DH AN: With In A Name Act I given a couple updates under its belt, figure I'd give a solo fic some attention. Fair warning, this includes stuff that I haven't touched on before in fic proper, but is definitely not the first time for AU Marik to consider. It's relatively shortly into the chapter.

Also it's probably a good time to remind y'all OR hit ya with a doozy, that I messed with the timeline, Battle City hasn't happened, and while he's slightly better about it, AU Marik has several luggage sets still at this point. (Saying he just has baggage is a MASSIVE understatement, Alternate Timeline or not.) As has been the pattern, there is also Not As I Know Him trauma that presents at various points.

AN 2: The flashback in this chapter "starts" an interlude that was originally just going to be an unnamed cameo at some point and this section didn't exist. As per usual, I have no self-control, or start thinking too much and well here we are. Haven't written much aside from this but I'm already pretty excited about it. All characters that aren't mine in this little interlude will be credited properly at the end of the chapters they first appear in- or at least for this one as I don't want to give away the surprise so readily.

Chapter Fourteen

The Little Bird's message had said five minutes.

That was four minutes ago.

And as Marik watches through a window that has no right to be so clean, all he's gained is four minutes' worth of a thousand-yard stare broken only by three tremors and one futile self-warming gesture. A small part of him aches, but it's overruled by debating if he should have dragged Arlomhe Sharti out after one minute. But that would merely fuel her fear and undo the small progress made since that damned collapse-induced coma lifted.

The phone vibrated once more as it indicated another text. For a second, his mind was whisked back to that infirmary room, where he could do nothing except watch that occupied bed. His long fingers dug into the leather of the car's interior. His elation at her wakefulness two weeks after the collapse had evaporated quicker than a gas fire. The fear in her eyes- it was as if he'd taken the very knife that she'd retrieved for him to her back. As though he committed a betrayal of the worst kind. He knew the feeling far too intimately. A frown sets into his face as he presses his chin into his closed right fist.

The damned, unforgettable stench of a musty gag floods his memory. All he's missing is the now repurposed Stripping Knife (bleach cleaned to oblivion and then reforged, and then bleached again for good measure) to stare down as he mulled why he hadn't truly made an heiress of Mheralo Rylae Ishtar yet, and had no intention to.

He could- she wasn't a he but what was one more rule in a list that he daily ignored? She was of age, had basically already spent her whole life cloistered, and she would obey- without hesitation. That last point was why he would never go beyond entertaining the idea every few years.

He wouldn't. Her loyalties were his, and his alone. And he'd already limited her freedoms enough. Vengeance, if he could have it was also his and his alone…. That was the only birthright that still held any interest to him. The Secret would die with him otherwise.

The vanilla air freshener scent invades his senses and puts those morbid thoughts back where they belong. Under cold ground.

Marik somewhat idly flicks open the cell phone. The text was from Little Benu- as always, she ignores his preferences out of spite.

I like the new negotiator, she's a keeper ;) Marik merely rolls his eyes. He clenches his teeth as another text message comes in. You're lucky your Little Lookout followed you, Mr. Really Hot.

With the usual thought that responding is against his better judgement, he sends back. Salt in the wound is bad form, Lady Benu. Figuring he's entertained the Vexing Little Bird long enough, Marik snaps the phone shut, and with a graceful flick of his wrist drops it in the empty cupholder without taking his eyes from the window.

He should have never sent her after that stupid obsidian knife. What he'd gained wasn't at all equitable to what he'd lost… perhaps who he'd lost would be a better way to qualify that. He cuts the engine, removing the key. He then quietly exits the car and steps around it once the girl rises from the chair, later than Little Benu advised. With each step around the back of the car, he feels his muscular tension, and the annoyance that prompted it, loosen and eventually leave. He reaches the front passenger door and pulls it open to wait. While not a proper gentleman by any means, he would ensure that his progeny not accept anything less than proper etiquette from a suitor. Although he can easily… prescreen any potential beaus, even he knows that's wrong… at least acting on any information he gleaned that way would be.

After a moment, he turns to face the storefront, tucking his fingers into the car door's handhold and settles to watch for his charge's exit from the building. The door opens and she exits with a cardboard coffee caddy in her right hand that bears two cups. The negation package is clasped lightly to her left side. He watches her pale upon reaching the car, upon reaching him. The realization pulls the barest hint of a frown to his face.

