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[ he doesn't know what time of night it is — late, too late to be knocking on ash's door when he doesn't want anyone to think he's the goddamn booty call, but here he is, disheveled and stinking of sex, his forehead pressed to polished wood as the sour taste of bile rises in his throat. ]
It's me. Let me in.
[ doubt shadows his thoughts, that maybe this is the time that ash decides enough is enough. that his door and his arms will remain closed to him. that now he's crossed a line he can't come back from and he's been cast out of the garden for good. this is your dirty dishwater and now you have to bathe in it. one more second and the threat of tears might have turned painfully real, but then the door opens and there's ash, his steady insomniac's stare settling on him like a shroud.
he knows how he looks, coming straight from danny's bed, wracked with something even worse than guilt. he slips past ash, immediately pacing an uneven circle across the floor, running a hand through his damp hair and over his tired face, his gaze half manic and half dazed. ]
I fucked up. Christ, I — holy shit. Holy shit.
[ his hand goes to his throat to loosen his tie and finds it missing. of course. it's sopping wet with danny's sweat and semen from when he'd bound his cock, left somewhere in his bed. jesus fuck. what the hell had he been thinking? the only worse decisions he's ever made in his life involved his m4 in carpathian warzones. and maybe greer. and fine, probably ash, too.
so maybe his life is a series of bad decisions. ]
Ash. [ he stops pacing, taking panicked breaths around the erratic thud of his heart. single-mindedly, he crosses the room, sinking down to kneel at ash's feet and pressing his eyes shut, dropping down to lower his forehead to the bridge of his foot. his lashes brush ash's skin, wet with unshed tears, anguish thick in his voice. ] Achilles.
It's me. Let me in.
[ doubt shadows his thoughts, that maybe this is the time that ash decides enough is enough. that his door and his arms will remain closed to him. that now he's crossed a line he can't come back from and he's been cast out of the garden for good. this is your dirty dishwater and now you have to bathe in it. one more second and the threat of tears might have turned painfully real, but then the door opens and there's ash, his steady insomniac's stare settling on him like a shroud.
he knows how he looks, coming straight from danny's bed, wracked with something even worse than guilt. he slips past ash, immediately pacing an uneven circle across the floor, running a hand through his damp hair and over his tired face, his gaze half manic and half dazed. ]
I fucked up. Christ, I — holy shit. Holy shit.
[ his hand goes to his throat to loosen his tie and finds it missing. of course. it's sopping wet with danny's sweat and semen from when he'd bound his cock, left somewhere in his bed. jesus fuck. what the hell had he been thinking? the only worse decisions he's ever made in his life involved his m4 in carpathian warzones. and maybe greer. and fine, probably ash, too.
so maybe his life is a series of bad decisions. ]
Ash. [ he stops pacing, taking panicked breaths around the erratic thud of his heart. single-mindedly, he crosses the room, sinking down to kneel at ash's feet and pressing his eyes shut, dropping down to lower his forehead to the bridge of his foot. his lashes brush ash's skin, wet with unshed tears, anguish thick in his voice. ] Achilles.
( sleep is as far away from him now as it is on any other night, and ash is nothing if not a creature of habit. he's been reading for the past hour or so, near the crux of night where he debates trying to catch what sleep he can, or head out for an early, early morning run until he's exhausted enough to clock a few minutes unconscious. the knock is surprising, not part of his usual routine. of course embry comes sometimes, because he knows ash is awake, because he's a good friend and vp and is more thoughtful than anyone gives him credit for. it's never any question who's on the other side of the door — the only question is why.
when you've been in life or death situations with a person, you know the several shell-shocked steps of adrenaline and the letdown, of manic, almost hysterical frenetic energy and the cliff's edge of that high — the guilt in every bullet, the dance with death. it's what ash sees when he looks at embry now: carpathian bodies, embry's death wish, bullet holes, months of rehab.
he also looks well fucked, and ash — ash has no idea what to make of it, beyond the yawning gape in his chest. for embry, because of embry, he has no clue.
what he does know is easy. embry needs him, and he isn't disclosing the why so much as the need, evidenced enough by his easy acquiescence, his kneeling pose. ash usually has to force him into it, fight with him until he gives in. the easy offering of his submission is highly suspect, but it's also highly arousing, and ash doesn't attempt to conceal the erection that thickens out the leg of his sleep pants, the only thing he's wearing. embry fucked up. embry needs him. and he doesn't need a gentle, soft, kissing fuck in the bleeding orange of sunrise. it's still dark out. he needs to be punished.
under his mouth, ash lifts up his toes, tapping the underside of his chin. sharply: ) Kiss it.
( he waits for it, before crouching down, a strong hand palming the back of embry's head, his soft, sweaty hair. ash's voice is cold, almost disinterested, but his gaze is focused, locked onto embry, burning. )
You'll tell me what happened. Even if I have to beat it out of you.
( a promise: i will beat you, if it's what you need. i'll always give you what you need.
he steps around embry, to the armchair he was reading at. ash sets his copy of emma aside and takes a spread leg seat, snapping his fingers to the space between his thighs. ) Crawl.
when you've been in life or death situations with a person, you know the several shell-shocked steps of adrenaline and the letdown, of manic, almost hysterical frenetic energy and the cliff's edge of that high — the guilt in every bullet, the dance with death. it's what ash sees when he looks at embry now: carpathian bodies, embry's death wish, bullet holes, months of rehab.
he also looks well fucked, and ash — ash has no idea what to make of it, beyond the yawning gape in his chest. for embry, because of embry, he has no clue.
what he does know is easy. embry needs him, and he isn't disclosing the why so much as the need, evidenced enough by his easy acquiescence, his kneeling pose. ash usually has to force him into it, fight with him until he gives in. the easy offering of his submission is highly suspect, but it's also highly arousing, and ash doesn't attempt to conceal the erection that thickens out the leg of his sleep pants, the only thing he's wearing. embry fucked up. embry needs him. and he doesn't need a gentle, soft, kissing fuck in the bleeding orange of sunrise. it's still dark out. he needs to be punished.
under his mouth, ash lifts up his toes, tapping the underside of his chin. sharply: ) Kiss it.
( he waits for it, before crouching down, a strong hand palming the back of embry's head, his soft, sweaty hair. ash's voice is cold, almost disinterested, but his gaze is focused, locked onto embry, burning. )
You'll tell me what happened. Even if I have to beat it out of you.
( a promise: i will beat you, if it's what you need. i'll always give you what you need.
he steps around embry, to the armchair he was reading at. ash sets his copy of emma aside and takes a spread leg seat, snapping his fingers to the space between his thighs. ) Crawl.
