love despite
"You don't love because: you love despite; not for the virtues, but despite the faults."
Celine supposes that to some eyes, the idea of a girl staring aimlessly out a window could evoke any number of images.
A wistful dreamer, lost in thought.
A determined romantic, searching for an ever-distant dream.
A tragic heroine, mourning for what has been and what shall never be again.
The familiar's eyes, however, were not just any eyes, and she had never possessed the patience needed to tolerate such theatrics for very long. Her being blessed with a tongue sharp enough to tell Emma so without drawing (too much) blood… well, that was simply happy coincidence.
It's a privilege she's had to invoke rarely over the years, given her partner's generally even temperament. It's a privilege she will use now.
"… Still pouting, are we?"
Emma turns around, her expression cloudy, and Celine notes that her fine features do her no favors here; too easily does legitimate irritation come off as juvenile petulance. Not that it's exactly arges away in this case.
"I'm not pouting."
"Sure you're not. You also haven't been doing much of anything since this morning, but considering you made yourself look like an idiot, I kinda can't blame you."
Her jaw drops in sheer indignance, sapphire eyes sparking. "A-And I suppose that he – "
"Also did? Absolutely. I haven't seen him stick his foot that far in his mouth since you were both first years. Doesn't change the fact it takes two to tango."
The brunette's lips press into a harsh, thin line, the bitter gesture conceding the point. "Penetrating observation. Did you come up with that one yourself?"
It takes Celine more than a little effort not to chuckle in spite of herself. Emma was good at many things, but being snippy wasn't one of them.
"Cute. Petty, but cute."
The cat leaps to her feet, the epitome of grace, and strolls over to her partner's feet, noting that in spite of her attitude Emma makes room for her without even a thought.
They've known each other for too long to pretend, Celine thinks. She's not sure why her partner bothers.
"The way I see it, you have two options. One, you can stay in here and sulk, and considering that's what Machias is probably doing I don't think I need to explain why that's a bad pick," Celine says, because from what her ears told her the gunman had left his own room all of once since the blowup, and even that was only to head to the kitchen.
To think these two were supposed to be the intelligent ones. Good grief.
"… What about the second option?"
"We talk. And by talk I mean we have an actual conversation instead of me saying something and you trying to be passive aggressive."
Emma frowns and looks away, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. "There's not a whole lot to talk about, Celine."
If the familiar had eyebrows, they would have been raised to the heavens because that was a bald faced lie. "Excuse me? I come in from my morning walk ready for a nap only to find you two huffing and glaring because you're having the dumbest fight imaginable and you think there's not a whole lot to talk about?"
The clouds roll in faster than Celine had anticipated, and before she knows it Emma's bolted to her feet, fists clenched at her sides.
If her eyes were sparking before, they're like lightning now. Nevertheless, Celine holds firm, staring impassively at the sound and fury before her.
"It," she begins, practically biting off the word, "was not dumb."
"It," Celine mocks without mercy, "was very dumb."
Emma's gaze narrows even further, and the familiar presses the attack – there was no use in drawing this out.
"I said this to both your faces before you decided to go off and brood, and I'll say it again here; after everything that's happened until now, how is it your first actual fight is about how to organize some shared bookshelves?"
She says it almost mildly, the offhanded delivery only underscoring her disdain, and she's not at all surprised at what comes next.
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with thematic sorting instead of alphabetical!" Emma exclaims, sounding for all the world like this is the hill she's going to die on in spite of how ludicrous it is, and Celine stays silent, letting her get everything out.
"A-And even if there was, there was certainly no reason to be so – I mean, he was such a – " she sputters and rants, her expansive vocabulary failing her at the most inopportune time possible, and maybe she should have taken some notes back when all Machias and Jusis did was sling mud at one another.
"Jerk?" Celine offers dryly, and she figures the angry nod and quivering frame aren't supposed to be comical, but it is what it is.
"And before you say anything else," Emma continues in a rush, her furious diatribe against Machias and everything else under Aidios' dominion not abating in the least, "I'm well aware that I'm not always correct about everything, nor have I pretended to be, so he shouldn't have been acting like I was!"
She finishes in a hurry, her breathing heavy and erratic.
"… You done?" the cat finally asks, her gaze roving over Emma's figure and studying her intently, trying to gauge if she was ready to listen.
Though she doesn't reply, the look of tired resignation tells Celine that, for the moment, her metaphorical claws have been sheathed.
