A/N: This one-shot is fifth in the New Orleans AU series, Need in the City That Care Forgot, and covers the same time frame as The Irresistible Seduction of the Light, starting from the moment Jaqen and Arya speed toward the French Quarter on his motorcycle (which actually happens at the end of the first three one-shots). As usual, I have a few German phrases scattered in the story, and as usual, as a person who only speaks English with any degree of mastery, I have relied on various online translating tools to inform me. If you see any glaring errors, please feel free to shoot me a message or point them out in the reviews so I can amend them!
Also, be warned that though I do feel this is still a teen-appropriate story, there is a smattering of potty-mouth language which occurs. But, as my own kids tell me, they hear worse on the school bus.
Because the action in this section of the story takes place over a couple of hours, this POV follows the preceding one much more closely than the first three one-shots followed each other. I hope you do not find it too redundant. I did try to expand and add tidbits here and there to give this part enough of its own identity to stand apart. Still, this story will likely make more sense to people who have read the four parts that come before it.
There is a Pinterest board for this story. If you like the visuals, check it out!
I do hope you enjoy this installment. Happy reading!
For all of the light that I shut out…
They flew through the streets of New Orleans on Jaqen's motorcycle, helmeted, thrilled, Arya's arms wound around Jaqen's middle. The slender fingers of her left hand wrapped tightly around her right wrist, locking her in place. The rumble of the Indian's motor burrowed beneath their skin, chasing through their bones until it became part of them, like a heartbeat; like a pulse; like nerves firing in succession, signaling sensations, one atop another, so rapidly their brains barely had time to unravel the meaning of one before the next came.
Excitement.
Ecstasy.
Danger.
Desire.
"Come over here, Arya Stark."
Jaqen maneuvered the bike in and out of the bright spots thrown onto the roadway by the streetlamps overhead. They passed through light and shadow again and again, so fast that it gave him the impression of an old movie, flickering on the screen of a darkened theater. He remembered seeing such films as a young boy, special treats shown to school children in an auditorium, on the last day of the term before a holiday or as some reward for a classroom achievement. The stories were rendered in black and white, printed on strips of celluloid and wound around great reels which would endlessly spin on a projector's spindle. Even then, the films were outdated, but the themes were simple, things children understood innately.
Good and Evil.
Right and wrong.
Black and White.
As the side of Arya's borrowed helmet pressed into Jaqen's back, he wondered vaguely who he would be, if this really were one of those old movies. Was he the savior or the seducer? Saint or sinner?
Hero or villain?
Sei nicht dumm, he thought, his brow creasing. Du weißt, was du bist.
And he was no longer a child to pretend otherwise.
A familiar feeling rose in his chest, hard and sharp; an emptiness he could never quite fill, no matter how long or how hard he tried.
No matter how much he wished for it to be otherwise.
He felt Arya shift then, and saw her unclasp her fingers to point overhead. He turned his gaze upward for a moment, long enough to see what she was trying to show him. The moon, full and bright, shone in the sky, suddenly visible through a break in the clouds. He smiled slightly behind his tinted visor, thinking that this was always the way with them.
When his thoughts were dark, it would be this lovely girl who reminded him there was still light in the world.
Lovely, yes. But a girl no longer, he mused, remembering the gift he had carefully chosen to mark her eighteenth birthday.
A girl no longer, but a woman grown.
He ruminated over the idea, intrigued by it, but also troubled in no small measure. Jaqen accelerated, zipping around a sedan that was slowing for a yellow light. Arya's arms around his waist tightened slightly as they sped through the intersection, leaving it rapidly shrinking behind them. He had a small pinch of regret at that, at the thought he had scared her, but he did not slow. Still, try as he might, the German could not outrun Erich's words.
"I will need for you to encourage her relationship with Baratheon's son."
Jaqen's mouth pressed into a hard line.
"Jaqen, I need for this to be done," Erich had said, brushing aside his operative's concerns. The Colonel always expected to be obeyed, in all things. He surely did not expect Jaqen's protest to amount to much. Not in the end. "See to it."
"Es ist nicht vertretbar," Jaqen had insisted at the time. It is not defensible.
"That is not for you to say, my boy."
He had never openly defied Erich. They had had their disagreements, of course, and Jaqen was never hesitant to voice his opinion to the Colonel when he felt the situation demanded it, but in the end, decisions were the call of the shadowy individuals who made up the Conclave, and they had chosen to put Erich Weber at their head. In essence, Erich's word was final. Under the Colonel's direction, Jaqen had always done his duty, and was paid well to do it. But even more than the money, the German did what he did to fulfill his purpose. In his missions, Jaqen had found his usefulness.
For above all things, a man must be of some use in this world.
His frown was invisible behind the visor of his helmet as they came to Lee Circle. The traffic was light, late as it was, and so he hit the accelerator once again and they sped into the circle, Jaqen leaning the motorcycle over further than was strictly necessary to make the turn. They shot around the tall pedestal upon which a Confederate general stood and surveyed the city as it spread out beneath his great, bronze feet.
The German loved the battle between centrifugal force and gravity, the nearly tangible push and pull of physical forces, between which he was trapped. It gave him the feeling of skittering just at the edge of control, where one push, one slip, one small miscalculation could result in disaster. Physics, and his own skill, kept the bike from tipping too far over, falling to the ground and sliding off the road, dragging the riders with it, but the possibility… And the way he wrestled against such possibility… It excited him in a way that few things did anymore.
He supposed that was why he still rode, even when he had given up every other bad habit in which he had once indulged.
Jaqen was not sure if Arya shared his excitement or if the way she pressed her fingers into his belly was more an indication of terror, so he slowed a bit as they pulled out of the circle and approached Lafayette Square. Even at the reduced speed, they were soon in the French Quarter, parking the Indian in a pay lot at the edge of Jax Brewery.
"I did not mean to frighten you," Jaqen said as they walked side by side. He looked down at Arya, her face illuminated by the bright display windows of the closed shops which now occupied the refurbished brewery building. The merchandise being presented hinted at summer, and seemed to suggest that wealth and taste might help keep a customer cool and beautiful in the city's oppressive heat. Linen dresses draped just so on pearly gray, futuristic appearing mannequins. The clothing was complemented by expensive handbags, some leather, some embroidered and embellished and hand-painted. There were designer shoes arranged beneath brilliant, angled spotlights. The girl took no notice. Trends were not really an Arya sort of thing.
"At Lee Circle," he clarified when she did not answer.
"You didn't," was her simple reply.
"Hmm."
They were silent for the next block and a half until they came to Café du Monde. Jaqen indicated that she should choose where to sit. The patio was nearly empty and Arya meandered around several of the small tables until she found one that suited her and dropped into a waiting chair. Her companion followed suit, seating himself opposite her after he slung his jacket across the seat of the empty chair to his right. The cool of his chair's emerald vinyl cushion pressed into his back through his t-shirt as he reclined.
As with many of the city's residents, Jaqen had been here several times; had likely even sat at this very table. The ever-present moist warmth of the French Quarter in mid-May embraced him like a mother's arms, familiar, and somehow reassuring, yet as he gazed across the table at his companion, it was almost as if he had never been here before this very moment. The feeling was disconcerting.
He glanced over toward Jackson Square and the view centered him. Wrought iron lamp posts stood at attention at the park gates and along its tall, black fence, their bulbs burning steadily, sparing the manicured space enclosed within from the deepest of the night's shadows. On the far side, the regal façade of St. Louis Cathedral rose up from the street and stared back at him.
A waiter, his head crowned by a jaunty paper cap printed with the words Café du Monde in the same green as the vinyl of the café's chairs, came to take their order. He was an older gentleman, face creased and crinkled by many thousands of smiles and a life lived. His uniform, white shirt with black bowtie and slacks, was somehow still pristine beneath the apron he wore tied low at the hip, despite the humidity.
Native, Jaqen decided, because he had become convinced that only those born and raised here could move through the unrelenting thickness of the New Orleans summer air without immediately looking wilted and drained. Some inherited trait, he thought, passed down through the creole bloodlines.
"Evenin', y'all," he greeted, the good implied by his toothy smile. "What can I get you fine folks tonight?"