The only thing that prevents the expression from etching further into his face is the hazelnut scent that hits his nostrils, followed shortly by chocolate and maybe a hint of cinnamon… he can't be sure on that last one-it's very faint. Leaning in, he pulls the cellphone from the cupholder and slides it into his right pocket. "May I assist you?" Again, she merely nods numbly and mute, as she had in the booth when he asked to sit. He pulls the coffee from the cardboard first and places the cup in the furthest back of the two cupholders in the center console. He takes the other drink and places it in the front slot before folding the caddy flat and drops it in the back. He frowns as he catches sight of her cloak in the back of the car- and the body impressions still on the carpet between the backseat and center console. Marik feels her gaze follow his own even as she tosses the envelope onto the passenger dashboard.

"I'm sorry I snuck into the car." Her apology is soft, but unneeded. If it were necessary, some punishment should follow this transgression, but… he hadn't explicitly told her not to. In addition, she was the only reason he wasn't waiting for bail.

"Dear One, if you must ever sneak into a car again, wear the seatbelt. It was dark- you could have gotten away with it. You did manage to get in without me being any the wiser."

"And gamble against your compulsion to be observant?" She fights a mild shiver. "Those really aren't odds that are in my favor."

The return of that newfound flippancy spikes his ire, and seems to vaporize his patience. "Then your next best option is what, Ms. Sharti?" His query is unwavering, to the point, and demanding of an answer.

She doesn't hesitate but one second. "Don't do it again." Under the weight of his stare, she adds a quiet "Sir."

"Very good." Marik steps around the front of the car. "Get in." As he reaches the driver's side door, he hears her quickly slide in, and the passenger door shut. He follows suit on his own side.

"Master Marik," He turns his head so fast that his vision blurs and his goose egg explodes in pain. Only that damned sincere respect that permeates her entire being sways away the need to immediately chastise her. "It's not at all my place to ask, but…" The sound of the seatbelt clicking in place masks the hesitation he knows is there. He watches her hand go to her right shoulder as her face twists in pain, no telling what's in response to her own, what's a reaction to his, and what's merely the reminder of her folly. "Are you-" She winces as his eyes narrow on her "Are you feeling ok?"

"You're the only one with any fraction of a place to ask that of me, Dear One." He watches her flinch as he leans towards her. "And if you dare use 'Master' again without proper reason, I may just take you up on it." It's an empty threat, always has been. Just as there's never a proper reason for her to ever use that address- the second he starts expecting it from her, he's surmised he's better off dead. "That exemption is yours alone, and far from the only one." He leans out of the personal bubble and plucks the coffee from the cupholder to drink while the beverage is still a good temperature.

Placing the cup back into the holder a minute later, he watches her fidget. While it's not entirely unlike her, she hasn't been herself for roughly about a month. Under normal circumstances, she would have never snuck into a car in the first place.

But as he pulls his keys from his left pocket, the first consideration that perhaps an at minimum three-day boat trip (after picking her up) really was a poor idea hits like a ton of bricks. Barring that current pending items soundly quashed that idea, another detail struck him in that moment as he found the sedan key.

Arlomhe Sharti has never travelled well by boat. In her defense, getting knocked out of bed to the floor by rough seas in the dark, early morning on one's first go at the tender age of eight doesn't make for someone who is calm at sea. His freedom has never come at the cost of a conscious imprisonment of her. That should not change now; he has no right to drag her wherever he damn well pleased as if she were his captive.

But where if not on the medium-sized launch could he take the needed escape, and perhaps try repairing this damage that he was suffering from through no perceivable fault of his own? The single brass-plated house key on the keyring catches his attention. It's the only other option. The risk of sleep loss is one he's willing to take if it breaks even a fraction of the fear which still holds her.

But first, to contact Odion. The last thing the man needed was to think his already emotionally fragile niece had gotten kidnapped. Rightly Marik's stomach sours on two acknowledgements- his nerve to dare call the girl emotionally fragile when it's merely a minor setback. And kidnapping wasn't a joking matter. Ever.

Hell, he was a wreck even when it was merely a coma that kept her. He shakes those thoughts away with a small exhale and starts the car long enough to lower the windows. He pulls the cellphone from his pocket. A seatbelt unlatches in time with him flipping open the device.