[ The end-of-summer party feels like it's still in full swing when Greer retreats back to the manor at a particularly late hour, skin significantly more sun-kissed than when she'd first gone out to the pool and a little tipsy from the number of fruity, blended cocktails she'd sipped from her vantage point in an empty lounge chair. She hadn't gone for a swim, or even indulged in body painting; in fact, she hadn't even found the one person she'd been looking for most of the night. So it's with flushed cheeks and slightly glazed eyes that she makes her way inside, not even bothering to divert to her own room to change out of her bikini and matching sarong first before continuing on to her intended destination.
It had taken some cajoling, but eventually, she'd figured out which room is Ash's — a different floor from her own, which removed the temptation early on for her to pursue something like this, to let the amount of tequila thrumming through her bloodstream nudge her into spontaneous decision-making. Now, at this hour, it doesn't occur to her that he might not even be awake until she sees the light spilling out from underneath the right door — at least, it's a door that she hopes is the right one as she lifts a hand to knock, knuckles rapping against the solid wood a few times before she idly, restlessly shifts her weight from one bare foot to the other.
She knows what it looks like, showing up at his room like this, at this hour of the night — what she looks like, in a barely-clothed state as it is, unconsciously pressing her lips together and licking between them because her mouth suddenly feels dry with nerves. What will he think of her, she wonders, when he opens the door to find her like this, a far cry from the woman who had knelt in the church and carefully tilted herself into the touch of his hand? Part of her doesn't care; alcohol's giving her the courage she needs to be bold with what she wants, and to stop denying that Ash is a part of that.
Yet when the door opens, Greer immediately finds herself at a loss for words, mouth working open and closed a few times before she finally stammers out a form of greeting, resisting the instinctive urge to wrap her arms around herself in an effort to further cover her body from his gaze. ]
I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to — you weren't asleep, were you?
It had taken some cajoling, but eventually, she'd figured out which room is Ash's — a different floor from her own, which removed the temptation early on for her to pursue something like this, to let the amount of tequila thrumming through her bloodstream nudge her into spontaneous decision-making. Now, at this hour, it doesn't occur to her that he might not even be awake until she sees the light spilling out from underneath the right door — at least, it's a door that she hopes is the right one as she lifts a hand to knock, knuckles rapping against the solid wood a few times before she idly, restlessly shifts her weight from one bare foot to the other.
She knows what it looks like, showing up at his room like this, at this hour of the night — what she looks like, in a barely-clothed state as it is, unconsciously pressing her lips together and licking between them because her mouth suddenly feels dry with nerves. What will he think of her, she wonders, when he opens the door to find her like this, a far cry from the woman who had knelt in the church and carefully tilted herself into the touch of his hand? Part of her doesn't care; alcohol's giving her the courage she needs to be bold with what she wants, and to stop denying that Ash is a part of that.
Yet when the door opens, Greer immediately finds herself at a loss for words, mouth working open and closed a few times before she finally stammers out a form of greeting, resisting the instinctive urge to wrap her arms around herself in an effort to further cover her body from his gaze. ]
I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to — you weren't asleep, were you?
( ash, by nature, is not much of a party goer. he makes an attempt in an effort not to seem like an antisocial homebody, but his social battery is long out of practice thanks to duplicity, and he tires as easily as he did fresh out of high school. of course, some things never change. his room is as empty as ever, his sleep as far away as it's always been. really, he was just sitting and reading, accepting that the night was another wash of some stubbornly discontent feeling that feels intangible every time he tries to name it — heartbreak, maybe, or restlessness. the liminal space between a previous pain and an inevitable one, one he can feel coming like a punch he's not supposed to flinch at. his mind refuses to settle, so his body refuses to sleep, and eventually he's just pacing like a caged lion when the knock comes to his door, a little like perfect timing.
naturally, he assumes it's embry. come to confess something else? good. he's the only one who visits this late at night, when the hour is only conducive to one thing, and it doesn't involve leaving the bedroom. only, it's not embry. it's — greer. )
I wasn't.
( said a little dryly, heat in his eyes. the budding need to unleash himself on embry doesn't wither away because it's greer at his door — if anything it intensifies, seeing her barely dressed, flushed silvery and pink in the low light of the hallway. ash swallows, debates with himself for all of a moment, before wrapping a hand around her bicep and pulling her into his bare chest, shutting the door behind her so he can pin her up against it, crowding her in with his body.
this, of course, was also always inevitable. ash waits until she looks up at him, bowing his head to press their foreheads together. his expression is almost angry. )
You look fucking perfect. Open your mouth, I have to kiss you.
( ash doesn't ask — he demands. he waits to see if greer will listen. when she does, her pink mouth open in a perfect "o", he sticks his tongue between her lips and fucks her mouth, holding her upright with two bruising hands on her hips. he hasn't kissed her since she was sixteen, and it feels like an unforgivably long time, now. )
naturally, he assumes it's embry. come to confess something else? good. he's the only one who visits this late at night, when the hour is only conducive to one thing, and it doesn't involve leaving the bedroom. only, it's not embry. it's — greer. )
I wasn't.
( said a little dryly, heat in his eyes. the budding need to unleash himself on embry doesn't wither away because it's greer at his door — if anything it intensifies, seeing her barely dressed, flushed silvery and pink in the low light of the hallway. ash swallows, debates with himself for all of a moment, before wrapping a hand around her bicep and pulling her into his bare chest, shutting the door behind her so he can pin her up against it, crowding her in with his body.
this, of course, was also always inevitable. ash waits until she looks up at him, bowing his head to press their foreheads together. his expression is almost angry. )
You look fucking perfect. Open your mouth, I have to kiss you.
( ash doesn't ask — he demands. he waits to see if greer will listen. when she does, her pink mouth open in a perfect "o", he sticks his tongue between her lips and fucks her mouth, holding her upright with two bruising hands on her hips. he hasn't kissed her since she was sixteen, and it feels like an unforgivably long time, now. )
[ his libido, theoretically, shouldn't be the same rabid, pulsing thing it was all those years ago when he had ash pressed against him in a tiny club in prague, dancing to strauss while morgan blissfully shit herself in the bathroom, absent from their shared moment — and yet he's been achingly hard the entire hour of their dance lesson, expertly going through the motions only because he's been prostituting himself at his mother's political events since childhood and can do this dance with his eyes closed. he doesn't dare close his eyes now, not wanting to miss a moment of ash beneath the low lights, the little line of concentration between his brows, the tension in his jaw, his muscles taut beneath the fabric of his clothes, flush against embry's easy fluidity.
he's already insulted him enough throughout their lesson, sprinkled between more heartening words of encouragement, lewd jokes, and annoying bouts of laughter, and now they've morphed into an easy silence, ash's feet finally moving in the general direction of correctness, but embry is more focused on how he wishes they could strip naked and fuck directly on the bar. they can't, of course, and even if a part of him wants to tug ash up towards his room, he has to admit it's nice to be out from between those four walls where they spend the majority of their time. he's always been intensely aware that one of the things ash has always wanted was to be public with his affections, a desire embry doesn't particularly share on his own but has always wished he could fulfill for ash's sake.