"I'll have a glass of water," Arya said when the waiter looked in her direction, "and an order of beignets."
"Okay, and you sir?" the waiter continued, turning his head toward Jaqen.
"Coffee," the German replied. "Black."
"No beignets?" The waiter raised his eyebrows.
"None for me, thank you."
The man set his face in the perfect expression of surprised skepticism then leaned down toward Arya, telling her in a loud whisper that was comically paternal, "Don't let him be stealing yours when they come, young lady, and if he tries, you remind him that he said he didn't want any when he had the chance." He winked at Jaqen then, as if this were all some joke the three of them had shared before.
The girl laughed lightly and assured the waiter she would protect her beignets, which force if need be, and he nodded at her approvingly, patting her shoulder in the manner of a doting grandfather. Jaqen's mouth quirked up into a half-smile at the scene and the waiter left the pair to their own devices as he filled their order.
And that was the way it was in New Orleans. The overly familiar manner of complete strangers was somehow not offensive or off-putting, perhaps because it was altogether genuine, with a warmth that seemed to melt away even the sternest disapproval. It signaled acceptance, fully, and without judgement. There was a very real familial feel that bound the people inextricably together, enough so that they did all seem somehow related by blood, even if they hadn't pinpointed exactly how. Jaqen thought perhaps this peculiarity arose after generations of locking arms and standing against hurricanes, and floods, and on occasion, the judgment and derision of the world. The populace had been steeped in shared adversity for so long, and had risen above it so often, that just to be from here was its own sort of secret handshake. And if ever you weren't sure if you were congressing with a native, all you had to do was speak with him for a minute or so.
Natives axed instead of asked, and they would go by your house rather than to it. They understood where the neutral ground was found and what you meant if you said you had a little lagniappe for them. They placed their dishes in zinks. They drank hard at wakes and funerals, to be outdone only by the officiating priest. Here, festivals and parades were as commonplace as Wednesdays elsewhere, yet were still enjoyed and celebrated with the same vigor and delight a child shows on Christmas morning when he first glimpses what Santa has brought him.
New Orleanians always outed themselves, whether they meant to or not.
(Usually, they meant to, such was their pride in their city.)
"You did not come home," Jaqen began, breaking the silence between them. "For Christmas, I mean."
"No," Arya agreed. "I was fencing in a tournament, in Paris. I suppose my mother told you?"
"Yes. She is very proud of you."
"Hmm." It was a neutral sort of response, and she made it while looking down at her hands. She fished her phone out of her pocket and placed it on the table, face up. "Did she invite you over? For Christmas dinner?"
The German shook his head. "I was out of town myself during that time. For work."
"Oh? Where'd you go?" She placed her hands on the edge of the table then and studied her fingernails. They were short, neat, and unpainted.
"I was in Berlin mostly, where the office is headquartered," he told her, and paused for a moment before adding, "after a short stop in Paris."
The girl's eyes flicked up from the table then, looking at Jaqen for a few seconds. A question danced on her lips, but instead of asking it, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed it gently, her gaze drifting out across Decatur Street and to the square. Perhaps she was settled by the view as well, the silhouette of Andrew Jackson's equestrian statue serving as some sort of touchstone to remind them both where they were.
Their waiter returned then, tray balanced on one palm.
"Here you are, young lady," the man said, placing a sweating water glass on the table before her, followed immediately by a dish containing three French donuts, covered by a mound of powdered sugar. "Now, you remember what I said. Don't let him steal your beignets." He placed Jaqen's coffee on the table then and said he would be back to check on them later, just in case they needed refills.
"You're really gonna drink it like that?" the girl asked her neighbor before she took a bite of her fried dough. He pursed his lips and glared at her, letting it be known what he thought of her judgment. His expression made her laugh, causing a small cloud of confectioners' sugar to go flying from the donut poised at her mouth, spreading out in the air between them before it disappeared, carried away by the breeze off the river. "Don't make me laugh, or else you'll have a powdered wig by the time I'm done!"
"I cannot help that you are amused by my consternation, sweet girl," the man said. "And that a man should pay the consequences for it seems outrageously unfair."
At his a man, Arya's lips twitched but she managed to rule her face and keep her smile from appearing. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Jaqen sipping his coffee with chicory and Arya eating her beignets without dusting her neighbor too much. As the girl finished her last bite, the screen of her phone lit up, gently buzzing against the table top. Both of their gazes were reflexively drawn to the offending object and Jaqen read the bit of text that had popped onscreen.
E.D.—Home yet, sweetling?
He raised an eyebrow, asking the girl who Ed was. Arya's eyes left the phone and found Jaqen's. She seemed reluctant to discuss it.
"And what's a sweetling?" he queried, before teasing her about it being some sort of pastry.
He knew very well it was a ridiculous term of endearment.
What he really wanted to know was who it was that was using such a term. Sweetling. It certainly wasn't the Baratheon boy. He was more prone to refer to her as Baby Stark; Jaqen had certainly seen enough transcripts to be sure. Besides, the Conclave had put all the Baratheon communications under surveillance and the boy was listed under "G" in Arya's contacts.
The girl seemed a little flustered by the question, he thought. She insisted it was merely an annoying nickname, but added, "It's not Ed, it's E.D."
The German thought for a moment, flipping through the Arya facts he kept in his head, and then smiled. E.D. He seized upon it. Edric Dayne, off at Notre Dame now, far and away from Arya's little mountaintop college.
"Oh, yes, a girl's high school lover, the Dayne boy."
If she was a little flustered before, her discomfort was now ten-fold greater. She sputtered a little, encouraging Jaqen to tease her further.
"Yes, I remember this now. The boy gave you flowers and convinced you to wear a gown and those…" He searched for a word to describe the heels she so rarely wore, but failing to identify it, reverted to his mother tongue. "Those… schicke Schuhe… Stöckelschuhe."
"What?" There was laughter in her voice.
He went on to talk about her high heels, glancing down at her mouth as she bit her lip once again. The quirk was so very Arya.
The girl frowned at her companion. "He didn't give me flowers," she insisted as heat began to creep up her neck and into her cheeks. In a matter of seconds, Arya's pretty white skin was flushed, her cheeks pink. Jaqen imagined that if he reached out and placed his palm against her face, the heat of her skin would warm his hand. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw as she turned away, embarrassed. He had missed that blush. He told her so.
"Ich habe dein hübsches Rotwerden vermisst, süßes Mädchen." He leaned back in his seat then, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving her face. "Was a girl not wearing these flowers on her wrist? Dainty orchids? White?"
He recalled the details of that night perfectly. It was the night of Arya's homecoming dance, an American tradition revolving in some way around their beloved sport of football.
That such details were garnered from surveillance photos of her, one showing her descending the stairs of her home on Edric's arm, wearing the orchids and those schicke Schuhe, and another showing her getting out of Edric's car (with Edric holding her door open, all chivalry and good breeding) at her school where the dance was held, was of little matter. Catelyn Stark was as good a spy as any the Conclave had working for them, unwitting though she was. For every black and white photo he had tucked away in a folder with the date of the homecoming dance penned neatly on its tab, Arya's mother had shown him ten more, in full color. She happened to be working on a scrapbook the same afternoon he'd returned some of the Stark's misdelivered mail.
"I almost did not recognize her," Jaqen had quipped to Catelyn. A lie, of course, as he had already studied the photos from his own source, finding no angle to exploit or information of interest to the Conclave in them—though just to be sure, he'd studied them again, a bit closer, and then a third time, before filing them away.
"I know," Mrs. Stark lamented. "She's so beautiful when she makes an effort. I don't know why she insists on being such a tomboy!"
She's so beautiful regardless, Jaqen had thought, but did not say, of course. He merely smiled, the picture of agreement and appreciation for what Catelyn must suffer at the hands of her most willful child.
"It was a corsage! Do you not have corsages in Berlin?" The girl's disdainful reply pulled Jaqen back from his reverie.
"Yes, lovely girl, we have them," he said, but then mischievously added, "but we also understand that they are flowers."
