enjoy

Interlude

'Impressions'

Martha believes that people are inherently selfish.

Wearers of masks. Masters of façade. Fakes.

And as such, people will usually try and put their best foot forward when meeting anyone new. It was only natural. To behave in the way that they believed they had to. To walk in the shoes of whoever society dictated they be. And so they did just that. They projected the image of not who they are, but who they wish to be onto each and every unwitting soul that they happened to meet.

Confident steps. Intelligent and inspiring word. A bright smile. Clear, trustworthy eyes.

These are all things that are so easily faked.

She knows. She has seen it.

Seen how the honest, beautiful smiles would only get brighter and faker with age. How people's sure, sturdy steps would never last for long, how they would always falter, if only for a moment, before their stride was once again reestablished. How ones thoughts, the bright and honest truths of the soul, would pop up in idle conversations before being smothered with dismissive words in favor of the ease that came with the monolith.

Time and time again she saw it happen.

She lost all her friends before she was even sixteen. All because of their inability to see the world, and their place in it, as it really was. She bared witness to the cracks appearing and widening in their faces and as much as she wanted to ignore it, pretend nothing had changed, she couldn't delude herself.

Because while they were hiding behind whatever they perceived as protection―money, titles, fear, magic―her eyes had never been so clear.

Because the face behind the mask―the heart, the spirit, the soul…or whatever you call it―was illusive. It was sneaky and all it really cared about was self-preservation. But it wasn't omnipresent. She caught glimpses of the children she had played with, laughed with, and cried with in the eyes of these very important roles they had chosen to play. But it was of no comfort. Because she had been too young, too naïve, too inexperienced to stop it all from happening. To stop her friends, who she had known so well, from slowly putting on their own masks and hiding from a world that was a lot harsher than it seemed, just like their parents before them. She had never even seen it coming. Couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when their stories started diverging so drastically.

And so while she may pride herself in being able to see behind the mask with the same ease as looking into a mirror, she is painfully aware that more often than not it is impossible to really know a person after one meeting.

Makarov Dreyer believes in people.

He believes that humans are complex creatures that, to some degree, can never fully understand each other.

He believes that they are the product of everything around them. Their environment. Their experiences. Their culture. Their magic. That all of this interweaves and connects to create individuals who are so wonderfully different.

Creating people who have lived lives so drastically different from that of his own.

Lives filled with friends, families and enemies that he will never meet. Languages that he will never speak. Things that he will never do.

People who he will never understand.

Makarov revels in this sonder. You can see it playing in his eyes every morning when he looks at the diversity filling his guild. He understands that even though these young wizards who have gathered under this guild, who have sworn their lives to Fairy Tail, are his family in the blood of the battlefield, the spirit of adventure, and the strength of their shared faith: they are, first and foremost, individuals who are destined to live their own lives and make their own decisions. He understands even though they may share the same future, they do not share the same past. That although he may see them every day, there is still so much to learn about each one of his rowdy children.

And so Makarov is not foolish enough to put much stock in first impressions.

The idea of judging someone after only one encounter―one moment, one conversation, one look―was in and of itself a flawed concept. But if you were to ask Makarov and Martha about their first encounter, they would say that it was pivotal.

The day that Martha met Makarov Dreyer just so happened to also be the worst day of her life. Or really the end of the worst weekend of her life―but really, it was the worst day of all three.

Not on account of the actual meeting itself. No. Compared to the rest of her weekend, that had been virtually uneventful.

It actually had nothing to do with little whiny ass wizard at all. It was...none of his business. And if he had had that same mentality that day, things wouldn't have happened the way they did. They may never have even spoken that day. He may have just walked past her straight into his apartment with no problem. She may have just sat there alone for a couple more hours before she found the strength to finally move.

They probably could have saved each other a whole lot of stress.

Prior to his arrive, she had just finished tossing an old duffle bag filled with old clothes and trinkets and photos of him out onto the dusty street of her newly purchased apartment building before turning on her heel to stalk back to her new apartment and get more stuff.