She pulls her drink from the cupholder and opens the car door. "I need some air, and… I'd rather not eavesdrop." Marik permits her comment to pass without a question and somehow manages to convince himself that there isn't a reason to press further. In addition, it saves him the trouble of waving the girl away, as well as allow him to ignore the fact that he only need ask for privacy and she'd willingly oblige his request. There is an adequate place for Sharti to comfortably wait and still be visible. He doesn't miss her gesture to it with a nod of her head. He waits until she's situated on the outdoor bench before he manually dials the number as it gives just a bit more time on what he wants to say after the initial information is given- or if anything further is needed at all.

The phone rings before he completes the dialing, Admittedly, the call from the seamstress- and earlier than the quoted time at that- is a welcome distraction. Two months is more than a decent turnaround time for the level of artistry, exceptional, considering it's a fifth shaved off the quoted time. The call goes to voicemail as his mind wanders to his most recent visit, two months prior.

Flashback

He likes hole in the wall, single locations for two reasons: Whatever info he offers usually stays there, and the employees are more likely to remember him and within reason, bend over backwards to ensure customer satisfaction. A semi-genuine decency on his end doesn't hurt chances either.

The downside is smaller businesses tend to fold under less pressure than something bigger, and vanish with seemingly no rhyme or reason.

Fortunately, he found the dress shop under the name Elegance still in business.

Marik had always felt the name a severe understatement. The garments were hand-touched if not completely handmade and certainly durable with proper care- a testament proven by two in garment bags in his closet… actually, the wedding dress had merely been altered by the establishment's seamstress, but he was adamantly against anyone else doing that. Competence is hard to find. He'd be a fool to squander it. There was subtitling underneath the primary prominent lettering that had faded with age- it was that way seventeen years prior as well if he recalled right. Perhaps at one time the shop had need to differentiate from a competitor.

Marik shakes off a combination of utter longing and a bit of nostalgia as he steps inside. And is met almost immediately with a dress that's beyond adequate. Silver sequins dot the midline of the dress in three rows, and the fabric is cool against his fingers. The cut is a smidge more flattering to the bust than he cares for, but that can always be adjusted.

The color however, a rose wine pink, wouldn't suit his recipient in the least.

"I'm guessing the color isn't your thing. You never had an eye for any of the pinks." A golden blonde head peeks from behind the racks, barely hiding a somewhat cheeky grin from her Caucasian face, the mirth in her blue eyes giving it away.

The seamstress slides away from the rack and ends up on his right, about a foot from him. "I still do think you are my best model for that pretty purple and gold number that matches that green and bronze one you commissioned. It's still wrapped and sealed. I can't quite bear to let just anyone walk out with it."

"Mrs. Dahar, the answer is still no. But that dress remains another outstanding testament to your work." He's resigned himself to the fact that some people just grow on him, much to his chagrin. As long as that number remains countable on his fingers, he'll permit it. So far so good.

"Mr. Sharti, you've bought three- presumably soon to be four- dresses from me, at the very least please call me Hani'ah. 'Mrs. Dahar' is still my mother-in-law in my head." Hani'ah toys with a small portion of the flowy floral sky-blue skirt of her dress.

Marik smoothly deflects the distraction. "It was actually two- one commission and one alteration." As he spies a dress with a solid color ruffle bottomed fringe, he again would rather forget the third purchase- the only one that was immediate. Recalling the absolutely stunning craft of the first dress and the alteration on the wedding dress are the only things staving a breakdown of sorts.

"As I don't like quibbling, I'll cede to your memory." Hani'ah politely ignores the clear discomfort. "Regardless, I owe you for the hours spent attaching all those pearls to that absolutely gorgeous cream bodice- it's making my current project a piece of cake." Hani'ah paces towards the work counter near the back of the shop. "Must've been quite the wedding." Hani'ah winks as she slides quickly behind the counter and almost proudly shows off the blue bodice portion of a dress- bearing a distinct layered peacock feather motif running down the front. Only a few of the pieces -no more than ten- are still attached with straight pins that have white tops for safe removal after sewing.

"That looks special." He blames the utter lack of tact and preamble solely on account of the unintentional gut punch at the seamstress' mention of the wedding. She was stunning.

"Personal projects should get done while there's downtime. Come about a month I'll be smack in the middle of orders for spring formals and weddings- the bridesmaid's dresses." Hani'ah looks somewhat wistfully at the garment that had caught his attention upon entry. "Maybe that rosy wine dress will find a home yet."