Arya huffed, her blush receding. He watched it fade, and as it did, that hard sharpness inside of him grew a little. He listened carefully to her as she tried to educate him on the rituals and traditions of the homecoming dance. Focusing on her words helped him ignore the way he was feeling. It was, after all, quite ridiculous to feel alone. He was not alone. He was here, sitting with Arya Stark, and had only to reach out across a small table to touch her and confirm she was there.
They bantered back and forth over Edric. She insisted the boy was merely a friend. Jaqen thought of a particular photo in a file folder, one of Edric with his arm around Arya's waist as he walked with her into that dance. He thought of another, captured at a fencing tournament where Edric sought out the girl, and finding her, leaned into her, touching shoulders as he whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Her head was tilted back, eyes crinkled, mouth open in unrestrained joy. The moments were frozen forever in shades of gray, printed on 8x10 photographic paper. He was unsure which truth was real: the one Arya purported now, or the one he saw in those pictures with his own eyes?
Was Edric Dayne merely a friend?
While Arya spoke of her friend, she waved her hand dismissively, gesticulating as if shooing away stray and unruly thoughts, like flies at a picnic. It was how he knew she was uncomfortable with the conversation. As a rule, the girl was still; stoic; unflinching. When she was pressed or pushed in a direction she did not wish to go, she became restive, moving her hands as she spoke, punctuating salient points with a finger or a whole hand (he wondered if she might be imagining an épée in her grasp, so that she might stab those whose conversation she found vexing). Arya Stark did not gesture, not when she was placid. It was not natural for her to do so. That was how he knew her still waters had been disturbed, a pebble dropped in the midst of her usually calm surface. He was now witnessing the ripples as they pushed ever outward.
He quoted Shakespeare then, Hamlet, the line about protesting too much. She seemed agitated by the teasing. He laughed, his own agitation more controlled, and studied her face as she turned her head toward the cathedral, dismissing him from her line of sight. As he watched her watching this small sliver of the city, (a sliver that was so representative, so iconic), he took his last swallow of coffee and spoke softly, all mirth now gone from his voice.
"You've been away a long while now," Jaqen said. 259 days. "A very long while. I am glad to see you again, Arya Stark."
The waiter approached, ready to offer refills on their drinks, but Jaqen waved him off before he drew too near. The German did not wish to be interrupted just then, not when he could see that something in his words or his voice seemed to soften Arya. She sighed, pulling her gaze from the distant square and turning back to face him. After a moment, the girl tried to offer an explanation for her prolonged absence from the city, muttering something about the difficulty of school and the demands of her fencing. Coach Forel was rather strict, she explained (her actual words were that the Italian fencing coach ran a "tight ship"). Her reasoning did not satisfy her companion.
"I think it was good for me," she finally said. "To be away, I mean. It helped me focus."
The need for focus hadn't been what kept the girl at Remmings, he knew, even if she did not. But rather, the Conclave had, through the guise of Syrio Forel and his… what has she called it? His tight ship. Helping her focus, indeed.
Focus.
The German closed his eyes briefly, scarcely more than two blinks, but in that small splinter of time, he was eighteen again, exactly Arya's age, shooting at a downrange target.
"His focus is exceptional, and that means as much to me as experience." Syrio spoke as if Jaqen weren't there, crouched low, creeping forward without making a sound, holding a rifle steady as he trained it on the next target.
"I understand your feeling, but we've never taken anyone this young out of the field," Erich reminded his colleague. "He's on track to be chosen for KSK. Let's see how he performs there, first."
"There is a precedent for carrying out the training ourselves."
"I'm not altogether convinced Galen is an appropriate measure of success."
"Two kills, Erich. Both clean, and not one word has surfaced about…"
"Yes, but discipline, my friend. You may value focus above all else, but I require discipline. Let's let the Kommando Spezialkräfte have a go at him first."
Syrio shrugged. "Let us hope they do not ruin him."
It was strange to hear the old Italian's words coming from the Stark girl's mouth. Not only that, but he had her convinced it was in her interest. I think it was good for me. It helped me focus.
"Oh? Focus was never something I thought you lacked." The remark sounded light, almost off-hand, but he wondered if it would make her think.
He had his answer almost immediately, though not in the way he anticipated. She reached for her glass, taking a moment to gather herself while she swallowed her water.
"Maybe you didn't notice so much," she replied, setting her glass down and staring into it as if the answers to life's mysteries could be found beneath the melting ice. "I imagine your attention was otherwise engaged, but my focus had definitely begun to wane at the end of my senior year."
It was an admission of sorts, and perhaps an invitation to revisit the past. Their past. Briefly, he considered changing the subject, but instead, he decided to follow her lead.
"Wane? Did it?" He thought back to that time. Arya's graduation; his gift to her; their confrontation in his kitchen over coffee… In all that time, she had not complained about her fencing, or her focus. "Or did it simply shift to something else?"
Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say.
Arya's head snapped up and she pinned Jaqen in place with her eyes. Leaning over the table, she unleashed on him, her voice low but with a quality of menace he'd never heard from her before. Again, Syrio's stamp on her was made evident.
"Are we playing semantics now, Jaqen?"
He wasn't sure if he was being mocked, and said nothing, waiting for her to make herself clear. Sighing, the girl looked away from him, a frown marring her face. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively.
"You know, of all the dances we do, this one is the most tedious." Her tone was a mix of frustration and irritability. He truly had not meant to bring her to this state, and he tried to tell her so in a conciliatory tone.
"I did not mean to upset you, lovely girl."
She looked at him, and her tone was unchanged. "Wane. Shift. Falter. Waver. Fade." She was gesturing again, ticking off the synonyms on the fingers of one hand, then waving the lot of them away. "Who cares? Ich war abgelenkt."
I was distracted.
Perhaps he was laying too much of the blame at Syrio's feet. Arya's demeanor suggested she had not required much manipulation in order to stay put, far away in the mountains of Virginia. Still, her use of German delighted him, even if their argument did not. He smiled and complimented her pronunciation.
"I think it benefits from your anger."
German was an excellent language for arguments, he had always thought.
Impudently, she rolled her eyes a him, insisting she wasn't angry.
It amazed him that a person with such singular intuition and insight into the feelings and motivations of others could be so blind to her own.
"Reizung, dann. You're irritated with me." He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to admit it. Instead, she inhaled sharply through her nose, then blew out the breath slowly. She seemed to still with it. When she next spoke, her tone was softer, and perhaps a little sheepish.
"No, I'm not. I'm… just trying to explain."
Jaqen bade her continue and she did, though he found no real revelations in her words.
"Last summer, my mind wasn't where it needed to be. Staying at school and training instead of coming back here got me on track."
She had run away, and Syrio had been only too happy to keep her away, even if it had been to her detriment. Her relationship with her mother, already strained, had suffered. She had spent every holiday with foils and sabers instead of family. Her, a Stark! That name was basically synonymous with dedication to family in this town. And her absence had done nothing to resolve the tension between herself and Jaqen. But then, her well-being wasn't the primary concern, was it? What did the Conclave care for Arya Stark, except as an asset for exploitation?
Back on track, indeed. But whose track? She thought it hers, of course. He knew otherwise. It was Syrio's job to keep a close watch on the girl. That was certainly much easier to do within the confines of Remmings. The Conclave probably even had her dorm room wired.
Probably? He almost laughed out loud then. Erich and the others would leave nothing to chance. There was no probably.
And that track she seemed so enamored with was meant to lead her straight into the Baratheon boy's arms; straight into his bed. And Jaqen himself was meant to encourage that outcome.
All this, he kept to himself, merely nodding as she spoke, almost mechanically. Something in his gesture bothered the girl. She recognized in it his insincerity, he could see it in her face. It pleased him a little, this perception of hers. He admired such traits in others; such traits as he prized in himself; as the Conclave prized in him.
Intuition.
Instinct.
Discernment.
They were invaluable in the field.
"What?" she questioned, a bite to her voice.
Arya Stark just looked at a man, and she knew.
She glared at him. He smiled, placating, and tried to say something soothing; something that would quell her ire.
