Title:A Beautiful Accident

Rating:K+

Genre:Romance, Drama
Summary: All he wanted was acceptance. All she wanted was freedom. Maybe it was a little too naïve, a little too sweet, a little too perfect for their wishes to ever come true. Yet when they meet, it's a gasoline rainbow of prisma colors: just an accident, a beautiful accident.

He is only a child.

It is not so much the words that pierce through his barriers. It is the pity that accompanies the statements, the look on people's faces when they learn he is an orphan. They apologize and speak in whispers so he cannot hear, and somehow, their actions make it a hundred times worse.

He may be a child, but he is not stupid enough to not know what's going on, to not be able to guess what's going through their heads. People have a natural propensity to offer comfort, outwardly acting as if they care. He can see through them: they want their kindness to be spoken of, for the story of their generosity towards whom they consider to be the "less fortunate" to be spread. They tell him, "You poor, poor boy." Sometimes they even bend down to kiss his forehead, or hug him, deluding themselves into thinking that these gestures can comfort him. In all actuality, they hurt him even more: they come with the knowledge that these people can never truly care for him. They do not understand the pain that fills his heart.

Yet an exception to the rule always exists. There is one woman who looks him straight in the eye and asks him, "Your parents died. What do you want to do?"

The answer is at the tip of his tongue. After a moment's hesitation, he says, "I want to move on." Not be stuck here in this child-body, forever being pitied and excused because of his loss. He wants to move on.

She nods as if his answer is legitimate, so unlike the many adults who would call him a wretch for forgetting his parents just like that. She holds out her hand and he sees it as his escape. "Come with me."

He agrees.

Jealousy is a strong emotion. He feels its intensity when she is born, loved and cared like she is the world. Once upon a time, he was that child, the newborn everyone fussed over. Now he is considered unnecessary baggage, a burden to everyone around him. It is not a surprise that when she grows up, he does not take a liking to her. She has too much of what was once his. She has acceptance from everyone around her. He does not have that luxury.

As if feeling his animosity, she dislikes him, too. Many a day go by with them taking jabs at each other, ones that the adults laugh at. He isan adult himself, but he can't help teasing her. So many things can rouse her anger. Like her mother, her spirit is fire, burning others in its path. He's one of the few who can deftly step out of its way.

Until, that is, he overhears a conversation, and he learns that she is just like him in some ways. Both of them are trapped by a loss that neither can quite define. He erases his thoughts; he didn't "overhear" them. He is in the same room as she and her mother, listening.

"May I go out?"

"I've already told you a hundred times. The answer is still no."

She tries not to let this affect her, sitting down on the chair and keeping quiet. Unfair.She doesn't understand why she is not allowed to go out – she's seen the children in the neighborhood playing outside. Why can't she join them? Her arms are crossed in a silent act of defiance, and this does not go unnoticed.

Her mother glances over at her. "If you're thinking about making me feel guilty, it won't work."

She does not reply; it is best to act as though that isn't what she was contemplating. Her mother returns to her work, marking the big world map with multicolored pushpins. Red, blue, yellow, green and white. She wishes she can go to those places her mother marks and see what's so special about them.

"If I may have a word?"

She glances at him and tries to keep her face impassive. She wants so badly to kick the know-it-all standing in the corner.

"Yes?" her mother says, raising her eyebrows. This is interesting. It would be nice to see her oh-so-smart cousin get it from her mother.

"Let me confirm this, Aunt Grace. You do not allow Hope to go outside on the grounds that she might be taken unawares or get into some kind of danger, correct?"

Grace nods her agreement. "Yes. And how many times must I tell you, Alistair, to just call me 'Grace'?"

"My apologies. But, ah, wouldn't it be the smarter thing to let her explore? Children are wont to be curious of the world at large. Surely you do not wish her to grow up dumb and ignorant of everything beyond this house?" He smiles at Hope. "No offense meant, cousin."

Hope's hands ball up into fists. "None taken, cousin."

