either, and he wants to know, right here and now. But Ray is right. There are other times to talk about this, and he has two wounded people in this room. It’s best if he informs them of the situation quickly and gives them time to recuperate.

He straightens. “We’ll interrogate the captives and glean important information—motive, allies, numbers—but I’ll talk to the leader myself.”

“And why’s that?” He’s surprised to hear the question from Emma.

He looks at her, expression darkening, and when he realizes how clouded his mind has become he turns away from her. “That man… he was the one who betrayed my parents that day, when Reglavalima’s siege began. It was a ploy to bring my uncle to power, but Reglavalima betrayed him and slaughtered everyone instead.”

“You think he’s come here for revenge?” Ray asks, gaze narrowed. “Tch. If so, he did a pretty terrible job.”

“I had him banished the moment I had the power to do so. And his attack today was clumsy. He could have chosen the wedding because everyone would be busy and he could take advantage of the element of surprise… but that’s what a fool would think. News of our wedding was spread across the land to promote an era of peace—a time where Tifari will no longer be the world’s enemy. Emma was in prime position to be targeted, as seemingly defenseless as she was as a bride, and it was Reglavalima who betrayed him.”

“So you locked Emma in the saferoom cause you thought that far ahead, huh?” Ray frowns. “Can’t say I agree with the method, but you were pressed for time. We can confirm your hypothesis through the investigation.”

“Thank you.” Norman nods at him. 

“Ray, you should facilitate the interrogations,” Emma speaks, “I know you’re best-suited for the job. And Oliver…”

“I’m all right, my lady,” the man assures, smiling at her weakly. “I was only doing my duty.”

She purses her lip, and Norman wonders what he can—should—do to give her comfort. 

He tries not to dwell on the thought and gives orders instead. “Barbara, I need you to escort Oliver back to the Hospital Wing—no objections this time—and you and Cislo head to the wall. Sharpen our defenses and make sure security around the country is tightened. No one goes in or out for the rest of the week, spread the word. Ayshe, I need you to sniff out any remaining intruder. Any questions?”

Everyone in the room rises, ready to take action. “This meeting is adjourned,” Norman announces. “Report back to us by tonight.”

“Yes, sir!”

Emma stays by his side as everyone filters out. When they’re alone, he turns to face her, hoping to apologize properly this time.

She beats him to it once again. “I’ll come with you.”

“What?”

She turns around and heads for the exit as well. “You said you were going to interrogate the leader by yourself. If you’re right and he’s doing it because of my aunt’s sins, then I’m coming with you.”

She halts mid-step, her back turned to him. “Or are you saying I can’t?”

“I never said that.” He moves to stand by her side. “Shall we go, then?”

She sounds relieved when she replies. “Let’s.”

 

///

 

She can’t sleep.

Norman had been kind enough to give her a separate room from his, though their chambers are still adjacent, considering their status. The night had gone by tersely, and she barely spoke with Anna as her lady-in-waiting dressed her for sleep. Emma had paused in the mirror for some time, recalling that she’d gotten married today, though they’d yet to consummate the union. She didn’t think it’d seem right to ask about that now.

When she closes her eyes, she remembers the way Norman had trembled at the sight of the man who’d betrayed his parents. She sees only the unbridled anger in his gaze, multiplied tenfold when their prisoner had only sneered and lamented the fact that he hadn’t been successful in taking his newfound wife away from him.

The thought plagues her in the darkness and makes her toss and turn beneath covers that are meant to make her feel comfortable.

So she thinks about him instead, when she finally accepts the fact that she cannot sleep just yet. She thinks about how his first thought had been for her safety and well-being—of preserving the peace, and not countering the attack. She remembers the slant of his mouth as he’d tried to apologize, as though he’d been burdened by the shame of using his authority over her mere seconds after they’d promised to be equals.

But he’d promised her patience, too, and that’s all he’s been towards her since.

She quietly slips out of the covers and pads over to the wooden door that connects her room to his, in cases of emergencies. She doesn’t bother knocking, and twists the knob directly, finding herself relieved to see that it hasn’t been locked.

That there is no lock.

She peeks into his room, and is surprised to see it still lit by candlelight.

“Emma?”

His voice is hoarse, and it comes not from the bed but from the desk situated at the side, his head tilted back to look at her with concern. “Is something the matter?”

“I thought you’d be asleep,” she says, clicking the door shut behind her.

“I can’t sleep,” he murmurs, turning back to the book spread open on his desk. “I thought reading might help, but it hasn’t.”

“Of course it hasn’t. Reading is supposed to stimulate the mind, not send it to sleep.”

“A valid point,” he concedes. There’s a long pause, and then he divulges, his voice soft, “Perhaps I simply don’t want to sleep.”

“I can understand why,” she offers, shuffling her feet.

“Mm.” He closes the book, setting it aside and standing up to face her. “I never did get to apologize properly to you. I’m sorry for what I did today. I know that I must have proved myself to be a lousy husband.”

“Not lousy,” she assures gently, “Just… ignorant.”

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life learning,” he answers, sounding firm. “I was unfair to you. Please forgive me.”

“Of course,” she replies, reaching for his hand. His warmth seeps into her skin, and she finds herself comforted. “Your first lesson is to learn that you can trust me. That we should trust each other.”

“Right.” He squeezes her hand, lifts it up to press a kiss to her knuckles. “Did you need anything? Ayshe won’t mind if you need her to bring you a cup of tea. She knows a chamomile and mint blend that helps put you to sleep—”

“No, it’s not that.” She shakes her head. “I just… wanted to see you.”

His breath hitches. She can hear the moment it stops. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” She blushes, averting her gaze. “We’re married now, so it’s not indecent…”

“No, no—that’s not the problem. It’s just… ah…” She laughs a little at the bashful look on his face, and steps closer to him, brushing her nose against his chest. She feels him tense beneath her, though he relaxes just as quickly. “Emma?”

“I don’t want to sleep separately,” she murmurs. “Let me stay with you?”

“Of course.” She likes the way he holds her close then, his fingers flat against her back and his mouth pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She could get used to this. To him.

She said she’d give him her life, after all. 

When the candlelight is extinguished and they’re both snuggled beneath the blankets, she memorizes the way his heart beats and familiarizes the way he breaths. His weight next to her feels grounding, like an anchor, and when he starts humming the tune he’d taught her before, she sings along with him.

“I wasn’t ready to play with you, at first,” she confesses softly, because she promised him honesty. “That’s why I could never…”

The moonlight shines over the smile that graces his face. “I know. We have plenty of time to learn how to be a duet. We’ll practice together, everyday.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” She kisses his fingers, and feels at peace. “I’d like that very much.”

Chapter 29: You & Me.

Notes:

December 27: This was a request from multiple anons, actually! Noremma + Carol, and a little bit of Norman dying. All asks are compiled on the accompanying Tumblr post.

Song-spiration: You and Me - Lifehouse (Boyce Avenue cover)

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“Carol, you have porridge on your shirt.” 

Emma observes him curiously as he dabs away the mess staining the girl’s shirt, the latter smiling up at him radiantly, looking as though she has no care in the world. Norman seems endeared by this expression, and after he tucks his handkerchief away, he ruffles her hair. “That’s enough porridge for you today, silly girl.”

She babbles something incoherent as a response, and Norman smiles, his eyes closed. Emma returns her gaze to her own bowl of oatmeal—breakfast in the house always consists of fiber—and shoves a spoonful of it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

She feels oatmeal dribbling down her mouth eventually, and looks down at herself, spotting stains similar to those on Carol’s dress littering her shirt.

Beside her, Ray notices and scoffs. “You were always a messy eater.”

“Was I?” She’s too preoccupied with her own thoughts to yell at him for the jest. “Carol’s a messy eater too.”

Ray quirks a brow at the lack of a visceral reaction and simply shrugs. “You eat like a five year-old, what can I say?”

“Hmm?” She looks at Carol again, who has Norman’s index finger in her palm, the shine in her eyes similar to his and the smile on her face wide and toothy. “Really?”

Ray frowns at her obvious listlessness and rolls his eyes. “Weirdo. Just finish eating or we’ll be late to work.”

She turns to him. “Is being Vice-CEO hard and time-consuming?”

“What’s with the sudden interest?” Ray’s gaze is pointed and Emma almost slaps herself for forgetting just how perceptive he can be sometimes. “Are you planning on taking up the role?”

“Hah!?” She shakes her head vigorously, cheeks turning pink. “No, no! Wouldn’t dream of it, I’m not so interested in doing office-work…”

“So you’re asking because of Norman, then?” Ray asks, though it sounds less like a question and more like a default conclusion. “Want to spend more time alone with him, or something?”

“Or something…” she has to admit, or Ray won’t get off her case about it anytime soon.

“Hm…” He stares at her for a moment, then tilts his head to look at Norman, who’s just stood up to gather the plates and bring them to the kitchen. “Oi, guardian.”

“Ray!” Emma tugs on his sleeve, desperate to avoid Norman’s line of sight. “Don’t!”

“What’s the matter?” Too late, Norman’s seen her already and knows she’s acting weird. 

“I think your friend over here is feeling a little neglected,” Ray drawls, punctuating the sentence with a nonchalant sip from his cup of coffee. “If you want, I can handle the items on the agenda and you two can go off and… canoodle.”

The last word has Ray smirking devilishly and Norman choking on his spit. Emma sits back, confused, though still embarrassed. “It’s not that!” she denies hotly, even if she doesn’t really know what she’s denying. “What does ‘canoodle’ mean, anyway? I just—”

“Wanted to do the Devil’s Tango? Should’ve said so earlier, then.” Ray shrugs, and it’s Norman’s wintery glare that clues Emma in on the idea that Ray might have some other agenda for being pushy this morning.

“All right, Ray. What brought this on?” Norman asks, crossing his arms. Emma’s eyes widen—a direct frontal attack, huh!?

“Nothing you should worry about.” Ray stands up as well, and the sound of his fork clattering against the spoon is distinct and grates her ears. He pauses, looking between both of them. “Too much.”

“Then there is something to be worried about?” Norman presses further.

“Just matters of the heart. You might not have enough time.” Ray slips away into the kitchen, bumping Norman’s shoulder along the way. The latter’s brows furrow, staring rigidly after their friend, and Norman’s stoic disposition causes Emma’s stomach to curl into a knot.

“Norman, you’re not—” The thought of what she’s trying to say makes her feel so sick. “—dying, are you?”

“What?” His brows rise to his hairline, and he pales so suddenly at the accusation that Emma wonders if it’s true. “Emma, where’d you even get the idea?”

“So you are,” she says, and then clamps a sweaty palm over her mouth. Norman twitches, like he’s about to ask what’s wrong. She beats him to it. “I’m gonna hurl.”

And she does hurl, not three seconds later, oatmeal landing into the toilet in chunks of partially digested grains and bile. Norman’s hand is flat on her back, running across her spine, and she shivers at the feeling of it—trembles even more at the thought that he’s dying.

Dying.

She vomits another round of her breakfast and flushes it away with her eyes squeezed shut. When she pumps out nothing but air from her mouth, she leans back against the wall, green eyes teary from both exertion and sadness.

“Your shirt’s stained,” Norman murmurs, and she wants to tell him it’s pure oatmeal and not vomit but no words escape her mouth. “I’ll go get another one.”

He moves to stand and she catches him by the wrist half-way, meeting his befuddled gaze with her own clouded one. “I don’t…” She shakes her head.

“Emma?” he prompts, kneeling in front of her once more. “You can tell me.”

She inhales some much needed air. “I don’t want you to leave.”

His expression softens, and he takes her hand. “I’m not dying,” he tells her, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. Against her skin, he finishes, “Silly girl.”

She exhales at the term, and looks up at him when he pulls away, the corner of his mouth quirked up like he’s amused. He’s good at hiding his sadness, she reflects. Maybe he’s good at hiding other things, too.

“Promise?” she whispers.

“Promise,” he replies, and it sounds genuine enough.

“Okay, because even just the thought of it makes me feel so sick,” she says, frowning. “If it actually happens I don’t know how I’m going to push through.”

There’s a crack in his gaze, then, and she can see just how old his sadness is for a moment. “You’ll find a way. You always do. But this isn’t something we should talk about, because I don’t plan on leaving any time soon.” He smiles at her then, and she wants to keep it, that smile. “I don’t plan on letting you go, either.”

“Same here,” she says, beaming back at him. “Though I still don’t understand what Ray was talking about.”

Norman’s cheeks flush pink, and when he stammers out an unbelievable excuse—“That was just Ray being… Ray.”—she has to wonder if he’s actually keeping a secret from her.

And if it has anything to do with ‘silly’.

 

///

 

It strikes her as a random, spur-of-the-moment realization one day.

“Carol, you don’t drink these leaves.” Norman’s voice is firm yet gentle as he fishes out a bunch of weeds from Carol’s plastic teacup. She looks on the verge of crying as he does so. “These aren’t like the tea leaves that Anna likes to drink. They’re bad for your health.”

“No-o,” Carol whines, two hands reaching for the weeds that Norman’s tossing away. “No-o!”

Norman sighs at her stubbornness and looks around, his gaze landing on Emma. He beckons her over, and she obliges. “Could you get some tea leaves from Anna? Ask her for chamomile. Meet me in the kitchen once you get them.”

“Sure.” She tells Thoma and Lani along the way that she’ll have to hop out of their game of tag (she notices they’re all already so good at it but love to play it anyway) and rushes off to find Anna, whom she finds chatting with Gilda in the living room.

Eventually, she has a small glass jar labelled ‘chamomile’ in her hands, and she enters the kitchen to find that Norman has transferred Carol’s baby tea set onto the kitchen island, with Carol and a few other girls—Naila, Jemima, Alicia—surrounding him.

He looks up at her with a pot of hot water in his hands. “Emma, just in time!” 

“And what am I on time for?” she asks playfully, handing him the jar and sitting next to the girls.

“Tea!” Carol fills her in enthusiastically, flashing her that toothy grin. Emma smiles at her, thoroughly endeared.

“A tea party then,” Emma says, and the other girls nod eagerly. “Should we get biscuits too?”

“I got them!” Naila says, scampering off to the cabinets.

“Emma, do you like tea?” Jemima asks, her brown eyes wide and curious. “Ray always teases Anna for drinking it.”

“That’s because Ray doesn’t know how to express his feelings,” Norman mutters under his breath, and Emma laughs, because she doesn’t know where that particular comment came from but it’s amusing to think about. She’s been suspicious of the boys for a few days now—they look like they’re having some sort of secret fight—but they’re usually just off-handed comments meant to sting a little, like a mind game composed of intended verbal barbs.

Whatever their secret fight is about, she thinks she’ll find out eventually at the rate they’re going. And they still seem friendly anyway, so she’s not too worried.

Just a tad bit curious.

“You’re mixing in milk?” she asks, peering over the table to watch Norman pour milk into every cup.

“And honey,” he adds, gesturing to the honey jar with his elbow. She notices that he’s rolled up his sleeves. “What are you looking at?”

“Um.” She bites her lip, feeling heat pool in her cheeks. “I was looking at something?”

Norman’s amused expression only serves to fluster her further, and she averts her gaze quickly, allowing it to land on Carol instead. The girl looks happy, and she’s staring unabashedly at Norman too, like he’s the greatest thing in the world. “I like tea!” she says, when Norman passes her a cup. She takes a sip, liquid dribbling from the corners of her smile. “I like Norman!”

The girls surrounding her all coo at the proclamation, the man in question reaching over to wipe her mouth with his handkerchief. He shakes his head at her, grinning. “I like you too, silly girl.”

Emma looks at Norman when he pulls away, and wonders about the term again—‘silly’, he says, like he’s talking about something invaluable to him—and then she realizes it.

Tangerine hair, ocean eyes, and a shared monicker.

 

///

 

She’s positively sure about what Norman’s secret is, now. 

She knows what Ray’s deal might be as well. “Canoodle” could have been some code term for “talking to Emma about Carol”, though she doesn’t know why they’d use such a strange term.

It’s slowly starting to make sense. Norman must be keeping Carol’s relation to them both by pretending like she’s just a sibling. She lost her memories, so he must have wanted to be considerate of her feelings and not tell her about the more… intimate parts of their past.

Which is stupid—she wants to spend the rest of her life walking alongside him and their daughter, so he has nothing to fear at all!

With that conclusion in mind, she settles for confronting him about it today.

 

///

 

He knows exactly when he’d gotten so attached to Carol.

It was two weeks after their transfer into the human world, and they were all slowly settling into a routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, search for Emma, eat dinner, go to sleep. That was the basic gist. He hadn’t started his business venture yet, though he’d been planning to.

It was the eve of Emma’s birthday in that first year that he’d come to realize there was someone in their midst who sported the same head of hair and the same bubbly personality. The young Carol, only three years old, though her smiles already shone so bright. He’d been drawn to her purity, and the longing in him saw her blue eyes as her only flaw.

Over time, she grew to come to him whenever she wanted to, asking him to play, or read her a book, or help her eat her food. He liked doing things for her—spoiling her, is what Ray called it—and the part of him that had a hole in it sought to fill it by caring for the child. He was more attentive with the time he spent with her than he was with anyone else, and he wondered more often than not if he was crossing some sort of invisible line.

But he knows Emma would have cared for the girl just as he had. She’d wanted to be a mother, after all, back when they were still innocent of the world. Everything she’d done was to give Carol a better world, so he’d show the girl all the wonderful things that had come to surface as a result of Emma’s sacrifice.

And then he could show her, when he finds her again, that he’d done everything he could to give their family the world she’d fought so hard to give.

He knows exactly when he got attached to Carol, because it was the day he wished so fervently that he could celebrate the life of the girl he loved with all his being.

 

///

 

“Carol, baby, come here.”

The girl obliges well enough, waddling over to be scooped up into Emma’s arms, and she turns towards the mirror, where she scrutinizes their appearances. She looks first at their hair—curled at the tips, a similar shade, though Carol’s is lighter—and nods. That’s a check. She tickles the girls stomach, and laughs along with her before turning to catch a glimpse of their expressions. Similar smiles, both their cheeks tinted red.

“Emma!” Carol gurgles, reaching for her hands. “Again, again!”

Emma grins and does as the girl requests, making sure to keep her secure in her arms while she does so. What child so willingly asks to be tickled? This must be a sign.

“I think that’s Mama to you, Carol,” she whispers softly, and the elated flutter of her heart as she says so must be mother’s intuition, she thinks.

“Mm?” Carol hums, none the wiser. “Ma?”

“Yeah!” Emma twirls her around. “Isn’t that great? And Norman’s your Pa, right?”

“Norman!” Carol giggles. Another indicative sign, Emma thinks, feeling proud of herself for figuring it out. What kind of mother would she be if she didn’t?

“I’ll take care of you forever!” she announces, lifting the girl up and rubbing their noses. “We can take walks and eat porridge together, Norman can shake his head and go ‘silly girls’ like he always does, and we can have all the tea parties you want to!” she lists off, carried away by dreams of the future.

“Tea parties?” A familiar voice echoes, and Emma whirls around, grinning happily because he’s right on time.

“Yeah!” she says as Norman enters the living room. She’d asked him to meet her there while all the other children are playing outside. “You’d like that, right? We can spend more time together and canoodle, like Ray said. You don’t have to hide it from me anymore, cause I figured it out!”

Norman is almost endeared by her enthusiasm, except—“Canoodle?”

His entire face—from his neck to the tips of his ears—turns bright red at the word. He coughs, averting his gaze. “Emma, I don’t think you…” he trails off, as though realizing something. “What do you mean you ‘figured it out’? What did you figure out?”

“That Carol’s our daughter!” Emma announces proudly, and Norman looks close to fainting at the proclamation.

As though by divine intervention, Carol pipes up, “Yeah!”

That only causes Norman’s heart to palpitate further.

“What—daughter—how—?” He plops down onto the living room couch, stupefied, and that’s when Ray chooses to walk in, a folder in his hands.

“Hey, I was looking for you,” Ray grumbles, “Vincent showed me the translated contract and I think that motor company might be trying to scam us, there’s a clause that…” He blinks, finally noticing Norman’s condition (pale as a ghost and one impromptu daughter away from becoming one) and Emma’s presence.

He tosses the folder onto the coffee table with a gritted sigh. “All right, what happened.”

“I figured it out, so you don’t have to fight with Norman about keeping it a secret anymore!” Emma fills him in.

“Figured what out?” Ray asks, helpful as ever.

“That Carol’s our daughter!” Emma clarifies, and then she turns to Norman again. “You don’t have to look so scared, I’m not mad at you for keeping it from me or anything. I’m just happy that I found out! Now we can—”

Ray’s sharp bark of laughter cuts her off.