"It's just that a girl loves her home. It's in her blood. Staying away must have been difficult." Usually, she was charmed by his use of a girl when referring to her. He was pandering, he knew, but he was… well, if not quite desperate, then at least impatient to resolve their small dispute.
He craved her smile just then.
She did not take his bait and her brow remained creased.
"The longer I was away, the less difficult it became."
He recognized her sadness. It echoed his own, though he thought the source of hers was very different. She was young, after all, and had not yet been too much scarred by this world.
"To be so long away from home…" His voice was quiet, and full of sympathy. "I think it cost you." Perhaps in ways she hadn't even recognized yet. He found his words were not having their intended effect upon the girl.
"Did it?" was her clipped response.
Jaqen did not understand why she was being so difficult. He lifted his one arm, his palm upturned, and indicated their surroundings; the café, Jackson Square, St. Louis Cathedral, and the whole of the city beyond, reminding Arya that she loved this place, as much as he did.
More, even.
It lived in her, under her skin, in her veins. Had they not discussed it before? Had they not both looked adoringly through the window of a streetcar and confessed that very thing to each other one perfect October afternoon? That they had a love of this city in common? Had they not both admitted that they would want it no other way?
She argued her love of fencing was as strong as her love of home.
He understood that. Of course he did! Hadn't he watched her come in late from practice, time and time again? Other girls her age were texting their boyfriends with perfect selfies, angled just so, hair flawless, makeup flawless, while she, still wearing her fencing whites, her mask perched atop her head, had no care for the mess it was making of her hair! Hadn't he seen her hold her foil on her small balcony, directly across from his bedroom window, practicing stance after stance, thrust after thrust? Hadn't he travelled to Paris when he ought to have gone straight on to Berlin, and watched her dance and fly and triumph while he looked on from the crowd, anonymous, but elated for her?
But was that any reason to avoid home for so long?
To avoid him for so long?
He shook the errant thought away.
Arya loved fencing, yes. She loved New Orleans also. Jaqen did not understand why she felt she must choose between them. He thought perhaps she herself did not understand it. He prodded her with a question.
"Must one trade away one love for another?" All traces of mischief were gone from his face and his voice now. He gazed at her, his look becoming wistful. The girl began shaking her head slightly as she studied his posture, his expression. He doubted she was even aware she was doing it. He could see her thinking, turning over some problem in her head, her eyes flicking from his face, to the table, to a couple seated in the corner, then back to his face once again, all the while, slowly shaking her head. When she finally spoke, the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice, her very words...
They pierced his heart.
"Sometimes," she replied, so softly, her words were scarcely more than a whisper. "It seems that sometimes, one must."
Jaqen left a pile of cash on the table, payment for their bill and a large tip for waiter who had doted on Arya, then asked if she would like to go home.
"Not yet."
She was still thinking, mulling something, trying to decide a course of action. He could practically feel it emanating off her skin.
Confusion.
Struggle.
Jaqen knew she wanted to say something to him, but she hadn't yet worked out the what or the how of it. He decided he would give her the time she needed and escorted her across the street, the two of them strolling side by side up St. Peter, moving towards Bourbon Street as though through some unconscious, mutual assent.
The German made casual conversation, the type no one could find offensive, or taxing, asking after her family, her studies, how she got along with her fencing coach…
He was most curious about that.
Arya answered each inquiry with evident distraction, her eyes focused on their path ahead, never on him. After a block or so, it wore on the man. He nearly snatched her arm, forcing her to stop and look at him, demanding to know what she was thinking. But he held himself in check, hooking him thumbs in the pockets of his jeans to keep his hands from moving of their own accord. He could be patient. It was usually one of his strongest attributes. He did not know why he found it so straining now.
After a few more minutes of Jaqen asking Arya things like how she liked the weather in Virginia, and if she had made any close friends, and Arya answering absently with one and two-word responses (Fine and Not really), they approached Pat O'Brien's, a bar which had become an institution in the French Quarter decades before either of them had even been born.
"We should check out the piano bar," the girl suggested, finally looking at her companion's face. He nodded, and just that quickly, she had looked away.
Arya had not brought him here to talk, he realized as they sat down. The pounding piano and the boisterous singing and laughing of patrons would've made that a daunting task unless they wished to shout all night or sidle so near to each other that they touched, lips practically kissing ears in order to be heard.
Jaqen imagined it then, kissing this lovely girl's ear (or more precisely, kissing that spot just below her ear, where her white neck met the angle of her jaw) but he dismissed the idea just as quickly. He wasn't usually one to be so distracted by such carnal desires. He must be tired…
The waitress came to take their order. She turned her attention to Arya first.
"What can I get ya, hon?"
"Mint julep," Arya replied. The perfect marriage of summer and New Orleans, in cocktail form. Jaqen raised his eyebrows but said nothing. The girl caught the look. "What? You said no caffeine…" She lowered her head slightly, looking up at him through her lashes, all sweetness and innocence. He gave her a disapproving look, imagining the trouble he'd have to sort out if he brought her home drunk and ran into her parents or one of her brothers (or that friend who always seemed to skulk about, the Baratheon fellow), but let it pass.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" the waitress asked, turning her attention to Jaqen.
"Blackened Voodoo?"
"Sure, hon, we carry Dixie, but it's not on tap. Longnecks only. You want it in a frosted glass?"
He said he did and the waitress left to get their drinks. While they waited, Arya shifted her chair a little, turning so she could better watch the performance. An animated pianist played and sang at one of two baby grand pianos on the stage. The crowd was raucous, fueled by Hurricanes and beer, and more than a few of them looked closer to Arya's age than to Jaqen's. It was then he recalled Tulane was graduating its seniors in the morning. Bourbon Street was sure to be packed with the soon-to-be college graduates and their friends.
He, too, had a graduation around that age, but it had been of a different sort.
The German watched his companion watching the pianist, smiling at the way her fingers tapped along the edge of the table as if she were playing along. He played a little himself, but had not really done much to develop the talent (he had been consumed by other things at the age when music lessons would have been the most beneficial for him). He had not realized that Arya played at all, but watching her fingers, he realized she must, or at least, she had at one time. Considering how much he knew of her, and of her family, it surprised him that the fact had escaped his notice, inconsequential as it was.
Jaqen was a man who understood the importance of attention to detail.
Their drinks arrived and Arya shifted her chair back so that she was facing Jaqen. She glanced down at his tall glass, dark beer filling three quarters of it, but the top quarter occupied by a thick, tan foam.
"Can I taste that?" she asked, smirking.
He shrugged slightly, pushing the glass across the table toward her. She picked it up and sniffed, and the sight of it made him grin. Hesitantly, she lifted the beer and took a sip. She made a face almost instantly, swallowing with effort, and shoved the drink back toward Jaqen.
"Ugh! So bitter," the girl complained and Jaqen realized Arya really knew nothing about beer. To him, the taste was almost sweet, like a smoky caramel. But he could see how someone who did not drink much beer could find it unpleasant to the palate. This was a girl who admitted she would only drink coffee which was half milk and had a tablespoon of sugar mixed in, after all. He laughed, shaking his head at her as he lifted his glass and took a deep draft of his drink.
"What is it with you and dark, bitter flavors? Black coffee with chicory, bitter beer..." She swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand as if that would somehow wipe the taste of his lager from her tongue. "You probably eat that dark chocolate that's like eighty percent cocoa, don't you?"
Of all the things she with which she might accuse him, his consumption of dark chocolate was what she found most objectionable?
"Eighty-five, and yes. I love dark chocolate."
Her expression revealed exactly what she thought of his choices. "But, why?"
Jaqen leaned over the table, drawing near to her so that he might be heard without having to shout. "A man has become accustomed to the dark and bitter things."
Let her make of that what she would.
She considered his words as she took a sip of her own drink, then another. Bourbon, watered down by simple syrup, crushed ice, and mint. She looked at him and her expression was almost disbelieving.
"You don't like something sweet every now and again?"
He shrugged. "I leave what is sweet and light for others."
Sweet and light. He suppressed a sigh and looked at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. Arya studied him intently as she took another swallow of the mint julep. Setting the drink down, she leaned in even closer to him and spoke in low tones. The scent of the bourbon and mint off her tongue lingered in his nostrils.