Grace's eyes narrow. "Are you saying that –"

"Oh, no, Grace," he smoothly interrupts. "I am merely suggesting that perhaps it would be better if, instead of hiding, Hope is allowed to discover more. You and I know this is for a greater end. A well-founded knowledge of real life is a benefit for the activities she shall be tackling in the near future, if you understand what I mean."

"So you are saying," Nathaniel says, swiveling his chair around to face Alistair, "that this would be a good place to start her training?"

Alistair bows, a grand gesture to her parents. Hope doesn't know what to think. What kind of trick is up his sleeve now?

"Of course. There is no better place to start, after all."

Grace turns this idea over and over in her mind, like a stone caressed by the river until it becomes smooth. "Very well. But I insist—"

Without waiting to know the statement's ending, Hope rushes out the door, a bird suddenly and miraculously set free. She races down the stairs and stands before the front door, hand on the knob.

"Wait a moment, young lady," the housekeeper says, clucking a disapproving tongue. "You are not allowed to go out."

"Aunt Grace has changed her mind," a voice says, and Hope turns to see her cousin standing at the foot of the staircase. Behind him are Nathaniel and Grace. "Hope may now go out."

"Yes, Mathilde, you may open the door," Grace affirms as the housekeeper casts Alistair a dubious look. "But she must be accompanied by Alistair."

This last piece of information makes Alistair turn to face his aunt. "I-I am not—"

"Go now," Nathaniel says, half-pushing Alistair towards Hope.

He looks down at her for a moment, regarding her silently; then, he holds out his hand. "Come. It will be a new adventure."

Hope takes in his face and the hand held out so kindly. He has bought her freedom for her, after all. Maybe he isn't as bad as she thought he was. So she puts her hand into his and walks out of the mansion.

From that day on, they become the best of friends. It is not a simple relationship – never was, never is – but they are closer than they used to be. Whenever Hope needs advice, Alistair is the first one she goes to. It has been remarked by the nosy servants that when this happens, Alistair almost always calls off whatever he is doing and stays with Hope until she is satisfied with his explanations.

When they meet, it is a gasoline rainbow of prisma colors: just an accident, a beautiful accident.

Hope feels excited yet conflicted at the same time. A mission to Istanbul, Turkey! It is the very first she will have after years of training, and she can't help the riot of butterflies in her stomach. When the door of her parents' study closes behind her, she takes a deep breath, savoring the wonderful feeling of finally being able to do as she wants. Then she runs off to find Alistair.

Her cousin is in his office, set aside for him by Grace for when he visits. He looks up to see her enter, in the middle of going through some documents. He puts them in a drawer. "Good morning, Hope."

"Alistair, I'm about to go on my very first mission!"

He smiles at her enthusiasm, something that is not hard to do with his energetic little cousin around. Although she isn't quite as little as she used to be. Now 18 years old, the time has come for her own quest. "Where are you headed?" he asks.

"Istanbul, Turkey," she says.

Something flashes in Alistair's eyes that she does not recognize. He stands up abruptly. "Don't go."

She blinks in surprise. "What do you mean? You weren't against –"

"I am against it right now," he says, starting to pace back and forth. "Don't go. As your older cousin, I am telling you to wait for another mission to come your way."

"You have no right to stop me," Hope says through gritted teeth, suddenly angered by his order. "I am eighteen. I can make my own decisions. Besides, my parents assigned this task to me!"

He stops pacing. "They do not know what waits in Turkey. Hope, do you trust me?"

Reluctantly, Hope nods.

"Then trust me that this is not the right thing to do."

Her face hardens with determination. "I trust you, Alistair, and you have been a good guide to me. But today I will carve my own path."

He sits down at his desk. "I was afraid of that. You have always been as stubborn as your mother." He raises his face to look at her with despairing eyes. "You're right; you are of the age. Promise me one thing, Hope – that you will come back alive. If you do, I shall tell you a secret."

"What's your deepest, darkest secret?" she asked him while they were examining tropical plants in the laboratory.

