Olivia is beautiful, Nostradamus thinks. Really. Her shining blonde hair is long and wavy. Her blue eyes are wide and filled with light. Her body is well shaped, her breasts large and plump. She's beautiful.
But he doesn't love her.
These are the things Nostradamus knows.
But he should. Shouldn't he? She is obviously interested, very obviously interested. She trusts him. She admires him. Adores him, even.
But Nostradamus doesn't return the favor.
It's wrong that, with such a beautiful woman available and openly presenting herself to him, he should feel this way. It's wrong that he can't appreciate the gentle roundness of her breasts, wrong that he isn't attracted to the feminine curves of her body. It's wrong that he's never once imagined her naked, wrong that he doesn't desire to. Isn't it?
Yes.
But he tries.
Oh, he tries. Because he should desire her. He should be attracted to her. These are the things Nostradamus knows. These are the rules, the accepted laws of the world. He should like the way her dresses fit on her, should prefer the lower cut styles, should notice when she does something different with her hair. But he doesn't.
These are the things Nostradamus knows.
He should find it easy to compliment her, should find it easy to be around her. But he can't. These are the things Nostradamus knows.
He knows that a weathered face with a few days worth of dark brown stubble gets him excited. He knows that seeing clear green eyes beneath two dark, furrowed eyebrows makes him feel more than seeing two big blue eyes beneath two slim, blonde eyebrows. These are the things Nostradamus knows.
He knows that he pictures a body muscular with the training of weapons and war and man writhing beneath him as he tries to love Olivia. He knows that he watches when the soldiers are practicing swordplay and knows who he specifically watches, wishing to catch his eye and dreading it all the same.
Because he shouldn't want that. He knows. He shouldn't want to feel rough, chapped lips against his own, shouldn't want to feel a hard, flat, hairy chest beneath his palms. He shouldn't be imagining a man's glistening, sweat-soaked body, shouldn't be imagining dark, shaggy hair. He shouldn't be imagining the sting of trimmed beard scratching his cheek. He shouldn't be imagining the heavy weight of a cock in his hand, shouldn't be imagining such things of the man with the striking green eyes.
He should be fantasizing about Olivia. He should be imagining the warm weight of her breasts in his hands. He should be happy with her adoring looks, should find it easy to return them.
But he doesn't.
These are the things Nostradamus knows.
He's breaking the rules. He knows. He's betraying everything a man should be. He knows. Or is he? Is it so wrong?
It is. Because it's against the rules.
"What's wrong, my love? You look troubled."
Olivia.
Should he tell her not to call him that? Will it make her words easier to hear, make it easier to lie about lying to himself?
No.
And so, "Nothing, my love."
"You are so devoted to your work," Olivia says, taking his cheek in her hand. She's staring at him deeply, lovingly, and he can't even meet her eyes. He wishes they were green, not blue. But then, he wishes she wasn't Olivia. "I hope, one day, you will be as devoted to me."
Is it wrong to allow her to think what she does? To let her continue in her fantasy? Or is it simply kind? Perhaps it is kind. Perhaps it is a gentle stifling of knowledge no one wishes to have. Yes. After all, it is only one more lie to add to the pile.
Maybe two more. "That day is this day, my love."
She runs a hand through his hair, and Nostradamus almost shudders because he can see a different person standing over him and caressing his hair. And it isn't who he wants to see. (Or is it? He certainly desires to see him, the master of green eyes and profound looks). But Olivia doesn't notice, judging by her wide smile. "I know."
But she doesn't. She doesn't truly know. If she knew, she would be hurt and mortified and disgusted. She doesn't know. And as she turns and walks away from him, Nostradamus watches and knows that he should find her swinging ass attractive.
But he doesn't.
These are the things Nostradamus knows.
He bends back down over the parchment he'd been writing poultice ingredients on and tries to keep his mind focused on tansy and mint leaf.
But he can't.
All he can see is the man of crinkled smiles, of twinkling green eyes, eyes that tease and wink at him and drive him to insane distraction. All he can see is that lean body swinging a sword with a chilling sort of finesse, of a tall, leggy man with witty charm that has never once been directed toward Nostradamus.
His quill falls to the table. He shouldn't be thinking about how men sit their horses, especially shouldn't be thinking about how he sits his horse. (He sits a horse well, with an assured, infallible air that Nostradamus admires and—if he burrows deep enough into his pile of lies—desires).
He shouldn't be thinking about thick, strong arms. He shouldn't be thinking about sinewy, hairy legs. He should be thinking of soft arms, white arms, a woman's arms. He should be thinking of plump, curving legs. Delicate and gentle. He should be thinking of these things. He should not be thinking of the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, should not be thinking of his worried brows, the creases in his face, should not be thinking of him at all. He should be thinking of Olivia.
But he doesn't and he can't.
All he can think about (besides him, him and his damned green eyes and perfectly messy hair) is that he's breaking the rules. Every rule. Man shall not lay with man. Or even think about lying with man. This he knows. This he understands. This he sees.
But, somehow, for whatever reason (deep inside a place heaped with lies, Nostradamus knows the reason. It is because of him), he can't abide by it. Because of one little thing, one little man, one complication that ended up complicating everything. This he knows.
Try as he might, Nostradamus is not in love with Olivia. Nostradamus is in love with Bash. And this is against the rules, the unspoken laws that every other man seems to grasp with ease. These are the things Nostradamus knows.
But Nostradamus has never played by the rules.
I sort of promised myself that I would never write a canon!verse Bastradamus fic, but I couldn't resist. It's not even truly Bastradamus (that's what modern AUs are for), but this is how I always imagined Nosty felt towards Olivia/and or any woman who wanted anything more than occasional friendship.
Bastradamus 5evr. I ship it so hard. Oh, God.