“Are you serious!?” Ray hollers, clutching his stomach and a few seconds away from rolling on the floor. “Where the hell did you get that idea?”

“Well, Carol looks like us, doesn’t she?” Emma supplies, not understanding what the big deal is. “And Norman treats her differently from all the other kids, since he’s always doting on her. And with her blue eyes, it’s obvious that she’s his daughter, which only leaves the question ‘who’s the Mama?’”

“And what made you think that was you?” Ray looks like he’s having a field day, and that about sobers Norman up.

“He treats me differently too!” Emma says defensively, feeling as though she’s missing something given Ray’s reaction, “And she looks more like me than she does Norman!”

“Why? Cause she’s a girl?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Emma clutches Carol tighter and sticks her tongue out at Ray. “She’s our daughter and I know it! Mother’s intuition!”

Both boys choke for a moment at the admission and then Ray’s guffaw is the last thing Emma hears as the boy heads out of the room, hollering for Gilda and Anna’s opinion on ‘mother’s intuition’.

Norman pinches his nose, and then with all seriousness and loving patience, says, “Emma, we’re sixteen.”

“So what?”

“We’re too young to be parents!”

“Says who?” She frowns. “Why are you denying it? I know she’s our daughter, so—”

“Emma, she’s not—we’re not—” Norman turns red again and looks away, his voice rising to a squeak. “We’ve never even canoodled!”

“What?” She shakes her head. “I have no idea what canoodle even means, you and Ray use the weirdest words…”

“Just!” He sighs, rising to his feet so he can stand in front of her and make a point. “Carol’s not ours. She’s five years old, and we’re sixteen, there’s no biological possibility that she’s ours. She looks like us because she comes from the same facility we were born in, and if you’re really going to argue the case, then look for stretch marks.”

“Stretch marks?” Emma pouts. “I don’t know what those are.”

“See,” Norman points out. “You get those when you give birth to a child. If you don’t even know what they are—”

“Maybe I just forgot?” Emma cuts off, looking adamant.

Norman has to crack an amused smile at her persistence. “We could always check your stomach for them, even if you forgot.”

“All right then,” she says, setting Carol down and lifting up her shirt. “Let’s check.”

“Emma!” Norman cries, turning around, his face back to its tomato-state. “Not in front of me!”

“Why not? It’s you, so I don’t really care.”

He’s flattered but bound by dignity. “Please put your shirt back on.”

“Up!” Carol demands, reaching for Emma on her tiptoes. “Up!”

“I didn’t see any marks,” Emma says, lifting Carol back up. “And our ages don’t make sense too… you’re right. But…” When Norman turns he swears he sees her antenna flash like a light bulb. “What if we adopt her?”

“Huh!?” Norman blinks, stupefied twice in one day. “Well—”

“Why not, right?”

“We’ll…” He sighs, and wonders why he wants to go along with it. “...We’ll have to wait until we’re eighteen to do it legally, I suppose. But she can be our… unofficial… daughter.” He gulps, both all too embarrassed and all too elated.

“Then we’ll spend lots of time together, right!” Emma lights up. “We can take care of her and watch over her and be her Mama and Papa—”

Norman looks just about ready to collapse at the term. 

“—we can do all of that, right?”

She looks so eager at the prospect—and heck, if he doesn’t want this, either. A family with Emma. It’s just come sooner than he expected.

He laughs at the thought, and pulls her close, burying his nose into her hair. “You… are just so amazing, you know that?”

“You are too!” She beams up at him, Carol mimicking her expression now that Norman’s come close, and as he looks at their smiles he thinks—well, they could certainly pass off for a family.

The kind of family he’s always wanted to be in his future.

I love you, he wants to say, because she’s given him everything, but he’ll save it for later. For now, he has to know…

“Why do you want Carol to be ours so badly?” he asks, entirely too curious. “I know you’re smart enough to realize she’s not related to us, so why would you push the issue so much?”

“Hm?” He thinks he can see a little bit of pink in her ears. “Well, I think… um. Maybe I just want a reason to spend more time with you?”

At the admission, Norman’s heart tightens for the millionth time with adoration for the girl right in front of him. And unable to help himself, he presses a kiss to her cheek, his eyes bright with the love that he has yet to say.

Chapter 30: Hero/Heroine.

Notes:

December 28: Anons on Tumblr said: "Genderbent Noremma!" and Ise replied, "Discount Kimi no na wa AU!"

No dying here though. Or weird time skips. Just two people the universe decided to screw with.

Song-spiration: Hero/Heroine - Boys Like Girls

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“He’s…” Norman trails off, eyes scanning the grounds for that particular shade of white in the crowd. He sighs at the observation of its absence, and turns back to Ray, who’s got their textbook open on tomorrow’s homework. “...gone.”

Ray scoffs. “So is your brain.”

“Sorry.” Norman rubs his head at the notion, an embarrassed flush of pink coating his cheeks. 

Ray quirks a brow at that. “Are you gay or something?”

“What!” Norman rises from his chair, cheeks redder than they were before. “I’m not—what do you mean—well, I wouldn’t know, so I mean, I guess? Wait, no, that’s just an assumption—I don’t know if he’s gay or not!”

The visceral reaction has Ray—and virtually everybody else in their private boarding school—quirking a brow. “All right. You’re on drugs, then.”

“No!” he squeaks, and then stops again. “Well, I wouldn’t know?”

“So which is it, genius?”

“I—” That pink face turns away and Norman picks up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder in a decidedly feminine fashion. “—got to go, bye!”

Strolling past, Oliver watches Norman run away (the only thing lacking to complete the image would be a miniskirt, a couple of guys nearby think) and leans down to whisper in Ray’s ear, “That guy got a girlfriend or what?”

Ray huffs, twirling a pencil around and marking off another problem on the textbook’s worksheet. “Probably a boyfriend. He’s acting like a real pussy about it.”

“Hey. Swearing in front of a prefect could get you disciplined, you know.”

“Do I look like I care?” Ray drawls, casting Oliver a brief glance before resting his gaze on the empty spot before him. Something fishy is going on with his cousin, and Ray’s determined to get to the bottom of it.

 

///

 

“Are you on drugs?”

Norman stares long and hard at the message scrawled messily in black ink over his bathroom mirror. Has he been sleep-walking, lately? Taking drugs without his knowledge? He doesn’t recall writing that on his wall. He might be going crazy.

All those dreams about ginger hair and brilliant laughter must be filling his brain with nicotine, he thinks. They all turn into smoke the moment he wakes up, but the effects are most definitely still there.

“Oi, Norman.” There’s a familiar voice and a familiar knock on his door. “We’re going to be late.”

At the remark, Norman turns to look at the clock and practically trips over himself trying to change when he realizes he’s only got eight minutes left before the initial bell. “Coming!” he tells Ray, trying to pull on his slacks and landing on his butt in the process. He finishes buttoning his polo while stuck on the floor.

He can’t spare time to look at his schedule—as if he hasn’t got it memorized, anyway, and he would have prepared his things the night before—so he just pulls on his blazer, grabs his bag, and opens the door to greet a less than impressed face. He averts his gaze, and adjusts his posture so that it doesn’t look like he literally just rolled out of bed.

“No blushing or stammering today, then?” Ray hedges, turning in the direction of the school’s classrooms. “You were almost late yesterday too. Are you sure you’re not on drugs? Or texting a boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Norman says, frowning. He thinks of that message in his bathroom mirror. “I’m not on drugs, either.”

“Don’t sound too sure,” Ray gripes, glancing at him sideways. “Well, you seem pretty normal today. Did something happen with uncle, then?”

“No, nothing.” Norman eyes his cousin suspiciously. “You’re rather interrogative today, Ray.”

“Ah, there’s that unparalleled lexicon. I was wondering where that was yesterday, when you were spouting off a bunch of bullshit.”

“I was not—” Norman promptly cuts himself off, slowly realizing that he does not, in fact, recall what he might have done yesterday. “We went to the court, didn’t we?”

“That was two days ago, idiot.”

“Hm.” Norman halts mid-step, though he’s always been quick to regain his composure. “Then I’ll have to admit I don’t remember much of yesterday.”

“Seriously? You don’t remember yelling at Professor Valima in Chemistry? Or tripping over your feet thrice?”

“What?” Norman intones, bemused. “I wouldn’t do those things.”

“But you did.” Ray stops and turns to examine him critically. “Are you sure you’re all right in the head? Do I need to schedule an appointment with Mom or something?”

“I don’t need a therapy session,” Norman denies coolly, walking past Ray and heading for their History class. “It must have been a momentary lapse in judgement.”

“Yeah, right.” Ray rolls his eyes, jutting his thumb in the other direction. “Math class is that way.”

Norman turns, his brow creased. He doesn’t say a word and follows Ray instead, who keeps looking like him like he’s a specimen that needs to be studied. 

He curses himself and begins to entertain the possibility of an anomaly in his brain when he notices that he has all the wrong textbooks in his bag.

For the first time in his life, he fails to pass his homework on time.

 

///

 

“What’s happening to me!”

Emma jumps out of bed (a familiar bed, thank the gods) and she runs to the bathroom to check herself in the mirror. Orange hair? Check. Green eyes? Check. Boobs? Double-check.

She sighs, resting her back against the wall and sliding down to the floor. That was the weirdest dream ever.

Is this what they call a mid-life crisis? Dreaming that you’re some rich guy attending a private boarding school at the capital? 

That’s weird, though. She loves her provincial life. She’d take the forests, lush green in the summer and golden in the fall, over the dull gray buildings and the quiet, vibrant blue sky over the city smog any day.

And why would she dream of being a guy, anyway? 

Hold on. That sort of has an explanation. Her mom’s always getting on her case for being boyish, so maybe she’s just a boy at heart? What does being a ‘boy’ even mean?

Her head aches. It’s not the time of day to be entertaining any philosophical questions. She gets up and decides to wash herself off, tearing herself from her clothes (a familiar pair of mismatched pajamas and not some navy blue set that looks like it belongs to the military) and stepping into the shower (that only has one setting, not two).

Her shampoo is the same old cherry blossom scent that her mom always buys from the grocery store and not a bottle of non-scented shampoo, either. Whoever she’d been dreaming about seems to lead a rather boring life, she thinks. But at least she had friends in the dream—that snarky ebony-haired emo boy that looks like he’ll be committing arson one day. Does one attract intriguing people when one is boring? She wonders to herself, humming.

At the very least, that whole ordeal will be a one time thing.

It was just a dream, after all.

 

///

 

“WHAT!?”

Emma panics at the sight of a very familiar, very tidy room. She rips herself out of satin sheets and runs to the bathroom, where she stares at a familiar ink stain on the bathroom mirror, though this time she sees—through blue eyes that are most definitely not her own—that the handwriting and the letters are very, very different.

For one, it looks as neat as the rest of the room.

For two, it doesn’t ask whether or not she’s on drugs, it’s asking:

Who are you?

Who is she? That’s what she’d like to know! She hadn’t counted on being brought back to this dreamscape, and she pinches herself hard just to see if she can snap herself out of it. 

It doesn’t work.

And worse yet…

She wants to pee.

 

///

 

His chest… feels squished.

He groans, rolling over, and feels something solid beneath the cloth he’s resting over. He must have rolled out of bed somehow, he thinks to himself, rising groggily. He isn’t too used to sleeping on the floor; his mother would fret over him if she’d walked in on the sight.

He sits up, stretching. He must really be out of it if he ended up on the floor overnight. Maybe he should take Ray’s suggestion of setting up an appointment with Aunt Isabella. Perhaps the Ratri’s inherent insanity is catching up to him.

He blinks his eyes open to see…

A mess.

A sunlit, pile of clothes on the floor, knick-knacks toppled over, books in a pile (books in a pile!?) mess littering every square inch of the wooden floors.

Wait.

Wooden?

He blinks again.

Sunlit?

What on earth happened to the Academy’s dreary climate? He stands, and further registers that there’s no bed in the room at all—just the futon he’d been laying on—and upon closer inspection he thinks he can make out a sports bra peeking out of the folds of a discarded blouse.

He squeaks, turning around and covering his eyes with his hands. Where is he? Did he somehow end up in a one night stand? How could that have happened, anyway? He’s pretty sure he went to bed last night!

A kidnapping, maybe? Though security at the Academy is extremely tight. 

He spots a phone sitting on a small box—a makeshift bedside table, maybe?—and picks it up, blinking when he notices that the lock screen is composed of people he does not recognize. There’s a green-haired girl—he ruffles his nose at the sight, dyed hair is discouraged in upper society, though she does look quite fashionable regardless—and a handsome, dark-skinned boy beside her, tall and lanky, though definitely well-toned. He must be an athlete. They make a typical high school couple, Norman thinks, though he doesn’t know anything much about that. 

There are others in the photo too: a pretty blonde he thinks Ray might like, and two children sporting light ginger hair. The face at the forefront of the photo is cut off, like she’d been laughing while taking the selfie, and he notes that her eyes are attractive: long lashes, sparkling green irises.

There are a bunch of filters placed on the photo (it’s decorated by a bunch of stickers too) and it serves as an endearing sight.

It becomes even more endearing when he swipes and it doesn’t ask him for a password.

He dials Ray’s number, and heads to the door to lock it in case his assailant comes walking in to find him awake and planning an escape.

Ray picks up on the fifth ring. “Who the fuck is this?”

Norman has never felt more elated by the sound of a cuss. “Ray, it’s Norman. I’ve been taken somewhere. The phone I swiped says my location is Goldy Pond, and—” he rushes to the large window and draws the curtains, looking out to find that he’s in a forest, overlooking a large body of water. “I’m about south, south-west of a large body of water. A lake, maybe. Though I’m not quite sure about the directions. I’m in what looks like a traditional home, wooden walls, a—” he chokes, on this part—“girl’s room. I haven’t established contact with anyone else yet. I intend to escape to the lake before I do, so you can send the police to look for me there.”

“Oi, Norman,” Ray answers, and Norman is almost relieved but then Ray’s voice turns distant and there’s a crackle over the line. “There’s some chick claiming that she’s you and she’s spouting a bunch of crap. Is she your girlfriend? Tell her to cut the bullshit. Why would you even give her my fucking number?”

“What!”

A voice that sounds a lot like his sounds over the phone. Norman frowns—who’s Ray talking to? An imposter? Was he kidnapped overnight and replaced?

“Let me—uh—I’ll take this somewhere else!”

The voice of his imposter is high like it’s panicked and Norman scoffs. If they’re actually an imposter, then in Ray-terms, they’re doing a piss poor job at mimicking him. He wonders why Ray hasn’t caught on yet.

“Where the fuck are you going with my phone!”

Ray’s voice is definitely distant now, and Norman listens to the sound of someone running, mentally preparing a plan to extract information out of this person and sending them to jail where they belong.

“Hello?” It’s still his voice that he hears over the line.

So they’re not dropping the act, huh?

Two can play that game.

“Yes. Is this Norman Minerva speaking?” The moment the question comes out of his mouth his mind registers that his voice… doesn’t sound right.

“No it’s not!” The admission is loud and frantic and practically floors Norman, who’d expected more resistance from them. “You sound like me so—how do you sound like me? Why am I here? Why am I in a guy’s body!?”

“Wait—what.” Norman slumps to the floor. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?” Norman blinks. Nothing’s making much sense anymore. “I keep waking up in a guy’s body—some guy named Norman—and now I’m hearing myself talking through the phone! I don’t get it! This is some trippy dream and I can’t wake up!”

“I—” Norman stutters. “Hold on. Are you… a girl?”

“Depends. Right now? Technically no. Any other time? Yes!”

“So… I’m…” He sporadically looks around and spots a door. He wrenches it open to find a hallway, and he runs through it, hoping to find a mirror. He finds one eventually: it’s an old antique piece that’s spotted in places and doesn’t give off a clear reflection, but he can see plain as day that he’s in some other girl’s body: wild hair, green eyes, two breasts and all. “Fuck.”

“You’re me, aren’t you?”

There’s a long beat. “Describe ‘me’.”

“Uh. Short hair? A girl?”

“I’m you.” Norman tugs on a strand of orange hair, horrified. “And you’re me.”

There’s a thump on the other end. “Tell me this isn’t real.”

He pinches himself.

He doesn’t wake up.

 

///

 

“So how do I pee in this thing?”

Norman almost face-plants into the floor. “Uh—”

 

///

 

“I… um. Was walking to school.”

“Yes?”

“And… you wear skirts.”

“Yes?”

“With white socks.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Um. Your socks… are red now.”

“Oh fuck.”

 

///

 

“I’ve been keeping track of the dates,” Norman says, in his own body now, thankfully.

“You have? I lost track around… September.”

“Emma. We’re in November now.”

“They happen so randomly though!” He can practically see her pouting over the line and he has to crack a smile at the mental image. “Is there a point to keeping track, anyway? Shouldn’t we be trying to—you know—fix this? What if it’s like a Freaky Friday thing, but instead of learning a valuable lesson, we’re just supposed to literally run into each other?”

“Do you want to break my nose?”

She laughs over the line at the notion and Norman sort of laughs too, because the sound is just so rich and contagious. He thinks that he’s lucky—by some divine providence they can meet even when they’re miles and miles apart.

He just doesn’t like how they meet.

“It happens every time the moon waxes and wanes,” he tells her when her laughter dies down. “Why do you think that is?”

“Mm.” She sounds pensive, for once. “I have no idea.”

He sighs. “Me neither. But at least we can prepare for the swap better now.”

“There’s no preparing for those tests you have,” she complains, drawing her voice out into a petulant whine. She sounds like a puppy, he thinks to himself. “Even History’s a killer. How do you survive?”

“What do you mean? You’ve been doing perfectly well on the tests. Sure, there was a slight dip last month, but you’ve been improving and you’re now maintaining a consistent GPA.”

“Do you know how many nights of sleep I’ve lost just to maintain your perfect GPA?”

He laughs. “You’re smart, I know you can do it. I’m sorry to hear that you aren’t getting any rest, but I really do think it’s just a gap in our curriculums. You’re bridging it slowly, and I’m proud of you.”

“You’re just happy you can keep your report card clean,” she teases.

“No, I’m not.” His voice is firm and serves to sober her playful nature. “I’m serious. You’re amazing.”

There’s a rap on the door before he can hear her reply. “Will you quit being sappy with your girlfriend? The entire fucking hall can hear you.”

“Only because you’ve been standing there eavesdropping for the past five minutes!” Norman yells back, muffling the phone’s speaker with his sweater. “And she’s not my girlfriend!”

“Yeah, right. You’ve literally been calling her every single night and Aunt Lillian’s so suspicious about the phone bills she’s been getting that she interrogated me about it. And I don’t want to be interrogated about it. So say night-night to your girlfriend or I’m tattling.”

“What are we, ten?”

“Just do it!”

“Did you hear that, ‘girlfriend’?” Norman speaks obnoxiously into the phone, “I think Ray’s feeling neglected.”

Emma laughs, and Norman’s about to crack another tease at Ray’s expense, except she turns quiet and says, softly, “I wouldn’t mind being your girlfriend. Though I do feel for your phone bill.”

Suffice it to say that Norman topples over his chair and accidentally presses the end call button.

Outside, Ray hollers, “What? Did she tell you she loves you or something?” before cackling and walking away.

Norman’s face burns bright red.

 

///

 

“I know we love each other and all that… but you can’t touch my boobs, got it?”

“Emma!” It’s probably the fifty-fifth time that she’s caused him to fall out of his chair. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just that some of your classmates were saying a bunch of stupid things—”

“Stupid things? Give me their names.”

“Norman! I know exactly what kind of guy you are so there’s no way!”

“Not even because you love me?”

She snorts. “You’ll probably have them publicly embarrassed if I tell you.”

“Your lack of faith wounds me.”

“I’m sending you a verbal hug as compensation. Huuuug.”

“I am comforted.”

She bursts into laughter at that.

 

///

 

“Did you hear? Did you hear?”

“I was in your body today, so of course I heard.”

“We’re having an exchange program! With your school! How even?”

“Well…”

“You did something, didn’t you?”

“I wanted to spend time with you for real! And… we could try out your Freaky Friday hypothesis while we’re at it.”

“Summer vacation huh… One month at your school… that’s plenty of time!” He hears a few thumps on the other side.

“What’s going on over there?”

“I’m doing a happy dance.”

“Cute.”

“Hihi.” She hums a pleasant tune, and he closes his eyes, content to listen to her. “I’ll have to start packing then.”

“Focus on your finals first.”

“Hah! You mean focus on your finals, because the moon is waning on exam week!”