"Good. Now that the tantrum portion's over with – " she holds up a paw to stave off any kind of angry rejoinder – "I don't suppose you wanna start talking about what the real issue might be?"
The witch stiffens, a clear tell if Celine's ever seen one. "What real issue?" she mutters, sullen eyes dropping to her feet, and it makes the cat wonder if Grianos ever had this kind of headache when dealing with Vita.
She doubts it. Vita was too concerned with what she saw as the big picture for small, unimportant things like human emotion.
(Come to think it, maybe she was on to something there).
"Emma," Celine tries again, her voice softening in spite of her fading patience when she sees the slight flinch, "let's be real here. If something like arguing over books was enough to actually set you off, then you'd have blasted Machias back to Trista less than a day into your first field study for being an insufferable ass. Jusis too, from what you told me."
Silence.
"So, what's more likely; you suddenly deciding that sorting some shelves was life or death, or you getting upset because there was already something you – "
"And him, probably… "
" – were upset about?"
Celine suspects that she's already close to the heart of the matter – unnervingly close, dangerously close, frighteningly close – and when Emma glares at her with a set to her jaw that speaks more of baseless bravado than it does anything else, the familiar knows that her instincts aren't steering her wrong.
"Oh?" Emma challenges, and the faint quiver in her voice doesn't escape the feline's ears. "And I suppose you have more insight into this than I would, is that it?"
Her tail swishes. "I might."
The cold stare tightens even more, and Goddess above, being a sister is such a thankless job. "Forgive me if I doubt you, Celine. But by all means, if you're so observant, then please; explain."
The cat appraises the girl – woman, she corrects herself, she's been getting better at it but it's still a change – silently. For all of her intelligence, all of her foresight, the brunette doesn't see the trap she's walked into, and Celine is observant. Always has been, as Emma's about to learn yet again.
This has to be quick and clean, like pulling a splinter, and Celine only hesitates for a moment.
"Nothing much to explain, Emma. I mean, what do you expect? Two people that have trouble seeing each other for more than a few days at a time because they're taking on more work than any person should, leaving for trips all over the Empire every other week … well, that's a perfect recipe for frustration if I've ever seen one."
She continues onward without stopping, willing herself not to look at Emma until after she's finished. "They're both tired, exhausted, drained, pick your word, but at the end of the day – whose fault is it? The inspector, who has to help clean up the mess from the last war? The Hexen witch, who has to help wherever she can? The Empire, for letting itself get so damaged to begin with?"
The sharp gasp of someone that's just been punched. "T-That's – "
"They can't blame anyone, because it's no one's fault. They don't talk to each other, because the other's going through the exact same thing and they don't want to pile on even though that's exactly why they should be talking, and eventually…"
The cat trails off, a cliffhanger that her audience of one can see coming from selges away but is utterly helpless to stop.
"Eventually, it gets to the point where all it takes is a single spark, and before you know it two of the smartest people on the continent are yelling at each other over what titles should go where. Because we all know how important that is."
Nothing. She does not speak.
Celine looks up, taking no pleasure in seeing the righteous anger having crumbled to nothing, leaving only in its place wide eyes and a melancholy mix of pain and fear that makes her look lost, uncertain, and just a little fragile, and it hurts her to see because she knows Emma is anything but.
Both remain still, and the heavy silence is only broken when the brunette slowly exhales and sits down on the bed, hands gripping her skirt so tightly that the knuckles turn white.
"… It's harder than I thought it would be, you know," she finally confesses in a whisper, and Celine doesn't interrupt. "I-I understand that there's still so much to do, and I know that it will be a long time before Erebonia will be what we want it to be, but I – it might be selfish, but sometimes I just want – "
Everything. She wants peace, contentment, rest, what the books she loves so much calls happilyeverafter, and it's not selfish, Celine muses, golden eyes soft with sympathy. It's not. So much had been asked of Class VII up until now, and yet so many (the Empire, the world, life) still continued to ask.
They can all jump off a damn pier, as far as Celine's concerned. Class VII's done their part, they've earned their happy ending, and they don't owe anyone else a single thing. She thinks that they shouldn't have to keep soldiering on in spite of everything they've accomplished, but then again she also thinks that's what makes them as great as they are.
The woman in front of her, the man a few rooms away and the classmates they fought beside will eventually all be known as legends in their own rights. Someday, people will tell stories about them. But the stories will all be fantastic and awe-inspiring; tales about swords and sorcery, witches and Awakeners, and technology from an era lost to the depths of time.