"I can't tell you right now. Perhaps someday."

Even now, the prospect of this one knowledge holds enough allure. Confidence blossoms in her chest. "I will." She turns to leave the room.

"Hope?"

She pauses. "Yes?"

"I promise to wait for your return."

She glances back at him, an unknown fear building up in the shadowy corners of her mind. She can only manage a half-nod before going out. What was it that scared her cousin so?

The day she comes back is probably the most relieved he has ever been. He has worn out at least three carpets laid on the floor with his endless pacing, neglected most of his work, put off a few deals for his inventions' patents. Istanbul, Turkey is a hotbed of agents from Cahills and Vespers alike; to have her wandering out there, getting caught up in the hate-fest that was going on, was suicide. Grace was awfully overconfident for allowing her to go there.

It is not his place to judge. He stands beside his aunt, waiting in anxiety for her arrival. The iron gates open, and a car rolls through, commissioned by Grace to fetch her daughter. It stops in front of the mansion and she steps out. As vibrant as ever, red hair flying in the wind, green eyes flashing with triumph as she spots Alistair – Look at me, I survived.

Behind her is a man.

Grace, who had been on the point of rushing forward to welcome her daughter, now hangs back warily to eye this unexpected stranger. The driver deposits bags and other luggage beside the man. Then the driver gets into the car and drives off.

"Mom!" Hope exclaims, the first one to break an awkward silence she does not seem to feel. She hugs her mother and winks at Alistair. "Cousin."

"Cousin," Alistair acknowledges. He tilts his head to the approaching man. "And he is…?"

"Arthur Trent," Hope says.

"Pleased to meet you," Arthur says.

Alistair does not know what to make of the man. He just feels it– an ache. Maybe because she is growing too soon, too fast, so unlike the little girl he used to tease and advise.

"Why don't we all go in?" Grace suggests, leading the way into the mansion.

He has to decline this invitation. Alistair has so much left to do; he only stayed to welcome his cousin back. He shakes his head at Hope's inquiring glance. She stays behind, prodding Arthur forward when he shows signs of waiting for her.

"You promised me that if I came back, you'd tell me a secret," she reminds him, evidently eager to get her prize before it slips away from her grasp. Her eyes glitter with anticipation. Somehow, even at 18, her spirit can still be like that of a seven-year-old's.

He pats her on the head like a benevolent grandfather would to an errant – yet loved – granddaughter. "You've met him. The man who will take your father's and my place." With this cryptic remark, he leaves her standing on the front porch.

"That's not fair!" she calls after him, obviously not understanding.

Alistair chuckles. Life is hardly ever fair.

Arthur is a blessing. Of course, they won't marry right now; she is simply not old enough to bear the burden of a family, and neither is he. She promises that to her mother, over and over again. If Grace ever insinuates that Hope will forget them the day she and Arthur exchange vows, she assures her it won't happen.

Hope still hasn't figured out Alistair's riddle. Her cousin always loved to speak words that, oftentimes, didn't make sense. Sometimes it disgruntled her that she, the better agent, was still outsmarted by him. Though being an Ekat did give him an advantage in that area.

"You've met him. The man who will take your father's and my place."

She plays with the words in her heads, scrambling them, rearranging the letters, trying out patterns. She gets gibberish all the time. She gives up.

When she and Arthur finally get to the altar after years of courtship, she sends out an invitation to her cousin. In the postscript, she writes, "If you were a girl, I would ask you to be my bridesmaid. If you were my parent, I would ask you to walk me down the aisle. But as you are my cousin, I ask you to be the best man."

She receives a letter from him on the day of the wedding. It simply says, "Is that the best you can think of? No matter. I've told you before that you've met the man who will take your father's and my place. By this time, I know you understand."

A cold thrill goes through her – that sudden flash of discovery that chills you to the bone because you didn't think of it earlier. She looks at the words and glances at Arthur through the half-opened door.

How stupid to have missed such a simple meaning for so long a time.

"Isabel Kabra."