he's also aware of everything he's said to ash since he's gotten here, and how none of this fits together with that, and he's dreading the moment ash brings that up, as if he expects embry to have an explanation. his eyes drift to ash's mouth, squeezing his hand a little more warmly. the place is nearly empty, a few stragglers lounging in the plush seats and straddling a stool or two at the bar, and for one delinquent moment he wants to just lean and kiss ash. they're close enough that it would be as easy as breathing, tilting in so his errant curls brush ash's forehead.
instead, he circles back to the same topic he always does — his staunch mission of shoving ash into a happy, heterosexual relationship where all his fucking dreams can come true. ]
Please tell me you've fucked Greer by now.
he's already insulted him enough throughout their lesson, sprinkled between more heartening words of encouragement, lewd jokes, and annoying bouts of laughter, and now they've morphed into an easy silence, ash's feet finally moving in the general direction of correctness, but embry is more focused on how he wishes they could strip naked and fuck directly on the bar. they can't, of course, and even if a part of him wants to tug ash up towards his room, he has to admit it's nice to be out from between those four walls where they spend the majority of their time. he's always been intensely aware that one of the things ash has always wanted was to be public with his affections, a desire embry doesn't particularly share on his own but has always wished he could fulfill for ash's sake.
he's also aware of everything he's said to ash since he's gotten here, and how none of this fits together with that, and he's dreading the moment ash brings that up, as if he expects embry to have an explanation. his eyes drift to ash's mouth, squeezing his hand a little more warmly. the place is nearly empty, a few stragglers lounging in the plush seats and straddling a stool or two at the bar, and for one delinquent moment he wants to just lean and kiss ash. they're close enough that it would be as easy as breathing, tilting in so his errant curls brush ash's forehead.
instead, he circles back to the same topic he always does — his staunch mission of shoving ash into a happy, heterosexual relationship where all his fucking dreams can come true. ]
Please tell me you've fucked Greer by now.
( generally speaking, ash probably enjoys being bad at something a significant amount less than a median range of people, but dancing has never especially bothered him. at least, not since embry in prague, following the three-step instructions with a type of focus which would completely erode whenever ash saw embry seeing him, laughing at how bad he was. it's a perfect memory, in his eyes. something he remembers every time he's (badly) spinning a european princess across a waxed floor, apologizing for his lack of talent. it's not my teacher's fault. i'm a lost cause, with a self-deprecating smile.
if staring down at his feet and mouthing numbers to himself were a forgivable quotient of dancing, ash could probably be almost good at it. as it turns out, when you have your face parallel to the ground, it leaves a little room for teasing from your partner, especially when they're as annoying(ly charming) as embry moore. ash sacrifices and allows himself to be just a mostly bad dancer in favor of watching embry's handsome face up close — not like it's much of a sacrifice on his part. his feet are not the ones being stepped on, and embry's boyish complaints and sometimes very creative insults are more perk than downside. mostly because it means embry is laughing, happy with him — because when strauss is in the air and embry lazily spins ash out for a twirl, they're twenty years old again, fresh faced in a war that felt sometimes like just the context for the beginning of their love. there was a war, and that was how i met him. that's the real story.
it feels like another perfect night, anyway. dancing with embry through the changes of songs, becoming body warm from holding him all night, the hand on embry's shoulder gradually falling down until it's flat on his chest, near enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt. being with him like this is intoxicating. there's maybe some plausible deniability in their closeness, the way there always is in case the press show up — but it feels blatant, feels not loud but twhispered, feels like what ash's younger self wanted for them in the canadian highlands, or the farmlands in minnesota, or anywhere, literally anywhere, embry would let ash take him. privately, it's still a dream ash holds a candle for. a life not ruled by politics, not kept behind closed doors. an eventual someday, when ash manages to convince embry to love him as much as ash loves him in return.
that's what tonight has felt like, really. like a surrender. like yes, finally, maybe. it's therefore by chance he manages not to flinch at embry's question, eyebrows briefly dropping down in a knot before he forces his expression into neutrality, tilting his head into embry's cheek. )
You're awfully interested in Greer. ( accusation, maybe. or just curiosity. embry never took this much interest in jenny. but then, ash didn't pine over jenny for fifteen years. ) We're the ones on a date. It must be a bad one if you're thinking about someone else.
( not completely fair. ash is thinking about greer, too — about how weird it is, to not tell her where he is right now, to not explain what embry means to him. like there's this whole void in his life greer knows absolutely nothing about, because ash hasn't told her. because presidents, according to everyone in congress, cannot suck dick. )
if staring down at his feet and mouthing numbers to himself were a forgivable quotient of dancing, ash could probably be almost good at it. as it turns out, when you have your face parallel to the ground, it leaves a little room for teasing from your partner, especially when they're as annoying(ly charming) as embry moore. ash sacrifices and allows himself to be just a mostly bad dancer in favor of watching embry's handsome face up close — not like it's much of a sacrifice on his part. his feet are not the ones being stepped on, and embry's boyish complaints and sometimes very creative insults are more perk than downside. mostly because it means embry is laughing, happy with him — because when strauss is in the air and embry lazily spins ash out for a twirl, they're twenty years old again, fresh faced in a war that felt sometimes like just the context for the beginning of their love. there was a war, and that was how i met him. that's the real story.
it feels like another perfect night, anyway. dancing with embry through the changes of songs, becoming body warm from holding him all night, the hand on embry's shoulder gradually falling down until it's flat on his chest, near enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt. being with him like this is intoxicating. there's maybe some plausible deniability in their closeness, the way there always is in case the press show up — but it feels blatant, feels not loud but twhispered, feels like what ash's younger self wanted for them in the canadian highlands, or the farmlands in minnesota, or anywhere, literally anywhere, embry would let ash take him. privately, it's still a dream ash holds a candle for. a life not ruled by politics, not kept behind closed doors. an eventual someday, when ash manages to convince embry to love him as much as ash loves him in return.
that's what tonight has felt like, really. like a surrender. like yes, finally, maybe. it's therefore by chance he manages not to flinch at embry's question, eyebrows briefly dropping down in a knot before he forces his expression into neutrality, tilting his head into embry's cheek. )
You're awfully interested in Greer. ( accusation, maybe. or just curiosity. embry never took this much interest in jenny. but then, ash didn't pine over jenny for fifteen years. ) We're the ones on a date. It must be a bad one if you're thinking about someone else.