There will be nothing about the little things along the way, nothing about the mundane parts of living that helped them grow from fledgling students into the winds of change that would blow across an Empire, and certainly nothing about the legends being nothing more than ordinary people who simply wanted to live and love in peace.
They're heroes now, and everyone knows that heroes have to be larger than life. It's funny, then, how Emma now looks so small.
"I know," Celine soothes as best she can, bounding up to her partner and nuzzling the side of her trembling neck with a soft purr. "I know."
Emma sniffles once, twice, but doesn't cry, bringing her hands up so her fingers can run through the familiar's soft, black fur. For a minute or two, all she does is breathe (in and out, in and out) and Celine stays close to her, offering her what physical comfort she's able to.
"I'm sorry," Emma weakly apologizes after a few more seconds, still scratching her ears. "You didn't deserve any of that."
Celine purrs again and butts her head against her hand demandingly, leading to a feeble sounding giggle. "Apology accepted, though all things considered I got off easy. I think you two laid into each other a lot worse."
The feline watches as Emma bites her lip and a flood of red sweeps across her complexion, embarrassment and shame written all over her face.
"I… I know."
"You're going to have to talk to him at some point, and it's not like you have a lot of time – you're both leaving again tomorrow, remember?" she doesn't quite chastise, looking at the bag that sits at the foot of the bed.
"I know that, too," she murmurs, brow scrunching in a way that Celine's seen a thousand times before.
"Any idea what you're going to say?"
She shrugs helplessly. "I suppose I'll figure something out. An apology is probably in order, though."
Not so fast.
Emma blinks in bewilderment when she sees Celine shaking her head, the gesture so theatrical it would have put Olivert himself to shame. "Um… didn't you just say…?"
"I said you had to talk with him, yeah. I never said anything about being the first to apologize," the familiar replies with an imperious air. "Now, I don't actually know who started the whole mess, but all things being equal I vote for you opening the door, standing there, and seeing what he does. Nothing wrong with making him sweat a little."
It's not often Emma's at a genuine loss for words, but it looks as though that's done it, and when her lips start twitching with poorly suppressed mirth Celine knows that she'll be all right.
"That's a little petty, isn't it?"
"Only a little, and I'm still being pretty nice about it. He'd be full on groveling if I really had my way."
This time she can't help the laughter that bursts forth, making her shoulders shake and her hands clamp over her mouth as she tries to regain control of herself. "I-I can't help but think you're tremendously biased, but it's the thought that counts."
She collects herself quickly and sends a fond gaze at the cat, and the cat grins right back, because they both remember that long before Thors and Class VII, long before destiny and fate held dominion above all else, there was a time when there was only EmmaandCeline, and neither would trade those precious memories for all the treasures in the world.
"Absolutely I am. What are familiars for?" she asks rhetorically, giving the witch another affectionate nudge before hopping off back onto the floor. "So, you okay now?"
"Yes," Emma replies, her smile quiet and serene as she reaches out to grab the faded blue military jacket that doubles as her favorite housecoat. "I'm still a bit embarrassed and nervous, but on the whole I feel a lot better. Thank you."
"You're welcome. But before you do anything else… can I make a suggestion?"
Emma nods. Another trap missed.
"Head down and grab yourself some food first. You've been here for too long as is, and I don't think anything would kill a heart to heart faster than your stomach rumbling in the middle of it."
As always, the outrage is spectacular.
They arrive to cookware and cutlery drying in a rack, the scent of a freshly made meal still lingering in the air.
"Hmm. So that's what he was doing down here," Celine says, taking a few experimental sniffs. "Interesting. It looks like there's more than enough for you, whatever it is. I wonder what he made? I can't tell the spices he used, but they're definitely potent…"
"I'm curious too, actually," the brunette admits, her eyes drawn to the covered plate on the kitchen table. "He's normally pretty safe when it comes to cooking – "
"Unless it's seafood salad?"
"Unless it's seafood salad," Emma laughs, shaking her head in exasperation. "Or any kind of juice, for that matter."
"He's brewed a ton of coffee over the years. That might have killed off some of his taste buds."
She flicks her companion an amused stare, carefully taking the paper towel off the plate. "Is that how it works?"
"It's the only thing I can think of. The real question is, what's Rean's excuse?"
"Hehe. That sounds like something you should ask Ali – oh…!"