“I’m studying for your finals too. And it’s only one day out of five, plus it’s on content that you’ve mastered over the past month. I told you that you could do it, didn’t I?”

“I think I only managed to do it because you kept saying I could.”

“Have some faith in yourself too. You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

“Norman. Stop it.”

He grins. “Stop what?”

“You’re convincing me!”

“Believe it!”

“Sto-op. I love you.”

“Love you more.”

“Love you even more.”

“Love you most!”

“Shut up, I love you best!”

“I love you deeper.”

“I love you purer!”

“I love you—”

There’s a sharp knock on the door. “It’s bedtime, you rascals!”

“You can’t even hear what she’s saying!”

“So what? You talk enough for two!”

And Norman grins at that, because given their predicament—well. He does.

 

///

 

The day of that exchange program soon arrives. Top students from Emma’s high school have been invited to participate in the Academy’s special summer courses, which are geared to lead young students to excellence in their academic and future careers. Norman had pitched it as a way for the institution to establish local relations with other schools, improve their reputation, and extend the school’s applicant pool to circles outside society’s upper class. Additionally, if the exchange students do well, then it will be advantageous to the school’s public standing. The benefits outweigh the risks.

It was a successful proposal. Except…

“Dammit. I don’t know where to go.” Emma scratches her head, peering around to observe her classmates.

“You’re looking stiff today, Emma. Are you nervous?” Don asks, sidling up next to her and squeezing her shoulder. 

“Why would I be nervous?” she answers smoothly, offering him a placating smile. “I simply forgot my schedule. That’s all.”

Next to Don, Gilda shakes her head. “There she goes again. Her split personality’s back, though it’s just as forgetful as her usual one.”

Emma blinks and realizes she talked eloquently out of habit again. “Ah—haha! What? Split personality? I don’t have a split personality!”

There. She decidedly sounds more Emma than she did before.

Next to her Anna stifles a giggle. “That’s quite the effort there, Emma. Though what exactly did you forget?”

“Well. Everything?” She laughs nervously. “I don’t know where our buses are, or the departure time…”

“We’re leaving for the school in twenty minutes, don’t worry,” Gilda assures, and Don ruffles her hair with a fondly added, “You’re as forgetful as ever, you goldfish!”

“Don!” she whines. “I’m not!”

“Are too!”

“We should all probably head to the bus now, though,” Anna points out, and then she takes Emma and Gilda’s hands. “You guys are with me. Don’s riding in the other bus.”

“Twenty minutes, huh?” Emma mutters to herself. “That’s an hour to the academy then, counting traffic.”

Gilda quirks a brow. “And since when were you so knowledgeable about traffic in the capital?”

“Ah—um!” Emma gestures wildly. “It’s just… an estimate, I guessed!”

“Ahuh. Sure,” Gilda intones, obviously suspicious.

Emma turns away and simply blushes. She’s been slipping up a lot, but she’s too excited to care.

 

///

 

They line up on stage, where they’re introduced one by one to the Academy’s students.

Emma glances around, trying to catch a glimpse of white hair, though she’s not exactly experienced at spotting him out of a crowd. Eventually, it’s her turn to speak, and she walks up to the mic, still searching for the one person she wants to meet so badly.

“My name is,” she begins, and then she spots him.

Spots him too late, that is. He’s already climbing up the stairs to meet her, much to the curious murmuring of the crowd.

“It’s you,” she breathes into the mic at the sight of him, tactless and overjoyed. “It’s really you.”

“Hi, Norman,” he answers, voice deep and rough and needy, and she thinks—

He sounds like that?

But then his lips are on hers, and she’s not thinking at all.

Chapter 31: Heart Attack.

Notes:

December 29a: I pulled a combo move and decided to do all the prompts that involve role swaps in a single one-shot. So Norman and Emma's roles are switched - so is the sacrifice - and the prompts involved touch upon: Norman's confession (which Emma hears), Emma's shipment, their subsequent reunion, and how Norman sacrifices his feelings for her as the reward. This last bit also covers their attempt to relearn how to love each other, even though it hurts.

In other words, angst!

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“And the reason that my heart won’t stay is that I’m terrified you’ll go,

And now I’m sorry that I hurt you, I didn’t say love enough;

And there’s nothing I can do, cause I’m still lost when I’m with you:

It’s like a heart attack, and I want you back.”

Heart Attack, Safetysuit

 


 

She’s always known.

In the darkness of the forest, with the wall standing right in front of them, their biggest barrier to freedom; his voice ringing through the trees like the only solution she’ll ever need.

‘I like Emma, that’s why I always want her to be smiling.’

And she feels the words take shape in her heart: blue eyes, the curve of his hair, his smile, his hands. They turn into conviction: the will to survive. They morph into tenacity: the grit to break free. And they transform into faith: the kindness and honesty it takes to thrive in a world that’s built on lies.

He’s always been one to shift—one end to the other, playing by the rules one moment and learning how to break them in the next—and the uncertainty that taints him is what makes him so unique.

He’s a bird that knows how to fly and can learn to soar even higher.

She will never forgive Mama for breaking his wings.

 

///

 

She can’t help it.

She buries herself into his arms, and hopes that her warmth will stop him from thinking for a moment. She feels him stiffen beneath her, then feels his hands over her hair, her back. He’s firm and solid to the touch despite being so dainty, and she breathes in the scent of him: the laundry powder that they use, the faint scent of spring.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers, over his heart, and his fingers curl into her hair as a response.

“We’re both going to be okay.” And she knows they’re both thinking of it at the same time: his broken leg, her pending shipment. “I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

She wants to say something in reply, but she doesn’t know what. Her words clog up her throat and then she’s just focusing on breathing him in, memorizing the way he fits in her arms, the way the rhythm of his breath sounds like her own heartbeat.

They stay like that for a long time. Maybe it’s because he can’t move, with his broken leg.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to.

When they hear the door open, she pulls away reluctantly, and that look on his face—the slant of amusement in his lopsided grin, the embarrassed wrinkle in his brow—holds the faint traces of an apology.

Ah. That’s what she’d been wanting to say.

‘I’m sorry.’

 

///

 

He wants to know where he went wrong.

Where did his calculations stutter? What variables did he fail to consider? Why does she haunt his dreams with visions of a black jacket, looking clean even though the heart beneath it has spilt blood?

He searches for her everywhere. He looks for her in the sunshine, blinding himself, burning himself. He looks for her in the wooden walls: the faint traces of a skirt rounding the next corner, her laughter emanating from the next room. He wonders at the pain that torments his heart—how can something so empty still possess the capacity to feel?

He wants to hate Mama, but he doesn’t. Because in the end, it wasn’t Mama’s decision. It was hers.

Emma, so bold and bright and beautiful, still so radiant even when standing on death’s door. He remembers the way she’d smiled at him: dismayed, apologetic. He’d seen his own horror reflected in her eyes, and when she’d taken his hand to shake it he pulled her in, pulled her close, asked her to run away. Cried into her shirt. Pressed his lips to her neck, over the numbers that stained it.

“Don’t,” he’d whispered.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, the first and final crack in her facade.

He only has remnants now: fractals of the memories she’d left behind. Emma, the girl he loves. Loved. Who was she?

He thinks of inconsequential things. Phone cup telephones, sleeping in the library, teasing Ray. Playing tag in the forest, their gazes meeting, electricity coursing through his veins at the sight of her.

She was energy, and now he’s drained.

He wants to forget, then he recalls what he asked her.

Don’t. 

 

///

 

He does what she would have wanted, and two months later he’s back at the wall.

‘I won’t let her die.’

A hollow promise. But she’s still alive, he tells himself. She’s still alive, because standing here—where freedom lies—he feels energy. This is what her life is for.

And she’s standing beside him, even now. Even as a ghost.

“Emma,” he says, and he knows—he knows—that she’s not real, but the warmth of his hand behind her back feels like the heat of blood trailing across her neck, her hair. “I want a life with you beyond the walls.”

“We’ll make it,” she answers, even as she’s disintegrating into the wind, her smile lingering despite that. “I promise.”

 

///

 

He needs strength, so he tightens his grip around a familiar photo. The only physical evidence he has of her existence.

The fruits of their years trying to survive in a world meant for demons are now rotten: fruit juice mixed with blood, seeds broken apart like grenades. A broken home. A need to start over.

“What do I do?” he whispers, bringing his hands to his face, pressing the photograph to his eyes. He feels the sting of tears but does not want to cry. Not while the other children are still looking to him for guidance. 

He wants to be a pillar but he fractures instantly upon every death.

“Stop crying, you whiny little bean sprout,” Yuugo says, and Norman wonders if he’s gone crazy enough to imagine the people he holds most dear. Dead people. 

They should be gone, but he doesn’t want them to be.

“It was my fault,” he says, looking up at the figment of his imagination, that nasty curl to his mouth still there, his greasy hair framing a ragged face that’s become Norman’s definition of a father: 

A person who’s rough and insensitive, delivering encouragement through experience and pain. A calloused hand over his shoulder, helping him learn how to shoot better and stay on his own two feet. A listening ear and a glib mouth on nights when he needs someone else to talk to—a parent to share his heartache with, a stranger to pass on her memory.

“You’re dead, and it was my fault.” He’s not sure anymore who he’s talking to. The people he’s lost or the girl he wishes he hadn’t.

“Oh yeah, I kicked the bucket all right. But you’ve gotta keep that chin up, be the man of the family.” He feels the weight of a light kick to his shin even though there’s nothing there. “You were already a tough little runt when I found you. Now you just gotta be even tougher.”

“That’s hard.”

“That’s life.” Yuugo sits next to him, and they stare into empty space. “You just gotta keep moving on, even when everyone around you falls dead.”

“Did you ever regret it, Yuugo?” Norman asks, turning to face him. “Living?”

“Won’t lie and say I never did,” the man shrugs, “But I did end up meeting you, didn’t I?”

“I’m not her,” he sighs, “I’m not sure I can be too optimistic.”

“You’re not cyclops either,” Yuugo points out, “So you’re not that cynical.”

Norman cracks a grin. “It’s tough being the middle-man. How do you keep the balance when the world just keeps on delivering injustice?”

“Can’t say I know the answer to that, but you’ve gotta live if you ever want to find it.”

The flighty response has Norman’s spirits soaring, just a little bit. “I don’t plan on dying, or giving up. My life is precious, because she ensured it.” Norman glances at the weary, sleeping faces of his siblings. “Everyone’s lives are. I don’t want to lose anymore.”

Yuugo scoffs. “You never have.”

 

///

 

There’s a lump in his throat that feels suspiciously like his heart. It clogs his esophagus, keeps him from taking in another breath.

How can he, after all, when she’s standing right in front of him? Smiling, close to tears, older and—

“Alive,” he exhales, his heel pushing flat against the ground, his rucksack falling from his back to land with a thump on the floor. She’s so different from the photograph: wider, fuller, her legs longer and her smile wider and her hair brushing past her shoulders to frame her face and hide the identification number staining the skin of her neck. “Emma, you’re—”

“Norman,” she cries, her tears burning trails down her cheeks. “I’ve missed you.”

And that’s all it takes for him to come running, every thought in his mind dissipating into the heavens, his eyes set only on the girl who’s coming to meet him halfway, every inch of her different, yet every aspect in her eyes the same.

They don’t fit together the way they used to. She crashes into his arms and he holds on to her, pulling her flush against his chest, back bending just so he can bury his face in her hair and breath her in. She smells different: like the forests outside instead of the forests in Gracefield, and he can detect the faintest whiff of alcohol, of medication.

But beneath all that there’s the smell of sunshine and soil, and her hands curl into his shirt the way they always do. She laughs into his ear, and her voice is richer but the notes of her laughter are the same.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmurs, and she’s standing on her tiptoes. She’s trying to pull him closer and they almost trip over themselves, but they spin around instead, their feet trying to reclaim balance, and this time when they pull each other close it’s still different—but they fit.

Even now that he’s taller, her antenna is still tucked beneath his chin and his hands are still in her hair. Her nails still graze his skin.

“Emma,” he whispers, and then he’s crying openly for the first time since she left.

She pulls away to wipe his tears with her thumbs, squishing his cheeks in the process, and then she’s crying too. 

She presses her lips to the numbers on his neck just as he had, all those years ago, and when she pulls back, she’s smiling.

 

///

 

“Emma, let me do it.” He takes her hands in his, holds on to them tightly. They’ve come so far, and the god standing before them is their final obstacle. If she had sacrificed her life in the beginning, he’ll be the one to do it in the end. An equal exchange. A life for a life.

“No!” She shakes her head vigorously, the same old resolution sparking behind her gaze. “That’s not for you to decide, Norman. I want to do this. For everyone. I don’t want you to take the burden all on yourself.”

“And allow you to do just that?” He frowns, the blue in his eyes like lightning. “Never.”

She offers him a bitter smile, her hand leaving his if only to cup his cheek and brush her thumb over his skin. It’s as smooth as it’s always been, beneath her touch. Delicate. The bird whose wings she wants to mend.

“Norman,” she whispers. “It’s okay to let me go.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He cups her cheeks in turn, his forehead brushing against hers, and he keeps her there, memorizes her warmth. “I know it’s okay,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose against hers, their faces so close yet their feelings miles and miles apart. “I know it is.”

“Then…” She wants to search his gaze but his eyes are closed. “What’s stopping you?”

“Telephone cup strings,” he mutters against her mouth, and before she can respond he presses his lips to hers, because he wants to know what it feels like, now that he’s about to forget.

It’s when she kisses him back that he pulls away, turning to face the god whose smile cannot be seen.

“Take my feelings instead.”

 

///

 

She’s always known.

She sees it in the way he looks at her and the way he calls her name. The syllables leave his mouth like precious gemstones, the sound of it fresh like running water. She feels it in the way he presses his lips to her skin—against her neck, with a plea to stay—against her lips, the word goodbye etched into his teeth.

She knows the weight of what he’d give up for her. Everything and anything.

So when she whispers his name she tries to make it sound like jewels and freshwater; when she traces his bare skin with her lips she tries to spell all the right words.

They shift under the blankets, in exploration, moonlight spilling over his form and illuminating the bruises he’s left across her skin. She clamps a hand over her mouth when he makes her back arch with pleasure, because she doesn’t want him to hear what she lacks.

“Emma.” His breath is hot over the skin of her stomach, and she responds to the name, knotting her fingers in his hair. The strands are longer now than they were before; it tickles her sometimes, when his face is pressed against her back as they sleep. She likes how smooth it is—she knows now why he always did it before.

“Emma, please.” Something about his voice is broken and wanting; it’s his attempt to find all the things that she’s trying to be. 

That she’ll never be.

“What is it?” she asks, her legs sliding over his hips, and she fits against him like she always has. “Norman—uh—what…” Her voice breaks into a moan, and before she can cover her mouth he catches hold of her wrist, pinning it back down to the bed.

She forgets how large he is, sometimes. Broad shoulders, flat chest. Owlish eyes. 

“Don’t,” he tells her simply, and it’s so devoid of feeling that she almost wants to cry. “Please don’t hide it. I want to know if I make you feel good.”

“But—” She gasps. His fingers slide into her, curling into the folds of her skin. She grits out the rest of her sentence. “—it’s not fair.”

“Emma…”

She swallows back the sound that wants to escape her throat, and she holds him, her nails digging into his back. “All you feel is this. The pain. The pleasure.” She kisses his jawline, plants her mouth over his ear. “And here I am, feeling more than that. It’s not fair.”

“I want you to feel more than that.” She shudders at the sound of his voice. Monotone, yet gentle all the same. “I want you to feel everything I can’t.”

When he bends his head to kiss parts of her she cannot see, she feels only the pressure he places on all the bruises he’s given her. His voice rumbles like an earthquake over her skin. “But all I do is hurt you in the process.”

“That’s okay,” she breathes, shifting so that she can cup his face and bring his lips to hers. They’re cold against her mouth, passionless where her touch is only fervent, but she doesn’t mind. He reciprocates, after all, his tongue gliding over her teeth and his hands tugging on her hair so he can leave kisses along her neck. “You’re not hurting me.”

He stops like he wants to contradict her, but she’s found warmth in their intimacy, and the sunrise is beginning to break through the curtains.

“And if you are,” she continues, pulling his hands over the places he’s marked and kissing him senseless, “then you’re doing it in all the ways that matter.”

Chapter 32: I'll Do Better.

Notes:

December 29b: Anonymous-san on Tumblr said "Family AU" and another one added "Norman's insecure about being a dad". The song I added below is one that's always struck me as a parent talking to their child, so I listened to it and found some things to write about.

Song-spiration: Light - Sleeping at Last

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

He plucks on weeds, and tosses them away into a pile.

It’s cloudy today, which is the only reason he’s out in the garden, ridding it of unwanted flora and fixing up the tomato stems that Anna delivered them a while back. It’s calming, methodological work, and as his hands become dirtier he thinks he’s losing more feeling into the soil.

He glances up and washes his hands when he hears the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

“Hey, sweetie.” Emma kisses his cheek, and he smiles at her in turn before patting Carol’s head, her grin effervescent in the late afternoon sun. “We’re having pizza for dinner.”

“Is this going to be a weekly thing now?” Norman teases, grabbing said pizza box from the back of the car. He looks at Carol. “Your birthday isn’t until August.”

“Can’t we eat pizza when it’s not my birthday?” the nine-year-old asks, stomping her foot. “Mama said it was okay!”

“All right, all right.” Norman raises his free hand in mock surrender. “You win, bunny rabbit. But you have to set up the table.”

“Yay!” The girl cheers, pigtails flying as she turns around and races for the front door. Their giant sheepdog, Zazie, woofs at her in greeting and then her footsteps fade into the hall.

Norman shakes his head, turning to his wife. “You spoil her too much.”

Emma at least has the decency to blush. “I can’t help it! She inherited your puppy-dog face, and I can’t say no to that face!”

“I have a puppy-dog face?” Norman asks, bemused.

“Yeah,” Emma affirms, then she scrunches her nose like she’s trying to imitate it. “It’s really cute, your face kind of goes like this and then there’s no saying no to you.”

“I never realized I had such a face.”

“Please, you make it every time you want to have se—”

“Emma!” He nearly drops their dinner onto the pavement.

 

///

 

Emma returns to the table with a pitcher of iced tea in hand, and when she sets it down, Carol turns to her with a slice of pizza in her mouth and mumbles through melted cheese and tomato sauce: “Thank-th, Mah.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Norman reminds her as Emma ruffles her hair with a smile.

Carol pouts, releasing a long whine. “Papah, you’re noh fuhn.”

Norman sighs and simply wipes her mouth with the napkin. “It’s no fun for you to be talking with your mouth full, either. You should remember your manners when you’re at the table.”

“Papa’s right!” Emma chimes in, grabbing a slice for herself. “If you don’t swallow food before you start talking—” she shoves half the pizza into her mouth—“You’re gohna soun’ likeh this-uh.”

Carol bursts into uncontrollable giggles. “Mama, you sound funny!”

“Doh I?” Emma makes a face which causes Carol to laugh even harder. Zazie starts barking at the sound, and then when Emma turns to make the face at him, Norman has to start laughing too.

 

///

 

Norman is going over some documents for work when his phone starts buzzing with the contact listed as ‘School’.

Furrowing his brow, he answers the call immediately and presses the phone to his ear. “Did something happen?”

“Ah, Mr. Minerva. There was an incident at the playground today. Some boys were bullying someone and your daughter decided to… well, step in.”

The hesitance coating the last two words has Norman pinching his nose. That girl is definitely a lot like her mother, he thinks wryly to himself, She inherited all the good and bad.

“Is she injured?” He’s already folding his documents into a binder and placing it on top of everything else that’s been post-it marked with giant red ‘To-Do’s, courtesy of Vincent. 

“Just a minor scrape. I’m calling you as a mandatory disciplinary measure, sir.”

“Understood. I’ll be at the school in thirty minutes. Where should I meet you?”

“In her classroom.”

“All right. Thank you for calling.” He ends the call and swipes through his contacts to click on a number that he can dial in his sleep. “Love, I’ll be the one picking Carol up from school today. Was there anywhere she needed to be?”

There’s a hum on the other end. “No, her playdate with Jemima’s still on Thursday. Why? What happened?”

“She got herself into the same trouble you used to get yourself into,” Norman fills her in.

Emma laughs. “Can’t help that she’s a carbon-copy. I’m surprised they had to call you in. Did she get hurt?”

“They said it was a minor scrape. And I think school policies have become stricter. That, or Yuugo just never came in when you got grounded for ‘disciplinary measures’.”

“Hah.” She snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it now? Guess I’ll have to bring home pizza and ice cream tonight, since she’s a little banged up.”