( not completely fair. ash is thinking about greer, too — about how weird it is, to not tell her where he is right now, to not explain what embry means to him. like there's this whole void in his life greer knows absolutely nothing about, because ash hasn't told her. because presidents, according to everyone in congress, cannot suck dick. )
Mr. President. Ash - I don't know how to tell you this, but if anyone deserves to know it's you.
I need you to meet me outside the chapel right now, and I need you to prepare yourself.
...It's Embry.
I need you to meet me outside the chapel right now, and I need you to prepare yourself.
...It's Embry.
I'll be right there.
( ash is preternaturally prone to overthinking — hence why at 6:30 he's been up for several hours already, too wired like something prebroken for rest. mentioning embry is not something that soothes him, but he guesses it wasn't supposed to. nothing about this message is calming. the first thought he'll have, that he'll eventually regret for the rest of his life: what did embry do now?
anyway, he's there abruptly, sweaty from an early morning run, dressed in athleisure clothes. when he spots hawk, he nods at him, greeting in the all american good boy way: a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. ash looks around. )
Mr. Fuller. Where is he?
( ash is preternaturally prone to overthinking — hence why at 6:30 he's been up for several hours already, too wired like something prebroken for rest. mentioning embry is not something that soothes him, but he guesses it wasn't supposed to. nothing about this message is calming. the first thought he'll have, that he'll eventually regret for the rest of his life: what did embry do now?
anyway, he's there abruptly, sweaty from an early morning run, dressed in athleisure clothes. when he spots hawk, he nods at him, greeting in the all american good boy way: a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. ash looks around. )
Mr. Fuller. Where is he?
I know we have not spoken often, and that you have known Embry far longer than I — [ old habits, to make herself and her needs seem small in comparison to others’ own. ] — but he was dearer to me than I can put into words.
[ for how he made her feel. normal. wanted. understood. ]
I’ll light a candle for him in the chapel tonight, if you would like to join me. I expect you have grieved publicly before. [ for his wife, for his soldiers, for other members of his council. she has done the same for her husband and grandson, wearing her despair so that all might know and process it through her. part spectacle, part offering. ] I find that I need a space of mine own after such displays, as warranted as they are for one who mattered to so many.
[ a promise tucked within this message: they needn’t speak or look up from their prayers, if he decides to join her. ]
[ for how he made her feel. normal. wanted. understood. ]
I’ll light a candle for him in the chapel tonight, if you would like to join me. I expect you have grieved publicly before. [ for his wife, for his soldiers, for other members of his council. she has done the same for her husband and grandson, wearing her despair so that all might know and process it through her. part spectacle, part offering. ] I find that I need a space of mine own after such displays, as warranted as they are for one who mattered to so many.
[ a promise tucked within this message: they needn’t speak or look up from their prayers, if he decides to join her. ]
( it takes awhile for him to respond, but not for lack of trying. he wants to accept this olive branch — wants to be allowed his grief privately, if not alone. when jenny died he was a corpse himself for weeks, running through the motions, giving the speeches, watching everyone watch him wither away.
this is different. this is embry. losing jenny taught him that he shouldn't go through it alone, and so he wants to accept, he will accept. but. )
Hawk found him in the chapel. He was debased. I saw it.
Forgive me, Alicent. I know it was as important to you as it was to me, but it is not hallowed ground anymore. God does not exist there.
I will not go there again.
this is different. this is embry. losing jenny taught him that he shouldn't go through it alone, and so he wants to accept, he will accept. but. )
Hawk found him in the chapel. He was debased. I saw it.
Forgive me, Alicent. I know it was as important to you as it was to me, but it is not hallowed ground anymore. God does not exist there.
I will not go there again.
Ash. It's Hawk.
You were right about Danny. Someone attacked Tim - red, orange, pink mask. I know this isn't a good time, but Danny's on red, and I think he'd gladly do this with or without the game like he did Embry.
We're putting it out there tonight. Once and for all.
You were right about Danny. Someone attacked Tim - red, orange, pink mask. I know this isn't a good time, but Danny's on red, and I think he'd gladly do this with or without the game like he did Embry.
We're putting it out there tonight. Once and for all.
Hey Hawk.
I know I'm right. I trust you know what you're doing. Make sure you take care of Tim while this whole thing plays out.
I'm with you. I just want to see him ( dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead — a hundred hail marys, a hundred our fathers, and ash is no closer to forgiveness. ) I'd just like for justice to be done. Me and Bucky are there. I won't ask Greer take part.
I know I'm right. I trust you know what you're doing. Make sure you take care of Tim while this whole thing plays out.
I'm with you. I just want to see him ( dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead — a hundred hail marys, a hundred our fathers, and ash is no closer to forgiveness. ) I'd just like for justice to be done. Me and Bucky are there. I won't ask Greer take part.
[He'd been heading down to get them a fresh pot of coffee when the announcement had lit up his screen. And while it's probably a conversation best had in person, sending a message to Ash from a distance feels like a safer before, considering what he's about to offer.]
he can't hide now
do you need me to go in after him?
[Because he'll rip Danny to pieces if that's what Ash wants. And screw the consequences.]
he can't hide now
do you need me to go in after him?
[Because he'll rip Danny to pieces if that's what Ash wants. And screw the consequences.]
We can't kill him, Bucky. No.
( call it catholic values — call it ash couldn't live with himself if he sent a kid to his death without due process and trial. call it what it is: bucky is a man used to being sharpened to a point to hurt people he's thrust against. )
You're not a weapon to me. I'm not using you like that.
You'd better not, either. Stay your hand. That's an order.
( call it catholic values — call it ash couldn't live with himself if he sent a kid to his death without due process and trial. call it what it is: bucky is a man used to being sharpened to a point to hurt people he's thrust against. )
You're not a weapon to me. I'm not using you like that.
You'd better not, either. Stay your hand. That's an order.
[ it's so much like the night that changed his life at twenty-one years old, a rosy evening seeping fast into darkness where all he wanted was a cigarette and a fight, that he should have easily guessed that all the pieces would shift again. all those years ago, he'd trotted down to the yard, silver cigarette case in hand, minding his own fucking business, cocooned by carpathian mountains under a fiery sky — and then lieutenant ash colchester had stormed in to tell embry about all the things he wasn't doing that he should have been. ash, the man dropped into this world to lead armies and broker peace between nations and capsize embry's heart right in his chest.
there's no regret for dying as a pockmarked shield defending ash's secrets. the more interesting embry is to danny johnson, then perhaps the less of his attention he'll waste on ash. he certainly couldn't have him turning toward greer. he just didn't expect — christ — swimming in abilene's drugs and whatever danny had shot through his system felt so surreal, like living the same memory twice, until he realized they wanted two different things. abilene wanted a kid, and danny just wanted him dead, and embry's job was damage control. he had to give them both.