"If you want something different, Herr H'ghar, you should probably just try it. There's no harm in that. If you don't like it, you can always go back to your dark, bitter things."
Dark and bitter. She believed she understood dark and bitter. But as with the beer, it was only her inexperience that led her to think so.
It was that same inexperience that led her to tempt him; to exhort him to try something sweet and light, as if all that was sweet and light to him in this world wasn't leaning over that table just then, whispering hotly in his ear.
If you want something different, you should probably just try it.
"Perhaps," he mused, letting his mind wander for just a moment. "Perhaps." His eyes softened and his gaze moved past Arya's shoulder, looking at the bar on the far end of the room, but not really seeing it. Instead, he imagined that she understood what it was that she was saying; what she was offering. And he imagined that he had no reason to refuse her; that there was no contradictory order from Erich. What would that be like?
Excitement.
Ecstasy.
Desire
Danger.
He could not be so irresponsible. Or so selfish.
He blinked twice, the image of Arya in his arms dissolving in a moment, then quick as a snake, he swiped her glass from her hands. She jumped back, startled by his sudden move and said nothing while he took a long swallow of her drink. His mouth curled into a delighted grin and he laughed, "You said I should just try it!"
She pursed her lips but accepted the cocktail back without a word.
Jaqen finished his beer and refused the waitress' offer to fetch him another. He paid the bill while Arya finished up her drink, sipping between choruses of Piano Man, a song which understandably appealed to the crowd and had them all singing along. All but him. He laughed while she sang, feeling lighter as the tension between them melted away, apparently masked by a sweet, bourbon haze.
The girl stumbled slightly as they rose to leave, and so Jaqen took her arm, wrapping his fingers firmly around her bicep, and guided her out of the bar and back into the street without incident. They headed the half block up to Bourbon and slipped seamlessly into the throng there, moving alongside the street amongst drunken revelers, tourists, and locals, all weaving around one another as if part of a large troupe of dancers engaged in the same choreographed routine.
Arya's steps were slower, lazier than before they had entered the bar. Her companion suspected that was the bourbon. Her cheeks were once again pink, but this time, not with embarrassment, but with the warmth afforded her by the alcohol.
Ich habe dein hübsches Rotwerden vermisst, süßes Mädchen.
"My toes are numb," Jaqen thought he heard her say, but when he gave her a quizzical look and bent his head closer to her so that he might be sure, she did not repeat herself.
Young men, the soon-to-be the alumni of Tulane University if their green t-shirts and silly tasseled caps were any indication, roamed in identical groups, hair swooping across their foreheads, khaki shorts slung low, go-cups clutched firmly in one hand, cigars in the other. Most were harmless. Some turned to watch Arya as she walked by and made relatively inoffensive comments which she ignored.
"Hey, baby!"
"Can I get your number, beautiful?"
One or two of the most inebriated offered more explicit descriptions of what they'd like beyond just her number. Jaqen tensed and turned to address the offenders but before he could, Arya pushed past him, taking matters into her own hands. She marched off the sidewalk and into the street, drawing right up to the culprits, so close they could embrace. There, she spat her response in a disgusted tone.
"I might consider it if you weren't such pathetic frat fucks who can't hold your liquor," she said, natural bravado intensified by her own consumption of liquor. "But since you are, fuck off!" The less affected of the group apologized for their friends and pulled them away. Arya responded by flipping them off, causing the group to roar with laughter. Jaqen grabbed her, dragging her back to the sidewalk, his mood soured.
"Eines Tages wird Ihre Impulsivität Sie in Schwierigkeiten bekommen," he muttered sternly.
"Are you scolding me in German?" she laughed.
"You should have let me handle that, Arya."
"I can hannel… han-null… handle myself!" she declared, placing her palm flat against his chest for emphasis.
"Clearly."
Arya responded with a petulant, "Hmph!" to her neighbor's sarcastic tone, but fell in step with him anyway, walking further down the street.
Halfway down the block, a party seemed to be taking place on the second floor of a bar, and it had spilled over onto one of the balconies overlooking the street. The guests called to the pedestrians below, some with propositions, some with friendly greetings, some with invitations to come up and join the party.
"Show your tits!" a small group of them cried, targeting various passers-by. On Bourbon Street, such an obscene command was almost akin to, "Have a nice day!" Still, Jaqen worried Arya's impulsivity might lead to another unpleasant episode, and so he stepped in, comically lifting his own shirt, exposing his chest and belly to the cheering party-goers.
"Oh, honey, you shouldn't be hiding all that under a shirt!" a too-blonde woman called down, her drawl thick with alcohol. She wore a plastic tiara atop her back-combed hair. "Take it off!"
A loud cheer rose up then from the balcony, punctuated by laughter and clapping.
"Hotel Monteleone, room fourteen-twelve!" her friend shouted, twirling the hot pink feather boa looped around her neck in a way she likely imagined was enticing. Even from the street, Jaqen could see the woman wore too much make up. "I'll leave the door unlocked!"
"Darlin', do you live in the gym? You deserve a prize for all that hard work," a third woman declared, raining Mardi Gras beads down on them. Addressing Arya, she continued, "Sweetie, you are one lucky girl!"
Jaqen released his shirt, letting it fall back in place, and caught one of the long strands of plastic pearls as Arya stepped closer to him. She was strangely quiet, and as he looked down at her, she visibly swallowed. Her neighbor thought she might have been made to feel uncomfortable by the suggestion that they were together-together. Her eyes were fastened on his side. She didn't say anything, so he casually dropped the necklace over her head and then slipped his hands around the back of her neck, gathering her hair and moving it so that it did not tangle in the beads. When he looked down at her to be sure she was properly adjusted, he saw that she was chewing her lip again.
What could be upsetting her now?
Deciding it would be best to start back toward Decatur and take Arya home before this adventure got out of hand, Jaqen urged her on past the bar (ignoring the disappointed protests of the crowd above who had invited them up to the party, suggesting a threesome might be in order) and led her towards St. Ann Street. Just before they reached the corner, a young man, one who Arya would certainly refer to as a frat fuck, lurched away from the wall where he'd been leaning and into their path. He fell to his knees on the sidewalk right in front of Arya and began to vomit into the gutter.
"Eww," she said, making a face. She had little chance to make further cogent observation because Jaqen hooked his arms around her waist and lifted her from her feet, swinging her around his front and depositing her against his other side, furthest from the street and the miserable man. He kept his arm around her, to be sure she had gained her feet and would not topple over, and whisked her around the corner, away from the distasteful scene.
Once he was certain Arya's step was steady on the ground, he released his grip on her middle but wove his fingers firmly through hers, holding her hand to be certain she stayed safely at his side. The girl looked down at their joined hands, and then up at him, seemingly surprised. He pretended not to notice and walked on.
"Thanks," she said, her voice sounding confused. She laughed then, but he wasn't sure what she found funny.
"Mmm," was all he said, pulling her along.
He heard a faint buzzing and saw Arya use her free hand to pluck her phone out of her pocket. The screen lit up and Jaqen saw more texts from E.D. The German rolled his eyes but made no comment. Arya missed her companion's reaction because she was concentrating on the bright screen, staring at the messages, moving the phone closer to her face, then further from it, then closer again. Finally, she put it away without responding.
The girl seemed to be slowing down, and so Jaqen did too, keeping pace with her. In his peripheral vision, he saw her head fall languidly back.
"Mahogany," she murmured.
Jaqen's brow creased.
"No, currant…" she continued.
The man turned to look at her, walking along, trusting him to guide her as she looked not at the path her feet followed, but at the sky.
"Or, russet… Sangria… Gingerbread…"
He believed that if he let her, she might go on this way for a long while.
"Are you speaking in some sort of code, lovely girl?"
She snorted. "Well, I'm not quite the expert on codes that you are, but I would think that nowadays, coding secrets this way would be considered… old fashioned?"
Her words were slurred a bit, but he understood her well enough.
"Don't you spy-types do everything electronically now? Ones and zeros and all sorts of unbreakable encryption?" she teased, but it was too on the nose for his taste. He tried to dismiss her.
