I was rewatching the show recently and noticed a perceivable increase in the intimacy between Lyra and Will in S2E6 (the way she just stares into his eyes when he's upset 3). This makes total sense, as they'd just gone through quite the ordeal in the previous episode, but it's still worth noting. Despite some of the show's flaws, they've set us up well for a faithful, beautiful season 3. So before we all start crying with every kind of tear imaginable again, we should relish the quieter moments between these two. And thus, this lil fic was born. I may turn this into a oneshot miniseries (I do think Will needs to give his take...), but right now I just wanted to put something out there. And with that, I hope y'all enjoy!
They'd brushed arms again. It wasn't like Lyra was counting, but it had happened enough times for her to take note. It was a marked departure from their early days scurrying about the labyrinthine cobblestone roads of Cittágazze, and even the years of racing across the rooftops of Jordan College with Roger. Lyra was used to being chased, used to hearing her name echo off of buildings, quieter and quieter as she dashed ahead of whichever companion was trying desperately to keep up with her. But she'd forced herself to stay at her friend's side as they both marched through the russet canyons, following the gossamer capes of the witches as they disappeared behind corner after corner. Truthfully, it wasn't much of an issue for her.
Because Lyra's world had seemed to slow down immensely since seeing her mother again in Latrom's basement. Years ago, in the idle moments during her studies or in her quarters, her mind would've soared where her body couldn't, over Oxford, over the flotilla of Gyptian boats, over the ocean and through the snow-capped peaks of the North. Now, those free moments had become fewer and further between, but in the last few days Lyra's mind had automatically taken her back to the moment she'd unleashed Pantalaimon on the golden monkey. She could still see her mother struggling to stand, feel the insistent pressure in her own teeth as Pan savaged the monkey's jugular. She could hear Will's screams in the other room, and she remembered the voice in her head that told her to forget about him and give in to her rage, to allow Pan to thrash the monkey onto the floor again, again, again.
And then her arm would brush Will's again, and her breathing would relax, and she'd remember that he'd scooped up the alethiometer (because of course he had, because he was Will Parry) and looked at her with those impossibly dark eyes and half-dragged her back through the window while she'd been too angry and too frightened to move. And then her mother's screams had been swallowed by the cool Cittágazze night. Each incidental, invaluable contact was a reminder that he was here, that he'd survived. That they'd survived.
But, for some reason, despite how she was growing to cherish the feeling of walking so close to him, Lyra now felt compelled to avoid his eyes. Her gaze drifted to his jacket pocket. The hilt of the Subtle Knife was visible, shifting slightly with each step. In this state, it didn't seem so different from a common penknife. It moved again, and Lyra resolved to keep an eye on it. After all the pain they'd gone through to get it, it would be bitterly anticlimactic if they lost it on a random canyon floor. Though, honestly, she wasn't sure that Will wouldn't be happier if it was someone else's problem.
She smiled to herself, rueful. The universe had given its most powerful weapon to a boy who hated to fight. And, to a girl who loved nothing more than weaving a good lie, it had given a device whose only function was to tell the truth.
Her eyes moved lower, down Will's wiry arm, carefully examining his bandaged hand. The wrappings needed to be changed. More blood had soaked through, painting the rough, tan fabric ever more crimson. But the witches had whisked them out of Cittágazze before they'd had a chance to grab more than the alethiometer, the knife, the clothes on their backs, and the tiny backpack she'd used to hide Pan in Will's world. Lyra felt an odd urge to take his hand in hers, but of course that would be silly, she wasn't just going to grab, well, his remaining fingers. Or the stumps. So she'd have to duck around him to his other side to lace her fingers through the ones on his good hand, and this would be entirely pointless. And strange.
Though, really, would it? She recalled the way she'd felt the other night. He'd said it like it was obvious, brows knitting in a perplexed gaze. "Lyra, you don't need to be like anyone else. They'd be lucky to be anything like you." And the night before that, sitting on the steps with him behind her in the bath—she'd been unable to stop the corners of her mouth from rising when he vowed they'd get the alethiometer back, together. Would taking his hand be anything different from that? The only difference between all the things he'd said and what she was thinking about doing was…
Well, she wasn't obtuse. She knew what the difference was. Hell, even Pan knew what the difference was. She may have walked up those stairs backwards, but the dæmon had most inarguably been sneaking a glance.
But she didn't need to consult Pan, or even the alethiometer, to know that it was only a matter of time until one of them took that first step.
Her arm brushed his again as he stepped in front of her to go through a narrow slot canyon, and she could've sworn she saw him smile, just a bit. Lyra wondered if he was thinking the same thing as her:
As long as they were together, they'd get through anything that any world threw at them.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave a fav and a review! And if y'all want some more of these oneshots, let me know about it, won'tcha? :)