She turns when she hears the gasp, her interest piqued. Leaping onto the table (because what Machias doesn't know won't kill him and he needs to learn to not sweat the small stuff once in a while), Celine takes a closer look at the dish, paying more attention to the mixed scents this time and –
"Pumpkin curry?" she guesses, wrinkling her nose a little. She supposes it looks appetizing enough, even if the aroma does have too much conflict for her keener sense of smell.
And then, vague memories from months ago now bubbling and rising to the surface, "Hey, wait a minute. Didn't you say you really wanted to try this...?"
Her wide eyes and reddened cheeks are answer enough.
It had been a quick exchange, only a few seconds at most – simple small talk while they were keeping an eye on a pot that was about to boil over. Celine had almost forgotten about it. Emma had clearly forgotten about it.
Machias, just as clearly, had not.
"… Hmm. Well, it's not quite groveling, but it's a start," she mutters, impressed. She has to give him credit; the gunman still keeps finding ways to surprise them both, even after all this time. "Right, Emma?"
There is no reply, and Celine sends a glance heavenward when she catches a glimpse of the utterly besotted look on her face.
"Ugh. Nauseating," she quips fondly, finally satisfied that her role in this is truly finished. The rest is up to them, confusing and aggravating and irrational as they occasionally are.
Part of the human condition, she magnanimously decides. She wouldn't have them any other way, even if they did give her a headache every once in a while.
Celine paws away and heads for a window, calling out something like 'going for a walk, enjoy the food, if I come back and you're yelling again you two are on your own', and she'll be amazed if Emma heard a single word.
That was okay. It wouldn't be the first time she ignored her, after all.
"… Machias?"
No answer.
Emma hesitates before knocking on the door, something that makes her feel ridiculous immediately because she lives here too (and the idea, even after all this time, still never fails to make her stomach do flip-flops). When there's still no response she steels herself and gingerly turns the knob, looking around and feeling a pang when she catches the packed traveler's bag ready for tomorrow's departure, a twin to her own.
The second thing she sees is his unoccupied desk, in a perpetual state of organized chaos as it always is, and the eye-roll that comes at seeing the stacks of paperwork and file folders is almost reflex at this point.
The sound of soft, even breathing catches her attention then, and the dichotomy between Machias when he was awake and Machias when he was asleep never fails to fascinate her.
She studies his expression, his features peaceful and relaxed in slumber with a discarded book not far away, and Emma smiles and remembers calling him beautiful once; she had been drowsy, staring up at him as the moonlight kissed his face, and the truth had slipped out before she could think about it.
"… Don't you mean handsome?" he had asked, low and quiet, and her slim fingers had crawled up to swim through his dark hair.
"If I had meant handsome, then I would have said handsome," she teased back, and in the present the witch finds herself reaching out and tenderly sweeping a green forelock away from his brow.
He stirs immediately – he's not normally so light a sleeper – and Emma draws back as if she's been burned.
"W-What…?"
She smiles guiltily, a child with her hand in the cookie jar. "Machias."
"Emma," he murmurs back vaguely, taking two long blinks at the woman above him.
She takes in his half-lidded gaze and exposed collarbones and can't (won't) look away because he is beautiful when he's like this, so much so that it almost hurts.
He starts to smile her favorite smile, the one that's warm and gentle and eternally hers, and as abruptly as he had awoken the smile vanishes into the ether and his lean frame goes stiff, the gunner apparently awake enough now to remember that they were supposed to be fighting.
"… Um."
Emma can't help it when she giggles; he looks so much like he used to back at Thors that it's hard not to. All that's missing is the Class VII uniform, really.
"I'm sorry for interrupting," she begins, gesturing at the book.
He mumbles a quick, "T-That's quite all right," still looking like he's not entirely sure what's going on but trying his hardest not to give that away.
Not that it helps him any. She knows him too well, this one who holds her heart.
"May I join you?"
He shrugs uncomfortably but shuffles to make room, letting the brunette lie beside him without a word of protest, not even when she slides her arms around his waist and nestles against him with a sigh, her forehead resting against his upper back, warm through his thin shirt.
"Dinner was delicious."
He relaxes just a touch, but still doesn't turn to face her. "That's good to hear."
"How did you like it? What did you think of the taste?
"Like it was chunks of pumpkin and meat bathed in curry sauce with a mish-mash of other ingredients mixed in for texture."