"A girl has been reading too many Tom Clancy novels."
"A scurrilous lie!" she cried with impressive diction, considering. "I've only cracked open Shakespeare and the English classics in the past year!"
The German did not wish to discuss encryption, or codes, or anything relating to espionage with the girl, and so he did not respond, but merely grunted, pulling her hand closer to him and continuing down the street in the direction of the café. He had thought the matter settled, but after a minute, Arya blurted out the most alarming question.
"Where'd you get your scar?"
Which one? And how did she know about any of them?
"What scar?" he asked, his eyes never deviating from the path ahead.
"The scar on your side, over your kidney. Did you have surgery?"
He frowned, remembering that night many years ago where he and… a colleague… had been in Hong Kong and things had gone terribly wrong. Because of a stupid mistake. Not Jaqen's mistake, but he had been the one to pay the price for it. It had not quite been surgery, though he'd nearly lost the kidney.
"Good thing you have two," Galen had quipped. Jaqen had refused to work with him since.
The German thought for a moment, trying to understand how Arya could know about that scar. Then it hit him. Ah, he thought, realizing he must have exposed it when he lifted his shirt a few minutes ago. Was that why she had acted so strangely afterwards?
"A man has no scar," he lied, hoping the bourbon had affected her attention span as much as her speech and her mood.
It had been a miscalculation. He regretted it almost immediately.
"You liar!" the girl cried, stopping abruptly and pulling back on his hand, forcing him to stop as well. She disentangled her fingers from his. Jaqen turned to face her, cursing himself for not saying yes to surgery. It would have been such a simple lie, so easy to believe. Instead, he now had to convince her she had not seen what she had seen. Arya took a step closer to him, her expression definitely accusing.
"Why would a man lie about a scar?" He gave her a small smile, accompanied by a look, one he thought of as seductive. He hoped it worked, as he had no wish to discuss his injury, or how he'd gotten it, or Galen Abernathy at all (for how could he tell the story of the scar without bringing up Galen? And truth be told, it was the discomfiting image of Galen flashing through his mind immediately upon her mention of the scar which had distracted him momentarily, leading to the ill-advised denial of his scar in the first place).
Und verdammt ihn trotzdem! Even 5,000 miles away, the vexing Scot was still capable of making trouble for Jaqen. Verdammen Sie ihn zum Teufel!
"Ha!" There was no mirth in her response, only more accusation.
Jaqen chuckled, trying to play it off. "What?"
"I know what you're doing," she said, poking one finger into his chest. It hurt a little. "And you are a liar. Lift your shirt, I'll prove it."
No, he would not be lifting his shirt again. How had this night gone so terribly wrong? He had just wanted to spend some time with Arya after she had been so long away from home. What a foolish desire that had turned out to be.
"Sweet child, you've had too much to drink."
She'd only had one drink, but that did not change his sentiment.
"Don't patternize… patron…" He watched, amused, as she squeezed one eye shut. She seemed to be trying to force the word out. Finally, she succeeded. "Don't… patronize me!"
Jaqen stifled the urge to laugh fondly at her. She would certainly find that patronizing!
"Lift your shirt," she commanded, flicking her wrist so that her hand indicated in which direction his shirt should be moving. He was suddenly less prone to fond laughter.
"This is wholly inappropriate, Arya."
"Fine, then," she said, and as he watched, she took a half-step in his direction. The girl stretched her fingers toward the hem of his shirt. Instinctively, his hand snapped up, catching her wrist and holding it in place. She must not have expected him to resist her, for she gasped, and bit at her bottom lip, just a little.
His face took on a most serious expression. As he tended to do when responding reflexively, he spoke in German, whispering, "Was tust du?"
What are you doing?
They stared at one another, unmoving, and the look in Arya's eyes seemed to waver between bewilderment and alarm. Though he had meant to discourage her from her aim, Jaqen had no desire to make her fear him.
Though, perhaps she should.
Fear could be good; a gift, even. Knowing what to fear, and when, could be the difference between life and death (and had been for him on more than one occasion, he was quite sure). But, even so… He never wanted her to fear him. He wondered if that was selfish, and conceded that maybe it was.
But he didn't care.
The thumb he had wrapped firmly around her wrist began to move, stroking the sensitive skin over her pulse point. Her caution seemed to drain from her then, and she released her lip from the vise of her teeth. In her eyes, bewilderment was replaced with…
Determination.
He had asked her what she was doing. She reached up to touch Jaqen's face with her free hand, and answered him in his native tongue.
"Dies."
This.
Dies was flesh against flesh, hers against his, in the purest of forms. Just her hand on his face.
How could something so innocent be so sensual?
He felt the girl's fingers gliding over his cheek, a whisper of a touch, cool and steady. It should have been nothing to him, this gentlest of touches. It should have had no effect on him, this simplest of gestures. It should not have gripped his heart, this most tender of offerings.
But it did.
Jaqen felt her hand slide down his neck, coming to rest against his shoulder. Her fingers slowly curled, gripping his jacket. There Arya stayed, as if waiting for his permission to do more. He gave it in the form of releasing the wrist he had been restraining, allowing her the freedom he had only just denied her. He held his breath, wondering if she would tug at the bottom of his shirt, lifting it and exposing his lie.
Instead, she slipped her arm around his waist, under his jacket but over his shirt, pulling her body closer to his. He felt her hand on his back, pressing lightly against him. They stayed like that for a long moment, Jaqen concentrating on the inexplicable cool of her skin through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. A feeling began to build in his chest, and he was surprised to find that in its presence, the hard and sharp sensation he carried always with him had faded.
"You know, if you don't tell me to stop, I might start to think you're interested in me." Her voice was alluring as she pronounced the words; she could not know how much. Emboldened by her drink, and the warm night, and the heady feel of being surrounded by what was loved, and familiar, and good, this lovely girl was playing at being the temptress.
Enticement.
Desire.
Danger.
He closed his eyes briefly, taking one deep breath before he opened them again and looked down at her. He studied at her face, the curves and lines of it; the white of her skin. He studied her eyes, her nose. He studied her lips. Jaqen smiled unconsciously. All that he saw was beautiful, perfect, and sweet. All that he saw was light. Could he ever be so selfish that he had no care for her innocence?
She was young, after all, and had not yet been too much scarred by this world.
Jaqen had been in danger; had saved lives, and taken them. He understood combat in the harshest and most vivid of terms. He had too often seen the stark line between life and death, and how easily one might be pushed from one side of that line to the other. He had been to war, both with brothers-in-arms and alone, and had survived, by instinct and because of his ability to be dispassionate, rational; his ability to make the hard choices, and make them quickly.
What was this conflict, compared to all that? It should have been nothing to him. But somehow, this choice, this one above all others, challenged his rationality and had frozen him in place. He could not suss out the reason for it.
One thought, one question stayed his hand at that moment.
Was he a monster, that he could lure her into his darkness?
She had given him an out; a way to gracefully deny what was undulating between them; an opportunity to spare the both of them from real harm.
If you don't tell me to stop… I might start to think you're interested in me.
He could have told her to stop right then, said that he wasn't interested in her that way. He could have gently pulled her hands away from his body, and told her he cared for her; too much to let her make such a mistake; that he would be a mistake.
Tell her to stop.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. They were drowned out by the echo of her voice in his head.
I might start to think you're interested in me.
He smiled sadly and said, "A girl has every reason to think that."
Jaqen decided that he owed her that. He owed her his honestly. He would not leave her grasping at nothing, wondering why he did not want her, when in truth, he did.
So very much.
The way a man wants to come in out of the cold, and warm his hands by the fire.
It might have been the wrong thing to say; it might have been detrimental for the both of them, but he said it for her…
(Lügner!)
His confession had encouraged her, and perhaps he wanted it to; he was no longer sure. She unwound her arms from his body, drawing her hands away, and then placing them on his chest, palms flat against him, pushing him backwards. He allowed her to move him, to guide him, until his back met the brick of the building near which they had been lingering.
"You'd best be careful what you say, Herr H'ghar," she warned, grabbing small handfuls of Jaqen's t-shirt in her fists. Her voice was low and thick, the words slow. It somehow made them more meaningful, and more sensuous. "I'm tipsy enough that I might take you seriously."
