Abe had never known the luxury of youth, had never been so free , although he had felt the pang of naivety each time Red had turned to give him a quizzical, odd stare at his awkward mannerisms, each time the Professor had imparted upon him some of the age-old wisdom he kept so closely, each time Nuala had turned her gaze from him to stare fixedly at some point in the room, her mind working to accept the hardships of court and politics and obligation, burdens he could never bear for her. He had only felt that particular aspect of the mythical, ordinary childhoods he'd heard about; he'd always felt so old, even when he was a new B.P.R.D. agent, and that sensation had stayed with him long through his life.
It was haunting him now, with her so close, large irises so very wide and staring straight at him, milky orbs of gold in the dim light of the library. His heart pounded at the mere sight of such ethereal beauty, and it was all he could do not to tremble beneath her touch when she reached out to lightly brush her hand against his, entwining the tips of their fingers. It had become commonplace for her to do this, to mix their emotions when she felt that she herself could not handle them alone, and he'd all but jumped at the opportunity to ease her mind.
In the recent years they'd grown so close that their minds were always open to one another, so intimate that a touch of the hands wasn't needed for communication anymore, but it somehow felt all the more special when their palms met. Not for the first time, though, such contact made Abe long to be normal, to be human, to be anything but what he was, with his webbed fingers only allowing Nuala so much hold upon them. He felt so absurdly monstrous next to her, but the thought was a careless one, for in her routine of letting him see how stressed and worried and restricted she felt, the elf came across his self-deprecation and pulled her fingers back quickly, as if burned.
She looked it, too, her face so open and shocked and hurt. It had never occurred to him that he could inflict such pain within the queen, but now that he'd seen it, Abe felt instant, sharp remorse, and quickly stepped forward, only an inch or so-he would never dare touch her, never dare be brave enough, never dare invade her will when he doubted she would even want him to. He thought to say something, knew it was the only thing to do, and yet he found himself at a loss for words, looking down at her with such amazement.
She frowned at him, but it was a gentle gesture, and Abe realized with relief that Nuala was no longer angry at him. He tilted his head curiously, gingerly sifting through her thoughts to gain some insight, but he found that she'd shut him away, and he was left, perhaps for the first time in years, entirely alone within his own mind. He blinked in shock, shaking his head.
"I-I don't know what I've done," he murmured softly, desperate to know, and he thought that if he could grimace, he'd do so at the sight of her melancholy expression. Nuala looked at her feet and he felt the overwhelming urge to tuck the golden strands of hair behind her ear; they fell softly in front of her cheek and he let them be.
"I just, "she began tentatively, her brow furrowing before she glanced back up at him, "don't know why you must think of yourself in such a way."
Abe never really noticed, when he thought of how different he was, when he longed to be human; it was natural for him. Quickly, he tried to think of some response adequate enough, but fell silent. He didn't tell her that the scientists had thought of him as some subject to be dissected, that the agents had seen him as some alien creature they were forced to work with, that the people in Brooklyn had looked so disgusted by him. He didn't tell her, could never weigh her already heavy shoulders, could never reveal to such a pure soul the revulsion of his past.
She visibly flinched, and Abe realized with an immense, slow sense of panic that she'd returned in his mind, suddenly and without notice, ever since the moment she'd stopped talking. He imagined there'd be a blush creeping up his face, if it were possible, and simultaneously felt that he'd done something very wrong by eliciting such a reaction from her; causing any reaction other than joy seemed like some terrible sin. He attempted to avert his gaze, to look anywhere but at her eyes, her face, her sadness, to focus on a distant picture hanging on the wall or a piece of lint lying upon the carpet-anything, really. He thought of what he could say to make up for his musings, what he could say to make her forget, but Abe had never been very good with words.
It was a true struggle, then, to be completely unable to convince her of forgetfulness, to be unable to convey to her how little his woes were compared to her own, to be unable to express how perfect she was. His attempts at aversion were futile, apparently, because he was inevitably drawn to her, gaze cast down to her face, his attention only for her, and it was then that her grim expression lifted and she smiled a very gentle, tender smile. In that moment he remembered why he'd always likened her eyes to the sun, so bright and warm and unable to be stared at for very long. He blinked rapidly, the distant echoes of classical music floating through the library, and sighed.
"I'm no angel," the queen softly reminded him, and he couldn't help but disagree, but kept the denial from her mind, and was so caught up in his efforts that he didn't take notice when she inched closer to him, lips curled upward at the corners in that sweet, excited grin of hers. He suddenly was very aware, though, and stifled a gulp, his breaths coming in short, silent little gasps.
"It's just that…I don't want to weigh your concerns with my own; it would be inconsiderate of me."
She titled her head, and he traced the movement of those golden tips of hair brushing across the blue material shrouding her shoulders. He tried not to imagine how silky the strands would feel wound around his fingers, how warm her shoulders would be if he touched them.
"So you will not share your reasons with me? Why you think so little of yourself?"
There was a glint of strictly restrained anger in her eyes and his heart nearly skipped a beat. Why was he always making her so angry? What was wrong with him? He pressed his fingers together to stop them from shaking and took a deep breath.
"I merely thought that to start explaining would stress you even more…" He found that he couldn't finish, realized he was being too formal with a woman he'd known rather intimately for decades now, knew that there was no other way to explain than with painful honesty.