There's no annoyed heat or restrained frustration in the words, blunt as they are; sometimes Machias is simply Machias.
"Hehe. If that were coming from anyone else, I'd take that non-answer as sarcasm."
"Mm."
She adjusts her arms, moving against him as he moves with her. "I'm… I'm surprised you remembered."
Machias shrugs again. "You seemed excited at the prospect of trying something new at the time. I-I figured that I'd save you the trouble."
He's gotten far better at communicating over the years, there's no denying that. He tells her things now, both important and unimportant, often without being prompted or cajoled, and even when he doesn't, she understands well enough; she's learned to hear what goes left unsaid.
They were cut from the same cloth. For them, words were born in ink and lived on paper, and subtext would suffice when nothing else would.
"… Machias?"
"Yes?"
She exhales against him, wanting nothing more than to touch and painfully aware of his hands resting so close to hers, tantalizing and teasing.
He waits.
"I'm sorry too," Emma tells him, and it's not nearly as hard as she thought it would be.
Machias still says nothing, but she doesn't look surprised when he shifts and turns to face her, the green orbs behind his lenses almost liquid in the room's fading light.
"I am," she repeats for good measure, and she watches him suppress a shiver when one of her hands comes up and settles against his cheek, her thumb resting near the pulse point of his jaw, and with every passing moment she feels the thrum of life run below his warm skin.
His solemn, single nod speaks volumes and Emma unashamedly drinks in the sight of him; the messy hair and the lovely mouth and the final apology dwelling within his dark green eyes, the scattered flecks of hazel making her soul dance.
(She's the only one that's ever seen them. She's the only one he's ever let come this close).
"Hello."
"Hi."
He chuckles quietly when he sees what she's wearing. "You still like that old thing, huh?"
Emma draws it tighter around herself with a breathy laugh. "Oh, very much. It yours if you want it back, though."
"I had my time with it. It looks better on you, anyway."
"Flatterer."
"If you say so."
"I propose we never fight again. I really didn't like today," she mumbles, embarrassed and ashamed at how childishly they had acted.
"It wasn't one of our finer moments. I suppose we can take solace that in the grand scheme of things, our record is actually very good. It took us years to have our first one."
"And our last, hopefully." Emma looks at him shyly for a moment, slipping forward to brush her lips across his in a brief, chaste kiss. "We never got to finish sorting those shelves, did we?"
"All the books are still in boxes, though what little progress we did make is still undisturbed." He shakes his head once, looking regretful. "I still can't believe that we managed to turn a simple argument into a one day cold war."
"We had reasons. Celine actually enlightened me on that, in her own way."
He doesn't grimace, not exactly, but it's close. "Relationship advice from a talking cat. And here my mood was on the upswing, too."
She jabs him, not enough to hurt, and she giggles when he frowns. "Be nice."
He rolls his eyes but makes no move to interrupt her. "I'll start when she starts. I admit to being curious, though; what did she say?" he asks, grasping her unoccupied hand and letting their fingers twine together.
"She – " and as irrational as it is fear seizes hold before Emma can say anything else, fear that robs the words from her tongue and steals the breath from her lungs, and how do you even begin to explain what you want when you were only forced to face up to it mere hours ago?
"S-She said that we were probably both frustrated with how busy we've been lately and we both jumped at the first outlet we had," Emma finally manages, and she wants to bury her head in her hands because that's simplifying matters to the point of absurdity, and Goddess she can only imagine what Machias thinks…
Emma feels him flinch against her, the knee-jerk reaction of someone's that's had cold water thrown on them, and when she glances at him, confused, he turns away.
"… Frustrated," he repeats, and more than anything she wishes that he would stop hiding his eyes.
"Well, Celine didn't use that exact word, but…"
The gunner licks his lips once, twice, and when he finally meets her gaze again, she sees.
He's afraid, too.
"Maybe not frustrated," he amends. "Nervous, worried, apprehensive… there are a couple of adjectives that work better, I think."
"Nerv – what do you mean?" Emma asks, and she feels guilty because it's a patently unfair question; if the tables were turned she doesn't doubt that she's be a floundering wreck. Again, where did you even start?
He smiles and she doesn't buy it for a second. "The best case scenario is that you'll think I'm an idiot."
"And the worst case scenario?"
In its own way, the ensuing silence scares her more than the fight.
Finally, Machias takes another short, shaky breath, and his next words, raw and honest, lance through her like nothing before.
"You'll leave."