“I’ll have to admit that’s a good reason for spoiling her this time around.”

“Want me to get you anything?”

“No need.” He smiles, thinking of something, then deciding to go with it anyway. “Everything I need is right here.”

“Pizza and ice cream for dinner?” He can hear her grinning.

“Oh, yeah,” he answers, because they’ve always been good at playing games. “Definitely ice cream.”

“Holding you to that then.” There’s a shuffle over the line, a muffled shout, and then her voice becomes clear once more. “I’ve got to go. See you later.”

“See you.”

 

///

 

He knocks on the classroom door, and is greeted by a middle-aged woman who looks like she could be spending her time anywhere else but there.

“Mr. Minerva,” he introduces himself, just to get things over with. She shakes his hand briefly then turns to head into the room.

“I’m glad you came as soon as you did, sir,” she tells him. “Please make sure your daughter understands that she’s not allowed to assault other students on school grounds.”

He raises a brow at her choice of words but decides not to comment on it. “Of course. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Please do,” she answers, and then they’re stopping in front of the room’s ‘mini-library’, which is just a bunch of shelves and cushions cramped into the corner. He notices his daughter sharing a book with a boy her age. “Carol, your father’s here to pick you up.”

“Papa?” Carol looks up at him and frowns. “I wanted Mama to come.”

There’s that age-old sting that pierces his heart, but Norman’s always been good at hiding it. He kneels down so that he’s looking at his daughter in the eye. “I’m sorry that Mama couldn’t be the one to pick you up today, bunny rabbit. But they told me you got into trouble, so Papa has to be the one to handle it, okay?”

“They deserved it though. Miss Krone didn’t have to call you!”

“Carol,” the boy next to her says softly, tugging on her arm. “It’s okay. They had to call your dad after what you did anyway.”

“Why though?” she asks, pouting at the boy. “They’re always mean to you, Phil!”

“Phil?” Norman echoes, because he’s never seen this boy in his life and yet his daughter seems to be close friends with him. He shakes his head and decides he’ll ask later. The most important thing is… “Carol, what did you do?”

She squirms beneath her father’s gaze and her thumbs dig into the hem of her shirt, indicating a nervous tick that Norman’s observed over the years. 

“Those boys were being mean to Phil and breaking all his trains, so I told them to stop, that’s all!” she eventually blurts out. “Then they pushed me so I kicked them back, easy peasy.”

Lightning flashes behind Norman’s eyes, then he turns to the teacher. “Excuse me, Miss. But you did not mention how these bullies instigated the fight. Am I right to assume that those boys are receiving disciplinary action as well?”

The woman bristles, looking uneasy. “Their parents handled it, yes,” is her hesitant reply, and it’s enough for Norman to realize that there’s power play involved. He’ll fish for the boys’ names from Carol later, when they’re in the privacy of their home.

For now, he will ensure that Carol’s injury—a scraped knee, he concludes from the sight of a gauze—is tended to.

“Come here, bunny rabbit.” He notices that she tenses at the sound of his voice, so he tries to modulate his tone and omit the anger from his eyes. “Mama’s buying pizza, so we can eat all you want once we get home, okay?”

“Okay,” Carol agrees softly, allowing herself to be picked up. She tucks her head into her father’s shoulder, her pale blue eyes scanning his face before dropping down to look at the floor instead.

 

///

 

“Did something happen today?” Emma asks, as she’s putting the dried dishes away and Norman’s wiping the table.

He pauses for a moment, knowing full well that he’ll dig himself into a hole should he decide to lie to his wife, so he decides to be honest. “Did you know that Carol was friends with a boy named Phil?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Emma’s eyes light up with recognition, and Norman just feels the lead in his stomach grow heavier at the confirmation. “They’re usually together when I pick her up from school. He’s pretty well-behaved, they usually just read a book while waiting for me to come. I’ve met his mom once or twice too, she’s a really nice lady.”

“Ah.” He swallows thickly. “I see.”

“Norman.” She walks over to nudge his side, wrapping her arm around his elbow. “It’s okay if you didn’t know who he was. I’m the one who usually picks her up, right? So—”

He shakes his head. “It’s not… just that.”

“Hm?” She smooths his hair back and nuzzles her nose into his cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He releases a long sigh and buries his face in his hands. Emma frowns, because she knows it when he’s trying to hide something from her.

“Well, I’ll be here all night. So let me know when you’re ready.”

 

///

 

Carol’s face is peaceful when she’s about to sleep.

Norman peeks through the crack in the doorway and watches Emma tuck her in, folding the blankets securely around her frame and pressing a kiss to her forehead. He listens in as she whispers sweet nothings to lull their daughter to sleep. Zazie peers up at him curiously from the laying spot he’s claimed over Norman’s slippers.

“Mama…” Carol’s voice is tiny, but still audible.

“Hmm? What is it?”

“Do you think I only cause Papa trouble?”

Norman blinks. There’s a long pause.

Then Emma’s voice filters in, clear like she knows he’s listening. “What makes you think that?”

“Well…” There’s a shuffle, and then Carol’s voice is even quieter than before. “He looked really mad today. I kept saying I didn’t do anything wrong, so maybe that’s why? I keep thinking I’m just making him mad when I do stuff… so I wanted you to be the one to pick me up ‘cause you never get mad. I don’t like it when… when Papa’s mad.”

“Oh, honey. That’s not your fault. Papa wasn’t mad at you—he could never!” Carol squeals like Emma’s just pinched her cheeks. “You’re his little bunny rabbit, remember? He was just mad at all the boys who were being mean to your friend. Papa’s really amazing that way, you know? He always gets mad for others’ sake. He’s only like that cause he loves you.”

“Really?” There’s a sniffle. “But I told him I just wanted you, so I hurt Papa, didn’t I?”

“Carol…”

There’s a miniscule sob that has Norman acting before he can even think. “I… I want Papa now. I thought I made him mad cause he didn’t come to say good night, so—”

“Bunny rabbit, Papa’s here.” He can barely see Emma’s smile as he pulls their daughter into his chest, tucking her head securely beneath his chin. Her hands wrap around him instantly, and then he can feel her sobbing through his shirt.

“I’m sorry for making you mad!” She hiccups. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll behave in school so you don’t have to be mad anymore.”

“I was never mad at you,” he says, affirming what Emma’s just said. “Shh. Hey, don’t cry.”

He wipes her tears away with his thumb and kisses her forehead. “You did good today, Carol. Please forgive Papa for being unable to say it sooner.”

“Mm.” She shakes her head. “Papa’s cool. I know because Mama’s always saying so.”

He shares a look with his wife, who only shrugs. “What? It’s true.”

He lets out a fond sigh and ruffles Carol’s hair. “Papa’s not mad at you, okay? My little bunny rabbit’s so silly.”

“Hehe.” She blooms beneath his touch, beaming brightly. When she yawns, Norman gently lays her back down, where she instantly snuggles back into the covers. Emma tucks her back in properly. They spend a few more moments in silence, watching their daughter as she sleeps, and then Emma’s tucking her head into his shoulder and lacing their fingers together.

“You’re a pretty great dad, you know,” she murmurs. “The fact that you’re always questioning it just proves that I’m right.”

“Of course,” he replies, kissing her knuckles. He closes his eyes, content. “You’re always right.”

Chapter 33: My Deliverance.

Notes:

December 30: Anonymous-san on Tumblr prompted an AU with the children staying in the demon world after Emma accidentally slips about the promise. Other anons prompted "Long-haired Emma" and the alternative reward being "Emma aged-up", which... led to this piece.

I wanted the writing here to "stutter" a bit, just to give it the feeling that I wanted it to have.

Song-spiration: In Your Arms - Stanfour

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

i.

“Emma,” he calls, his voice still as sweet as when they were five. There’s a wooden brush in his hands—she notes that it’s recently made—and she smiles up at him, because she knows what he’s asking.

“I’m still trying to get used to it,” she tells him as she sits down, swinging her legs and tipping her head back. She feels his fingers run over her scalp, then hums when he starts running the brush through her hair. “I’ve never had long hair before. I wish I could cut it.”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I think it’s nice.”

“Because you can brush it or because I’m still here?”

The question is as direct as ever, and his movements stutter for the briefest of moments. She tilts her head back further so that she can see his face. “I don’t know if I’m content where we are,” she tells him honestly. “It’s wonderful that we’re making progress on our own here, and I’m grateful to Mujika for all her help, but… I wanted freedom, and we’re still stuck in a cage.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, and the brush bristles snags on a knot in her hair. He tries to work it out to no avail. “But all of us… we couldn’t bear to lose you. Everyone’s happy to just be here, alive, and to live like this—I think that’s freedom. We don’t know what would have awaited us in the human world, and if you ask Ray, the risks of staying here outweigh the possible benefits of crossing over. We’re happy. That should be enough.”

“And if I ask you?” 

“Hm?”

“If I ask you what you think, and not what Ray or the others think.” She tries to turn to him but a gentle nudge from his hand keeps her facing forward. 

“I’m happy,” is what he says after a beat. He’s worked out all the knots in her hair, and the brush runs smoothly over her locks. “I haven’t lost more time.”

She closes her eyes. “But you will.”

 

 

ii.

“Emma,” he says, and the fondness in his voice reminds her of when they were seven. He’s got the same brush in his hands, and she’s sitting by the window, overlooking the paradise they’ve built with their own two hands.

“Hey.” She grins at him, making room for him to sit by her side. He doesn’t take her up on the offer, though he stops to stand in front of her for a brief moment and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ears.

“Can I try braiding your hair?”

“Sure!” She seems happy at the notion, moving over and giving him space to stand behind her. Her grin grows wider when he starts brushing her hair, and she thinks of how beautiful life is—of how cruel it can be.

“Is it really not weird that I’m eleven years older than you now?” she asks, for the billionth time.

“Does it have to be?” is his billionth response.

“Well, we used to be the same age, you know. It’s like I accelerated.”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” he answers thoughtfully. “You still look young.”

“Really? Or are you just saying that?” 

He makes a sound that lets her know he’s smiling. “You might look younger with flowers in your hair. Sherry’s making flower crowns with the other girls.”

“Is that why you asked to braid my hair today?”

“Yeah,” he answers, and she feels his movements stop, feels her cheeks grow warm when he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I thought it might suit a queen.”

She turns to face him, her lips gently claiming his. “You should be my king, then.”

 

 

iii.

“Emma,” he says softly, shy like when they were nine. He’s gotten better at styling her hair as the years have gone by, and she’s stopped brushing it in the mornings just so he can do it instead. It’s their own quiet time together, and she cherishes every moment.

She glances up at him through the mirror, her fingers bringing her veil up to rest on her head. He helps her secure the headband into the elaborate braid he’s just finished, pinning it and draping the transparent cloth over her face.

“I like what you did with it this time,” she tells him, carefully rising from her seat so she doesn’t accidentally rip the skirt of her dress. (She’s done it a couple of times now during her fittings, much to Gilda’s exasperation.)

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She takes his hand and squeezes it. “You get better every day.”

He smiles at her. 

They walk hand in hand to the altar.

 

 

iv.

“Emma,” he whispers, and it’s as bereaved as when he was eleven. He bears the years on his countenance, his skin sickly and pale, wrinkled over in places. He feels the slow beat of his heart, growing slower still.

He kneels over freshly dug soil. 

“We knew this was coming, now that we’ve grown older,” he murmurs, and his voice stutters like a rusted engine. “We both knew you’d be the first. Your hand was in mine that morning you know, I wish you could have taken me with you. But I’m glad that it was in your sleep.”

He recalls her face: old and peaceful, the near invisible wrinkle of her brow completely gone. That was when he realized she’d passed away. 

He held her body close until the sun was no longer in the sky, and hadn’t shed a tear.

“I dream of you,” he tells her. “I look forward to the day I don’t wake up.”

He leaves the brush over her grave: the bristles worn, the wood beginning to rot now that he’s stopped taking care of it;

The E he’d carved onto the back of it all those years ago now painted over and covered by grass.

Chapter 34: Keep On.

Notes:

December 31a: Anon provided the following prompt on Tumblr: "abused emma and detective or somewhere related to that norman?" I know that this piece remains rather light for such a topic, but I think that's Emma's tenacity showing through. If you're facing abuse, or feel like you're being abused, please know that you have at least one person on your side who can help you.

Song-spiration: Holding On - Safetysuit

"Just because somebody stole it doesn't mean you can't steal it back, take it back
Anything you lost in fact, it can be yours again
It will be yours again
You're gonna make it out of here."

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

He jots down another observation on his notebook, completing the backend of a page. Around him, people in the café mill around, looking for vacant seats or bursting into loud chatter with friends as they head to the counter to retrieve their drinks.

“Alone today?” 

He detects the familiar scent of vanilla and turns to smile at the waitress—the name ‘Emma’ spelled on her name tag—and she beams back at him. He notices how she’s wiping her free hand on her apron, the back of her palm rubbing against the cloth. She places his order in front of him; he’s been around long enough to warrant the ‘special attention’, as Ray had dubbed it.

“Can’t help it when it’s your two-year anniversary,” he shrugs, offering her the five-dollar tip he’s given enough times to make her stop protesting (though he has noticed that she’s been adding more whipped cream than usual). 

“No way.” She shakes her head, and that sunshine curve of her mouth turns lopsided, like a puppy’s pout. “He’s been in a relationship all this time? I had a bet with Don that you two were gay.”

“First of all, I doubt that,” he answers, amused, “You wouldn’t make a bet you can’t win. Second of all, I share your surprise regarding his long-term relationship. After being around him all my life, I don’t see why they’re not going to be tying the knot once we graduate.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t.” She sounds playful, and he feels his own heart beat a little slower, relief causing his shoulders to relax. “Well, what are you jotting down on your notebook today?”

“Just random things.”

“Can I see?”

“Of course.” He flips the notebook over before handing it to her. “You know Klaus—”

“Santa Claus?” She lights up at the mention of one of her most loyal regulars. “What about him?”

“I think his wife’s death anniversary is coming soon.”

She deflates at that, and Norman notes the reaction with interest. 

“Is that so?” she murmurs. She’s going through his notebook less enthusiastically now, her eyes glazed over. It’s as though someone pulled a sheet over a headlight; as though the moon has eclipsed the sun. 

Norman briefly pretends to be going through his wallet, but he’s already prepared for this conversation days before. He takes her hand and presses an extra bill into her palm—adds a little more, as an afterthought.

“You should give him an extra mug the next time he comes,” he tells her gently. “My treat. But don’t tell him.”

“And the extra?” He doesn’t know why, but his heart flutters at the question. Of course she’d notice right away.

“Consider it my tip, for doing me this favor.”

“This is a large tip, Norman, you can just give me the money for Klaus—”

He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t feel right to me. This eases my conscience.”

“One hell of a conscience you’ve got there,” she observes warily.

He doesn’t respond; he just turns and takes a sip out of his own drink. Vanilla coats his tongue.

She slams the notebook shut and gives it back to him. She lingers for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her crumpling the money in her fist. “I know you’ve probably noticed it for a while now, majoring in criminal investigation and all, but please. It’s none of your business.”

He pretends to be confused. He’s known for months just how delicate her situation is.

“I gave you the money to help someone out and tipped you for doing me a favor,” he answers her coolly. “I don’t know how it’s not my business.”

“Norman. I’m serious.”

He meets her gaze this time, unwavering. “So am I.”

 

///

 

“I looked into that Gracefield girl like you asked,” Vincent informs him, adjusting his glasses in that derisive way of his when he’s curious about something. “I must say this is a rather unusual way to solve a case.”

“Well, she’s an unusual girl,” is Norman’s reply, his voice as steady as his gaze. Vincent understands it as a subtle warning to back off. Most of the time he listens.

Some of the time, he does not.

“Have you developed feelings for her?” The question is blunt and unwarranted enough to provoke a subtle reaction: Norman’s ears tint pink. “I discovered that she’s in most of your classes, which explains how you noticed her predicament in the first place. I also realized that she’s a temp who works at the café you’ve been frequenting over the past couple of months. Am I to assume your monthly allowance is being spent to ensure her well-being?”

Norman sighs. “I asked you to look into her, Vincent. I didn’t ask you to provide an analysis on my behavior as well.”

“My apologies.” There’s a quirk to his mouth that Norman does not miss. He bristles, uncomfortable. “And if your father begins looking into the matter as well?”

“Tell him it’s for charity.”

“I see. You are definitely being charitable.”

Norman cuts him a dry look. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

“No, nothing.” The reply is tainted by a muffled laugh as Vincent turns to exit the room. “Just an opinion from a very helpful cousin. Don’t read into it.”

 

///

 

He’s observing her once again. It’s easier to spot things when she’s focusing on a hands-on task and not looking. There’s the way she hesitates every now and then when shaking the contents of a cup, the way she’s using her non-dominant hand to pour half-and-half into a glass. She’s got her sleeves rolled down today too—her hair obviously unbrushed considering the lumps forming beneath the hairnet.

A bad night, it seems. He’s glad he had the foresight to ask Ray not to come today.

“Alone again?” She seems tense this time, less chipper than yesterday. He hates how unpredictable everything in the world is, but he can’t bring himself to feel the same about her spontaneity. “You came in late, too.”

“I wanted to see you by the end of your shift.”

She raises a brow, though she slides into the seat opposite him with a loud sigh. “You know what, I’m not even going to ask. You’ve got super intelligence, so you probably figured it out a month ago.”

“Two months ago,” he corrects, which sparks a snort from her.

“So.” She props her chin over her arms, and he recognizes her attempt to hide it from him. “Why’d you want to catch me by the end of my shift? Klaus says thank you, by the way.”

He smiles. “I’ll return the sentiment come tomorrow. For now, I wanted to ask you if…”

He trails off, and quickly averts his gaze when he feels his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He’s rehearsed this so many times in the mirror just to make sure he won’t trip over himself when the time comes, yet here he is, tripping anyway.

“You don’t have to keep acting cool in front of me, you know,” Emma points out to him, and the expression on her face seems fond. “I already know how cool you are.”

“Uh—” The compliment incites a full-force blush to coat his cheeks. “Y-yeah… thanks.”

She laughs at the sight of him, red as a rose, and then she stands, reaching over to take his hand. “You were going to ask me out, right?”

“Something… along… those lines…” he stutters, because for all his observation abilities she always manages to catch him off-guard. “Though I…”

“You?”

He squeezes her hand, his index finger sliding beneath the cuff of her sleeve. “I know.”

Her gaze turns pained for a moment, and then it settles into something resigned. “I couldn’t let Mama touch the kids,” she whispers, and it’s the first time she’s said something aloud.

He makes sure to keep his touch tender when he pulls her towards the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

///

 

He rubs something translucent over the back of his hand. “Aloe vera,” he tells her, scooping some of the substance onto his index finger and rubbing it over the bruises littering her arm. “It should help reduce the pain and prevent any inflammation.”

“You’re certainly prepared,” she notes.

“I’ve been carrying this around since I first realized your situation.”

“And when was that?”

The way his cheeks turn pink is extremely telling. She smiles at him, shaking her head. “Was it when you started going to the café?”

“Before that,” he murmurs, flustered. “Second week of classes.”

She blinks at him. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. Ask Ray. He fished it out of my bag by the third week.”

“You’re something else, Norman.” She swings her legs, surveying the park they’re in. They’ve settled themselves on a bench shaded by a large oak, far enough away from any prying eyes. There’s the distant sound of children squealing as they run around the park’s playground, and there’s the occasional biker or jogger that crosses the path before them.

It’s a nice, peaceful place. She can see why Norman would choose it.

“Done.” He hands her the tube of aloe vera. “You keep it with you, so you can treat yourself immediately when it happens again.”

“‘When’, huh?” she echoes. When she lifts her arm up, she can see vague traces of sunlight reflected off the aloe vera. It’s almost like magic. “You seem to know a lot.”

“Most of them are just educated guesses,” he clarifies, leaning back. He offers her a small smile. “I wanted to help in any way I can, but you’re very stubborn about that. How much more money will you need until you feel you can safely get your siblings away?”

“Just a little more,” she informs him easily, sounding relieved. Then she levels him with a firm glare. “Don’t give me any more ‘tips’ than necessary. You need that money too, I’m sure.”

“Not any more than you.”

She frowns. “I don’t want to argue with you about this. You have to make sure you’re taking care of yourself, okay? It’s not like I haven’t noticed things too. I’m pretty sure you’ve been giving me every single dollar from your monthly allowance by disguising them as ‘tips’.”

...She’s absolutely right but he’ll never admit that.

“What if I set you up with a credit card?” he suggests instead.

“What!?”

“Or a savings account,” he amends quickly. “You can put your money there and benefit off the interest.”

