A/N: This has been sitting on my computer for the longest time, but I've finally gotten around to editing it. Apologies in advance for exaggerated cheesiness and any OOC-ness.
Basically a series of oneshots from before, during, and after Miss Peregrine's Home (movieverse) because I somehow can't write stories with actual plots.
She is a constant presence in his room – a flickering shadow, always behind him.
"Hand me that, would you," and soon he doesn't even have to speak, just holds out an upturned palm and she sets whatever it is he wants into it, never asking, already knowing.
He almost never looks at her, his shadow, but her gaze is always on him, wondering if she can convey the fire rushing through her soul simply by her eyes.
Because the thought of him sets her alight.
•
She doesn't remember much from the first day she came to Miss Peregrine's home, except freezing, stinging cold because heating herself up would mean using her flames. The fear of that held her stronger than the cold.
Her shaking hand raps on the door and Olive is met by a neatly dressed boy, even younger than her. He takes in her tangled, flaming red hair, her ripped skirts, her bare feet. Something flashes in his eyes and a voice sounds from behind him.
"Well, Horace, is that her?"
He grins devilishly. "Indeed, Fiona, indeed it is."
Horace opens the door all the way, beckoning her inside. When she hesitates, a bird flutters into the room, wings growing and feathers flying until all that's left is a straight-backed woman with a crisply pressed jacket and pipe in hand.
She smiles, "Olive is it?"
And so Olive learns to match names with faces, and with gentle touches and a soft voice, she knows them better than they know themselves.
Horace, the boy who sees too much, knows too much.
Fiona, awkward but not shy, always curious, always following the danger, the joy, the excitement.
Claire, the sweet, darling girl who is the epitome of darkness herself.
The twins, who have never known a life without the sandpapery feel of fabric on every inch of their skin.
Millard, always misplaced, always forgotten, who knew how to fade into the background before he could walk, when the only thing he ever wanted was to be seen.
Bronwyn, who snapped her stepfather's neck and gives too-strong hugs but is too strong, too stubborn to cry for her brother.
Emma, strong enough to cry for her lost love, but not strong enough to move on.
And Enoch, the boy who lived where there should never have been life.
A hand reaches out and catches her own. "I'd better get you cleaned up," the words ground out bitterly, reluctantly, but his grip is tight around her wrist.
"Don't…!" she blurts out. "I'll–I'll burn you!"
His brow is creased in confusion and he continues to drag her up the stairs. He says, "Of course you won't," like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She's never been trusted so unconditionally before – not even by herself.
When Enoch lets go and pushes her into a room to change, her arm and face are burning hot, even though she swears there wasn't a flame.
"Thank you," she whispers in response to the soap and clean change of clothes. Mother always said that kindness should never go unrewarded, so the next day, after he pulls her under the sky full of rain to see the reset, Olive is determined to help him.
Somehow…
She pokes her head into his room, inquiring. He doesn't reply, doesn't even seem to notice her as though he missed her arrival just the day before.
"Can I help you?" Her voice is soft and quiet, barely audible. When he doesn't answer, she just stands there, quietly watching, eyes widening and a gasp escaping her mouth when the boy draws out a dripping heart from his jar.
His tone is flat and bored when he says, "Well don't just stand there. If you're going to be my assistant, you can't be afraid of blood. Make yourself useful."
Olive nods, hands moving, doing anything to keep herself busy. Practice makes perfect, they say, and soon she learns what to touch and what not to, where everything is kept, and the parts of the heart of every species except Enoch's.
It isn't until later that day that she realizes what he said to her. Assistant. It's a crude title, considering all she does for him, downplaying, mocking even, but she holds the word with pride, tightly, close to her heart.
•
The third week she's there, Olive wakes up brighter than usual, with a brilliant smile and a spring to her step.
"I suppose you're going to want me to ask why you're so happy," he says when she arrives. "Out with it, then."
"Oh. Well, it's my birthday today."
Enoch rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Olive, is that all? You've been raving about it ever since you got here, so I'd assume there was some other surprise."
Her smile dims just slightly and she steps aside when he stands up, placing his tools on the table. Enoch pulls a key from his pocket, inserting it into the small keyhole on the wooden shelf above all the jars. His hands reach inside, drawing out an unwrapped box.
"Hopefully this'll stop you from ruining my jars."
When the lid comes off, out come a new pair of sleek, black gloves.
"I–I couldn't possibly–"
"I'm giving you a present. The least you could do is accept it graciously."
She bites her lip, gingerly sliding the gloves on and marveling at the cool feeling inside. On the table, there are a few scorch marks from her fingers accidentally brushing the wood, and in the back of the room are partially melted jars.
Her old gloves are thoroughly worn out, too tight, and hardly even resist her flames. They're so uncomfortable that usually she takes them off for everyday tasks.