he doesn't recognize the part of the manor he crawls out of, straight out of the earth they'd buried him in, dressed in a fine suit presently streaked with dirt, gasping for air that he can't seem to get enough of because the memory of the knife's kiss along his throat feels dead fucking real right now. his dirt-stained fingers claw at his crisp collar, fumbling with his tie until the knot loosens, tracing the raised scar tissue across his throat. a permanent gift from danny. from the fog of his mind comes the knowledge that he'll have more, right at the center of his chest, but that's all that gets through, a wash of hatred cresting over him that erases all else.
he doesn't even remember ash, his anchor, his entire heart, the man who saved him again and again and again, not just in the war but every day by giving him a reason to live. the darkness bleeds the pinks and violets from the sky, the warmth gone, the night air like broken glass against his clammy skin. he presses his forehead to the grass, still hyperventilating as if his throat is still split open by danny's blade, his fingers digging into the dirt as if trying to find something, anything, to draw him back to this world. ]
there's no regret for dying as a pockmarked shield defending ash's secrets. the more interesting embry is to danny johnson, then perhaps the less of his attention he'll waste on ash. he certainly couldn't have him turning toward greer. he just didn't expect — christ — swimming in abilene's drugs and whatever danny had shot through his system felt so surreal, like living the same memory twice, until he realized they wanted two different things. abilene wanted a kid, and danny just wanted him dead, and embry's job was damage control. he had to give them both.
he doesn't recognize the part of the manor he crawls out of, straight out of the earth they'd buried him in, dressed in a fine suit presently streaked with dirt, gasping for air that he can't seem to get enough of because the memory of the knife's kiss along his throat feels dead fucking real right now. his dirt-stained fingers claw at his crisp collar, fumbling with his tie until the knot loosens, tracing the raised scar tissue across his throat. a permanent gift from danny. from the fog of his mind comes the knowledge that he'll have more, right at the center of his chest, but that's all that gets through, a wash of hatred cresting over him that erases all else.
he doesn't even remember ash, his anchor, his entire heart, the man who saved him again and again and again, not just in the war but every day by giving him a reason to live. the darkness bleeds the pinks and violets from the sky, the warmth gone, the night air like broken glass against his clammy skin. he presses his forehead to the grass, still hyperventilating as if his throat is still split open by danny's blade, his fingers digging into the dirt as if trying to find something, anything, to draw him back to this world. ]
( ash is a man, as ever, of routines. it was a habit born in the military and out of necessity — strict wake up times, daily inspections, rendezvous planned down to the second. failure could always be a hair out of reach, so ash became disciplined like a tiny dictator of his one man country, regimented to a fault. if one didn't know what he fucks like, a monk-like existence would almost feel apt to name — nothing in excess, everything in moderation, never taking too much pleasure in any one thing. at least not since —
his mornings used to be easy: little sleep, morning prayer, a run, a shower. he skips the prayer nowadays, his faith a cold, dead thing in his chest. when jenny died he clung to his religion like a piece of driftwood, necessary to stay afloat — but he can't forgive his god the crime of permitting embry to die, at least right now, so his prayers don't go anywhere. instead, he remembers a new memory with embry every morning, and digs his thumb into the bruise of it until he's more happy it happened than sad he's gone. today, it's a memory after they served their second tour in a brief lull of the war efforts — ash begged, actually begged, during their rallying attempts at solidifying his political career, to take thanksgiving off and have it with his mother. privately, he just wanted to introduce embry to his family. watch him charm his mother and his sister, watch him curl up on the floor like a lazy house cat after helping with the dishes, stomach full and smile bright, winning a game of poker against ash and kay for stale halloween candy. he remembers fucking embry on his childhood bed slow, romantic, a hand clapped over his mouth, hating every thrust out because it took ash away from him. he remembers telling his mom when he left, mama, i love him, you know. and althea had said, obviously. i didn't raise a fool.
he pushes against the sore spot. mama, i love him. embry taking up space in his childhood, missouri home. embry throwing him a football, tackling him in the mismatched autumn leaves on a too cold afternoon. embry smelling like the years old shampoo he used to wear in highschool, curls wet, nose pink, pretending not to blush. he remembers the only thing he wanted for christmas that year, was to do this all again next november, and a hundred novembers after that. i didn't raise a fool. he presses, presses, presses.
by the time he makes it to embry's grave, it's a bruise and not a laceration. it's still dark out — ash doesn't like to visit with an audience. he has a copy of the land by vita sackville-west tucked under his arm that he's been reading to embry, and a cassette player full of viennese waltz music which he won't play, but insists on bringing anyway. he has a ring on his finger, the ring, which he wears specifically to torture himself. in any case, he's brought up short, his gym shoes crunching the grass with finality when he tries to make sense of what he's seeing. embry's grave, torn asunder. the dirt unpacked. and — a body — )
What the fuck? Embry! ( fuck sackville-west. everything drops to the ground as ash races up like the shot from a bullet, on his knees in the ground beside him immediately. ) What the fuck. ( he flips embry over, trying to see — what happened, why it happened, why he's here, how he can help. he's supposed to be levelheaded under duress, but his hands are shaking, tearing open embry's clothes, looking for some button on him that says press here to fix me. ) What the fuck? Embry — fucking — damn it, God damn it. ( heart hammering, eyes soaked, ash realizes he's not helping, that he doesn't know how to help, that something is obviously wrong with embry and he needs to fix it, fix it, fix it right the fuck now. choking out, ) Embry, please, baby.
his mornings used to be easy: little sleep, morning prayer, a run, a shower. he skips the prayer nowadays, his faith a cold, dead thing in his chest. when jenny died he clung to his religion like a piece of driftwood, necessary to stay afloat — but he can't forgive his god the crime of permitting embry to die, at least right now, so his prayers don't go anywhere. instead, he remembers a new memory with embry every morning, and digs his thumb into the bruise of it until he's more happy it happened than sad he's gone. today, it's a memory after they served their second tour in a brief lull of the war efforts — ash begged, actually begged, during their rallying attempts at solidifying his political career, to take thanksgiving off and have it with his mother. privately, he just wanted to introduce embry to his family. watch him charm his mother and his sister, watch him curl up on the floor like a lazy house cat after helping with the dishes, stomach full and smile bright, winning a game of poker against ash and kay for stale halloween candy. he remembers fucking embry on his childhood bed slow, romantic, a hand clapped over his mouth, hating every thrust out because it took ash away from him. he remembers telling his mom when he left, mama, i love him, you know. and althea had said, obviously. i didn't raise a fool.
he pushes against the sore spot. mama, i love him. embry taking up space in his childhood, missouri home. embry throwing him a football, tackling him in the mismatched autumn leaves on a too cold afternoon. embry smelling like the years old shampoo he used to wear in highschool, curls wet, nose pink, pretending not to blush. he remembers the only thing he wanted for christmas that year, was to do this all again next november, and a hundred novembers after that. i didn't raise a fool. he presses, presses, presses.