She had been clutching the black candlestick holder between freshly polished fingers, preparing to hurl the ugly, bent thing out onto the concrete and watch with a twisted sense of glee as it smashed into a trillion pieces. The sad, pathetic part of her hoped that the act would put an end to her seemingly endless tears. They had been stinging her eyes and ruining her makeup since she had read the stupid note―I love you, Martha. I love you and I know you don't want to hear it but I do. And that is why I have to do this. I can't be selfish. Not with you. I'm so sorry.―attached to this stupid thing. Or maybe it had started when the sun went down on that first night and she realized that he really wasn't coming back...

God. Whatever.

Either way it had to go.

It was poorly made and tacky and she didn't even want the damn thing. And where the hell was she even supposed to put it? It didn't go with any of the furniture they had picked out together and she definitely would have told him that, and so much more, if he had just been here.

(And, honestly? The sight of the thing made her feel so sad. So sad and just…bleh.)

The wind had just hit her face and the sun was already starting to warm her skin―why was it always so damn sunny in this goddamn town―when she saw the little red car parked to the side of the building.

Despite the sensible part of her brain telling her that it would change nothing―that she had cried too many tears and spent one too many nights alone for it to ever change anything―her eyes widened and she frantically looked for his bright red hair in the crowded streets of Magnolia.

She ran down the stone steps several at a time, before breaking into a sprint down the street with desperate eyes and his name on her lips, pushing people out of her way. She is still not sure how long she was running for, all she remembers is the flicker of red she had seen in her peripheral vision when she reached Strawberry Street and the joy that burst in her chest.

Ignoring the cautionary shouts of the men in the riverboats as she ran alongside the riverbank, she chased after the fleeting figure. His name is escaping in sporadic gasps from her lips, and her eyes are burning but she keeps running and running and running. Then suddenly, the figure had turned into a corner which she almost missed. She came to a sudden stop, scuffing her black shoes on the rough ground, catching her breath and turning to walk into the alley way. She hears the familiar pop of magic and yells his name. It becomes more of a screech, accompanied by body wrecking sobs that have her heart beating erratically against her ribcage, as she discovers the empty alley filled only with the multi-colored remnants of his magic.

By the time that she makes it back to her apartment building the morning sun is shining higher in the sky, the soles of her shoes are worn out and her heart is well and truly broken.

She manages to reach the top the steps before her knees finally give out, and she finds very little comfort in this little victory.

She knelt at the very top of the stone steps, her hand reaching out to clutch clumsily at the base of the candlestick holder that she had left on the steps. She runs her thumb over the rough surface as her breathing quickens and she finally weeps openly. Fat, pear-shaped droplets, tinted grey by her mascara, stream down her face as thick sniffles escape occasionally. She is sure it is a sad sight. And god, it was so pathetic and embarrassing and she wasn't sure how long she would have stayed like that if she hadn't hear the sound of someone awkwardly clearing their throat.

She didn't look up. She was sure that her eyes were bloodshot and her makeup completely ruined. She was a mess and she would sooner roll over and die than let someone catch her in that state. Not again.

Hopefully, he would move on and just leave her al―

"So," his voice was ruff and dripping with sarcasm, "what's wrong with you today, princess?"

Great. She had thought that her day couldn't get any worse, but the universe sends her a random with a bad attitude.

She cleared her throat, hoping her voice wouldn't betray her.

"I'm just fine." She said, through gritted teeth. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"That was pretty clear," he remarked, clearly amused, "Not bad at all. Y'ah know? For a girl who was crying her eyes out a second ago."

(To this day, Makarov swears he heard the twenty year old let out what sounded like an inhumane growl. He hears it sometimes, when he is home alone and his house is especially dark. It is terrifying.

But twenty-two year old Makarov was much braver than he is now. Or maybe stupider.)

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Don't act dumb. I've been standing over there for the last five minutes. I saw you crying."

(Stupid. Definitely stupid.)