“...if you’re setting it up I’m pretty sure you’ll be slipping in some money there too.”

“Well, then—” It takes him a moment. “A shared account.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll set up an account where you can deposit your money under a shared name, and you can withdraw from it any time you like. If ever you’re in a pinch, that’s when I’ll add to it.” He looks pretty proud of himself, then. “So you’ll still have control over your income and expenses, and I’ll just be the extra paycheck you can use.”

She stares long and hard at him. “Like a husband?”

He chokes on his spit. “That’s not what I meant…!”

“Though if I do get married, I can definitely leave. If I can prove you and I are more fit to be their guardians, then I’m sure I can take my siblings with me too…” She looks like she’s actually thinking long and hard about it. 

Norman thinks his heart is going to explode. “Emma, we don’t have to get married!”

“Oh?” She glances at him, her eyes wide. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—um.”

He shakes his head. “Not that I don’t… have feelings for you…” his voice grows quieter and his cheeks redder with every syllable. “It’s just…”

“Well, I like you too,” she says, as easy as breathing, and her blunt honesty is the end of him. “But yeah, I think I get it. We haven’t even gone on an actual date yet. Or kissed.” She turns red at the notion too. “Now that I think about it… I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kiss someone. Until you.”

He buries his face in his hands at her confession.

“Don’t hide your face from me!” she teases, laughing. “Come here.”

When she presses her mouth to his hands, he yelps, surprised. “That’s for all the ‘tips’.” She pries his hands from his face and kisses his cheek. “That’s for the aloe vera.”

She leans back, and that’s when he realizes that her face must be just as red as his. “Those were nothing…” he mumbles, his fingers tracing the most sacred spot on his cheek.

“Really? That’s funny.” Her eyes are sparkling when she looks at him, and he realizes after a moment that she’s crying. “Those were everything to me.”

He pulls her into his arms, then, breathing in vanilla. 

And he thinks: he’d marry her right there and then, if it means wiping her tears away for the rest of his life.

Chapter 35: Dirty Jokes.

Notes:

December 31b: Combined the following prompts from anons on Tumblr: "Reverse! CEO Emma and Janitor Norman!" & "Emma getting her first tattoo and Norman reacting to it au?"

C in CEO stands for citrusy and no I will not stop with the dirty clean jokes.

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

“So… about the love thing.”

Norman glances up and shuts the vacuum off. “What love thing?”

She grins and pulls a sketchbook from her desk drawer (though it’s less of a drawer and more of a pile of folders and papers that have been boxed off to create a container that holds even more folders and papers. Honestly. This is why he needs to keep this job).

“Oh, that love thing.” He pulls his gloves off and makes his way over to her desk, peering over her shoulder at the sketches she’s flipping through. “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Come on, of course I was.”

“It was seven in the morning when you said it. You’re never serious at seven in the morning.”

“You just think I’m not cause you’re too busy cleaning up.” She makes a suggestive expression at that and he releases a fond sigh. She taps on a page. “So? What do you think?”

“Hm.” He studies the drawing. “Simple, I like it.”

“Yeah?” Her spirits seem to lift at his approval and she swivels on her chair to press a long kiss to the corner of his mouth. He tilts his head to capture her mouth, but then she’s murmuring, “I made an agenda for the next three weeks and sent it to Ray like you suggested I do.” 

“Good.” He bites her lower lip, draws a satisfied hum from her throat. “No need to fall behind on business while you’re away.”

“About that.” She’s already unbuttoning his uniform.

“What about it?” he groans, allowing her to push him down onto the chair she was sitting on earlier. She’s stronger than him, after all. And it’s her office.

“I’m kind of falling behind.”

“This is not what your fiancé would like to hear a week before the wedding. Finish your work.” But his hands are already slipping beneath her skirt and running over her thighs. Bad hands.

“Eh.” She shrugs, her breath hot over his ear. “I’ll be honest and write myself a memo.”

“Really? A memo?”

“What? It’s documented proof that I don’t let myself off the hook.”

“Oh, yeah.” He pulls her closer to him, fumbles with the zipper of her skirt. “You’re definitely not off the hook.”

“Fornicating in the office?” she tuts, but she’s had him shirtless for a while now. “You’re a very naughty fiancé.”

“What do you mean? I’m just cleaning up, as you call it.” He smirks, and she laughs at him. 

 

///

 

“This is terrifying,” Norman laments.

“Why?” Emma looks incredibly entertained. “You’re not the one who’s getting a tattoo.”

“I’ll be in charge of after care,” he tells her seriously.

“Whatever floats your boat.” She’s nearly jumping on her seat as she watches the tattoo artist prepare his tools. “I’m so excited.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” she answers. “You’re just mistaking the feeling for terror. Come on Norman! This is extremely cool!”

He opens his mouth to deliver a retort, but the tattoo artist interjects and instructs Emma to keep still or her fiancé really will have something to be terrified about. Norman nods at the artist in solemn appreciation.

A few minutes into the process, Emma stops herself from swinging her feet around, and she looks at Norman. “Where did Princess Leia go to buy a new dress?”

He raises a brow at her. “Is this another one of your bad jokes?”

“The Darth Maul!” she answers, which only serves as confirmation. He grips her hand firmly, trying not to laugh, because laughing will only encourage her.

“What did the blanket say when it fell off the bed? Oh sheet!”

“Seriously?”

She momentarily stops giggling at herself to look at him. “What’s wrong? Are my jokes too clean for you?” An impish curl to her mouth serves as Norman’s only warning.

“What do you get when you cross an owl and a rooster?”

“Lord, please no.”

“A cock that stays up all night long.”

Even the tattoo artist has to momentarily stop at that, turning his head to bury a snicker into his sleeve. Norman observes this reaction and reads the name pinned to his chest aloud. “Nigel, she’s hopeless, isn’t she?”

“Couldn’t agree more,” is the reply, which only causes Emma to pout and brainstorm harder.

Her antenna flashes like a light bulb. “What do you call a herd of cows masturbating?”

“Shit, do I want to know?” Nigel asks.

“Beef strokin’ off.”

“Oh my god.”

“Emma, stop.” Norman’s barely holding in his mirth. “It’s for your own good. To protect you from you.”

“It’s too late now.” She beams. “Hey, you know, I read somewhere today that the largest porn network in the world is in Canada.”

“Seriously? Fuck yeah!” Nigel fist pumps the air. “That’s my college goal! It’s a match made in heaven!”

“Nigel, what the fuck?” another tattoo artist whirls around to face them, her entire expression questioning Nigel’s existence. Norman reads the name ‘Gillian’ on her tag.

“Lady, you may have dug a hole,” he tells Emma, “but you’ve struck gold.”

“Why thank you, thank you.” Emma delivers a mock bow.

“All right, you little fox.” Norman pinches her arm. “No encores or we’re going to be here all night.”

“By all means,” Nigel snorts, “Stay!”

“Do your job, nitwit!” Gillian shouts.

 

///

 

“Well, that was entertaining,” Emma says, as they exit the store. It’s raining outside, so she pulls up an umbrella for them to share.

“Which part?” Norman asks. “The dirty jokes or the reactions to them?”

“Definitely the reactions.” She looks up at him expectantly. “I didn’t get the reaction I really wanted though.”

“Sorry, but your jokes were just too distracting.” His fingers ghost over her new tattoo, tracing over the lines of an aiai-gasa and pausing over their initials, now permanently etched into her skin. “But I like it.”

“Yeah?” She takes his hand and laces their fingers. “Dirty jokes aside, I love you very much.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead at that. “Knock, knock.”

She looks amused. “Who’s there?”

“Owl.”

“Owl who?”

They walk on home together. “Owl always love you.”

Chapter 36: Moondust.

Notes:

December 31c: Anon on Tumblr prompted: "fairy/elf Norman and forest traveler (is that a thing?) Emma". I wanted to make it seem magical/fairytale-esque; this was a good avenue for practicing such writing. Thanks anon!

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

He’s made out of moondust.

His wings, transparent and lined with periwinkle, flutter quick and fast as a hummingbird’s wings, and he often races with them over brooks and over bridges. The summertime is his favorite, because there are many creatures out and about, all of them subject to his keen eye and nimble fingers as he immortalizes them in leaf and coal. 

He keeps various of his drawings within the hollow bark of an old oak tree, hidden deep within the forest so as not to be found and tampered with by any other creature. He was born in a strange place, or so the other fae say, so he has kept solitude company for as long as he has lived. There are times when he joins them for festivals, where they celebrate the solstice, for that is when all faeries are born; other times he enters a ring and helps them trick a troublesome human into dancing until they perish. The fae tolerate his presence at these events, but they do not approach him of their own volition.

Such is life, undisturbed and fueled by a secret need to fulfill himself.

They say he is unlucky, because the moon is destined to be on its own.

 

///

 

He first notices her when she enters the edge of the forest, straight from a town located to the south. She walks like a lion, he thinks. Her footsteps are soft, leaving no trace in the grass as she passes by. Her neck is craned like she’s searching for something.

He finds her intriguing. She walks like a lion, but when the sunset comes, she climbs a tree and sleeps on the highest branch like a bird, though he thinks it’s a shame that she cannot fly. He observes her as she slumbers, etching her face into a leaf, and finding the sun’s rays in the curl of her hair, her lashes. He wonders if she’s magical; she looks far too human to be.

He stows the sketch away into his pocket and starts anew.

 

///

 

She has a companion.

He knows, because the moment the man enters the forest come noon the next day, he immediately sets on the path that she’s taken despite the lack of a trail. He wonders how the man knows; had she left clues meant only for him to see? Do humans have a communication system he is unaware of?

They talk in a language he understands however, and he follows the trail of ants that passes by her foot if only to record a glimpse of their conversation.

“...stay?” the man says. He sounds incredulous, and Norman thinks the glare emanating from his one visible eye holds as much power as a derisive stare coming from two. “Are you serious? There’s nothing here of worth.”

“To you, perhaps,” is her response, and her voice is—striking.

Like lightning from a storm, or colored sunlight piercing through the clouds during winter. Something warm engulfs his being at the sound of it, and he finds himself more drawn to her than before. He flits by like a forest bird, undetected, peeking through the leaves of a bush at her face.

She looks prettier with her eyes open; they shine like the rarest of gems.

“What’s here that makes you want to stay?” the man asks gruffly. He eyes the forest around them critically, the heel of his boot digging into the soil beneath his feet. “All I’ve seen are the common fae. It’s peaceful here.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she replies. She smiles; he wonders if that is what the horizon looks like. “That’s why I want to stay.”

 

///

 

She’s remained for one moon cycle now.

He’s carved out another hollow in the oaks adjacent to his own, and has pinned his thoughts of her within its walls. 

She always sleeps when the sunset comes; the deeper she treads into the forest, the higher she climbs. She always keeps still in the night, never making a sound, never making a movement. It is as though she has trained herself to sleep like a log, blending into the darkness so magnificently that he often loses sight of her even when he’s been staring for quite some time. He wonders if she’s been in places more dangerous than this; she looks like a being who thrives on survival.

She heads for the river in the morning, where she strips herself of her clothes and remains in the water for some time before leaving herself to dry beneath the sun. Her skin reflects the light and turns golden; he doesn’t think he will ever get used to the sight.

Come noon, she starts a fire with drywood and roasts her catch over it. It is during this time when his image of her as a lioness becomes reality; she stalks her prey with practised expertise and never takes more than she needs to live. What separates her from the creature is that she bows her head and prays for the soul of the animal she’s killed.

She is kind, that way. He has never seen such kindness in this peaceful forest of his.

 

///

 

“I know you’re there.”

He tenses for a long moment, wings drooping when he realizes her eyes are set on him. They remain still for a beat, and then she reaches out, slowly.

He panics and flees.

 

///

 

He peers at her from the bushes. She’s taken something out from the leather pouch she carries with her, her eyes gentle. He watches her thumb stroke a sophisticated-looking leaf, and feels his heart seize when he catches sight of her tears.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs before he can stop himself, and she turns to him easily, like she’s known all along he’d been there.

That’s when he realizes it is futile to hide from her.

 

///

 

“You can pick berries from here,” he tells her, swaying in the wind.

She’s woven a basket from materials she’s retrieved from every part of the forest, and so that she can make good use of it he guides her through the flora to show her where the best fruits grow. She smiles at him before picking a few berries. As she does so, he watches the way her fingers move: the way they curl and bend and extend.

“You’re always looking at a leaf,” she says, and the sound of her voice startles him.

“I like to observe,” he responds, gripping the lump of coal in hands a little tighter. “Does it bother you?”

“A little,” she confesses, which causes him to deflate. Her finger brushes against his face, moondust from his skin fluttering into the wind. “But only because I can’t see what you’re drawing at all.”

 

///

 

“Can you tell me about the world you’ve seen?” he asks her one afternoon, as they bask beneath the sunlight. “I want to see it through your eyes.”

“It’s big,” she begins, grinning widely.

He avidly paints the pictures she narrates for him, but he finds that the world he’d wished so fervently to see and explore pales in comparison to her splendor. 

With this in mind, the lunar fae feels less and less like a lonely moon, and more like a shining star. 

 

///

 

He’s made of moondust; he reflects the light of the sun. As time passes them by, the days they spend together only grow in length.

“Will you stay here forever?” he asks one day, hopeful.

“You know,” she spreads her arms over the grass, and he curls into the crook of her neck. “I think I will.”

Chapter 37: Three-letter Word.

Notes:

January 2, 2021: This one-shot is the combination of different asks from different (or perhaps the same, you never know) anons regarding Norman and Emma's life in Gracefield, all tied in a neat bow with an ask concerning "dirty books". Each section is a response to a specific ask, listed on the related tumblr post.

Song-spiration: Be Your Everything - Boys Like Girls

The title of this one-shot is a play on the first lyric of the song.

Bon appétit!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

13 months.

There’s a bubble of laughter rising from one of the cots as Isabella marks another day on the calendar, and with a wistful smile she turns in the direction of the sound. At only thirteen months old, her little Emma is already a ball of unkempt energy, difficult—though no less pleasing—to contend with every single night.

In the cot beside her, Norman shifts, as though responding to her call. Isabella has yet to decide if it’s a sign of attachment or intelligence. Perhaps both.

“Emma,” she murmurs, picking the child up, “Save your laughter for the morning. Everyone’s still asleep.”

The girl quiets down, though her mouth is still as open as her eyes, wide and curious. Tiny hands reach up to pull on her own hair, bringing it to her mouth to chew. Isabella sighs at the antic and, for what feels like the nth time, fishes the girl’s hair out of her mouth.

“It’s midnight and you’re still keeping me awake.” Isabella shakes her head. “I can’t leave you alone for a moment. What am I to do with you, Emma?”

The girl’s lips spread into what might be a smile, and Isabella hums, wiping the drool from her mouth with her handkerchief. From the corner of her eye, she spots Norman, awake now and surveying his environment. She can still see a little bit of blue, though his eyes now mostly reflect the soft orange glow of the candlelight.

Emma makes another sound—as though she’s noticed that Norman’s awake too—and it is to Isabella’s surprise that Norman does respond, this time.

“Em-ma.”

The syllables are warped and the tone of his voice is unsteady, but it’s a legitimate word from his mouth. He’s the first of all her newly delivered infants to speak coherently.

And he had said her name.

Isabella stares between them both for a long moment; she notices that Norman’s stare is glued to Emma’s hair, and in that moment she knows—she just does—that they will grow up together in a sense different from everyone else, because the blank slate in his eyes will soon be the canvas for all of Emma’s colors.

They’ll fit well together, she muses. A bright, brilliant girl and a kind-hearted, quiet boy. She’ll leap through the trees as he sits in the shade, a smile on his face, his heartbeat the rhythm of a song she’ll treasure until the end of her life.

Isabella shakes the comparison away after a time—there is no use in dwelling over it, or so she thinks—but she leaves Emma’s cot empty and tucks her next to Norman instead. They curl into each other, as toddlers often seek warmth, and then Emma is quiet for the rest of the night.

Isabella finds no further use for Emma’s cot after that.



 

7 years.

“Norman.” She slips into the covers, scooting closer to him, and he doesn’t have to move because he makes space for her in his bed every night. She lifts the blanket over them, smothers a yelp with her hand when she accidentally digs her elbow into the spine of her notebook, and then she’s staring at him in the darkness, grinning like a maniac.

Her mischievous expression reflects itself in his eyes. “It’s Ray’s birthday tomorrow,” he whispers, making sure to keep as quiet as possible since Ray’s sleeping in the next bed over. “Did you manage to set it up?”

“Mhm. We’re good.” She nods vehemently, grabbing a pen from her pocket and crossing out the last item on their list. She slams the notebook shut, sliding it beneath her pillow, and then she’s tucking them both properly into bed. “Good night, Norman. Sweet dreams.”

He smiles at her fondly, their feet brushing against each other as they lay on their sides, the way they have ever since he could remember.

Emma’s already drifted off to sleep when he notices the light in the hallway flicker on, spilling into the room through the crack in the doorway. There’s a shadow that he knows to be Mama, and then her silhouette is outlined through the open door, her hair still pristinely tied into its signature bun.

“There she is,” Mama murmurs softly, and Norman is unable to hide his surprise when she picks Emma up from the bed, cradling her gently in her arms so as not to wake the girl.

Mama catches Norman’s gaze and smiles reassuringly. “I’m just taking her back to bed. Sleep well, Norman.”

He tries to. He really does.

But all he can see through the night is the empty space beside him and Mama’s back as she carries Emma out of the room.

 

///

 

“Why can’t I sleep with Norman?” Emma stomps her foot, pouting angrily. “I like sleeping with him, so—”

“Emma,” Mama interjects, unwilling to listen any further, “I condoned it the last few years because I love you both. It is for the same reason that I have to put a stop to this habit now. You’re becoming a big girl now, so it’s inappropriate for you to be sleeping with boys.”

“But Norman isn’t a boy!” 

Ray snorts into his cup of milk at the argument. Norman’s expression turns wobbly. “Emma…”

She blinks like she just realized her logical blunder. “Well he is, but he’s not just any boy! Can’t he be the exception?”

“He has been the exception for the past few years Emma,” Mama explains patiently, “But as I said, you two are older now. Please trust Mama when she tells you it’s not good for you to be sleeping together anymore.”

Norman recognizes a trump card when he sees one, and as Emma reluctantly agrees out of love for their mother, he has to wonder why exactly Mama won’t let them sleep together anymore.



 

11 years.

It’s a month before her birthday when he figures it out.

His hands are wrinkled slightly from doing the laundry, though he doesn’t really notice it. Ray had brought up optimization problems a little while ago—as it turns out, even Ray needs a distraction from the laundry work sometimes—and they’d been discussing possible solutions ever since. He’d noticed a slight rise in the other children’s voices, though they’d sounded enthusiastic so he’d brushed it off as their usual playful banter.

It turns out to be more playful than banter when he gets splashed with a bucket of water though. Ray falls prey to it a few seconds later, and he’s left to lie on the ground, watered to the point of having his entire forehead visible.

There’s a distinct burst of laughter from the children who are splashing each other enthusiastically and Norman knows exactly who the culprit is.

“Dammit, Emma,” Ray grunts, quick on the uptake and as glib as ever.

She guffaws at the sight of Ray’s forehead, bending over to clutch her stomach, and when Norman himself manages to sit up he realizes that every single child standing before them is drenched to the bones.

He sneezes.

“Uh oh.” That ceases Emma’s laughter immediately, her brows furrowing with concern. “Norman, you’re not feeling sick are you?”

“No, I’m fine,” he assures, shaking his head. “It’s just—”

He sneezes again.

“Damn.” Even Ray’s looking more attentive than usual.

Emma glances around and quickly picks up a towel. She instructs Anna and Gilda to go fetch Mama, and then she’s wrapping it around Norman, who’s trying his very best not to sneeze.

There’s no stopping an oncoming cold, however, and when it happens again Emma begins to dry him off herself.

This causes him to blush, though it’s less because she’s touching him and more because now that she’s kneeled in front of him, he’s staring directly into her chest.

Her soaked, see-through, elevated by perhaps a centimeter chest.

He immediately covers his eyes and flings the towel over her form, as well as his cardigan, shutting his eyes, ears, and other vital senses to her spluttered objections and the sight of her—Norman feels his blood vessels might burst—budding womanhood.

 

 

15 years.

They find out that Minerva has a safehouse in the human world as well, catered to help the children assimilate easily into their new environment. It’s Mike Ratri who leads them there—he and James had been in reluctant correspondence before the latter’s untimely death—and he grants both the property and its belongings to the cattle children.