"Thank you," she manages, and she feels water pricking at the back of her eyes. Would they work? "Thank you so much."
Her lips hurt from how wide her smile is and her hands are clasped. She never wants to stop saying it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
•
The day Jake comes crashing into their world, Olive doesn't really think there's much change. Sure, another peculiar, but that's nothing new. He comes from "the future" though, and that fascinates her to no end.
When Enoch all but yells at her, she forces down the grimace and hurries after him. "Whatever is the matter with you?"
He stares down at her, then motions towards the door with his full arms. Olive huffs impatiently, pushing open the door and closing it as he steps inside.
"Let's go," he says, unscrewing a lid and ignoring her previous statement. When she opens her mouth to continue, he interrupts, "I said let's go."
Holding an array of tools, she holds the fire quietly within her, knowing from experience that if she confronts him, he'll just shut down, and she'll be guilty for upsetting him. Nothing new.
The curtain is drawn open and his gaze is far out the window. Walking over, she sees two laughing figures – Jake and Emma. Even having just met, they're already so fond of each other, so easygoing, so comfortable. In all the years she's known him, was there a single time Enoch spoke to her that freely?
Olive looks up at him, and sees a creased forehead and stormy eyes. Is he jealous of them? Emma is kind, strong, beautiful – why wouldn't he be? Even Enoch respected Emma's choice to remain indifferent to love, for fear of breaking her heart again.
But Jake has accomplished what none of them could before. Olive is happy for her friend. If Emma were willing to open herself to him, Olive would only wish her happiness.
And if that happiness lies with Jake, then all the better for them.
•
"You love her, don't you?"
His head whips up, eyes glaring at her furiously.
Olive nods her head towards the blonde girl. "Emma. I see the way you look at her and Jake."
Her smile is soft, albeit tinged with a sort of sorrow. "It's okay to be jealous, Enoch, but please don't take this away from her. I've never seen Emma so happy."
Enoch's expression is confused, then incredulous, then angry. "I have absolutely no idea–"
There's that sad smile again. As if his denial was just a confirmation of her suspicions. "Please, Enoch. I know what it feels like to love from afar." The suddenly burst of emotion nearly knocks her over. Yes, she definitely knows the feeling of unrequited love. "But– let her be happy, just this one time. She deserves it."
He sighs irritably, staring down at her, speaking to her as if she were just a child. "Really? You're not a matchmaker. What could you possibly know about love? Honestly, Olive you can be so stupid sometimes. Just– just leave."
A simple nod, and she's gone, silent and obedience as always.
What does she know about love?
Just as much as him, if not more.
•
The color of the ice is wintery, all pale blue and white. Such a vast contrast to her regular shades of red, orange, and yellow. The cold consumes her, draining away her life as time ticks down, killing her second by second. Dark purplish-blue bruises form from where the wight gripped her shoulder, staining her pale skin. Her eyes are emotionless.
"Olive!"
No, no, no, this cannot be happening. Olive, his Olive, is dying. She can't die, not now, not like this.
And what was the last thing he said to her? Just leave.
Leave.
Leave.
Leave.
Leave.
His mind spits the word brutally at him. Leave her like she just left you.
It would be simple, easy – his usual choice. He has a tendency to abandon those he cares about when they need it most. It wouldn't be the first time he left her to fend off an evil by herself.
But the evil truly is evil this time. A wight, with powers opposite of Olive's, who's much stronger. The other children are shrieking, attacking with everything they have. Enoch has to make a choice. He will save her.
He has to.
•
As he draws back from the kiss, his eyes are closed, so he misses the split second that life touches her face again, but he swears he felt the exact moment that her soul began seeping back into her body. He wants to laugh; joy is bubbling up inside of him, making him lightheaded and dizzy. Don't ever leave, he thinks as hard as he can to her. I don't mean it, I promise. No matter what I say.
Her arms and fingertips are still tinged blue, but the smile that lights up her face is the brightest thing he's seen in a long, long time.
"You never realized what, Enoch?"
His name spills off her tongue in the most beautiful way. He inhales an inordinate amount of air, and there's an almost painful sensation in his chest. The feeling gets stronger the longer he stares into her eyes.
So this is what Jacob feels all the time. No wonder he went off all heroic like that. If helping people would make Olive that happy, Enoch would save the world without a second glance.
You never realized what?
The question still lingers in the frozen air, but Enoch has the strongest urge to say, "How beautiful you are."
For now, though, pride is the strongest emotion in him, so he'll tuck this memory away somewhere, and pull it out in his darkest times. Maybe one day, after all the wights are gone and the villains are defeated, he'll find the courage to finally tell her what he meant to say.
He holds out his hand, helps her up, and when her back is turned, his mouth curves into a soft smile despite himself.
I love you.