A/N—I don't own the Inkheart series. All rights belong to Cornelia Funke and Chicken House publishers. All I own in my burning, maniacal desire for Elinor and Darius to hook up. That and this little plot idea, which will be explained in detail below.
In Inkdeath, it seemed to me that Elinor and Darius were falling in love even more than in Inkspell. And the cues seemed pretty strong there. So I decided to write this piece. It goes through some of the larger Elinor and Darius parts in Inkdeath, with both of their POVs. What if the actions meant something more?
Please read and review! I seriously love reviews, and am more likely to keep writing if I receive them. So Elinor and Darius shippers, unite and press the lovely little blue button at the bottom of this piece!
INKACHE
"I'll make you some hot milk and honey," he said, disappearing into the kitchen.
And Elinor was alone again with the books, the moonlight, and Orpheus' ugly dog.
-Inkdeath, page 5
Darius' hands shook as he put the pot on the burning stove. It rattled against the burner, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.
Stupid.
He was so, so stupid.
She'd been crying. She'd wanted comfort. She'd wanted him to give her the answers to her frantic questions. Perhaps she'd wanted him to hold her, to—no. That was stupid.
But she'd been crying. And what had he said?
"I'll make you some hot milk and honey."
Stupid.
The blast of cold air from the refrigerator fogged up his glasses. He didn't bother to wipe them off, but instead groped blindly for the milk carton, praying that he wouldn't goof up and knock something over. His prayers were answered, and the milk emerged from the fridge unspilled, and nothing else clattered to the floor.
He poured the milk into the pot, and put it back in the fridge. While he waited for the milk to heat up, he sat heavily on the counter, jumping up slightly to reach the surface. He was just short enough that his feet dangled. He stared at his bare feet, berating himself for his stupidity and his cowardice.
Why hadn't he just told her some lie? What hadn't he just said 'Don't worry. I'm sure they're all okay.'?
He hadn't because he couldn't lie to her. Not that she wouldn't fall for it—Elinor was bright, but she didn't believe Darius capable of lying, which had gotten him out of a couple scrapes unscathed, where normally he would have been crushed to a pulp by her wrath. No, he couldn't lie to her because he loved her.
Elinor curled up in the armchair, wiping at her eyes. The tears—the blasted, accursed tears—kept falling, but she found that now it wasn't completely for her absent family members.
Why had she asked so many unanswerable questions? Why hadn't she just asked him to hold her? To comfort her? Why had she chased him off with her selfish fears?
As soon as Darius had slipped away, leaving the door slightly ajar, she had regretted her questions. She had wanted to call him back and ask him to hold her and comfort her. That was what she wanted.
That's crazy, Elinor, she told herself. Crazy. He's what—20, 25?—years younger than you. For goodness' sakes, he's just old enough to be Meggie's father. You're the girl's great-aunt. Crazy.
But it didn't stop her from wishing that he'd stayed and wrapped his arms around her. It didn't stop her from wishing that he'd even said her name once more.
But no. She'd chased him off with her angry words.
"What is it?"
Not, 'Oh, Darius, I feel so lonely. So scared for them.' (Goodness, she sounded like a heroine from a cheesy movie). No, she had snapped at him, insulted him, and wallowed in self-pity.
The dog whined, sensing her unhappiness.
"Oh, Darius. I'm such a grumpy old woman. How do you put up with me?"
She wanted more than anything in the world—more than getting to see her family—that it was because he loved her.