"Why not take it home yourself?"

"Almahdi might just actually get a dent in his forehead after the facepalm he'd give me." Hani'ah bites back a laugh at the image. "And as weird as your near revulsion to buying pinks is, I know someone whose reaction has you beat, and she wouldn't suit that dress either."

"Does that fabric come in other colors Hani'ah?" The name is the only thing without a terse undertone. Marik watches as Hani'ah expertly sweeps the dress in progress back onto the worktable.

"Of course Mr. Sharti. Old Rosy was just a bad color choice- that pattern has been a great seller- and with butter soft fabric like that, coupled with a modestly flattering cut it's no wonder. Casual enough for a night in with a candlelight dinner for two, but formal enough for a gala with all attendees dressed to the nines. I've heard in that latter scenario, it's quite the attention-grabber. The silver sequin midline on the empire waist sells it." She quickly pulls a pattern from a shelf, consults it with just as much promptness as she pulled it from the shelves, and dashes off to the part of the store unseen by patrons.

Marik would classify music that pours through the ceiling speakers as something perhaps heard in a piano lounge. Some long dead crooners, and plenty of classy modern covers that pay proper homage to the predecessors but with their own sound. Both the classic and modern perhaps invite thoughts of a slow dance or something just a bit quicker- apt for perhaps testing the attire in the shop.

He spies a mannequin modeling an orange dress, one in which the right wearer would look aflame. The model measurements certainly aren't Hani'ah's. The model is taller, and frankly the dress is the wrong color palette for Hani'ah's skin tone. But it was similar enough. His gaze settles on the peacock themed bodice and back to the orange dress. Both seem similar in size.

He snaps back into focus just as Hani'ah returns with multiple bolts of fabric- the only ones he can distinguish immediately are an almost pine green atop the stack, and the ever classic black at the bottom. Hani'ah fans out the seven bolts of fabric, the green, black, and the rose wine pink are not options. That leaves a ruby red, an ivory, a dulled silver, and a vibrant midnight blue, all of which the sequin midline would certainly stand out on and complement.

The red would match her hair nicely, but a lot of the red shades didn't mix well with her other features. However, the midnight blue would complement her eyes, bring them out. Also if needed, he has a suit that would match it. Fittingly, that suit was her mother's favorite. He sets his index finger on the second to last bolt of fabric rather decisively. Hani'ah's brows rise slightly in surprise. "Glad I don't bet- I would have lost. Was sure you'd go for the green as usual." She plucks a pen from a cup on the counter and he hears the distinct sound of a filing cabinet drawer. Hani'ah slides a file folder marked in Typewritten print with "N. SHARTI" onto the counter and flips it open.

Again, the thoroughness also makes the relationship of sorts worth enduring. The usual measurements are written atop the left inside of the folder, the details of the two commissions and the minor note on the third purchase are on the right side. She reads the minor note and goes almost pale. "This isn't for the same person." Her gaze is on the single polaroid picture in the file and her fingers tremble.

Marik's expression is by a damn miracle completely still as he pulls the paper with another's measurements written in his script- which is quite shifted from that affixed to the left segment of the file folder- from a pocket and slides the paper over to the seamstress. To his surprise it's not an uneven exchange, as she slides the polaroid over with remarkably still fingers. He can't fight a small smile at the image of Filiron Rylae beaming at the camera and posing in the green dress with a curtsy.

"I know you said no photos, but I snuck this one. The pose was begging for it." She lets a laugh slide lightly between her teeth. "I need tangible reminders that what I do matters when I prick my fingers with needles despite that I'm no novice, or some uptight mom loses it because despite following her instructions, it doesn't fit her princess right off the bat. Newsflash, that's how it should be- it's a good thing to have a last fitting so that anything can be fixed." Hani'ah's eyes are on the new measurements and she's making notes on a photocopy of the pattern, but her mind is clearly still on the picture across the counter. "If you'll bear with me, I've got two more little confessions I need to make, Mr. Sharti." She looks up briefly from her work to see him nod, visual attention still on the polaroid under his fingers. "Firstly, the final visits with your projects were always short because your details were so precise; it was as easy as making my daughter's dresses. And the second is that I seem to go to that picture most- it's beautiful but further, it's genuine- it's fun." She idly toys with a section of her hair. "It's thank you personified."