"Wine, please. White wine," Isabel says, sitting down without waiting for his reply. His assistant pours the aforementioned drink into a delicate glass. He waves her out after refusing the drink himself.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asks. The woman in front of him reeks of danger. Her beauty, though it is her most notable feature, is by no means her defining trait. Isabel Kabra is Death's willing servant herself. His hand involuntarily goes to the gun in his pocket.

Her nose wrinkles at her first sip of the wine. She throws it away, and it shatters against the wall. The clear liquid leaves a dark spot on the carpet. "Disgusting."

"Is that all you came to say?"

"Oh, Alistair, do not pretend as if you do not know what I am here for."

He returns her sardonic grin with an expression he keeps carefully blank. "I do not know what you are here for."

"Tut, tut. You do." She leans forward and slips him a picture. He refuses to look at it, maintaining eye contact with her.

"Stop the mind games, Isabel. I am in no mood for them."

"Very well. It's quite simple, actually; I just want your help in eliminating Arthur Trent."

He frowns. "And what makes you think I will?"

"Hope," Isabel says. His posture stiffens.

"What do you mean?"

"If you help us, we let her and their children survive. If you don't…well, we can live with four less threats, can't we?"

"You –"

She raises a finger for silence. "Don't be so reserved, Alistair. You hate that Arthur as much as I do. You know so much about him, after all. What is he again? A Vesper?"

"I didn't tell Hope."

"Which brings us back to the topic. You'll benefit from this, too, Alistair. With Arthur gone, you'll have Hope to yourself."

He stands up. "Leave. Get out of my sight."

She smirks. "You cannot refuse. I shall give you further details. Watch and wait until then, Oh. Just a little cooperation and she will soon be yours."

When he is left to himself, he looks at his hands and wonders when they will be tainted by blood.

The rest is history.

He stands by her grave and lays flowers beside the teddy bear. Was he a fool to have come this far for nothing? So many chances wasted; so many lives lost. Her children, his niece and nephew, about to face the same game their parents lost their lives in.

"I lied to you, cousin," he says to the girl who used to sit on his lap and pester him, to the woman who became a better person than he ever was. He wishes he had tried harder to save her. Now she lies beneath the ground he stands on, and it is not only the dirt that is in their way; it is also the weight of his sins, his regrets. "That you would meet that man when you came back, the one who would be with you until death- I was not surprised when you did. Only…"

And here he chokes on a thousand memories rushing back to the surface, climbing out of closed doors and jumbling his mind, wrapping their arms around his heart and squeezing it. The pain is his trial by fire – his own inferno, his own funeral pyre. A tear slips down his cheek.

"Only, I thought it would be me."

The secret kept buried for so long. It is too late for its revelation: the love he has for his cousin. Out of all the hate he has lived with, there has always been the desire to be accepted, always.He has kept others' wings beneath his hand, trying to make them notice him. She is the only person he has ever helped become herself, the only person who has done the same to him in return. She is more beautiful than anyone.

"You are free now, Hope," he whispers.

When they meet, it is a gasoline rainbow of prisma colors.

At the end, there are darker skies, but the rainbow remains unchanged;

It remains the only thing it can ever be:

Just an accident, a beautiful accident.

Author's Note:

Some things to be considered:

This isn't related to the fanfic, but…

I'd like to say thank you to Joelle8 for being a great beta. To Jamie, a.k.a Sadie Faust Kane (let's hope she doesn't change her username for a while), and Unknown Bookworm for being the best random PM buddies anyone could have. To Another Artist who might take some time to reply to messages, but is still a wonderful author. To the reviewers, the readers, and the silent favorite-rs. To Dove's Wing, whom I'm worried about since she hasn't been online for some time now. To The Irish Nymph for her kind words on "Sail With Me", which may not have been entirely correct but still make me smile. I've been here for only a month, and yet these people have always made me feel welcome.

On a completely unrelated tangent, this is the first time I have ever written Drama. And I don't even know if it qualifies as Drama.

This is one long Author's Note. *sighs*