Caitlin Snow has always been structured, every bit of her life in perfect array.
She gazes at the sleeping man in her guest room, and with a pang in her heart, she knows he's there to ruin that perfect array.
But, she muses, it's not so bad when he's charming and smiling at her the way he does.
Suddenly, an icy fist wraps around her heart, and she grips the door at which she rests her back.
Don't fall for him. He's nothing but a man.
Caitlin looks at the man—Barry, he told her his name—and surmises that his wounds must have sapped all of his energy. Which works just as well, as she has no more energy to be a great entertainer to an unexpected but certainly not unwelcome guest—Caitlin's been taught better manners than that. She remembers the early instruction she received from her mother and grandmother, both queens of the castle, and both menacing when they desire to be. To her, they are both ruthless and merciful, and even as Caitlin preferred the latter, they always had a way to show her that a queen must be able to assert control and isolate her feelings from her missions.
A fact that Caitlin has learned all too well.
In a haze, she walks out of the room and shuts the door quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping man, and walks down the many steps of the castles. When she enters the room she was seeking, her eyes suddenly fall shut, and Caitlin's aware that she's all but melted into the palace floors, and strives to straighten her posture.
The room of her instruction was never named, but always secluded. Caitlin remembers all the nights she spent here, all of her energy radiated in waves and none left for her, tiredness enveloping her like a glove. Caitlin recalls her days spent, from waking moments to the night waxing into darkness, and remembers that she barely had any time to enjoy her childhood and her adolescence, stuck in a routine she can't break, with her instructors inciting discipline and ruling into her young brain.
Years later, Caitlin's still as structured and polished and frozenly perfect as her instructors wanted her to be, and after years of asserting control over everything, she has finally perfected it.
What startles her and shakes her to the core was the arrival of Barry—something—and how one look has managed her to unravel everything she's learned and absorbed after decades of education. Barry succeeds at unraveling her, as well—as if his gaze held knowledge that she had no purview of.
Before Caitlin starts to wonder about him, she stops herself, forcing her mind to other things, such as the upkeep of the garden or the attic, instead of wondering what complexities Barry's mind might hold.
It might just interest her far too much.
Caitlin descends the castle staircase, bathed in a dark, bitter, glittering hue of blue, and she tenderly holds on to the rails as she takes hesitant steps. She crosses the wide hall, empty as an abandoned nest, and goes straight to the gardens.
Caitlin looks proudly upon the expanse of five hundred hectares of land, all blooming blue azaleas, tulips in azure, roses in lapis and hundreds of other unique flowers in arctic shades, only found in Snowcastle and no other land. With pride surging through her veins, she raises her hands, and uses her powers to revitalise the plants that have partly withered from a day's worth of unkempt.
Wisps of frost blast from her delicate hands, and Caitlin watches as the frost envelops each and every bud as it rapidly grows and glow with an iridescent light. The blooms unfold and turn their buds up to the high ceiling of the gardens, and Caitlin smiles.
The garden is the first thing Caitlin taught herself to nurture using her powers—and perhaps her only luxury. Aside from indulging in brews and potions to help cure those who are afflicted with pain and illness, she enjoys the beauty of manicured gardens and polished beds of flowers.
With a contented smile, she proceeds inside, and goes to the kitchen to prepare a meal for them. She notes the time, a quarter past seven, and lights the lamp that hangs over her head. With practiced ease and precision, she quickly chops venison for the stew and adds some herbs from the garden that she picked from her visit to the garden. As the stew boils on the clay pot, she leaves it on the fire and sets the table for two, and as Caitlin places the large plate of aquamarine and porcelain, she realises how intimate the setting is, with the hall's low lights providing the only source of light, aside from the slow flicker of candles. She almost drops the plate form her hands, and before an accident can happen, she places it firmly atop the cerulean silk cover of the long table, and folds neatly the bed for their utensils.
She walks back to the kitchen and prepares her thick mittens to put the dish out of the fire, and scoops out enough stew for the both of them—and some more, just in case Barry's got an appetite. Patient, she thinks. Barry is your patient.
Caitlin places the clay pot on a woven, teal circular sheet, and, once satisfied with her handiwork, heads upstairs to summon Barry—her patient.
She knocks, once, with no response, and two following brisk ones. Without any calls or grunts, Caitlin finds herself panicking, wondering what had happened—or where he could've gone.
She opens the door—thankfully finding it unlocked—and bursts in through the door, only to find Barry still in the bed, his eyes closed in relaxed bliss, and something jumps in Caitlin's heart as she observes the quiet beauty that Barry exudes in rest.
"I believe it's rude to stare at one while one is feigning unconsciousness in some cultures, yes?"
The quiet voice shakes Caitlin out of her apparently blatant staring, and she blushes rapidly, the blood rushing to her cheeks.
"Yes, well, I was not staring," she says adamantly, and Barry chuckles.
"You were, I'm afraid."
"I wasn't," she says firmly. "I simply wanted to see if you were still alive, as you haven't moved from your bed for so long, and I was tasked to see if you were alright." Caitlin's voice is firm, but loaded with worry, and Barry hears the tone of worry floating high from her words.
"Of course, I'm sorry," he says quietly, and Caitlin nods.
"I've prepared some dinner for you. Would you like to come downstairs? If you're feeling better, that is," Caitlin adds, and Barry nods to her query. "You'd have to help me come downstairs, I'm not in tip-top shape, exactly." He flashes her a boyish nod, and all Caitlin do is pause and stare again, before snapping out of it. "Yes, of course," she stammers, and walks by his bedside. Barry swings his long legs over the side of the bedframe, and braces his body to stand up. Caitlin doesn't speak as Barry winces with pain with every move he makes. Barry finally stands up to his full height, and Caitlin rushes to hold him. Barry almost collapses on his right foot, and Caitlin is careful not to hurt his torso.
What she isn't careful about is the proximity between their bodies.
Caitlin is hyperaware of Barry's closeness—how his strong chin firmly brushes the top of her head, and their bodies sharing heat due to their proximity. Her heart beats twice as fast as normal, and she's painfully aware of how it feels. When she held Barry against her for the first time, it felt nothing like this—it was a mix of nerves and cold fear that led her to bring a stranger to the castle, but now, he's conscious—alarmingly so, and Caitlin feels a shift in the air. All she wants to do is bring their bodies closer, even as they're not moving, seemingly unaware of the world that continues to revolve.
"Caitlin?" Barry's voice breaks the quiet, and Caitlin moves her right foot, in sync with his. In quiet understanding, they step the same feet in the same direction, and after ten agonising minutes later, they become seated at the table. Caitlin makes it a point to sit Barry comfortably first, despite his insistence of pulling out her chair, a suggestion she smiles at. "Perhaps another time, when you're feeling remarkably well," she suggests, and Barry smiles. "I will take you up on that," he agrees, and as Caitlin moves around the long table, she almost trips at her feet upon hearing Barry's next words. "When I'm doing much better, I shall take you out for a nice dinner, like a proper man should with a proper, accommodating, beautiful lady, such as yourself."
Caitlin's feet doesn't trip, but her heart does, and suddenly, as she looks in the man dressed in scarlet suit of armour and in wound dressing, she feels her world shifting, similar to the first time she saw him in the woods with a terrifying pool of blood beneath him.
Caitlin's unsure whether it's for the better or for worse, but a warmth spreads across her chest, making her feel warm, comfortably so, for the first time.
And so she purses her lips into a real smile, just for him.