Hani'ah shakes her head lightly. "You don't owe me an answer and it is a huge assumption given all I have are measurements, but if I may, does the little one take more after you or-?"

"Her." The answer is far too immediate and cuts Hani'ah off. Further, it's a bit of a self-indulgent lie, one that he's been holding to since his daughter had started growing discernable head hair that wasn't his blond. "And on the cusp of fourteen years is far from little, Hani'ah."

"In that case, are you certain you want to use this pattern? I've heard it's quite a boy magnet." Hani'ah clearly doesn't register the utterly baffled expression that snaps onto her customer's face as she continues. "My niece proved it, albeit with a mutilated version courtesy of my sister-in-law's impatience and inability to understand that I often give family slight priority rather than guaranteed immediacy. When she brought in that… that half-dress a day later, Al almost couldn't talk me out of taking a pair of shears to Elsie's favorite leather chair that evening- it's not exactly breaking and entering if you have a key." Hani'ah exhales. "Luckily, I have a soft spot for my niece, who was rightly and truly contrite when she popped over on the following Saturday to ask me to at least even out the edges of that tattered mess. I made her wait a week, but she learned good things take time. Hopefully it sticks longer than the usual two months tops. One month in- so far so good."

"How does it become less of a so-called boy magnet, Hani'ah?" The only reason Marik had allowed the woman to wax poetic was that the phrase had thrown him for a loop.

"Well, it's mostly adjusting the bust and the back, and I suggest a slight scooping neckline, or lifting the V-neck cut- but the latter runs the risk of widening the shoulder, and thus having a slip, and I would be embarrassed if that happened to me in public." Marik barely resists reacting to the seamstress' almost reflexive glances at that same portion of her own dress.

"Do it, then." Marik's right hand idly flicks back and forth, brushing a section of his more casual slacks until the ring on his finger almost snags the side pocket. On one's person was always the best place to keep valuables. And courtesy of conditioning aided by more than ample pocket space- his recipient would have no want for a purse. "And add horizontal pockets that end just above the midline, with the right one having a section to house a set of keys with minimal jostling."

"How wide do you want them?" Hani'ah asks without batting an eye.

In response, he tucks his thumb in and lays his extended hand on a ruler with a small strip of paper alongside it, marks the stopping point of his middle finger- as the apex of the hand, it offers a sliver more of space than the next longest digit. After coiling a fist and adding that length to the first mark, he makes a second line and then erases the first. "That long, Hani'ah."

"And about three fingers' width for the keys should be adequate." Still behind the counter, Hani'ah quickly grabs a bare mannequin from her right, as well as a piece of dark colored chalk that will stand out well on the cream, almost beige surface of the mannequin. She then drags the mannequin from behind the counter and in several almost dance-like strides, lightly snatches the rejected rose wine dress from its place of prominence. She returns to the mannequin and Marik immediately sees what risk merely bringing the point of the V-neck up would run. Hani'ah holds the dress' neckline to the mannequin with her left arm- her fist and elbow pinning the cloth shoulders to the appropriate portion of the mannequin. She then carefully outlines the neckline with the chalk. She then back steps to return the dress to the front hook after making a light mark to possibly indicate where the bust would sit. Too high and too out.

Hani'ah then grabs a distinctly dark blue chalk and marks the new measurements, including the pockets. She wears a baffled expression upon marking the new bust section. "This is… flatter than I normally advise. Can you bring her in?"

"No." There's no space whatsoever between the end of Hani'ah's query and Marik's response. "The measurements I gave you will do, Mrs. Dahar." Hani'ah starts to almost nervously fiddle with a pendant around her neck. He can't make out the shape- it's hidden by the back of her closed fist. The only tell of movement is that he can see the woman's thumb, where it joins itself to the body of her hand, slowly bobbing up and down on the piece.

He's clearly unnerved her- it's an unavoidable side effect of his nature. "She's overloaded with assignments at the moment." Not a complete lie, but it's not without the twinge of guilt that the circumstance is decidedly his doing. He just has to note the correct parlance.