It’s how Norman and Ray eventually manage to create and run their own business (Minerva had written a guide about it and placed appropriate references for books on economics and business strategies) and how they eventually build their base of operations for travelling around the world with Emma.

Most of the time, the children use it as a source of important research into the mechanics of their new world. There are times, however, when they peruse the library simply to satisfy their own curiosity.

A new day finds them in the latter state of mind. Emma, Norman, and Ray stroll through the various sections in search of interesting books to read, and they’re at aisle K when Emma reads off a strange title from the bottom of one of the shelves.

“Kama sutra,” she enunciates, brow furrowed. “Sounds exotic.”

“Maybe it’s a painting? It sounds familiar.” Ray suggests, looking intrigued. He likes paintings and photographs, Norman’s come to observe. “Open it.”

“Sure.” She complies easily enough, pulling the book out and flipping to a random page, where a vibrant painting of a man and woman resides. Ray takes one look at it and raises his hands in surrender, turning abruptly around.

Norman, keen as always, notices the slight hint of pink on Ray’s cheeks. “Have you seen this book before, Ray?” he asks, and he tries to sound innocent—he truly does—but his tone dips at the end of the question to reveal a subtle insinuation.

Ray’s brow twitches with annoyance. “Someone showed me once, asking what it was.”

“Oh, so you know what it is?” Emma asks, looking excited. “Can you explain it to me? I’m kind of confused.”

“Nah, I’ve got better things to do.” And because Ray knows how to retaliate to Norman’s subtleties he sneers, “Ask Norman instead.”

“Oh! Norman, do you know?” She turns to him like it’s as easy as breathing, and the frown Norman’s focused on Ray’s back turns into a smile just as easily.

“It’s… human reproduction.” Even he has to blush at the words. That’s about the most dignified way he can explain such an explicit painting without wanting to bury himself in the ground. “That’s one of the ways a man and a woman have children together.”

“Ah,” and he’s always left to wonder at how Emma just doesn’t seem to be bothered by these kinds of things, “What do you mean ‘one of the ways’? There are more ways?”

“Well… that’s a rather thick book, isn’t it?” He pulls on his collar, feeling hot. “Maybe you can put it back and we’ll go look for Ray…”

“Aw, but I want to see!”

Norman all but slumps onto the ground, his knees weak. Emma flashes him a look of concern, though he waves it off and tries to make it seem like he’d been planning to sit next to her all along. 

“Are you… sure?” He gulps, averting his gaze. Memories of Emma drenched wet in the sunshine come to the surface, and he tries his best not to drown in it. 

“Well, why not?” She shrugs, and then she’s flipping through the book like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do. Norman’s caught between shaking his head in amusement or dying of embarrassment. “Hey, look, this one’s really weird.”

She shows him another painting—Norman forces himself to act cool but fails miserably—and the atypical reaction certainly has Emma even more curious than before. 

“Are you uncomfortable with sex?”

Okay, something in Norman’s brain has definitely exploded. Emma smirks at his wide-eyed gaze, and reaches forward to tap his nose. “I thought it was funny how you called it ‘human reproduction’, but the women near Grandpa’s place told me about it once, so I know what it is.”

She retracts her hand and taps on the book instead. “Now I know they weren’t very thorough, though. This book has a lot of positions—”

“Emma!” He buries his face in his hands, because the way she says it makes him want to try. “Please.”

He feels her warmth by his side before he can even register her touch, and she nudges him with her elbow, prompting him to peek out at her through his fingers. She smiles at him, head tilted.

“You didn’t ask me to stop,” she points out, humming. “Could it be you’re uncomfortable with the topic because you have someone in mind, then?”

She’s right on the money and the shade of his face is telling. She laughs, and Norman slowly drops his hands, because god he loves her laugh, and it’s contagious enough to make him lose his shame and give in to her mirth instead.

Her cheeks are tinted pink when her laughter dies down, and she pulls her knees to her chest, nudging him again. “So, who is it?”

“Who is what?” he asks, bemused.

“Who do you think of when we talk about sex?”

Her straightforwardness has him thinking about becoming one with the ground again. She seems to notice this train of thought and pats him on the back encouragingly. “Come on, you can tell me! We’re friends, right? Maybe I’ll even help you.”

“Er.” He pulls on his collar—a nervous tick—and he draws his traitorous gaze upwards, feeling his heart clog in his throat. “There’s this girl, from the same house we came from. We used to sleep together when we were kids, and I got used to her presence beside me. As we grew older, our caretaker said it was best for us to break the habit. I realized why when...” He blushes.

Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he affirms softly. A gentle expression crosses his face, and his eyes are soft and kind when he looks at her. “To be honest, she’s the only one I ever want to sleep with for the rest of my life.”

“That’s wonderful,” she murmurs, burying her chin in her knees. There’s a strange sort of sadness in her voice; there’s a touch of longing in it that Norman recognizes within himself. “Who is she?”

It’s the yearning in her eyes that makes him bold enough to cup her chin with his thumb and lift her head towards his.

“You,” he murmurs, and he’s close enough to feel her sharp intake of air.

Close enough to be caught entirely by surprise when she chooses to close the gap between them for a heavenly second.

“That’s good,” she confesses when she pulls away, her arms around his neck keeping him within kissing distance. “Because I don’t want to share, I want you all to myself.”

And, well. 

Norman’s always been one to give Emma what she wants.

Notes:

"I don't want to share, I want you all to myself." - lifted from Be Your Everything, Boys Like Girls

Chapter 38: Good Scare.

Notes:

January 3, 2021: Technically this isn't a "zombie apocalypse" or a "first Halloween" as SEETverse and anon have prompted...but the video that inspired this just got stuck in my head and I thought it would fit these prompts perfectly.

Video-spiration: "One Good Scare Ought To Do It!" - Phineas and Ferb

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

Norman scratches the back of his ear—a habit he’d picked up from wearing a mask as his seasonal cold came and went—and feels gas bubble up his throat into a hiccup as he does so. As his seatmate, Emma is privy to the little things he does during class, and so she turns to look at him, her brows furrowed.

“You know,” Emma mutters, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to not get caught by Miss Krone, “That’s really cute.”

He blinks. “What is?”

“Your hiccup.”

“Ah…” He grows warm at the sentiment, staring down at his notebook. There’s a half-finished problem on the page. He doodles a heart next to his integral and hiccups again. He covers his mouth with his sleeve; Emma does the same, though it’s more to smother a giggle.

“Did you solve number seven? I got an answer, but I think I’m wrong.”

“Oh.” He spares a glance at her notebook when he deems it safe to do so (Krone can be rather strict about talking in class sometimes) and nods. “No, you’re right.”

“Really?” She beams, and he spots her marking it off with a green pen. “Great. I thought I was falling behind.”

He thinks of her when she’s doing track and shakes his head. “You could never fall behind.”

 

///

 

“Hey, Norman, scoot over.”

Norman does as he’s asked, moving his bag onto the floor as he does so. Ray occupies the newly emptied spot on the bench, dumping a tray in front of him, and then sliding over an orange juice box in Norman’s direction. 

“What’s this for?” he asks, picking the juice box up.

“I could hear you hiccuping a mile away.” Ray snorts, and when Norman opens his mouth to thank him, Ray waves him off. “It’s nothing. Just orange juice. I’d get ginger if I could, but it’s not like anyone makes juice out of that.”

“Still,” Norman presses. 

Ray doesn’t reply—just rips the plastic off the straw of his own juice box. Norman sighs, nudging the other boy’s foot with his own, which prompts a reaction at least: a small huff and a sideways stink eye.

Emma and the others—Don, Gilda, Anna—show up at their table eventually, and Emma sits across from him, leaning over to inspect his face. She notices the juice box. “Are you still hiccuping?”

“It’s nothing,” he shakes his head, “It’s probably because I just caught a cold.”

“Hm.” Emma leans back, looking thoughtful, and then she’s shoving a spoonful of vegetables into her mouth, chewing like there’s no tomorrow.

“Emma… are you okay?” Don asks, because her excessive chewing is drawing attention.

“That’s just the sound of her brain being used for once,” Ray remarks dryly. “As you can see, it’s pretty rusty.”

Don guffaws at that, and Emma flings a carrot at him.

“No throwing food at the ta—” Norman’s reprimand is cut off by an ill-timed hiccup.

“It looks like you’ve got it bad, Norman,” Anna comments. Norman’s subsequent expression is somewhere along the lines of ‘I know but I’m not going to admit that out loud because I need to stay cool in front of Emma’. Anna’s lip quirks slightly at the observation, and for a little bit of good humor she adds, “My mom always says you should either eat a spoonful of sugar or get a good scare if you want to get rid of hiccups.”

“Sugar?” Gilda echoes, frowning. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not too sure about it either,” Anna explains, slightly embarrassed, “but that’s what Mom says, so…”

“Anything could be possible,” Ray points out. “Something that doesn’t have a definite cause shouldn’t be expected to have a definite solution.”

“But they say a scare always works!” Don says before turning abruptly to Norman and shoving his nose in the boy’s face. “BOO!”

Norman’s own nose is scrunched in displeasure, and everyone else watches his reaction, wondering if that’ll stop the hiccups.

It doesn’t.

“Your scare was too obvious,” Ray says, to Don’s disappointment.

“Too obvious, huh?” Emma murmurs, shoving another spoonful of food into her mouth and chewing.

 

///

 

She catches sight of him before he can enter his car, and she rushes through the crowd of students, waving her arms and calling his name.

He stops, turning to face her, and she catches her breath for a moment, hands on her knees. “Want… to come to my house, later?” she asks, drawing herself up and smiling.

“Why?” 

“I need help studying.” She bounces on the heels of her feet, folding her hands behind her back. She crosses her fingers. “I think I’m getting some of the content in class, but I want to be sure. Who better to ask than you?”

The comment has Norman flushing in flattered embarrassment, and then he’s ducking his head into the car. “Sure,” he manages to croak out. “What time?”

“Six PM,” she tells him, turning around and waving. “See you later, Norman!”

“See you,” he replies, and his voice (and subsequent hiccup) is carried into the breeze.

 

///

 

His driver drops him off by the curb at exactly 5:59 PM—Norman knows because he checks his watch—and he’s wearing three layers of clothes, because his mother had noticed his bad case of hiccups as well and had advised him to dress protectively if he was going to go out.

He still feels chilly beneath all his shirts, though, so he rubs his palms together as he walks into Emma’s driveway.

Something in his gut is cautioning him to be wary of his surroundings as he reaches her front door, and he glances around him, finding it odd that Emma’s house is so quiet. It’s normally loud and lively—her father would be lying beneath the car trying to fix it because it breaks a little after every drive; her siblings would be out in the driveway or the backyard playing with their friends from school; and, Emma herself would be up to something, be it baking his favorite walnut cookies in the kitchen as thanks or dancing around in her room to the Scorpions.

“Hm…” He’s been standing for a while at the porch now, too. Normally, if Emma invites him and their friends to her house, she’s keeping an eye out for their cars and running out to greet them before they can even ring the doorbell.

He fishes his phone out from his pocket, calls her number.

Her ringtone emanates somewhere within the house. He frowns, brows creased, and he dials 911 on the keypad, keeping his thumb over the call button as he fishes the spare keys from its hiding spot (behind the shoe rack) and twists it silently into the doorknob.

He opens the door cautiously, peering into the house. It’s dark inside, and to his horror, he finds what looks like blood stains littering the floor.

He presses the call button immediately, stalking quietly throughout the hall and into the living room, where the trail of blood leads him. 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My friend’s house is deserted and there are signs of an assault,” Norman states, feeling his breath hitch at the sight of Emma’s living room in disarray. 

The couch is toppled over. A few picture frames that used to be on the mantle of the fireplace are now scattered across the floor, and he thinks he sees a lump of something hunched over behind the coffee table. He grabs the nearest thing—an umbrella—and approaches the figure carefully, his grip on his makeshift weapon tight.

“An assault? Please state the address, sir, and do not try to search for the assailant on your own.”

“The address is,” he starts, but then the figure suddenly growls—low-pitched and menacing—turning abruptly on all fours to lunge at him.

“Norman!” He’s tackled and brought to the floor by something else and the figure crashes into the ground where he’d been standing not a moment ago. A familiar scent invades his nose, and he glances wide-eyed at Emma, whose cheeks are stained with red and whose eyes are burning bright with anger. She grabs the umbrella he’d been holding and his hand too, pulling him to his feet.

“Come on! We have to run,” she tells him. “I don’t know what’s happening, but—”

The figure from before rises from the ground on limbs that do not seem to function properly, bending and twisting in unnatural places. Greasy hair parts as the thing tries to stand, and Norman releases a startled hiccup when he realizes he’s looking at Emma’s father.

Blood dribbles from the corners of the man’s mouth, and his head tilts at a dangerous angle, a predatory grin curled over his face.

“Sir? Sir, please respond—”

Norman’s barely left to process anything when Emma throws the umbrella and pulls him towards the front door. She’s got them running at top speed, her heel slamming the door shut behind her.

“Emma! What was that!?” His voice is hoarse, rough against his throat, and Norman struggles for air and sensibility.

“I don’t know!” she yells back, “I got home and he was like that! I got Phil and Sherry out, sent them through the backyard and told them to hide in the shed, but he—he got Mom—and…”

“Hold—” He digs his heels into the pavement, trying to get them to stop. “Hold on. What do you mean?”

Emma turns to him, looking so startled and frantic that he believes her when she says, “Dad. He was… a zombie.”

 

///

 

Emma bangs on Ray’s door. Norman glances warily around them—the entire street is empty, almost eerily so, and he feels goosebumps rising along his skin.

Zombies? Surely not. They couldn’t be real, could they? The dead can’t be reanimated and fueled with bloodlust; it doesn’t make any sense. Their brains are no longer functioning, so nothing else—their limbs, their emotions, desires—nothing should be functioning either. And it certainly can’t be contagious, can it? 

He glances at Emma, wondering if she might have gotten a few facts wrong due to fright, but there’s no denying what he’d seen, either. Yuugo’s eyes had been glazed over, and the blood…

Emma said he’d gotten to Dina.

Could that mean…

“Ray!” Emma bangs on the door. “Open up, please!”

“Emma, this isn’t looking good,” he tells her, tugging on the hem of her shirt. “We should…”

He trails off, eye catching something.

“Should what?” Emma turns to him, and subsequently yells bloody murder. Because making their way towards them now are the friends they’d seen perfectly fine just hours ago, now wobbling across the street in blood-stained clothing and pale, blackened skin.

“Don! Gilda!” Emma tries to reach for them, but they look dangerous and Norman won’t risk it. He grabs her by the sleeve and reaches for the doorknob in a desperate attempt to escape, and he’s surprised when it turns.

The door had been unlocked the whole time.

He isn’t given much time to think about it, however, because then Emma’s pulling him in and slamming the door shut, back pressed flat against the wooden surface. She’s breathing heavily, looking close to tears, and Norman finds himself trying to catch his own breath too.

Sudden banging against the door scares them both, and they draw closer together. Norman feels hot, now, sweaty and dirty and suddenly too warm beneath all his clothes. He takes his cardigan off, uses it to wipe away the tears streaming from Emma’s face.

“What’s happening?” she cries, as their friends’—or what used to be their friends—assault on the door continues. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t, either,” Norman says, and he hates how his voice wavers, “but—”

They hear a familiar growl, and he glances up to find their dearest friend in a similar state to Yuugo, dark red liquid running from his mouth and from what looks to be a wound on his stomach.

He doesn’t know who screams—him, Emma, or them both—but he’s aware of only one thing when Ray lunges forward, mouth wide open as if aiming for a killing bite.

Emma’s name is torn from his lips, genuine terror in his voice, and then he’s shielding her with his own body, clutching her as tight to him as possible if only to save her from such a fate.

He squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open mid-scream, and then he hears Emma say, “Okay, time out.”

.

.

.

He registers too late that the door is now open, Don and Gilda grinning down at him like normal, and behind him he can hear Ray scoff. “None of us are actually zombies, Norman, you can cut it out now. No need to sacrifice your life for an idiot.”

“Hey!” Emma’s voice is loud in his ears and sounds slightly offended. “I think it’s sweet. I didn’t expect it, but now I know who I need to keep an eye on if ever we actually have a zombie apocalypse.”

Norman gapes, pulling himself away from Emma and glancing around at their friends. “You mean… this was a trick?”

“Oh, yeah.” Don laughs. 

Gilda waves a rather large pouch in the air, smirking. “A little bit of make-up can go a long way.”

“I can’t believe Emma managed to get her Dad into it though.”

“Dad thought it would be good practice for the Halloween party this weekend,” Emma explains, grinning. She nudges Norman. “Hey, we were pretty good, huh? We can definitely scare everybody!”

“Uh.”

“And look! Your hiccup’s gone now too!” She nods, looking satisfied. “A while ago I thought: if one scare wouldn’t work, then maybe a bunch of them would.”

Ray rolls his eyes. “Wrong. One good scare’s enough. He only stopped hiccuping the moment he thought you were about to die.”

Norman turns extremely red at the remark and then Emma’s gazing at him in surprise. “Really?”

“Um.”

The reality of his fears seems to become clear to her then, because she’s scooting into his lap and wrapping all four appendages around his torso, latching onto him like a koala. “Norman,” she says. “You’re awesome. I love you.”

“Ehhh!?”

She nuzzles her nose into his shoulder, grinning like mad at his reaction. “You’re still coming to the Halloween party this weekend, right? You aren’t scarred for life or anything?”

He sighs—just a faint puff of breath against her ear. The answer to that question is definitely a yes, but he can’t tell her it’s because he’s just permanently etched the words ‘I love you’ into his heart.

That’s the one scar he’ll keep for himself and treasure forever.

Chapter 39: Ordinary Girl.

Notes:

January 4, 2021: So... *coughs*

I have this weird knack for turning cute prompts (side-eyes "Long haired Emma!") into something sad and turning something sad (today's prompt: "Instead of it's Emma forgetting them, it's everyone who forgot her") into something hopeful. Maybe it's the Libra in me, looking for balance.

Song-spiration: Ordinary Girl - Safetysuit

"Can love happen in a moment and be everything you want again?
It feels like this can't really be us meeting for the first time."

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

She buys cake at the local bakery every Sunday, and he doesn’t know if he’s noticed just because he’s curious about her or if she’s there because of him.

When he tries to think about it, he can’t remember if she was there first or if he was.

But that’s to be expected. His memory has been a hazy cloud for as long as he can remember: nothing one moment and then a burst of color the next, with his friend—brother, he thinks—lying next to him, just as confused.

Just as empty.

They’d tried to figure out who they were. All they could find were their names, registered somehow, along with their birthdays, and they’d done enough digging to figure out that one anonymous person had submitted all the files. They’d had a decent amount of money attached to their name, and most of the children who’d been with them had drifted apart in search of different pursuits. He and Ray had remained within the city proper if only to continue their quiet investigation into the person who seemed to know who all of them were: their names, their birthdays, their medical history. 

But they haven’t had much luck over the years.

“Cinnamon,” Norman says, pulling the exact amount of money needed from his pocket.

The baker, Mike, shakes his head. “Sorry, son. We just sold out.”

“Huh?” That’s a first. People tend to go for the cupcakes or the garlic bread. “How long until you’ll have a new batch?”

“Until tomorrow.” Mike pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Now that I think about it, that girl bought everything.”

“That girl?” Norman prods, even though he has a clear idea of who Mike is talking about.

“Yeah. She comes only on Sundays, just like you. Normally buys carrot cake though, so I was shocked when she asked for all the cinnamon instead.”

“Hmm.” Norman mulls over the new information for a moment, then hands Mike the money he’d prepared, along with a little extra. “Save a batch for me next weekend. Carrot cake too.”

Mike pockets the money, and Norman’s glad that he doesn’t pry. “Sure.”

 

///

 

He finds her sitting on one of the bistros outside, a large plastic bag with the bakery’s logo on it placed on the table before her. She’s looking out into the street, watching the cars pass by—or perhaps waiting for someone.

He slides into the seat opposite her, and he’s surprised by how easily he can walk into this stranger’s presence.

She turns to him and smiles in greeting, like it’s easy for her too. “Are you mad about the cinnamon?”

“Not really,” he answers. “Just curious. Mike says you normally buy carrot cake.”

“Oh, I do!” She brightens up at that, and then she’s revealing a half-way eaten slice tucked into another plastic bag. “It’s great. They’ve got the best in the city.”

“Yeah, their pastries are exquisite.” He pauses for a moment, watching her, and she fails to hide a knowing glint in her eye as he does so. “What caused the change in taste?”

She shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just thought it would be a good conversation starter.”