It takes all the willpower she has to keep her fingers from digging into his skin because she would never, and she's not sure what terrifies her more; the idea of her doing the unthinkable or the idea of Machias living in this house, all alone.
"W-Why would you possibly think that I would…?" she chokes out, her hands shaking and her eyes wide.
"Because you have a village waiting for you that you spent your whole life in before Thors. A village full of people that already saw you as their pride and joy before, and rightfully view you as one of the Hexen's finest now, and when you compare it to virtually living out of a travel bag from week to week when you're here, it's – Emma, I don't want to keep you from – "
She thinks his voice almost cracks then, but the furious thundering of her heart against her ribcage is making it for her to notice anything else. That's what he thought was at the core of their quarrel? He thought she'd had enough?
Ludicrous. When it came to this city, this house, and the both of them together, there was no such thing as 'enough'.
Emma forces herself to speak through the haze, to demand an answer she knows she'll receive because he's never been as cold as he liked to pretend.
"Keep me from what?"
Once again, he turns away.
"A lot of things. What you want, what you deserve… being happy."
He looks so stoic, so resigned to her accepting what he has to say, and she refuses to let him entertain this heresy for a second longer.
(It would break them both beyond repair).
"You say don't want to keep me from what I want," Emma says, her voice trembling with every syllable, and she's so lost in the maelstrom she needs Aidios' guiding light to tell her where sad ends and angry begins. "Do you even know what I want, Machias, and how much it hurts to know that it's within reach but I can't fully have it?"
She doesn't give him any time to answer before she's kissing him again, and she's not sure if she's ever kissed him like this, raging and fiery and like it's the last thing she'd ever do. It's a storm with no port, a hurricane with no eye, and for a brief moment in time the world and everything in it is reduced to two people on a bed that one of them insists is too small and the other insists is just fine.
There's no inhibition now, no tenderness or light. There's just a wave of roiling instinct that surges against the rocks while thunder crashes overhead, her lips and hands going about the business of reacquainting themselves with how he feels in the dark.
His own hands slide around her waist and curl up to sojourn a sea of chestnut silk, and he gasps into her mouth (she loves that noise) when she twists and uses an opening to pin him beneath her with a ferocity that's rooted in both desperation and pure need.
He can break free without too much trouble. He makes no attempt.
"E-Emma – "
"I want shelves with all of our books on them, even though they'll be out of control and mixed before too long because we have too many and can't stick to a system to save our own lives," she whispers in a rush, the confession sacred. "I want stairs that are impossible to sneak past because the second, fourth, and seventh steps squeak no matter how softly you step."
Machias falls silent.
"I want alternating cooking schedules, I want both tea and coffee in the kitchen because we won't budge on which one is better, I want impromptu chess games that I'll never win, I want – "
His warm palms cup the sides of her face, stemming the flowing tide. He pulls her down to rest his forehead against hers, and just like that; the tempest breaks, the clouds part, and she finds herself able to breathe again, her lungs filling with blessed air.
"… Emma."
Yes. Still so beautiful.
"I want what the Hexen never talked about. I want what comes after the story's ended. I… I want you."
Cliché as it is, it's apparently his turn to kiss her now, and this time it's the stuff of fairy tales and storybooks. His arms lace around her waist and her name again spills from his lips; an exalted prayer, a cry for benediction.
"I love you," she chants, burying her face in his neck and letting the tears fall freely when they finally come. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I – "
His mouth meets hers again with a quiet sigh, the only offering he has.
It's enough.
"... I love you."
"I love you."
"You're really happy here?" he broaches, wanting to be sure, and she gives him a watery smile and brushes his bangs away from his forehead in reply.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
He looks into her eyes before pressing a kiss onto her crown, and within the pools of emerald she swears she sees heaven being reflected back. "Then stay with me."
Her heart sings.
"Okay," she half giggles and half sniffles, moving down so she can rest against his chest and listen to the pulse that echoes in her ears, steadily dropping from the earlier crescendo and easing its way back into the familiar, soothing rhythm. "Okay."
Every beat is a lifetime to her (for-ever, for-ever, for-ever), and for once she lets herself want unreservedly, without self-recrimination or doubt.
It's a foreign feeling. She thinks she'll enjoy getting used to it.
"We need to talk more from now on when we see each other," Emma distantly hears from above her, and it makes her pause when she realizes that she's hearing this from Machias Regnitz, of all people.
How far they've both come.