"If she's half as sharp as you seem, she'll no doubt excel… but pre-exam jitters definitely drive the bystander as mad as the test taker. Talk is cheap and used far too often in place of action," Her lips tilt in thought. "It bears stating that everyone deserves at least one person who guards what is most fragile to them without stated need for repayment." Hani'ah settles back into her work, transferring the marks on the mannequin to a paper version in a turquoise-colored ink. "It often is repaid on its own anyway." She almost resists a thoughtful smile as she adds the numeric measurements to the more open right side of the paper, looking askance once more at the bust measurement- but not saying a word otherwise. Marik notes Hani'ah's barely evident eyeroll that's almost hidden by a small shake of her head.

"Well seems I wasn't completely wrong- you did pick the green." She laughs as his eyes dart to his now occupied fingers which hold the trailing end of the pine green fabric bolt. "It happens to me all the time. The stuff just finds a way between the fingers. It is pleasantly soft, so I cannot entirely blame you."

"Comfort slips just as easily out of your fingers when you aren't watching, until you're left holding a mere scrap of what you once had." His gaze returns to the polaroid as he allows the fabric to brush his fingers as he pulls them back to his side of the counter.

"But you shouldn't always discard the scraps you're left with." Hani'ah pulls out what looks like a kaleidoscope in fabric form and wraps her shoulders in it. "Too stubborn to mess with the thermostat, pretty effective way to live with the fluctuations of a decades old building I bought from my mentor at a steep discount. She thought business would decline. Turns out high quality work sells pretty well."

"Ah Hani, you're rambling." After a half a second, he goes beet red… of all the times to accidentally drop a syllable-he corrects himself- of all the times to accidentally transpose one… It's far too informal of him- even if on a longshot it is her preferred shortening of the name.

"Well at least you didn't call me Honey." She barely refrains from laughing.

At that moment, Marik probably wouldn't be able to distinguish the color difference between his own face and a tomato. He takes in a breath slowly, refocusing on the kaleidoscope scarf as he clears his throat. "How did you manage to sew all those into something that won't rip at the slightest snag?" He thinks he sees another color coming through some of the sheerer fabric scraps, but in a rare moment, knows that he shouldn't assume.

Hani'ah smiles, the expression slightly crinkling her nose, as she reveals the underside of the scarf at the corner that rests near her right collarbone. The scraps are held against a single large piece of the dulled silver fabric. "It's amazing what happens when those scraps are placed with each other, collected, and given support. It becomes a comfort that one can hold for far longer." Hani'ah watches as her customer pulls out a phone to check the time. It's enough of a hint to start the final phase of the purchase.

She pushes the design documentation into the folder and returns to the filing cabinet to grab blank agreement paperwork. Time and cost estimates, and payment arrangements- all the fun stuff. Hani'ah likes that he doesn't balk at its inclusion but the fact he seems pleased at the documents never has really sat well with her and she can't quite pin down why.

"So, it'll be about two and a half months, give or take two weeks." Hani'ah starts filling out the respective sections as she talks through the paperwork. "I do request you bring her in for the final fitting- sleeve are relatively easy to add to same day- as are other smaller alterations." She jots that information down and double checks it before continuing. "As for cost-"

"That 'purple and gold number' you insisted I'd make a good model for… how much additional time would be added if tailored to the measurements I gave you, in addition to the initial dress?"

"That's easy. It shouldn't add any time at all to the quote." Hani'ah stifles back a light laugh. "Although, that does come with two requests. "If you'd look this way and guesstimate her height in reference to yours, it'd make it so I don't have to guess as much on the height. Helps to know how much I need to trim." She gestures to the right wall where a height measure is placed.

He steps to the tape and precisely plants the pinky side of his right hand at the exact height of his recipient's shoulder. "At the shoulder, Hani'ah." He watches her make notes on another pattern. "The other request?" He sees that Hani'ah has brought the very garment from the back- which true to her word, was still wrapped and sealed in the plastic.

"Prove me right or wrong, model the dress Mr. Sharti."

"No photos." A petulant look from the blonde seamstress forces a compromise. "You get one photograph. And you show it to no one- it's for your use only - hopefully something beyond mere amusement." A thought struck him right in that moment. "However, I do get something out of this- you're clearly capable of making a dress with little to no bust, thus the measurements for the full-length project should certainly be doable."

He watches Hani'ah's jaw set, her cheeks go ever slightly scarlet, and her nose scrunches in stubbornness. "How silly of me to forget that pedantic attention to detail is a double-edged sword. You must be a riot at dinner parties." Her voice is so tart, it'd have given a lemon a run for its money.