“Hm.” He studies her for a long moment. To any other person, she’s just an ordinary girl, eating pastries at a bistro outside a well-known bakery, as most people do. But something about her is vaguely familiar, as though he’s been missing her all his life. 

The feeling is as momentary as the wind, however, carried a great distance away before he can even begin to catch up to it.

He shakes his head. “So, you were experimenting?”

“Kind of.” She tugs on the edge of her shirt. A restless kind of girl, he thinks. Always on the move. “I wanted to see if you’d talk to me.”

“You could have just said hello.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She grins, then shoves the plastic bag with cinnamon bread in it towards him. “I believe I owe you.”

“Hm.” He accepts her offer, filtering through the bag to count how much she’s bought. “Carrot cake’s on me next week, then.”

Her eyes widen for a moment, and something relieved and joyous spreads through her gaze. “You’re going to be here next week?”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I can’t recall if I was first or if you were, but I’ve been frequenting this bakery for a while now. I’m not going to stop just because I have a stalker buying my bread for me.”

“Hey!” She pouts, but the shine in her eyes is still there. “I can’t believe you noticed that I’ve been here a while, though.”

“You noticed me, didn’t you?”

“That’s more like a given,” she replies, sounding wistful. He wonders what it is that makes her so sad. “Hey, Norman—”

His brows raise. “How do you know my name?”

She colors instantly at the question. “Um—I didn’t—I know your name?” she splutters, and Norman has to laugh at her attempt, his hand flying over his mouth to dampen his amusement when she frowns at him, looking troubled. “I…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You must have heard it from Mike or something, right? What’s next? You know where I live?”

She blushes, averting her gaze. “Um…”

“I’m not sure if I should stay or walk away right now,” he teases, though she seems to stiffen at his comment.

She glances at him, looking both pained and hopeful at the same time. “Stay?” she whispers, like that’s all she’s ever wanted.

He’s convicted by the longing in her gaze, though some part of him is moved—unbothered at all by the fact that she seems to know more about him than a mere stranger should. She feels like someone special. 

Someone he would be damned not to recognize.

His expression turns determined at the thought, and he extends his hand. 

“Well, since you know a lot about me already, why don’t you tell me more about yourself?” He smiles at her, and its charm is reminiscent of a full moon. “I’m here every Sunday.”

She returns that smile, bright as the sun. “I’d like that,” she says, shaking his hand, and he stills for a moment at the electricity that courses through his veins at her touch. It feels a thousand years old—it feels like remembrance.

He closes his fingers around her hand for a long moment, contemplative, and then he looks up to meet her gaze, his breath soft as an evening whisper. “What’s your name?”

Her answer feels like the sunrise. “Emma.”

Chapter 40: Just Like.

Notes:

January 18, 2021: Ongoing existential crisis has been defeated (for now). The "secret lover" & "disguise" aspect of this one-shot's prompts from anon and SEETverse led me down memory lane to Barbie's rendition of "Princess and the Pauper", though this mostly details what happens before the main plot line as the story sort of kind of maybe went in another direction entirely....

aka Am currently tinkering with the idea of continuing this as a Rayanna-centric piece.

Video-spiration: I Am A Girl Like You | Barbie™ as The Princess And The Pauper

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

There’s an eruption of flour, and Norman slips on broken eggshells.

“Sorry!” Emma yelps, stumbling on her feet to catch him, but her hands only grip empty air and the apology is punctuated with a thud, Norman’s face contorting in pain for a very long second before evening out into a wide stare as she gazes at him, looking horrified.

“This was a disaster,” Norman remarks, but there’s a smile on his face that tells her no harm was done. Even if his butt is sore.

She laughs brightly at the observation, the sound of her mirth breaking the tension in the air, and then she’s crouching next to him, wiping off a bit of flour from his cheek. “This is kind of—” she flushes, sheepish, “—putting me on edge.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen you ‘put on edge’ over breaking the rules.” His voice has a lilt to it that indicates he’s only teasing her, but she gnaws on her bottom lip regardless, her brows furrowed. It must really be bothering her if she’s this tense, so he rubs his hand on his apron and cups her cheek, fingers threading through her hair. “Hey, look at me. We’re going to be fine. Just try not to carry too many things at once.”

“It doesn’t help that you can’t carry anything at all,” she replies, visibly relaxing. He pinches her cheek with his thumb at the comment.

“I’ll carry the eggs,” he volunteers. “None of them will break that way.”

“Yeah,” she taps on his forehead, grinning, “We definitely don’t want any eggs breaking around here.”

“Very funny, milady.” He shakes his head, and she helps him to his feet, their fingers laced for a beat longer than necessary. Neither of them wear its effect on their faces, but the prolonged touch has their hearts racing in a telling manner. Norman averts his gaze, always one to look away first. “Do you think Don will notice that most of his pantry has been raided?”

“If he does, we’ll say it was the rats,” Emma says, waving off his concern. She dumps the last of the ingredients they need for baking a fresh batch of cookies onto the kitchen table, and then she looks at him expectantly. “Well, dearest tutor? What shall we do first?”

Norman smiles, retrieving the folded note in his pocket where he’d written the instructions for baking cookies as a visual guide. He hands it to her, then begins to dictate what she needs to do with alarming accuracy.

 

///

 

“It smells heavenly.”

They’re walking back to her chambers at a leisurely pace, not minding the knowing stares they receive from some of the maids as they pass. The only evidence of their unscheduled culinary adventures are the stains on Norman’s pants, which Emma insists she can wipe off with just a brush of her fingers.

“Emma!” Norman reprimands for the nth time, thoroughly embarrassed and struggling to cover his behind from her touch. “I told you it’s fine—!”

“But the flour’s my excuse.” She pouts. “How else am I supposed to preface public intimacy?”

“Perhaps remove being ‘public’ as a factor?” Norman suggests, averting his gaze, though he’s not very convincing.

“Ah, but if I’m lucky one of those foreign princes will walk in!” Emma points out, brightening considerably.

“I was unaware that your goal was to have me beheaded.”

“Never!” She’s pouting again, more seriously this time. “I can choose whoever I want, can’t I? It just so happens that one of the foreign dignitaries isn’t my choice.”

Norman settles his gaze over her face at the declaration, and he releases a fond sigh, his affection for her simmering delicately in his eyes. “If only it were that simple, my love,” he murmurs, his nose brushing against her cheek as he pulls her to him and places his mouth over her ear. She trembles beneath his touch, like a ripple on a clear lake, and he feels her fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket, over his heart. “But you and I both know there’s a reason we’ve kept… this… between us for so long.”

“I don’t want you to be a secret.” She fits against him as she always has: like a key to a lock, turning the mechanisms, opening parts of himself he keeps hidden. He can smell the remnants of cinnamon in her hair, the scent of baking bread on her skin. “Hey, Norman.”

“Hm?” He pulls away just enough that he can see the resolution in her gaze.

“Run away with me.”

 

///

 

“Running away!?”

“Shh! Not so loud, Vincent!” Emma gestures wildly for him to pipe down. Norman still looks bewildered from his seat beside her, eyes wide like he can’t believe he’d actually just agreed to do something so preposterous. “Besides, it’s only for a little while!”

“And how long is ‘a little while’?” Vincent spins around to face her with his brow twitching. Emma’s used to it—she’s always thought it was a lever. One pull and Vincent’s bound to explode.

“Just—not long.” She shrugs helplessly at the lack of a specific timeline and Vincent pinches his nose, releasing a very long, very deliberate sigh. Emma pats his arm as a small way of comforting him, and then she says, softly, “I’m not giving up on the kingdom. I have a duty to both the people and my parents, and I am not abandoning that. But I’m not going to abandon how I feel for Norman, either. I want some time away so that he and I can think of a solution to this without having to run between the walls.”

“It’s not as if no one in the palace—besides your parents—knows about your,” Vincent glances wryly from her to Norman, “relationship. But you have scheduled meetings with the princes, and the last one is arriving in three days’ time. If you’re going to be missing indefinitely, that will reflect poorly on His Majesty.”

“Hmm.” Emma’s brow scrunches over her nose the way it does when she’s thinking hard about something.

“If I may,” Norman pipes up, finally having straightened his expression, “I usually send impromptu requests for field trips with the princess when she wants to go out and explore. She’s spontaneous enough that her father will most likely not suspect anything if I do the same now. We’ll say it’s for academic purposes as we always have, and we’ll set it for a week as usual. If the princes raise any concerns about the matter, it can be prefaced as a natural occurrence that they will have to get used to should they win the princess’ hand.”

Both Emma and Vincent blink at the suggestion, and then Emma’s cheering, spinning around triumphantly. “I’d expect nothing less from my tutor!”

Vincent respectfully turns around when she presses a long kiss to Norman’s cheek, and then he clears his throat to command their attention. “That would probably work,” he acquiesces, “Norman is trusted by both the King and Queen, so they will most certainly allow it.”

“Now all you’ll need to do is assure them,” Emma adds, grinning confidently at Vincent. “That settles it. I’ll have the maids prepare everything we need, and we shall leave first thing tomorrow morning. Is that enough time for you to write a decent proposal, Norman?”

His answering smile is sly enough that neither Emma nor Vincent catch it. “Why, yes. That’s more than enough time.”

 

///

 

As Emma had proclaimed, they’re ready to leave the castle before the sun can break through the horizon. She grins at him, looking peaceful in the pale indigo of the dawn, and Norman takes her hand when she offers it, lacing his fingers through hers and leaning his head over her shoulder, hoping to gain some rest after a long night.

He can’t help the smile on his face when she brushes his hair back and kisses his forehead before taking hold of the reins and bringing their humble carriage forward, through the castle gates and into the freedom of being with her outside the palace walls.

 

///

 

The first thing he registers when he’s fully awake is that they’ve stopped along the entrance to a bustling marketplace, the sun burning brightly over the town square and bouncing off the water fountain. Emma’s head is craned, and he can tell without looking that she’s studying the people with interest, hoping to mingle with them now that she’s here.

“Has anything caught your fancy?” he asks, his voice still rough from sleep. He flushes slightly at the sound of it, raising a hand to cover his mouth, but Emma grasps his wrist and shakes her head.

“You forget that if everything goes well, I’ll be waking up to the sound of that voice for the rest of our lives.” When even his ears turn pink at the words, she laughs and pinches his cheeks fondly. “You don’t have to hide that from me. Hide nothing from me.”

“I’ll try,” he answers, voice low, and it’s the steel in his gaze that makes her nod with satisfaction.

“To answer your question,” she’s turning around again, “I think I find myself fancying the mangoes I saw a boy carry over into a stall on the right.”

“Mangoes for breakfast then,” Norman announces.

“And pastries for lunch!” Emma adds.

From the look on her face alone, Norman can tell that it will be a very long day in the market indeed.

 

///

 

A boy scrapes his knee on one of the crates when some neighborhood bullies push him down.

“Hey!” Emma scares them off, righteous as ever, though a young blonde wearing a nurse’s apron beats Norman to the boy. She kneels next to him, her petite frame a comfort to the weeping child, and she examines his wound with what Norman can trust is expertise.

“Do you have a clinic nearby where he can be treated?” Norman asks, stooping down next to her to look over the child himself, and she glances at him, both timid and bold.

“Yes, I do. I can’t carry him though.”

“Neither can I,” Norman admits, then he juts his chin over at Emma. “But she can.”

He looks straight at the girl when she makes a noise of protest, and finds himself blank for a long moment. He blinks, staring closely at the girl’s features. And then he blinks again. 

“Norman, what’s—” Emma catches sight of the girl too, and she gasps. “Hey, you look just like Mama!”

“I do?” the young nurse squeaks, just as Norman says, “More than that, she looks like you.”

“Me?” Emma shakes her head. “I’d say she looks more like you, given her fair hair and her pretty eyes.”

“Er.” The nurse blushes like she’s not sure whether she should be flattered or flummoxed, then she shakes her head and gestures down the street. “Let’s tend to the boy first, shall we?”

“Oh, of course!” And as if he’s a sack of potatoes—a very delicate sack, mind—Emma lifts the boy up and grins at her. “Show us the way!”

 

///

 

The nurse—Anna, they’ve come to learn—is quite adept at her profession, moving across the clinic to gather the necessary materials in a calm and efficient manner. Norman more often than not finds himself taking notes from her work ethic as Emma observes her cheerfully, humming a folk song that seems to make the injured boy relax.

“Thank you,” he quietly says to them when his leg is patched up and he’s given additional advice from Anna. He rushes off with a wave, a shy smile visible on his face before he disappears out the door.

“So,” Anna says, when the dirty towels are all tossed neatly away into a bin. “You’re just like me?”

“From the nose down,” Emma grins, “I’m just like you.”

“And I,” Norman contributes, a cunning glint in his eyes, “Have a plan.”

 

 

///

 

 

“Well,” Anna seems incredibly thoughtful for a girl who’s just been asked to participate in an international level scam, “I was planning on cutting my hair, anyway.”

Chapter 41: Heaven Knows.

Notes:

January 19, 2021: SEETverse prompted a Patient AU which they also brought to life, so go check their story out if you want more of this AU! Other than that, this is my brief take on the prompt. Here's a fun fact: I first discovered this song on a Psycho Pass AMV, and boy did it really get the gears in my brain turning. Particularly one line. Heh.

Song-spiration: Heaven Knows - Five For Fighting

Bon appétit!

Chapter Text

They’ve lived in adjacent rooms on the seventh floor since they were seven years old, but they only find out when they’re seventeen.

Norman tinkers with the thin wire connected to a transmitter on his wrist, blue eyes darting between his work and the door every two seconds. He played around with the clock a few weeks ago, setting the second hand five minutes early, so he should be well within the time limit. But there’s no telling if Nurse Anna had noticed—she’s too sharp, and despite her angelic nature she will tell on him—and so he’s keeping his guard up, just to make sure this one chance won’t slip away.

Uncle Peter’s had his agents—demons, Norman calls them—keep a strict eye on him since his seventeenth birthday. It’s rather pathetic, Norman knows better than anyone the length of his own life.

He’s studied the charts since he was seven, after all.

He finally manages to dislocate the wire, and in the split second before the machine can tell the nurses he’s just flatlined, he connects it to the candy tin he’s lined with copper and attached to the heart monitor.

Zazie woofs. The heart monitor spikes for a moment, and then starts beeping normally. “Good boy.” Norman ruffles Zazie’s fur. “Cover for me, will you?”

Zazie’s tongue rolls out of his mouth. Norman knows a salute when he sees one.

“Right.” He grabs a small knapsack he’d tucked beneath the mattress and slings it over his shoulder, peeking out into the hallway. Every fifteen hours, Peter’s agents head down to the cafeteria for a while to grab a snack. There’s a five minute window between the last guard and the replacement, which is his only chance to make a break for the stairs (they take the elevator).

He feels his heart swell slightly when he notices that the hallway is relatively empty, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the accompanying dizziness.

He’s two meters out the door when the elevator down the hall dings, signaling a new arrival.

Dammit, Norman curses, looking around him for a possible hiding spot. But there are only closed doors, and the elevator’s going to open any second now. 

Sweat skims past his forehead. Maybe he should have kept some way to monitor his own heartbeat, given how fast it’s going.

He thinks he might faint.

The door to his right swings open suddenly and then he’s being dragged into a sunlit room.

 

v^√√v^──√v^√v^──√v^√√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──√v^√√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──

 

Before he can release a yell a hand covers his mouth, and he raises his gaze to find his lashes brushing against ginger fur. He blinks, shaking his head. So the room next door also has a dog? he thinks, but then he finds his eyes leveled with those of a girl’s, the green of her irises reminding him of the potted plants Ray had given him for his fifteenth birthday to “liven up his room”.

Norman blinks. Oh. It’s not a dog.

“Hey,” she says, sitting back against the door and grinning at him. She tucks her knees to her chest, shrugging like this is a common occurrence. “Don’t yell.”

“Um.” Norman wonders why his heart’s still racing even when the danger has long since passed. “You are?”

“Don’t know.” She shrugs again, tugging on the cloth of her leggings. He notices that she’s wearing casual clothes instead of the issued hospital gown. Given that Anna’s the main nurse on this floor, he guesses that she must have been pretty obstinate about it. “Owe me. Tell me where you go?”

“I…” Norman mulls over his words for a moment, glancing quickly around the room for further information. He has to admit that her manner of speech is rather endearing, quite like a child’s—disjointed like one too—and she looks at him with something like guarded curiosity, the caution in her countenance reminiscent of his when he’s talking to a stranger.

She seems to have a rather colorful room, with a vast array of brightly painted knick knacks strewn all over every inch of space. Most of it’s been knocked to the side to create a pathway to the bed, and he notices that she doesn’t have a heart monitor, nor any other medical equipment. Aside from the clipboard stamped with the hospital’s logo attached to the foot of her bed, he might as well believe he’s just entered a teenage girl’s bedroom.

She must be on medication.

He can work with that. “Can you distract them for me?”

“Distract?” She sounds confused.

“Make a huge… noise.” He gestures an explosion with his fingers. She nods vehemently. “Can you do that?”

“Ok-ay.” She stands up, dusting herself off. She twists the doorknob.

“Run to the elevator when I call you.” It takes him a split second after dealing out the instruction to realize that he doesn’t know her name yet.

“Ok-ay,” she says again, like it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know her name.

He guesses it doesn’t.

She opens the door and it feels like breaking free.

 

──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──

 

“Room 719, huh?” Ray thinks it over for a moment, his dry gaze landing over the newest addition to their group. She’s bright but kind of stupid, they’ve come to observe, and the children all love her.

He crosses his arms and leans against the playhouse. They tower over everyone else in the pediatric ward, but Ray’s good at making deals and he’s got Ayshe’s dogs silent for the meantime (the blonde nurses in their hospital are the most formidable).

“I think I remember Anna mentioning her once,” he says, finally, and Norman’s glad for the information. “A difficult one. Alzheimer’s. They still don’t fully understand why she got it so young, but they said her father was abusive and knocked her around like a rag doll. Got the mom in some pretty nasty places too.”

Norman frowns. “And how long ago was she admitted?”

“Ten years ago, if I’ve got my facts straight. And I always do.” Ray smirks. “She’s been in 719 this whole time, I think her mom’s paying the bills. Treatment’s got that woman working to the bones, but she wants to see her daughter ‘healed’.”

“Healed, huh?” Norman hums thoughtfully. “What does Anna think the cause is?”

“Maybe the trauma—physical and mental—plus the fact that she got into a car accident trying to save somebody. She’s a good kid, but not with this disease.”

“She saved me though,” Norman says, insightful.

Ray snorts. “Someone always needs to come along and save your ass, Norman. You can’t get anywhere without fainting once.”

Norman lifts his shoulders, laughing helplessly at the observation. “I can’t say you’re entirely wrong there, Ray.”

“Hmph.” Ray glances at the pocket watch he keeps in his left pocket—it belonged to his father, Norman had pieced over the years, and his father was left-handed—and sighs. “Thirty minutes left, then we’ve got to hightail it out of here and find an excuse to give Anna.”

“Oh!” That childish voice pipes up, and then there’s a burst of orange in Norman’s vision. “Me!”

“What.” Ray looks ready to fire off an insult and Norman nudges his foot in warning. 

“Just say me!” She sounds frustrated, like they’re the ones who are stupid. 

“You want us… to pin the blame on you?” Norman tries to clarify, and his tone turns dismal toward the end. He never liked blaming anyone for his choices.

But she nods like it’s no big deal. “I,” she points to herself, “trip, and you,” she points at them, “help. Always.”

She says ‘always’ like ‘it always happens’, and Norman has to wonder just what he’s been missing all these years.

 

──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──

 

Two months pass uneventfully. They upgraded the device they attached to Norman’s wrist, and now a nurse comes in every other shift to make sure he’s in his room and take Zazie out for a two-hour long walk to “make sure he doesn’t get the same idea”.

The staff’s sort of miffed that they have to make tighter schedules in order to keep an eye on three patients, but Norman doesn’t really mind. He likes the mental challenge of finding ways to communicate with Ray—who’s in the room opposite the entire hall—and tricking the staff. They’ve yet to figure out their hiding place, anyway.

But he has to admit, he still gets bored.

Despite being in a hospital, there are surprisingly very little ways to stimulate the mind. But Norman’s resourceful enough, and when Anna walks into the room to deliver lunch and perform the routine check-up, he can’t help but blurt out:

“Can I visit Emma?”

He’d learned her name by chance, and that was only when Anna was yelling at them for running away again. He remembers thinking the name suited her: cute, short, and vibrant. A pretty name for a pretty girl.