by the time he makes it to embry's grave, it's a bruise and not a laceration. it's still dark out — ash doesn't like to visit with an audience. he has a copy of the land by vita sackville-west tucked under his arm that he's been reading to embry, and a cassette player full of viennese waltz music which he won't play, but insists on bringing anyway. he has a ring on his finger, the ring, which he wears specifically to torture himself. in any case, he's brought up short, his gym shoes crunching the grass with finality when he tries to make sense of what he's seeing. embry's grave, torn asunder. the dirt unpacked. and — a body — )
What the fuck? Embry! ( fuck sackville-west. everything drops to the ground as ash races up like the shot from a bullet, on his knees in the ground beside him immediately. ) What the fuck. ( he flips embry over, trying to see — what happened, why it happened, why he's here, how he can help. he's supposed to be levelheaded under duress, but his hands are shaking, tearing open embry's clothes, looking for some button on him that says press here to fix me. ) What the fuck? Embry — fucking — damn it, God damn it. ( heart hammering, eyes soaked, ash realizes he's not helping, that he doesn't know how to help, that something is obviously wrong with embry and he needs to fix it, fix it, fix it right the fuck now. choking out, ) Embry, please, baby.
Edited 2024-10-22 03:58 (UTC)
[When Ash makes his way back to his room that evening, he'll find that Bucky's things have gone missing. Not that there was all that much he'd brought with him. But the go bag he'd been living out of the past few weeks when he'd taken up an almost permanent place as Ash's shadow has been reclaimed already, along with the few toiletries he'd left in the corner of the bathroom. For all intents and purposes, it almost looks like he was never there.
Tossed onto the foot of the bed though is a zipped hoodie that Bucky had ended up with here. A little worse for wear already, but something he'd worn most evenings he'd spent in the room. And if Ash investigates, he'll find a note in the pocket. An explanation for his sudden departure-]
Ash,
I've moved back to my room. Now that Embry's back, the three of you need so time to yourselves. You deserve some space to be able to reconnect with them. To recover, together. You need each other, and if I stayed, I'd only get in the way of that.
This isn't me disappearing though. I promise. If you need me, I'll be there. Tell me to find you, and I won't stop searching till I do. We both already know I'm yours, and whether I'm by your side or not, that doesn't change. Being universes apart couldn't do it, so a few hundred feet sure as hell won't.
So take as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere.
Yours,
Bucky
p.s. If you're looking for your sweater, don't waste your time. It's mine now.
Tossed onto the foot of the bed though is a zipped hoodie that Bucky had ended up with here. A little worse for wear already, but something he'd worn most evenings he'd spent in the room. And if Ash investigates, he'll find a note in the pocket. An explanation for his sudden departure-]
Ash,
I've moved back to my room. Now that Embry's back, the three of you need so time to yourselves. You deserve some space to be able to reconnect with them. To recover, together. You need each other, and if I stayed, I'd only get in the way of that.
This isn't me disappearing though. I promise. If you need me, I'll be there. Tell me to find you, and I won't stop searching till I do. We both already know I'm yours, and whether I'm by your side or not, that doesn't change. Being universes apart couldn't do it, so a few hundred feet sure as hell won't.
So take as long as you need. I'm not going anywhere.
Yours,
Bucky
p.s. If you're looking for your sweater, don't waste your time. It's mine now.
[He knows he could keep it to himself. That there's no reason to drag Ash in to this when he's already got so much on his plate. But of all the people here, Ash is the only one who knows just how complicated his feelings are towards the Tony from his world. Knows just how much damage he caused. And while he might not have told Ash what's happened in the years between his arrival in Duplicity and now, those feelings haven't gotten any less easier to live with. Which is why he ends up reaching out. A seemingly simple message, and an unwritten request-]
i'm going to see stark
going back to my room after
[Please be there.]
i'm going to see stark
going back to my room after
[Please be there.]
Danny Johnson has killed Hawk.
Embry found him.
I do not wish to leave him, but I must tell Tim before he learns from another.
[ like danny. ]
Embry found him.
I do not wish to leave him, but I must tell Tim before he learns from another.
[ like danny. ]
( lately, ash's mind is always in captain mode. he doesn't swear at the text, doesn't break or hit anything, even if the impulse is there, this needy desire to do something that'll have an immediate, visual effect. he stares at it for a long time, thinking hawk, goddamnit, tie, fuck, embry before allowing himself a single self-assured nod. making a plan. deciding how to fix it. )
I can take care of Embry, or I can tell Tim.
What would be best for you? Don't think about anyone else for a second.
I can take care of Embry, or I can tell Tim.
What would be best for you? Don't think about anyone else for a second.
[ the sun isn’t up yet when he slinks back to perch on the edge of ash’s bed, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion as the mattress dips. in the dim light, he turns to stare over his shoulder at ash’s shadowed jaw, the gentle smudge of lashes against his cheek — then his pulse quickens when ash’s eyes open, an entire forest of green and gold to get lost in for the rest of his life, fixing him with a look as if he knows everything.
but he doesn’t. ash can’t know this. he can’t possibly predict every bump in the road embry moore will present on each new day, and there has to be a limit on how much his heart can stretch to fit every fucked up shape that embry’s problems decide to be.
he wishes he could sit at his feet. he wishes he could feel ash’s wrath right now, his true fucking anger and hatred, because it would be better than the open well of fear spilling and spilling and spilling, until embry thinks it might drown him when he’s standing upright. ]
You’re not gonna believe this. [ a dry whisper, as he turns back around, looking at the bedside table instead for a familiar culprit — a bottle of his preferred gin that looks suspiciously too full, not a glass in sight, but embry’s been known to drink straight from the source. ] But I fucked up again.
[ he waits for ash’s reprimand, guilt swallowing him up as he closes his eyes. ]
Did you see me leave? [ his voice hollows out into something more desperate. ] I think I drank too much, or maybe I went up to the Coronal, and I — fuck, Ash, you know how I am. I woke up in Hawk's bed, but I… I don’t remember leaving here. I don’t even remember the sex.
but he doesn’t. ash can’t know this. he can’t possibly predict every bump in the road embry moore will present on each new day, and there has to be a limit on how much his heart can stretch to fit every fucked up shape that embry’s problems decide to be.
he wishes he could sit at his feet. he wishes he could feel ash’s wrath right now, his true fucking anger and hatred, because it would be better than the open well of fear spilling and spilling and spilling, until embry thinks it might drown him when he’s standing upright. ]
You’re not gonna believe this. [ a dry whisper, as he turns back around, looking at the bedside table instead for a familiar culprit — a bottle of his preferred gin that looks suspiciously too full, not a glass in sight, but embry’s been known to drink straight from the source. ] But I fucked up again.
