A/N: This story takes place after the events of "Seven" but it isn't necessary to have read "Seven" to understand it, nor do I intend this to be a sequel as such, since it's written a rather different style. The idea comes from a challenge community on LiveJournal called 60damnprompts wherein you write sixty consecutive days of a single character's life based on 60 prompts. I've spent most of this year working on a second draft of some of my original fiction so I wanted to have a fanfiction project I could work on in spurts and this seemed to do the trick. There are arcs and an overarching story, but it's more of a slice of life fic than a plot-driven narrative. Also many of the pieces are short so with those I'll post a few at a time.

Anyway, my apologies for the lengthy note. I hope this story will be of amusement to some of you.

Day Fifty: Mail

"We've received seventeen more RSVPs. And an offer for a DVD mail-order club. That's odd."

Seth pokes his head out of the kitchen– he insisted on making dinner again (my personal chef will get spoiled with all the days off she's been getting since I started seeing Seth last fall). He looks puzzled.

"Odd? Eirika, I get offers like that every other week."

I can't help but smile. "I live in a penthouse apartment in one of Manhattan's most ritzy neighbourhoods, remember? I don't get junk mail. Seth?"

"Hmm?"

"You're making that face again."

Ever since I was little and Seth began working security for Renais Enterprises I've been familiar with that look– as if I were a strange visitor from another planet. He had that look the first time I mentioned borrowing my dad's private jet, and the time Ephraim and I told him we were renting an island in the Caribbean for our spring break. I've been seeing it a lot more often now that we're together.

"I'm sorry," he says as he rakes his fingers through his hair the way he always does when he's abashed. I bite my lip and resist the urge to cross the room and run my own fingers through it. It's been four months; should the effect have worn off by now? But he's so handsome and his hair is a wonderful shade of– I hesitate to call it red; it's not a carrot colour but a smidgen darker– russet maybe.

"So who else is coming?" He asks as he chops mushrooms at an alarming speed. I fear for his fingers. "Anyone I might actually know?"

I read out a list and his chopping falters, giving me a start as the knife nearly comes down on his hand. He looks pale as I walk into the kitchen.

"But, Eirika, they're... They..."

"Make movies. I know." I pat him on the arm. "They also work with some of the same charities I do. I had to invite them."

"And they... accepted?"

"Of course." He looks paler than ever, poor dear.

"But they're on the cover of magazines..."

"So is Ephraim from time to time."

"That's different. I can't get married in front of–" It's only as he throws up his hands that he realizes he's still holding a knife. He sets it down carefully and leans against the counter, taking a deep breath. I reach out to rub his back.

"It'll be just like all the parties you attended before."

He shakes his head. "That was different. When you're on the security detail you're trying to blend in. You don't need to talk to the guests. You're not expected to make conversation with people who've won Oscars."

I wrap my arms around his waist and lean my face against his back. It's as much to comfort myself as him. It frightens me when he gets in this mood. I'm always nervous that he'll decide it's all too much trouble. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I wish it could be just us– you know I do. But..."

"I know," he says, but I can still feel the tension in his body. I explained it all to him when he proposed three months ago. With everything that's happened– with dad... gone... and Ephraim having to take over the company, not to mention dealing with the remains of Grado Inc... We need all the connections we have and I can't afford to have a small, private wedding. Things are so different from how I once imagined they'd be and ever since that night, ever since dad was killed... I stop myself sometimes in the middle of the day and wonder how we're supposed to go about our lives, knowing that in a single moment everything can change.

"You won't have to say anything," I tell Seth, giving him a squeeze. "I'll do all the talking. You just need to smile and nod and look handsome like a proper trophy husband. How about that?" I manage to earn a chuckle with that and he slides one of his hands over mine.

"As long as I don't have to change my name."

"You don't like my last name?" I say teasingly.

"'Eirika King' is a lovely name. 'Seth King' would just be strange."

I sniff. "Fine then. Stay 'Mr. Knightly' if you want, but for the record I'm going to spend the rest of my life enduring Jane Austen jokes because of it."

"I'll make it up to you."

"You'd better. It'll be over soon," I add, detaching myself from him as he straightens and returns to chopping the mushrooms.

He quirks an eyebrow even as he keeps his eyes on the blade of the knife. "Seven weeks isn't what I'd call soon."

"Relatively soon." He replies with a noncommittal sort of grunt. When I was a child Seth seemed like a superhero. When I was a teenager I idolized him like my friends did movie stars. I never knew until I started dating him that Seth could pout. "And after that we'll have the honeymoon. A nice trip somewhere sunny. The ocean. Sand. Quiet. Doesn't that sound good?" He's still chopping, though now he's moved on to green beans. "Oh and sex. Did I forget to mention that? The hot sweaty sex part?"

Ah! That did it. Typical. He's grinning now like a schoolboy. "I never realized before that honeymoons were actually bribes."

"More like incentives," I retort. After all the hassle, though, I'll be looking forward to the vacation too. And it's not as if we're waiting until our wedding night or anything like that– I don't have that kind of self-control when it comes to Seth– but there is something lovely about the idea of being together on our own tropical island. I give his arm a squeeze and go back into the living room to gather up the mail. "The next time you ask about the mail, I'm not answering."

"Agreed," he calls back.

I look over the DVD club material and head back into the kitchen. "I wonder how they got my address," I mutter as I toss the assortment of papers into the recycling bin hidden beneath one of the counter tops.

"Just be glad they don't have your email."