“Come again?” Anna’s eyes are wide in disbelief. She’s a good fifteen years older than all of them, but she still looks young and healthy despite her age, and it doesn’t stop Ray from cracking half-serious, half-flippant jokes about marrying her if she manages to cure him.

Norman feels his heart beat faster when the thought of a prettier girl comes to mind. He notices the slight spike in the numbers on the monitor beside him.

His blush is telling, but he’s felt an ache ever since they’d parted ways, and he wants to soothe it.

“I thought it might be allowed if I asked for permission this time,” he says, and his voice is a little rough around the edges, throat tight like his own body is caving in on the embarrassment of asking. “And visiting hours are open, so I thought it would be fine.”

Anna rolls her eyes and wraps the blood pressure cuff a little tighter around his sleeve. “Norman Minerva, in all my years of caring for you, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you ask for permission.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “First time for everything, right?”

Anna huffs, and it sounds almost like an imitation of Ray’s snort. Norman finds he’s been inciting such reactions from the people around him lately, and deems it wise to try asking again tomorrow.

But before Anna exits, she turns to face him again.

“She might yell at you at first,” she warns him, “And throw one of her knick knacks at you. I’ll bring some lotion for the bruises tomorrow. It’s different for everyone, but if you find a way to approach her, she’ll calm down. It’ll be like that every time you visit. But if you stay long enough…”

Anna purses her lips. Then she smiles at him. “I think it would be nice for her to make a friend.”

 

──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──

 

He bruises easily.

He thought he knew that already, considering his condition, but it’s not until he’s facing the wrath of Emma’s right throw that he understands what it means to truly bruise, and learn how to walk it off.

It takes him a number of tries. There are times when the nurses have to come in because she’s been yelling too long for comfort, and there are times when she regards him like she did that first day, with caution and curiosity. 

Anna prepares an ice-pack for the bruises every morning, because it’s become routine for him to try visiting Emma after lunch. After about two weeks of failed attempts, he finally succeeds in getting close to her with an offer of eating lunch together.

There’s a yearning that sparks behind her gaze when he mentions a truce of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and he approaches her carefully, because he knows what it’s like to bear a fragile mind.

He notices that his heart is at ease when they eat together.

“Jam,” she says, and he passes it to her—finds himself attracted to the way her eyes light up.

 

──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──

 

The clock on his wall has been tampered with again. Norman stares at it: at the slow movement of the second hand, at the way midnight hasn’t come yet despite the brightness of the evening sky outside his window. He wonders why the clock’s been slowed.

Then remembers something about the time of death.

He’s ready for the attack when it comes: he’s alert enough to notice the twist to the doorknob, awake enough to know that the men coming inside are his uncle’s demons. He assesses their profiles quickly: realizes that they’re two of Peter’s top men, and that they’ve come unarmed. They’ll have to make this look like a natural death, he remembers. Maybe they’re going for undetectable poison. Maybe they’ll choke him.

Maybe they’ll find a creative way to kill him, the way they tried to kill his father.

He grabs his only weapon—a tumbler of water that Anna keeps by his bedside for his nightly dose of medicine—and tries to strike them with it when they come too close. 

It works as a good enough distraction, missing by inches and hitting the wall opposite with a loud clang instead, and the men grunt when Norman shoves his foot at their stomachs in an attempt to scramble off the opposite side of the bed and make a break for the door.

He’s about halfway there when he’s grabbed by the elbows, and he can hear the accelerated beating of his heart in his ears: it’s the sound of the machine going berserk, the way he is, struggling against the rough grip of the men who’ve come to snuff him out.

They shove him back against the mattress when he proves to be a difficult captive, and Norman chokes for breath, claws at the thick fingers that have clamped around his throat.

He writhes against their hold, pleading softly for his life, and for what seems like a moment too late he recalls Ray’s words.

Someone always needs to come along and save you.

He shuts his eyes, wishes for strength. And strength comes, with the sound of the door barging open, Emma’s childish voice high-pitched and wrung at the end like an angel’s.

“There!”

It takes him a second to realize that Emma must have heard the ruckus going on next door and rushed for help, because he finds a group of nurses and hospital guards rushing in to grab hold of his assailants.

He gasps for air when the clamp around his throat has been pulled away and handcuffed. He feels his body inflate, trembling, and feels his heart rate stabilizing slowly as Anna rushes to his side and begins to examine him. She doesn’t get too far, however, because Emma impedes her work with a cry and pulls him into her arms, where she buries her nose into his shoulder and stains his shirt with her tears.

“Em-ma?” he croaks out, and he thinks it must be the first time she’s ever responded to her name.

“I was scared.” She sniffles, pulling away, and he’s surprised to see recognition in her eyes, like the fear had given her clarity. She cups his face, and then her tears are watering his cheeks instead. “So scared, but you’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I am.” He holds on to her, finds solace in her warmth. “Thank you.”

 

──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──v^√√v^──

 

He tries not to think about the reason why his uncle had sent his murderers at the time he did. He instead fills his days with visiting Emma once more, his visits growing longer and longer everyday, and he’s gotten used to being greeted with some knick knack to the face—he still hasn’t gotten used to the way she remembers and forgets.

“Emma,” he tells her when she recognizes the name, “Did you know that peanut butter has a shelf life of two years? If you can keep it for that long, you won’t have to buy a new one.”

“Really?” She studies the half-filled jar, and seems to decide something. She plops it onto her bedside table. “Two years, then. We eat when it’s bad.”

She grins at him, and he laughs at her proclamation, hides his affection from her eyes by turning his head. 

“Yeah, sounds good to me.”

 

──v^√√v^──√v^√v^──

 

“Emma.”

“Who are you?”

Her voice is harsh, accusatory, and he winces. It’s the question his heart always stutters at—the question he thought he could get used to hearing, but hasn’t.

He tries to smile. He’d promised himself that he’d be strong for her. Because that peanut butter jar was a vow, and he’s always been one to keep his word.

“It’s me, Norman,” he tells her softly, crossing the distance between them inch by inch. “Don’t you remember me?”

 

──v^√√v^──

 

It’s Anna who walks into room 719 one day.

The look on her face is solemn, and when she closes her eyes she thinks of Emma’s reaction as the real one, and not the usual, everyday occurrence.

She allows herself to be assaulted by the knick knacks as penance, because she doesn’t have the heart to tell a girl who’ll just forget. It’s wretched of her, and when Emma does remember, she’ll ask. She’ll keep asking, and asking, and asking. It’s not her fault. 

It’s not.

But Anna is a nurse who only has the strength to tend to broken hearts. 

She can’t bear to be the one who breaks it.

 

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

 

Room 719 is tasked to be cleared a few years later.

The first thing they throw out is an expired jar of peanut butter.

Chapter 42: Faith in Me.

Notes:

January 20, 2021: Folks, we have done it. We have arrived at BMG's final one-shot. Like any shounen anime, this final battle was fought with a combo move, haha. There were a total of 5 anon asks and 1 commented prompt that dealt around a similar vein of post-canon events, which I weaved together into a simple narrative. I hope we touch off on this collection on a good, jazzy note.

Thank you for stopping by.

Chapter Text

“What if what I want makes you sad at me?

And is it all my fault or can I fix it, please?

Cause you know that I’m always all for you

Cause you know that I’m always all for

Always all for you.”

What If, Safetysuit

 


 

Where do we draw the line for an ending, and where do we begin?

The page between Norman’s fingers is old, splotched with oily brown at the edges and yellowed at the center. It’s a paperback novel with creases along its spine, spreading open readily in his hands to a highlighted page, the first line of a paragraph encircled daintily with fresh ink.

Klaus keeps interesting books in his cabin, and in the warmth of the summer, they are good company. The rolling hills spread out across their front yard reminds him of their home in Gracefield, though the grass is smoothed over now by the wind’s hand, the swift breeze brushing across his cheek and causing the ancient book in his hold to tremble at the weight of it. 

It doesn’t have a title. The cover had been ripped out long ago, and the page beneath it contains the scrawl of a child; it’s a near illegible spelling of a name, written in thick, blue, permanent ink. It had belonged to Klaus until his five-year-old son had gotten his hands on it, Norman had learned. Klaus had been taking this book to the grave when Norman had asked to borrow it.

“Keep it,” Klaus had said, after a moment’s hesitation. He’d passed the book to Norman, who’d shuddered at the contrast of their hands: old and calloused, young and stained with blood.

“It’s yours,” Norman had answered, but old men are good at selective hearing. Klaus had simply shrugged him off—walked past him and said nothing else.

Norman’s forgotten how many times he’s read the story. The plot is nothing special, and the prose isn’t revolutionary. It’s a simple novel, as weathered as the man who’d gifted it to him, but there’s something about its simplicity that attracts him: it reminds him very much of the girl who’s name is written in permanent ink over his heart.

The thought paints his cheeks red with embarrassment, and they color even more when he picks up the sound of the girls descending the stairs from the second floor.

He chooses his reading spots deliberately after all, and he focuses his gaze on the book once more, opting to hide the fact that he’s been waiting for her.

He looks up at the familiar wooden creak of the door, and the first thing his eye catches is the pinkness of her skirt, pooled across the edges of her hips and swaying down to a point just above her knees. He catches sight of a pair of heels on her feet, bringing her height up by an inch, and then his eyes travel past the denim jacket she’s wearing to the hesitant smile on her face.

“What do you think?” she asks him, and he’s admittedly stunned by the question.

“You look great,” he says, and his words sound hollow.

Her smile falters, and that’s when he knows she must have heard it, too. 

“I’m just not used to it,” he tries to salvage quickly, standing in his attempt to make it up to her. The book is disregarded on the chair, and his empty hands reach for hers instead, squeezing them tightly in assurance. “I’ve never seen you… dressed up before. I was just shocked.”

“It’s not too much?” she asks, and he feels his heart relax when her grin returns. “Gilda was complaining about the jacket, but I like it, so—”

“You should wear what you like.”

“Yeah?” She bites her lip. “I’m not sure how this works, Klaus was always protective of me, so I’m surprised he allowed it when I was asked…” she trails off, and she looks confused, like she’s struggling to put her feelings to words. Norman has always known how to read all her expressions, however, and he understands that this is what nervousness on Emma looks like.

He brushes his thumb over her knuckles, the movement an unconscious choice on his part, though he realizes with a start the level of intimacy he and Emma have always shared.

He feels something within him shatter at the thought that he might have to let this go.

“You’re going to be okay,” he tells her softly. “It was the boy from the flower shop, right? You’ll be in good hands. You just have to be yourself.”

“Myself?”

“Just… be you.” He raises his hand to cup her cheek, and remembers how much he loved to frame her face with his fingers. “Be genuine. People have always been drawn to your honesty.”

Her mouth parts at the words, though no sound comes out. She stares at him for a long moment, and he notices that her hesitation is still there. He opts to comfort her somehow, but then she’s stepping away from him, and all that’s left behind is empty space.

“I’m going to be late.” She waves at him, and steps into the sunlight.

“Good luck,” he calls out, voice mellow.

She’s smiling again. Somehow he feels like he’s looking at a ghost. “Thanks. See you later!”

He watches her bound down the hill, and as she disappears from sight, he thinks of how they used to play tag.

 

///

 

“That book again?” Ray asks when they sit down for afternoon tea a couple of hours later. There’s a cool, shady area in the forest that the kids have turned into their own sort of playground; they’re surrounded by a series of interconnected treehouses and incoherent shrieks.

Norman watches Thoma push Lanni off the edge of a treehouse, the latter’s hands holding on to a sturdy coat hanger as he zips by overhead on a makeshift zipline.

They’re supposed to be keeping watch, but the kids have been through enough that they know how to dust themselves off when they fall down.

“It’s interesting,” Norman replies, turning to face Ray again. He passes the book over when Ray gestures for it, and sips his tea as the other boy peruses the work in question. Ray quirks a brow over a page, and Norman knows he’s just discovered the circled line.

“Seems like a good book,” Ray acquiesces. “Maybe I’ll read it when I go to sleep, old man.”

“Ha-ha, very funny, Ray.” Norman swipes the book back from him and tucks it safely into his coat pocket. “What’s today’s blend?”

“Anna found a chamomile-ginger one,” Ray says. “There’s a little bit of lemon in it too.”

Norman scrunches his nose. “Thought so.”

Ray huffs, pulling a device out from his backpack. “Hey, so we’re going to have to discuss this month’s sales, they’re dipping below average.”

“Hmm.” Norman shuts his eyes in contemplation for a moment. “I did hear there was competition.”

“Oh, there’s competition all right,” Ray snorts, eye scanning something on his computer. “They sell flowers like a wimp.”

Norman raises his brow. “I thought we were talking business.”

“We are.” Ray lifts his gaze, and it’s hard like stone. 

Before Norman has a chance to reply, there’s a bit of an uproar from the right, and they turn their heads to find that Klaus has decided to join them for tea. Norman scoots over to make room for him, and Klaus nods appreciatively, hands reaching for the teapot.

“Since Emma’s not in the house today, I thought I’d come find some company,” Klaus prefaces, leaning back on his chair and humming delightfully as he guzzles his drink. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“You’re not,” Norman answers amicably, then cuts a subtle glare to his left. “Ray was just talking about business.”

“Ah,” Klaus says, then grows quiet. Ray rolls his eyes at the jab and returns to his computer, typing furiously after a moment. 

Norman mulls over their previous conversation, pulling on the cloth of his pants meditavely. For once, having a hot beverage fails to soothe him, and he only finds himself growing warmer by the minute. Sweat skims past his brow, and he wipes it off with his handkerchief, frowning slightly.

“You look worried, boy,” Klaus observes loudly, to which Ray mutters, “Tell me about it.”

Norman shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Maybe the usual fever.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

This time Norman decides against the subtleties. “I’m not going after her!”

“Why not!” Ray fires back, crossing his arms. “You’re obviously wasting your time here.”

“And interrupt something that’s g—” Norman chokes on the word, and of course Ray notices. The pointed look is just salt on the wound.

Norman tears his gaze away from his friend and levels it at the grass instead, because at least nature doesn’t talk back.

“I didn’t come here to witness a fight,” Klaus says.

“We’re not fighting!” Ray snaps. “Norman’s just being an idiot.”

“Perhaps your expectations have been set too high.”

“As if you’ve ever failed to meet high expectations, Guardian.”

“Now, now,” Klaus interjects, shaking his head. “Emma wouldn’t want you two to be fighting over something so trivial.”

“Trivial?” Norman repeats, befuddled. 

“There’s nothing ‘trivial’ about this,” Ray adds, grumbling. “It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Well,” Klaus coughs as he puts his cup down, “I admit I didn’t come here just for some company. Saw you two out the door a while ago, and thought it wouldn’t be such a bad time to give you this.”

Norman blinks when Klaus presents him a faded picture of Emma. It’s still in pristine condition despite the slight folds over the corners, and Norman recognizes that white uniform—the look on her face as she tries to fight off the ‘demons’ that’ll gobble her up once the camera’s shutter goes off.

“That’s—” he starts, and Ray finishes, “Pesky demon god.”

“So it wasn’t just her memories…” Norman remarks softly, his hands accepting yet another gift from Klaus’s hands. The photograph is smooth to the touch, and his thumb caresses the empty space where he should have been.

Is this what it feels like, to have something so precious to you be taken away in an instant?

Like a half-empty photograph, a tampered treasure?

How easy it is, Norman thinks, to erase someone from your life.

“It must have been hard for her,” he says, tone gentle. He thinks of her as she walked away, and wonders if that was really moving on. “To have no idea where you came from or who you are—to have just a single clue about your past within your reach even if it’ll never be enough to help you remember.” Norman purses his lips when his voice quivers. “She’s been through so much, has sacrificed so much, and yet here she is, laughing and smiling with us despite it all. She’s so—strong.”

“And you’re not?” Ray mutters, his hand grasping Norman’s shoulder harshly. “You lost her too, you know. We all did. You can’t just toss your emotions aside and call it respecting hers; you have to let yourself feel, because those feelings? They’re the only connection to her that you have left.”

“Ray…”

“I can’t speak for Emma when I say this,” Klaus offers, “but she’s always been a stubborn girl. When it comes to being considerate, she’ll put her own feelings aside too. It’s what makes her empathetic, and it is the same quality that makes you kind. There is a limit to kindness however, and that is where you must draw the line.”

“There are many things I wish I could help her with, but that girl doesn’t even know her own feelings. Something is keeping her from realizing that, and she needs a push from the right person.” Klaus levels a stern gaze at him. “You have to understand, boy. I found her lying in the snow. I thought she was abandoned. But you—your family—you all came for her, and I was so relieved that day. But two years is a long time, and there are things that still have to be addressed.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Norman answers. He inserts the photograph into the book, shuts it tight and holds on for dear life. “But what if—what if what I want makes her sad? You said it yourself. Two years is a long time.”

“For you two,” Ray says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “it’s not long enough.”

 

///

 

He races along the market stalls, past the bakery and the flower shop. The sun has yet to set, but it sits low on the horizon like a time bomb.

Norman doesn’t even know where he’s going.

The last snippet of the girls’ conversation that he remembers hearing is that the flower boy had asked Emma to have late lunch with him along the pier. It’s apparently considered the local romance spot, with a variety of couples going there to enjoy good food and go for a dip if they feel like it.

Gilda had called it contrived. Emma had answered that she always wondered what it was like, so it couldn’t hurt.

But it does.

Norman shakes his head, blurts out a rushed apology when he accidentally bumps into someone.

It hurts so much.

He doesn’t know how far he’s run, but his nose is runny and his breath is running out, and the sea is still miles away.

He wonders if they’d walked along the sidewalk leisurely, side by side. If Emma had paused to look at anything that caught her eye, if the boy had offered to buy it for her if she really wanted it. He wonders if their hands had met along the way, wonders if they’d shared a kiss some time after lunch—if it had been Emma’s first kiss, if it had been his last chance.

The thought makes his heart pound. Where do we draw the line for an ending?

He bursts into the pier, where fishermen are busy reeling in their catch and securing their boats.

Where do we begin?

He glances around him frantically, mulls over what he might say, what he should say, why he’s even doing this. There’s something like lightning coursing through his bones as his thoughts swirl around his head like a hurricane, and he finds the eye of the storm sitting alone at the edge of the docks, her hair blending into the sky, her feet blending into the sea.

He wipes the tears from his eyes, though he knows it won’t be enough to hide the fact that he’d been crying.

“Emma, are you okay?”

The question comes forth naturally from his mouth, and he winces as though Ray’s just smacked the back of his head. It’s not just about her, that sharp voice rings in his head, It’s about both of you.

“Norman?” She turns to face him, and her eyes subsequently widen. “Norman, you’re—”

“Don’t worry about me.” He shakes his head, and has to wince again. Old habits must die hard, he thinks, but then Emma’s frowning in front of him, grabbing his face and pulling him down so that they’re level. She wipes the remnants of his tears with her thumbs.

“Of course I’m going to worry about you,” she tells him, brows furrowed. “Especially when you come to me looking like this.”

“I was looking for you,” he explains sheepishly, closing his eyes so that all he can sense is her touch. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Her fingers pause for a moment over his skin. “Why were you looking for me?”

“I…” He can’t really find an excuse, so he settles for the truth instead. Ray would be proud. “I didn’t want you to go on this date.”

She blinks, eyes searching his for a long moment, and he feels his heart drop along with her hands when they let go of his face. 

“Why not?”

“Because…” He looks at the sea, the sky, the ships—anywhere but her. And then his gaze settles over the only speck of green in this vast ocean of blue, the isle of his eyes, the only woman he’s ever really looked at. And when he speaks again, he’s eleven-years-old, making a promise he intends to keep.

“...All I want is to be with you.”

The jewel centered on Emma’s necklace glows brightly at the words, and the light that emanates from it blinds them, though Emma reaches for his hands, her gasp the only thing he can hear for a long moment.

It’s a subtle shift. Nothing too grand, too revolutionary. It’s simply a missing puzzle piece sliding into place—a dormant promise finally fulfilled.

“Norman,” she breathes, and suddenly they both feel so alive, “Silly Norman. It’s always been you. I want to walk alongside you.”

The sentiment brings forth a memory, and he stares at her expression for a long time: the line of her brow, the sparkle in her eyes, the desperation and finality in her voice. Her words ring true, and suddenly her tears are falling into his open palm.

“Emma?”

“It’s me.” Something joyous erupts in his chest at the words, and his mind is filled with questions, but matters of the heart have always triumphed in times like this. He pulls her into his arms, cries along with her when he feels her fingers pulling on the cloth of his polo, her touch as firm and loving as it has always been.

It’s an embrace he’s never been able to fully return until now.

“I’m here,” she whispers in his ear as they fall to their knees and hold each other close. “We’re home.”