[ he waits for ash’s reprimand, guilt swallowing him up as he closes his eyes. ]
Did you see me leave? [ his voice hollows out into something more desperate. ] I think I drank too much, or maybe I went up to the Coronal, and I — fuck, Ash, you know how I am. I woke up in Hawk's bed, but I… I don’t remember leaving here. I don’t even remember the sex.
( saying ash had a restful night's sleep implies he slept well through the entirety of it, which isn't fair to say. he fell asleep just fine, embry beside him where he should be, sleeping as easily as if he isn't a chronic insomniac regularly getting about three hours a night. he fell into a dark, heavy, pleasant sleep. only when he woke up, embry was gone, the blankets on his side of the bed folded over like he waited for ash to pass out before removing himself, very carefully, from his bed. he probably did. comparatively, the sleep ash falls into next is lukewarm and shallow, disturbed by rustling trees outside and the creaky sounds associated with an old house settling its wooden bones, every one of them sounding like embry's flayed skin, pulled taunt and pinned.
he wakes now with a start, sensing someone in the room with him. it's easier once he sees it's embry, sitting up in bed and reaching over for his glasses, setting them on his nose, turning the bedside table lamp on. embry looks frantic, unmoored. generally the answer to that is obvious — kneel.
except then he says i woke up in hawk's bed. i don't remember the sex, and nasty jealousy curdles ash's insides, with enough vitriol that he shuts his eyes tightly to buoy through the pain, not finding that his jealousy lessens any, but finding he can compartmentalize it after a few stable breaths. so, embry got up and left his bed to go find hawk's. so, he and hawk have sex, something that colors every interaction he's ever had with hawk in a new, unpleasant color. so, he doesn't remember anything about it. that's the important part. )
I didn't see you leave, but I woke up and you were gone. ( maybe he should've looked for him, knowing what lingers behind every corner, in every chapel of this house. guilt compliments the jealousy in his heart nicely, like a long suffering cocktail. ash feels unmoored, completely unalive in his skin. ) You weren't drinking last night any more than usual — we should get a drug test. I'll go with you to the clinic. ( ash stands up, stretching out his body, before moving to settle a priest-like hand on his embry's head, through his wavy hair. a confessional touch. proffer enough hail marys, and i'll forgive this cruel thing you've given me. embry's hail mary, the difficult thing he doesn't want to give but has to sacrifice: ) You need to get sober.
he wakes now with a start, sensing someone in the room with him. it's easier once he sees it's embry, sitting up in bed and reaching over for his glasses, setting them on his nose, turning the bedside table lamp on. embry looks frantic, unmoored. generally the answer to that is obvious — kneel.
except then he says i woke up in hawk's bed. i don't remember the sex, and nasty jealousy curdles ash's insides, with enough vitriol that he shuts his eyes tightly to buoy through the pain, not finding that his jealousy lessens any, but finding he can compartmentalize it after a few stable breaths. so, embry got up and left his bed to go find hawk's. so, he and hawk have sex, something that colors every interaction he's ever had with hawk in a new, unpleasant color. so, he doesn't remember anything about it. that's the important part. )
I didn't see you leave, but I woke up and you were gone. ( maybe he should've looked for him, knowing what lingers behind every corner, in every chapel of this house. guilt compliments the jealousy in his heart nicely, like a long suffering cocktail. ash feels unmoored, completely unalive in his skin. ) You weren't drinking last night any more than usual — we should get a drug test. I'll go with you to the clinic. ( ash stands up, stretching out his body, before moving to settle a priest-like hand on his embry's head, through his wavy hair. a confessional touch. proffer enough hail marys, and i'll forgive this cruel thing you've given me. embry's hail mary, the difficult thing he doesn't want to give but has to sacrifice: ) You need to get sober.
[ the market that’s popped up in place of the faire reminds embry of one of their brief getaways in vienna, wandering the christmas market in the public square, warming his fingers on glühwein and letting ash feed him wurst while he complained that it would give him onion breath. ash had bundled a scarf over his head when embry’s ears turned red with cold, pulling him in to kiss the tip of his ruddy nose when they’d rounded a corner, and embry swore there was nothing better than this. nothing more complicated than kissing his captain eight-hundred miles from the war. merlin’s warning felt like a still breeze in that moment, the paranoid words of an old man who knew little of hot-blooded love.
of course, merlin had gotten the last word after all, and embry has been fucked ever since, missing his cautious european freedom in the face of american political scrutiny. his good mood dissipates with the memory, wintery blue eyes scanning the crowd to land on a familiar khaki barn coat, the dark brown corduroy collar turned up to keep out the cold. the coat makes ash look painfully midwestern, which embry finds painfully fucking cute, and he’s stuck his hands inside of it enough to know the brushed flannel lining is warm and soft, and that he’s probably wearing a sweater underneath snug enough to caress his muscles, and maybe embry should just pull him aside for a dirty fuck instead of the far more humiliating thing he came here to do.
no. he can’t, he shouldn’t. besides, the ring is burning a hole in his pocket, and he has to get rid of it eventually, in the form of giving it to the person he got it for in the first place.
he comes up behind ash, his gloved hand cradling his elbow to urge him out of the crowd and past the end of the row of stalls, where it’s quieter and more secluded. with every (perfectly normal) interaction, embry is very aware of the last horrible thing he said to ash. multiple horrible things, in fact. they sit like goddamn elephants on his chest, and he doesn’t know if they’ll ever talk about any of it again, but he hopes not. he hopes for never.
from the pocket of his long wool coat, he pulls out the ring. it hadn’t come in a box, maybe because he hadn’t asked for one. he thinks, belatedly, that he should’ve gotten some kind of wrapping for it, because he knows how to give a gift and this certainly isn’t it, but it’s already clutched in his fist, hidden away for the last few moments until he holds his hand out between them and opens his fingers, the gold band glinting in his leather-clad palm. ]
This is for you. I figured you needed one, too. [ he’s very aware that ash hasn’t worn a ring since jenny died. he was there when he took it off for the last time. he was there for every hellish moment of it. ] Merry Christmas, Ash.
of course, merlin had gotten the last word after all, and embry has been fucked ever since, missing his cautious european freedom in the face of american political scrutiny. his good mood dissipates with the memory, wintery blue eyes scanning the crowd to land on a familiar khaki barn coat, the dark brown corduroy collar turned up to keep out the cold. the coat makes ash look painfully midwestern, which embry finds painfully fucking cute, and he’s stuck his hands inside of it enough to know the brushed flannel lining is warm and soft, and that he’s probably wearing a sweater underneath snug enough to caress his muscles, and maybe embry should just pull him aside for a dirty fuck instead of the far more humiliating thing he came here to do.