"I don't want to let you dwell on both our pasts, Nuala. I don't want to add to your stress and worry by telling you that I feel entirely unworthy of you. I don't want to make you feel guilty," he rushed to finish, breathless, completely unable to look her in the eye, his heart racing within his chest, gills flapping erratically, nervously. Her grin fell and she shook her head, lips parting with confusion.
"Guilty?" she asked quietly, and he detected pain there in her tone, shrinking into himself, regretting the words and the moment and the way she was watching him. "I would feel guilty because," and here she looked away from him, eyes darting about the room as she tried to add reason to his words, and he thought fleetingly that it was something he would do in any other situation, "I do not care for you in such a way?" she asked.
He reluctantly, and almost imperceptibly, nodded. Her eyes rounded and she stepped even closer to him, but instead of any outward expressions of anger that he'd come to expect from years lived alongside Red and Liz, both unafraid to tell you when they were ultimately miffed at you, she instead reached out to place a warm palm against his forearm and it took all of Abe's willpower not to flinch and pull his arm away, as was immediate instinct; Nuala was not harmful yet he had no idea why she would ever touch anything but his fingers.
He blinked, astonished, and she gazed up at him patiently, amusedly, her thoughts as open to him as ever. She took a deep breath and grinned just as he felt a wave of something come over him, something lovely and heavenly and amazing, sensations of love and warmth and caring, feelings so deep and heartfelt that he nearly stumbled. It's what he had done as she'd died in his arms all those years ago, but in greater magnitude, opening his heart and mind and very soul to her in her last moments.
It was a very difficult thing to do, at times, to leave oneself entirely vulnerable, and it required a great deal of trust. Then, he'd been so sure of her purity and innocence that it had only taken a couple of days for him to do such a thing, but here they were, years later, and she was showing him everything. She showed him the smile she cast his way when he wasn't looking, the way the accidental brush of their shoulders while cooking in the kitchen made her shiver deep inside. She showed him how his mere presence made her heart and stomach flutter, how often she'd dreamt of him, how she'd memorized his voice quite by accident, how she'd always wanted to swim with him in the water, how she'd watch him sleep in the tank of the library when she couldn't find slumber herself.
She showed him how deep the roots of her love were, and it took his breath away. He was lured back to reality when he felt her hold on his arm tighten just the slightest, a gentle reminder of where he was, and he felt the need to cover her hand with his own.
"I would not feel guilty, only saddened, that you feel that way, Abraham. I would only wonder why you see yourself in such a way when I cannot see that in you," she smirked and tucked a strand of pale hair behind the pointed tip of her ear, and he could have sworn that he saw gold color dust the tops of her cheeks, "because I love you, and I see everything about you. I cannot find even the ghost of monstrosity within you."
The lilt of her accent and the sincerity of her words made his knees weak, and he took a calming breath, trying to process the information, trying so hard to accept it. For years he'd thought they were just friends, that he harbored such strong feelings never to be returned, that her presence, though welcome and almost needed, would only ever be a distant thing. And yet here she was, so close to him, closer than ever before, an utter miracle he never would have imagined.
"You truly…love me?" he asked, stunned, and her eager nod was interrupted by her fit of nervous laughter. She reached out with her other arm and brushed her fingertips against his cheek, and he marveled at how warm they were.
"All these years, and I have been convinced your confession that day in Ireland was merely an attempt to ease a dying mind," she whispered, shaking her head, "All these years, and we've been so careful. We've missed so much-so much time."
He caught the movement of her irises, the flicker downward, traced the way she looked at him and the wistfulness in her voice. He tilted his head, but made sure it wasn't a steep enough tilt to abandon the reach of her heated skin.
"Time for what? We've only ever been together," he asked hoarsely, and her smile, when it reached her eyes, was alive with delight and anticipation. He blinked at her, overwhelmingly curious, just before she stood on the very tips of her toes, ever graceful, and craned her neck toward him, ever slowly, ever gentle. Her lips brushed against his, such feather light softness, such warmth, and he inhaled her scent of roses, breathed it through his gills and nose and mouth, felt so comforted by the feel of her body heat against him as she pressed closer, arms wrapping around his neck as the smooth material of her sleeves slid easily over his striped skin.
He shivered inwardly, hands at his sides as she linked her own together behind his neck, resting her knuckles against the notch of his spine. It was unnerving, but pleasantly so, and he sighed against her mouth as she stood flat on her feet, gingerly pulling him down to her level, and the imbalance caused him to clutch almost instinctually at her waist, palms splayed against the small of her back.
It was her turn to shiver, and she made a soft noise in the back of her throat as her golden eyelids fluttered. Abe couldn't close his eyes, was physically unable, and so he watched the way her anxious expression smoothed into one of pleasure just as he felt every sensation she herself was feeling through his contact with her, waves and waves of longing and relief and bliss fluttering against his palms. He pulled her flush against him, deepening the kiss, and her warmth spread all throughout his body, driving away the innate cold within him, feeling her heart pound against his chest. He carefully brought one hand up to cup her face, amazed at the delicacy, the porcelain paleness and golden heat, running the pad of his thumb over the raised bumps of her scars.
She suddenly caught at his arm and held it there, and he noticed how her touch trembled, felt her insecurity, and pulled his hand away to hold his palm against hers, running his other hand up her back and along her spine. Nuala's back arched at his explorations and in that moment he wished he could smile.
In that moment, aware of her abrupt, glorious grin against his lips, Abe felt more human, and more alive, than ever in his life.
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