A/N: Not really sure where this would fall on the timeline, but I wrote it with Ian's need to heal/be a better person in mind, so this could take place post-Day of Doom.
I do not own The 39 Clues series.
Every day, a small wooden tray appears outside Ian's bedroom door, a cup of piping-hot tea placed carefully in the center. He is skeptical at first - hasn't Lucian training taught him to always be wary of "gifts"? On that first day, the untouched tray vanishes after an hour or so. Ian reminds himself that the tea had likely gone cold, and it was probably cheap tea, and he could buy any tea, anywhere, so why should he care? But for some reason, it's a false comfort, and just as soon as he starts to forget about the strange appearance, the tray appears outside his bedroom door again at the exact same time the next day, steam curling invitingly out of the cup placed in the center. This time Ian decides to raise the cup to his lips and take a (cautious) sip.
He almost spits the stuff out.
Whatever is in the cup would certainly not be considered tea by his former standards, and is barely tea by his current ones, but by the time he's finished the cup, he decides that it isn't bad. It's warm, it's comforting, and like many things, it's grown on him. He sets the tray and the empty cup just outside the door, expecting this tea incident to be an odd and soon-forgotten one.
But in the next few weeks weeks it becomes a routine - the tea appears at ten, he's finished it by eleven, and the tray vanishes by eleven-oh-five. It's become so routine that Ian opens the door just a crack after he sets the empty teacup back down on the tray, just in time to see a splotch of red whip around the corner and out of sight as the tray "vanishes." For the first time in months, he smiles. Granted, it's a small smile (a smirk to some) and only he can feel it, but it's something.
When he appears in the kitchen one afternoon, for the first time in a long time, they all stare. He offers a small smile to all of them and out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Amy might, just might, be smiling back.
He thinks perhaps he should do something, not out of kindness, but out of fear (though he's always been told to create fear, never to give in to it - a most peculiar turn of events). It is now what drives him from the moment he jolts awake after a terrifying nightmare to the moment he opens his bedroom door at one minute past ten. The sweet scent that awaits him every morning is something he's grown to depend on - a life source of sorts - and the empty cup is his triumph over the first hurdle of the day. It's simply odd how his stomach turns and flips as he opens the door each morning, and he thinks perhaps he ought to do something about the fear.
It's fear. Nothing more.
So he begins leaving her books, Austen, Dickens, all out of his personal library - at first because he hates to be in anyone's debt and he's afraid that this fragile connection will break, and then because (if he's truly being honest with himself, which he rarely is) a small part of him lives for those moments when he sees a smile light up her face as she absorbs a story. He almost dares to think that she's smiling because of something he did. It really is addicting, and sometimes (only sometimes), he allows himself to believe that one day she'll allow him to make her smile.
But for now, he is content with this comfortable rhythm they've created - tea at ten and books in the afternoon - that they fall into much too easily. The rhythm is never broken, save for that day when he glanced up from his reading to find her staring at him from across the library, or the time they accidentally (accidentally, he swears) brushed fingertips as he passed a copy of Pride and Prejudice to her. They've come close, admittedly.
He goes to the library a few minutes early, prepared for the usual games they play - the glances, the smiles, the brushing hands, his halting attempts to begin a conversation. Still, something feels different this time, though if it's good or bad, he can't tell. They've been reading for several hours and Amy stands, stretches, and walks to the nearest bookshelf.
Ian stands and follows her, unsure what is driving his actions. She is slightly startled to find him standing directly behind her, but she remains silent, wide-eyed, and stands against the dark wooden bookshelves, just looking up at him, unblinking. They are closer than Ian could ever have hoped and he can see every freckle on her cheeks, every shade of green in her eyes. Her eyes blink closed and he can tell that she's waiting, just waiting, as if deciding whether or not to take a chance. But it's his chance to take too, and in a single brave moment he decides that this will be a chance he cannot leave. He can feel her breath on his skin now, warm and feather-light, hesitant and sweet-smelling and he wonders briefly if she tastes as sweet as he's imagined. Their noses brush, just barely, and then...
The door bangs open, and Madison, Reagan, and Dan race through the library, yelling and thumping through the aisles. Ian and Amy quickly press themselves against shadowed stone wall behind another bookshelf and remain silent in the hope that their family won't discover them in such a compromising position. After several tense minutes, Ian realizes that Amy grabbed his hand in the sudden confusion and is still pressed up against him (he's not complaining, he's just a little short of breath at the moment).
"Are they gone?" she asks quietly. He nods, still caught up in her scent, her soft red hair, not even noticing when she disentangles herself from him. "Ian?" she says suddenly and he notices her other hand still on his chest, his heart thumping steadily under her touch.
She's so close he can't think straight and he thinks his chance has passed, surely he would never deserve to be so lucky to be able to -
He doesn't finish the thought. He can't.
Her mouth is warm on his, soft, sweet, wanting, and he instinctively wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her up against him. After so long, years of the dance they've done, he thought any kiss between them would be frantic, his mouth grabbing hers, his body pressing hers against the wall, hands fumbling desperately at each other, tongues dueling.
But it's more like dancing - her fingers skim up his neck, and twirl in his hair, his hands move to the small of her back, resting on her as if they were about to glide gracefully together. It's more intimate than anything he's ever experienced and his heart thumps wildly, fearful, ecstatic, fragile. He is terrified, of ruining this somehow, of what might come next, of so many things, but for once, her lips moving against his and her hands tangled gently in his hair, he isn't afraid of letting go.
The small wooden tray appears the next morning at exactly ten o'clock, two cups of piping-hot tea placed carefully next to his copy of Pride and Prejudice, carried by a girl who looks him straight in the eyes, a question on her lips.
He lets her in.
A/N: I always thought Ian would be changed after the first series - arrogant, still, but changed. Kinder, maybe, if only slightly. He'd still wear a mask of sorts - he's fearful of his family, himself, what he's done. And maybe it's just me being soft, but I never really saw Ian as a bad person. He's a person who had bad influences, yes, he's cold, not used to being kind, but not a truly horrible person...This is just one possibility. I have so many more in my head.
Ian's always fascinated me. I can imagine him being extremely awkward as he's trying to get Amy to like him, afraid that he'll do something wrong again, but unable to use his usual tactics against a more confident Amy. What do you think? :)
Also, when Ian comes down from his room for that first time and smiles, I always imagined the Cahills would see it as a grimace, but that Amy might see it as an attempt to connect with them.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the fic. Thank you very much for reading. :)
-TimeTravel6