There were gas lanterns affixed to the building's façade. The light of the flickering flame bathed her face as he gazed down at it, causing her features to dance in and out of delicate shadow.
"I assure you, Arya Stark, I am most serious."
Why had he said that? Was he compelled to be truthful now? Or was he simply too weak to do what he knew he should?
His concerns bled from him, drowned in the feel of her fingers tugging on his shirt; the way the reflection of the gas lamp's flame writhed in her eyes; the parting of her lips, revealing a hint of the teeth and tongue beyond them.
She snorted and mumbled, "Well, off with his head!"
"What?"
She let her head drop back, and he had the impression that she had little control of it. Her smile was coy, simpering, as she looked up at him, but she did not answer his question. Her eyelids were heavy, half-closed, as if weighed down by the heavy fringe of her dark lashes. The man's thought then somehow escaped his mouth.
"When a girl looks at me like that, I think I would very much like to kiss her."
Arya pushed up on her toes, tilting her chin draw her mouth close his ear. Her breath was warm on his neck and laced with bourbon as she whispered, "Well... why don't you, then?"
Jaqen raised his brow as he tried to discern if her suggestion had been in earnest or if it were merely pretense, for sport. The girl stared back at him with those same half-hooded eyes, one corner of her mouth pulled up in a small, provocative smile. She almost seemed to be taunting him.
He bent his head further to meet her and she did not pull away, but rather, closed her eyes and breathed in. Jaqen's hands had moved up to Arya's shoulders, steadying her; grounding him; connecting them both. In an instant, he could see it perfectly in his mind, the way this night could go. His movements were slow, soft, as he traced the curve of her ear with his nose, but the images in his head flew by at a rapid-fire pace.
He would kiss her, and pull her to him, and kiss her again, all the while calculating how long it would take them to walk to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel or the Place d'Armes. Not far, they could be there in mere minutes. The corporate suite was always empty, save for the once or twice a year Erich felt the need to visit his American operations, or sent someone else to do so, but they also served as ready areas for sensitive negotiations, private, and luxurious enough to soften the hard edge of what was being said.
Held by a shell company of a shell company of the Conclave, Jaqen's access was guaranteed. These were beautiful places, with marble lamps and crystal chandeliers and expensive furnishings. He could imagine Arya there, t-shirt pulled over her head and then flung carelessly aside, sinking into the featherbed, a half-smile on her face, the same one he had only just glimpsed, challenging him, beckoning him. He could take her there, and they could exist in that place, in that moment, with sighs and touches and lips pressed against soft skin. They could rise and fall and catch each other, immersing; enveloping. They could cherish, adore, one bleeding into another until they were whole. And it would be…
So lovely.
She wanted him, he could see that. She was practically daring him to start them down this path.
She's just a child.
He recalled his own words to Erich, spoken only a scant few weeks ago. He had been trying to dissuade the colonel from his plan to exploit the girl's relationship with Baratheon's son.
(In truth, Jaqen had been trying to keep her from having a relationship with Baratheon's son).
He could not claim her youth and naivete as a reason to oppose Erich's plan and then ignore that same youth and naivete now, no matter how much her gaze begged him to.
No matter how easy it would it would be to just give in and let the night play out as he had seen it in his head.
No matter how much the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo rose from her hair and made the emptiness inside of him feel less consuming.
Es ist nicht vertretbar.
His lips lingered for just a second over that tender spot on her neck, just below the angle of her jaw, but he knew he could not take her to that place, though he wished he could; though she would be disappointed when he didn't. He pulled back slightly, sighing, and softly kissed Arya's cheek, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the return of the hard and the sharp in his chest.
The girl blew out the breath she'd been holding, opening her eyes. The two of them stood staring at each other for a long moment and then Arya smiled at her neighbor sadly.
"I get it," she murmured, unhappy, but understanding.
No, she did not "get it," but how could he explain it to her?
Jaqen matched her sad smile with his own and then held his hand out for her to take. She laced her fingers through his once again, and they continued on down the street. He pushed the images in his head aside then (Arya on the soft comforter of a hotel bed, her gray eyes locked with his, her fingertips brushing his chest as he lowered himself to kiss her forehead, her lips, her neck, the hollow of her throat. Arya winding her arms around him, pulling him into her slowly as she pulled her own lip between her teeth) in favor of concentrating on the feel of her palm against his, her fingers woven together with his own.
It would have to be enough.
Was moralisch ist, ist nicht immer, was leicht ist.
They walked along St. Ann in silence and too soon, they were passing the Presbytère and crossing Chartres, drawing up even with the northern edge of Jackson square. Arya walked between Jaqen and the square's fence and as they passed, she reached her right hand out, letting her fingers graze the wrought iron.
He wondered why, but he did not ask.
Just then, a faint buzzing became apparent to his ear and Arya pulled her hand away from his and reached into her pocket, retrieving her phone. Jaqen flexed his suddenly free fingers and watched as the girl unlocked her screen to find several messages waiting for her.
All from E.D.
The man's lip curled as Arya called up her text window so she could reply to her friend.
"You millennials," he said, his tone playfully scathing. "Always with a screen in your face. It's rude."
They were nearly to Decatur and would be on the motorcycle in a few spare minutes. He did not wish to share her just now.
Her tone was unapologetic as she told him, "It's just Edric. If I don't text him back, he's gonna start flipping out call my mom." She didn't even look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the messages from the Dayne boy.
"Here, let me see." Jaqen held his hand out expectantly. Arya did not hand him her phone, but she held it up so he could read the boy's texts. The German snorted at Edric's increasingly worried tone. Millennials. Always so dramatic. He teased her about the name the boy had called her in the first text of the series. "YaYa?"
The girl rolled her eyes. "Another stupid nickname."
"Also from a book?"
"No, it's just a play on Arya."
What was wrong with just saying 'Arya'? "So many pet names for one small girl. And what do you call him?"
"Edric," she growled at him. Before he could respond, the phone she was holding aloft buzzed again. Another text popped into Jaqen's view.
E.D.—ARE YOU DEAD?
Jaqen snatched the phone out of Arya's hand, meaning to put a stop to this ridiculous badgering.
"Genug von dieser Torheit," he grumbled, typing a response at lightning speed while Arya stood by, momentarily stunned.
No, just busy, the text read. He hit send.
"Hey! Jaqen! What did you…"
The girl was reaching for her phone but the German held it high over her head so that she could not reclaim it. All at once, he was seized by a mad notion. He looked up at the bright screen and tapped a small gray button with a picture of a camera on it. Arya was still protesting, grabbing at his arm so that she could pull it down and recover her phone when the man reached out for her with his free arm and wrapped it around her waist. He hauled her against him, bending his head and pressing his lips against the corner of her mouth. The girl gasped, her own lips parting slightly, and at just that moment, he found the button on the camera app and snapped their picture.
The deed done, Jaqen released her and spun around, feverishly adding the new picture to the text thread and sending it on for Edric to enjoy. Now the boy would not have to wonder exactly what it was his friend was busy doing.
"Jaqen, stop!" Arya cried, but the picture had already been sent. The man's only regret was that it was slightly blurry. Still, the subject matter was evident.
Jaqen felt the girl's hands on his arm, so he turned to face her, holding her phone out so she could see the picture. Her face was half-hidden in the photo, partially blocked by Jaqen's head, but it was undeniably Arya. She snatched her phone away from him and began to frantically tap at the screen, first minimizing the photo, then checking her texts.
"Great," she muttered, shooting an accusing look at her neighbor, "now he's really gonna worry!"
Her fingers tapped out a message, but she had not yet sent it when her phone buzzed again. Jaqen smiled. He did not need to see the Dayne boy's words. He preferred to imagine them. Woe is me! My heart is breaking, my love. Why have you betrayed me with that handsome fellow? Does he work out?
He nearly snorted.
He heard Arya sigh as she finished her own message and sent it on. He glanced over her shoulder, reading what she'd written. Sorry, Ricky. Just a friend who thinks he has jokes messing with my phone. He's so funny.