Her head had snapped up and her blue eyes, dark with emotion and smudged mascara, had stared right at him. He is of average height with the brightest blonde hair that she has ever seen―not that it is very surprising since Magnolia, he had told her, is filled with all sorts of strange people― and wearing a scowl that looks mismatched with his bright features. She can see the outline of an emblem under the thin material of his dirty wife beater. A wizard, is he? He cannot be much older than she is.

She barely notes him taking a shaky step back―she has that effect on people―because she is livid. How dare he mock her? Today of all days. So she focuses on nothing but onyx because if she looks away from his eyes she is sure all she will see is red.

"Is that right?" She said, her grip on the candlestick tightened as he swallowed thickly. "You've been standing there for over five minutes watching me cry, thinking up ways to comfort me and you decided that being a dick was the best way to go?"

His scowl deepens. "Oh. Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I wasn't coming over here t―"

"To comfort me? No, I didn't think so." She interrupts. Her voice is sharp and hard. "Maybe I was giving you too much credit. That's not the kind of guy you are."

"Oh yeah?" He crossed his arms across his chest and looks at her curiously. "And just what kind of guy do you think I am?"

"You're the type of idiot who thinks that he's fooling people with this whole tough guy act." She spat." You're the type of guy who doesn't understand the basic concept of emotion. Who doesn't know how to handle situations like this so he acts all passive, like he doesn't care." his eyes widened. "You are such a little kid. Nothing but a child. Why don't you go cry to mommy and leave me alone."

Her last comments are childish. She knows it. But with the weight is still sitting on her heart, it is the best she can come up with. And so she is surprised when his face tightens and the crackle of magic rings in the air.

"Shut up." He retorted. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about."

To easy.

"Showing some emotion, are we? I must have hit a nerve. "She said, the smirk across her face is dripping in malice." What was it? Was it the emotionless thing? Calling you a kid? Or was it the mom thing?"

"I said shut up!"

"Winner." She deadpans." You got Mommy issues?" His glare intensifies. She rolls her eyes. "Don't we all? It's not an excuse to act like a jerk."

Makarov's eye twitched. "No excuse to act like a bitch."

"Ah." She exclaims. "I don't think children should swear like that. Didn't your mommy teach you that?"

He clenches his fists and glares right back at her with enough force to kill.

"I don't know why you're crying," he spat, words dripping with venom," but I'm sure it's your fault."

She stiffens.

He smirks, probably pleased that his words have had the desired effect, and she watches him pivot on his right foot. He is turning towards the door behind her but before she can stop herself…

"You're right."

"What?" He said. His hand is outstretched, reaching for the shiny brass door handle.

A tear manages to make it down to her cheek before she can wipe it and she pretends she doesn't see him notice it.

"You are right. I am a bitch and I probably deserve all this." She chuckles, a sound that is dark and sad and oh so lonely." But I'm right too."

She hears the doorknob twist and jingle. He has most likely walked inside the building and away from the crazy girl sitting at the entrance of his building. It is fine. It is great, even. This is what she needs. To be left alone with her thoughts and the warm summer breeze. This has always been what she needs. She is all she has ever needed.

"Right about what?"

She shifts her body to look back at him. He is leaning against the closed door, his key dangling in his hand. He looks at her questioningly and she is genuinely confused.

"Well?" He asks, impatiently. He scoffs." You seem to like acting like you know me. What makes you think you know anything about me?"

He walks over, nonchalantly with his hands buried in the pockets of his cargo pants, and leans against the banister rail to her left.

"I just have a gift for reading people." She replied. "Always have."

"Is that so? You're not even a wizard, are you?"

She looks down.

"But you think you can 'read' people?" He questions. His tone is mocking and it clear that he does not believe her. The sound of it makes her angry. "Prove it. What have you learnt about me in the last five minutes that I haven't figured out in twenty-two years, huh?"

"I don't have to prove anything to you." She said, defiantly. "I'm not asking you to believe me."

For a moment his face falls and he seems surprised at her answer. But the moment is short lived as he turns his face towards the busy road and leans further against the metal railing.

"Whatever." He said. "I don't really care."

"You're so damn emotional."