"I much prefer my own company." His response is just as tart as he pulls the proper documentation for the payment he intends to use. While his chosen alias is false, the documentation that backs it up is above board. Presenting clearly illegitimate credentials are a level of stupidity to which he will not stoop; fickle morals or not. "Now then, shall we complete the process?"

"Of course, Mr. Sharti. but do give me a little time to consider your pose." Fittingly, Hani'ah pulls the polaroid camera and plonks it on the counter, thrumming her fingers on the counter surface to the right of the new addition.

End Flashback

The thrumming changes in tone and timbre and Marik is brought back to the present as Arlomhe Sharti raps her knuckles lightly against the driver's side door, her issued cell phone gripped in her opposite hand with an active call on the screen muted on her end.

"It's Odion. He just wants to hear from you that you're safe and accounted for- don't begrudge him for it, please Sir." She finds the ground very interesting as she waits for him to snatch the phone from her without any care whatsoever. Her breath hitches as the device gets plucked lightly from her fingers. However, that's where his consideration ends as his index finger stabs the mute button and he presses the phone to his ear. That's enough for her to go slightly slower to the passenger side.

Despite the space, she halts at the nearly yelled "I don't need minding!" that blasts out of the window.

She opens the door just as the closed phone lands expertly in the empty cupholder. Another sign that the best course of action is to keep her mouth shut and do what is required. Nothing more and most certainly nothing less.

"Seatbelt." His single word sends her into a trembling fit as she fumbles for the receptacle, missing it twice. His audible exhale as he starts the car does nothing for her nerves, nor his ire, apparently.

He starts to drive. And she starts to settle, at least the Alexandrian coastline will be pleasant to look at. Her employer is very tied to his habits and he always takes the more visually pleasing route to depart from the city.

Except he's taken a different turn than usual after retracing back to the local museum. It's a miracle she avoids any sound until the next red light.

"It's easier this way." All his fingers grasp the wheel far too hard, except for the pinky finger on his right hand that almost cradles a lone key that doesn't blend with the rest. He turns down one last busy thoroughfare and it soon gives way to a quieter set of residential streets. She watches him slow the car after taking a glance at the indented numbers on the odd key in the set. Three houses later, he turns into the driveway of a light gray, two story home. She watches him loosen the moment he exits the car, keys in hand with the odd warmer brass key between his forefinger and thumb. He passes around the front of the car, and pulls her door open. Only when she finds his face unreadable… only then does it hit her that the place is far too nice to be a mere safe house… or not one for general use. She follows him onto the small porch and watches as he tests the lock, which holds. He pushes the brass key into the deadbolt and throws it open with a sharp rotation. The action is duplicated, albeit slower and gentler, with the doorknob's built-in lock.

Upon stowing the keys, he turns his attention to her almost in synch with the turning of the doorknob. "Welcome to my private retreat, Ms. Sharti."

DH: Ok two words: emotionally flippy. And I had my heart dead set on that line to end the chapter. Sorry not sorry for the cliffy.

Although offscreen, Marik rocked that dress and to his chagrin proved Hani'ah right. (I'm short on my "It's a dress" joke quota for the AU mess.) I had so much fun writing the dress bit, and setting up for what I'm tentatively dubbing the domesticity interlude.

Hani'ah and Almahdi Dahar (for the latter, a mention counts too) are not mine. They are Ataahua's. These interpretations are mine and will likely be non-compliant if Ataahua eventually posts with them. As it stands now, they've hardly been written, and none of the stuff they've been written in has been published. (Also, I need somewhere where A'isha has a NOT horrible life desperately.) But hoping it's a decent shot at a "what if" or as another one of 50, because I've always thought that's what fic is for.

As for why a dress shop, "Canonically" it's mentioned that Hani'ah had quite the impressive collection of dresses, that were meant for A'isha. I thought a nod to that would work well, bearing in mind that this is all me playing in the sandbox with a character that's not mine but hasn't been shown off yet. Thank you Ataahua for the privilege of using Hani, and the others when I get there.

A small note: Sorry Actshippers, no sign of that ship in here… he's a one-woman man. Plus while his age was bumped, A'isha's was not. But don't worry, I do have a more "in-canon" and more strictly cameo role planned for A'isha and Amara at some point in the also more canon- compliant Not As I Know Him.

Please Review. Happy to field questions cause yeah, I think there are a few doozies in here.