This time, he could not contain his snort. "Ricky? A man knew you had a pet name for this boy." There was a note of censure in his tone.
"Yeah," she answered, giving him a sour look, "and I never use it unless I'm having to grovel, so thanks for that." It was the closest thing to fury she had displayed all night.
"Forgive me, lovely girl, I did not mean to cause trouble for you." His tone was remorseful and he tried to make his face appropriately sorry as well, but it was not enough for her.
"Oh, yes you did! Yes, you did!"
Having failed at contrition, he tried humor next.
"I'm sure your boyfriend will not hold it against you. Would you like me to speak with him?" He smiled at her innocently, the perfect picture of the helpful neighbor. "I am sure I can clear up the matter. What's his number?" To demonstrate his sincerity, Jaqen pulled his own phone out, one finger poised to type in the digits.
Arya frowned, her eyebrows knitting together sharply as she insisted through her grimace, "He's not my boyfriend!"
"Then why are you so angry?"
He thought it a perfectly reasonable question.
But it was apparently one she did not wish to answer.
"Because," she replied bitterly. Her arms folded over her chest. He could see her gripping her phone so tightly that her knuckles were nearly white. To him, the reaction seemed out of proportion to his prank. As he watched her drawn brow relax, the ire on her face bled away. What appeared in its place was…
Sadness? Hurt?
He did not understand it at all.
Jaqen moved toward her but the girl turned her face away.
"Tell me," he begged, his voice soft and pleading. She swallowed hard but did not meet his eye.
"Take me home, Jaqen," she finally said. With a sigh, she began to walk toward the Café du Monde, its bright lights illuminating the intersection of Decatur and St. Ann. He reached out for her, stopping her retreat with his gentle grasp on her arm.
"I will," Jaqen promised. "Just tell me."
Arya swallowed again, then glared as she pulled her arm free of his grip, saying, "You kissed me."
The words did not make sense to the man at first. He hadn't kissed her, though he had wanted to, desperately. He had held himself in check, avoiding the appealing path even as vivid images the possibilities tangled together in his head. He looked at her a moment, and then it struck him that she meant the peck he had placed on the corner of her mouth, less than two seconds of contact, simply for the purpose of taking the picture that would shut the annoying Edric Dayne up.
Had he read her wrong? Had he offended her with his innocent little kiss? He truly hadn't meant to make her self-conscious.
"Oh, lovely girl…" He shook his head, raising his hands to express how unintended his offense was. "I didn't mean…"
"And that's just it," she interrupted heatedly. "You didn't mean anything. You kissed me on the cheek, as some sort of placating gesture, I suppose. Run along and play, little girl. And you kissed me as a joke, just to irritate Edric. You can't kiss me properly, or won't, even though you say you'd like to, and…"
"Oh, Arya," the German groaned, "you have no idea…"
"I have a pretty fucking good idea, Jaqen."
"No, you don't."
Jaqen put his hands on his temples in disbelief. She wasn't upset he had just kissed her and taken the picture. She was upset he hadn't kissed her earlier, and started them down that ill-advised path.
As if it weren't hard enough for him to do the right thing, now she was angry at him for doing it!
He raked his fingers through his hair, frustrated. How could he make her understand without placing her in danger? How could he soothe her without betraying Erich or the Conclave? How could he say enough without saying too much?
She just looked at a man, and she knew.
He was at the mercy of the perception he had so admired in her. He would have to trust her intuition; her discernment. Perhaps he could make her appreciate his predicament without having to explain it fully.
Ein Mann muss versuchen.
Jaqen pulled his hands from his hair, his head snapping up, his eyes boring into hers, willing her to accept his reasons. "There are things you cannot possibly understand. Things I cannot explain to you."
"Things you choose not to explain, you mean," she muttered.
Her petulance tested his patience.
"Yes," he hissed, his control slipping for the briefest of moments. "Things I choose not to explain, because doing so…" He bit down, setting his jaw, trying to tell her without telling her; trying to warn her, but not scare her.
The man did not have to finish his thought; Arya did it for him.
"Because doing so puts me in danger?" she guessed, narrowing her eyes. "Is that what you were going to say?"
Her words pulled him up short. Danger. She had said it, as if she had known all along, but what surprised him more was the look on her face. Far from frightened, she looked… pleased. Her mouth curled up then, but the smile was more malicious than happy. Yes, Arya Stark was very pleased with herself. She continued on, and her words seemed to mock him.
"And kissing me violates protocol?" she continued, advancing on him. "You're not supposed to get involved with your targets, right?"
"Stop."
She was toying with him, but she did not know how dangerous her words could be, for the both of them.
"How does giving me a ride to the French Quarter on the back of your bike and having coffee with me fit in with your objectives, Herr H'ghar?" the girl continued. Her tone was syrupy sweet, as if she were unaware how she pricked at him, but she knew. Every cut was intentional. That was all too evident in her growing sneer.
"Stop."
It was a command; a plea; a hope. He did not believe she wanted to break him. She simply did not understand.
"What requirement did you fulfill by taking me for a drink in a pub? And how about texting Edric with that misleading picture? How does that help you?"
"It doesn't," he rasped, hoping the admission would satisfy her and that she would move on from this treacherous game she was playing.
"Then, why do it?" she demanded, making a sound that was like a laugh, but it lacked the necessary levity to qualify. It was that little laugh that pushed Jaqen over the edge. He had had enough and would not entertain her risky behavior further. The girl must learn caution. He had to make her see it. He grabbed her by her shoulders, looking down at her, his expression sober, severe, and more than just a little angry. Her laughter died.
"These things you think you know," he said, his voice full of gravity, and of gravel, "you must keep them to yourself, lovely girl."
"But Jaqen, I already do. I have been, for years."
Years? Preposterous!
"This is no joking thing," the German warned.
"No, it's not. And I'm very good at keeping secrets." Arya reached up and slipped her hands behind Jaqen's head, guiding it down so that his ear came to rest near her lips. "How good are you?"
He pulled back, just far enough so that he could study her face. His eyebrows pinched together, declaring the intensity with which he was scrutinizing the girl. His lips parted and he wet them with his tongue, the action automatic, without thought. At the sight, Arya began to chew her bottom lip in her familiar way.
How good are you?
Was that not the whole of his struggle? Had he not been trying to show her all night? That there was enough good in him that he could make the hard choices? That there was enough good in him to make him want to protect her? That there was enough good in him that he could resist her even when he did not wish to?
How good are you?
He reached for her face, placing his palm flat against the cool of her cheek, using his thumb to pull her bottom lip from between her teeth. He slipped his other hand behind her neck, holding her steady.
How good are you?
Nicht gut genug.
He tilted his head and then his mouth was over hers, their lips moving, parting, pressing into each other. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and tasted her; bourbon, mint, sweet. She gasped and he felt it as much as heard it. He did not stop to analyze what it meant, did not consider the evidence or worry with interpretation. One thought occupied him just then.
That tender spot where her smooth neck met the angle of her jaw. How would it taste?
He meant to find out.
He pulled away a little, looking at her neck, searching out his desired spot. Arya objected, thinking he meant to break off from her and mutter something about a mistake, no doubt. She moaned, "no" and tried to find his lips again, but Jaqen turned her head with one hand and leaned down, kissing her neck. He inhaled sharply, the scent of honeysuckle so thick, he could taste it on his tongue. He nipped at her skin lightly, then pressed his tongue against her neck, soothing the spot his teeth had scraped.
Arya, he thought. It tastes like Arya.
All of the tension in her muscles seemed to evaporate and the girl became pliable, relaxing against him, molding to him like the silk of a shirt.
Immersing; enveloping, one bleeding into another.
"Oh," she whispered, and that sound, that small word, from her lips, as much as anything, filled the emptiness inside of him. He could think of nothing more enticing than that.
And nothing more dangerous.
She would be the death of him.
He told her so.
"You," he sighed, his lips moving against her neck as he spoke, "Du wirst mein Tod sein."
"Nein." Arya's promise was given as her fingers slipped beneath Jaqen's shirt, finding and caressing the scar over his flank. "Ich werde Sie nie verletzen."
I'll Be Good—Jaymes Young