"Sure." He scoffs. "This coming from the girl with tears streaming down her face?"

"Do you think that just because you keep up this cold façade that you have control over your emotions?"

He snaps his eyes back towards her and glares. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well you don't." She continues. "Controlling your emotions means you allow yourself to feel them as they come. You acknowledge every single one of them and then you manipulate them to your will. You don't let your emotions manipulate you. You feel your emotions―your happiness, your sadness, your pain―with every ounce of yourself and then you choose how you'll react."

He says nothing, not that she really expects him to. She is speaking more for her own benefit than his, anyway.

She looks back down at the candlestick holder and bangs it gently against the stone. Once. Twice. "I may be a cold-hearted bitch but I'm that way because I understand my emotions. When I am sad, I let myself be sad. When I was angry, I punched walls. And when I'm heartbroken, I cry. "

She pauses, her breathing is shallow and rough and it kind of hurts her throat. But she hears him shuffle his feet against the concrete and continues. "You don't always get to choose how you feel in this world, but you always get to choose how you react. Sometimes I choose to cry, other times I don't. It doesn't mean that my feelings at that time are weaker or less important―sometimes they hurt like hell―it just means I'm making a different decision." She looks up at his face and he is already staring at her. His brow is furrowed and he is biting his bottom lip. She cannot tell if it is because he is angry or contemplative. She doesn't really care too much either way. "And yeah, I'm alone. And maybe that is all my fault. But what I have left is a clear mind. I'm not hiding anything. I'm not wearing any kind of mask. I'm not being anything less or more than myself." Blue eyes burn into onyx. "If you keep pushing back your true nature your mind will never be clear. You'll always be fighting yourself. You'll always be hiding. The people you care about―the important people, the people you love―they'll begin clinging to this persona you put on. They may love you, but they'll never really see you. They'll forget who you really are. And then so will you."

She sighed.

"So I'm right. You don't understand anything about emotion. You are a child."

He stands there in silence and she watches him carefully. His eyes have fluttered shut and his face is oddly relaxed for some who has listened to the confusing and emotional rant she just spewed out. He raises a shaky hand and drags it along his face before cupping his chin and exhaling deeply. He opens his eyes and wipes them with the back of his hand. She pretends not to notice and watches him stuff the hand back into his pocket and shiver. Martha pulls her cardigan closer to her as the breeze picks up and cold air moves in.

(It's probably from the north. She allows her mind to wander to the grey coat she has thrown on the concrete and begins to wonder whether the journey will be a cold one for him. She hopes it isn't. She hopes he stays just as warm as he's always been.)

"You don't know me."

She turns to him. His voice had jumped on the last part of his sentence and the emotion in it stirs something in her. She looks him in the eyes and lets a wet, content smile grace her face.

"I guess you are right. Please don't take it personally, those are just my observations." She stated, pulling her knees to her chest with her arms and resting her head against them. "And honestly they have very little to do with you. I'm just talking for the sake of it." She lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. "And like you said. I don't really know you."

She sighs.

Her voice is horse now and she is kind of tired of talking, so it is no louder than a whisper when she says, "I don't really know anyone, I guess."

She frowns at the ground as the sound of his laughter fills the air. What an ass.

She feels his bare arm brush against her clothed one before she even acknowledges his movement and she is about to move over when he begins to talk.

"I'm Makarov Dreyer." He said.

A moment passes before she feels obligated to answer.

"My name is Martha." She said, bringing her knees closer to her body.

"Martha?" He raised a brow at that. "Just Martha?"

"Just Martha." She sighs. The wind picks up and the clothes scattered across the pavement flutter. "At least to you."

You can imagine the pure unadulterated horror on young Makarov's face when the weird girl who had kept him up all night thinking―with her philosophic words and unsolicited observations―knocked on his door the very next day to introduce herself as his new landlady.

And then asked him for the back pay on four months' rent. With interest.

i was really nervous about posting this one...tell me what you think.

but take this as a thanks for all your support on my very first story...it is all very encouraging.

R&R