"Agreed," she murmurs, and apparently catharsis is exhausting because she's fighting to keep her eyelids open now. It was worth it, though; she feels lighter. Cleansed. "I'm going to hold you to that."
The witch doesn't so much hear his chuckle as she does feel it. "I fully expect you to."
Mistakes had been made, there was no doubting that. They weren't going to be made again.
Her weary gaze catches sight of the hardcover from earlier, and in spite of her body gradually giving in to slumber's siren call, she can't not ask. "What were you reading?
"Nothing too exciting; just an older poetry collection. I tried getting some actual work done, but my mind was… er, preoccupied. There wouldn't have been any point in continuing if I couldn't pay it the proper attention, so…"
"Mm." She lifts her head and squints, but can't quite make out the small text on the cover in spite of her best efforts. "Decided to give rhyming verse a chance, then?"
"It's not as though I disliked it before, you know," the gunner replies, and the slow, deliberate cadence to his speech tells Emma that he was in no better shape than she. "Poetry just isn't my preferred genre most of the time, though I admit it helped me get to sleep."
"Hehe. That's quite the endorsement."
He sniffs indignantly but says nothing more, and when he reaches out to grab the slim book the brunette shuts her eyes and snuggles against him, savoring his comfortable warmth.
When he begins to read the first quatrain out loud, his voice tired but still steady, she tries her hardest to listen so that they can stay awake and make this sanctuary against tomorrow last for as long as it possibly can.
It's an uphill battle, one they know that they'll lose.
It's one they fight anyway, because that's what Class VII does, and when they concede, they concede with grace.
They fall asleep in each other's arms to blissful dreams of hearth and home, and it doesn't matter in the slightest that his bed really is too small.
Sunlight streams through the crack in the curtains, making shadows dance along the wall and illuminating the room with the faint glow of morning.
"You ready?"
Emma nods at her familiar, her bag and staff slung over one shoulder, before her gaze drops back downward toward a still sleeping Machias, his silver glasses on the bedside table.
The witch watches his chest rise and fall in silence, and her brow creases for a moment because there's still so much she wants to say to him.
After a beat, she relaxes.
That was okay. A little unfinished business never killed anyone. Emma knows she'll return eventually, and so will he. Maybe she'll be waiting for him, or he might be waiting for her.
All they have is time, and little by little, Erebonia was slowly settling down. After that… who knew, really?
Her hand reaches into her pocket, taking out a folded sheet of paper and setting it down on the pillow next to him, and after bidding him a silent farewell with a gentle kiss to his forehead, Emma turns and strides confidently toward the door, Celine not far behind.
She doesn't look back. There's no need.
The gunman was all too aware that Emma would be gone by the time he woke up, but he still feels a dull ache when his eyes open to an empty room and no one beside him.
Some might call it phantom pain, except he still has all his limbs (it's only his heart that's missing); when he puts his glasses on, he thinks he remembers a kiss.
Machias flops back onto the firm mattress with a rough sigh, and the rustling sound next to him when his head hits the pillow makes him turn and look, curious.
Two folds. Four lines. No signature.
He opens it, reads them once. Then again. Then again.
Green eyes crinkle, the corners of his mouth turn upwards in an affectionate smile, and wherever she is... he hopes she's smiling too.
"The train won't be here for a while yet," he thinks. "I can wait a bit longer."
Holding the paper aloft, he takes a deep breath and begins to read anew, the scope of his universe reduced solely to the graceful handwriting that he knows just as well as his own -
With them the seed of wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
(His sheets still smell like her).
AN: The last part is stanza XXVIII from Edward Fitzgerald's translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (if it takes you out of the story, sorry), and the title comes from William Faulkner.
This story is proof positive that sometimes you just have to listen to your muses. A long time ago, I had the general idea for this story floating in my head (Machias and Emma fighting for the first time) but didn't really do anything with it outside of musing over a few vague possibilities.
It was supposed to be humorous at one point. Funny how that turned out.
Then I looked over a few of my older fics - you might recognize some other plot threads from Sounds in the Silence prompts if you read that - and realized that as much as I focused on the idea of them living happily after Sen III/IV... well, it probably wouldn't be as easy as I made it sound, and you'd be surprised how the biggest, most revealing fights can start over the dumbest, dumbest crap, especially when stuff's been simmering a little too long.
Thus, this story was born. I hoped you enjoyed it, dear reader! Almost time for Sen IV :D