no. he can’t, he shouldn’t. besides, the ring is burning a hole in his pocket, and he has to get rid of it eventually, in the form of giving it to the person he got it for in the first place.
he comes up behind ash, his gloved hand cradling his elbow to urge him out of the crowd and past the end of the row of stalls, where it’s quieter and more secluded. with every (perfectly normal) interaction, embry is very aware of the last horrible thing he said to ash. multiple horrible things, in fact. they sit like goddamn elephants on his chest, and he doesn’t know if they’ll ever talk about any of it again, but he hopes not. he hopes for never.
from the pocket of his long wool coat, he pulls out the ring. it hadn’t come in a box, maybe because he hadn’t asked for one. he thinks, belatedly, that he should’ve gotten some kind of wrapping for it, because he knows how to give a gift and this certainly isn’t it, but it’s already clutched in his fist, hidden away for the last few moments until he holds his hand out between them and opens his fingers, the gold band glinting in his leather-clad palm. ]
This is for you. I figured you needed one, too. [ he’s very aware that ash hasn’t worn a ring since jenny died. he was there when he took it off for the last time. he was there for every hellish moment of it. ] Merry Christmas, Ash.
( ash is american through and through, which means the holidays are synonyms with vacation time, even for the president. he is undivorcable from the good mood of a jolly christmas tune even if his spirit has been, through the last few weeks to months, a little decimated. embry's tried to help. so has greer, and so has bucky, and they've all had success in the short term, managing to give ash certain purpose where it lives in the confines of a bedroom, the push and pull of bdsm. physically, he is a person with a body, and he even gives the illusion sometimes of being that — mentally, he's still staring at embry's corpse, burying embry's body, kissing embry's headstone. mentally, he's imagining hawk guiding him to embry's death site, hawk arranging his funeral, hawk's silence during werewolf. mentally, he's imagining a fatherless son, eyes that look like his, morgan pregnant and nearly dead and not just alone, but abandoned. at night, he doesn't sleep. mentally, he's anywhere but here.
it's only when he lingers on it, though. christmas is a shallow enough distraction that his thoughts are far from dark — there's cinnamon bun air wafting from a nearby vendor's cracked door, rocking around the christmas tree sung a cappella by a wayward group of carolers, and a handsome man locking eyes with ash. he doesn't have much to complain about. the way embry looks in moonlight is similar to how he looks with snow dusting his thick hair, silver compliments on a gq magazine cover. he's actually very cute, all pink nose and cold-blushed cheeks, eyes the same color as glacier caps. ash grins at his back, small and happy, as he's led away.
privately, he wonders if embry is about to drop another bomb on him, something new he needs to brace for. he's ready for it, even if it isn't fair to expect it — ash doesn't know how much more he can take, but he's thought that for months and is still standing. blow after blow, he's here, present enough to look amused at embry's squirreling them away, hiding their clandestine meeting. a regular game, for them. you be the prince and i'll be the mistress, and we'll both be boys.
still, if he'd been asked to guess what this was about, it probably would've been closer to a dry fuck in the icy wind than — this. ash stares at the ring like he's never seen one before, like he has no idea what this could mean. but. he does know what this means. he knows, because he's proposed to embry three times, and didn't give the option of no on the last one, because he's been waiting some fifteen years for a yes from embry, and that's — that's what it is, right? in the palm of embry's hand, probably pure gold and not just gold-plated like the one on his finger. ash's eyes get wet. he looks up at embry for confirmation this isn't some insomnia-induced dream made nightmarish by its perfection, but it's real, and he knows it's real because the vulnerability in embry's expression is complimented by his quiet discomfort, the rawness of cracking his egg heart open and waiting to see how ash responds.
ash laughs, bright, some huge weight fifteen years old lifting off his chest as he bites off one of his gloves at the fingertips. embry said yes. embry does love him. he means something to embry, exactly what embry means to him. )
At least — ( he bites off his other glove, before tucking them both in embry's coat pocket, lifting one wrist to press against the corner of his eye, extending the other hand towards him. ) put it on me, if you're not going to get down on one knee, Patroclus.
it's only when he lingers on it, though. christmas is a shallow enough distraction that his thoughts are far from dark — there's cinnamon bun air wafting from a nearby vendor's cracked door, rocking around the christmas tree sung a cappella by a wayward group of carolers, and a handsome man locking eyes with ash. he doesn't have much to complain about. the way embry looks in moonlight is similar to how he looks with snow dusting his thick hair, silver compliments on a gq magazine cover. he's actually very cute, all pink nose and cold-blushed cheeks, eyes the same color as glacier caps. ash grins at his back, small and happy, as he's led away.
privately, he wonders if embry is about to drop another bomb on him, something new he needs to brace for. he's ready for it, even if it isn't fair to expect it — ash doesn't know how much more he can take, but he's thought that for months and is still standing. blow after blow, he's here, present enough to look amused at embry's squirreling them away, hiding their clandestine meeting. a regular game, for them. you be the prince and i'll be the mistress, and we'll both be boys.
still, if he'd been asked to guess what this was about, it probably would've been closer to a dry fuck in the icy wind than — this. ash stares at the ring like he's never seen one before, like he has no idea what this could mean. but. he does know what this means. he knows, because he's proposed to embry three times, and didn't give the option of no on the last one, because he's been waiting some fifteen years for a yes from embry, and that's — that's what it is, right? in the palm of embry's hand, probably pure gold and not just gold-plated like the one on his finger. ash's eyes get wet. he looks up at embry for confirmation this isn't some insomnia-induced dream made nightmarish by its perfection, but it's real, and he knows it's real because the vulnerability in embry's expression is complimented by his quiet discomfort, the rawness of cracking his egg heart open and waiting to see how ash responds.
ash laughs, bright, some huge weight fifteen years old lifting off his chest as he bites off one of his gloves at the fingertips. embry said yes. embry does love him. he means something to embry, exactly what embry means to him. )
At least — ( he bites off his other glove, before tucking them both in embry's coat pocket, lifting one wrist to press against the corner of his eye, extending the other hand towards him. ) put it on me, if you're not going to get down on one knee, Patroclus.
[Alia’s gift is wrapped somewhat clumsily in brown paper, likely taken from the kitchens, and taped excessively to ensure it’s secure. Inside, resting in sparkly, star-studded tissue paper: A pair of cufflinks, suitable to the Reigning Emperor of America.
A second smooth-polished rock from the lake (yes, everyone gets a rock) with the gift-receiver’s initials carefully carved into it (with what? Don’t worry about it.)
A business card for Sol & Scroll, because if you aren’t patronizing it, you should be.
There’s also a note, scribbled on notebook paper stolen from Alina (sorry, babe):
Ash -
I hope this new season is kinder to you than the one before. Thank you for the music.
- Alia
There’s also a note, scribbled on notebook paper stolen from Alina (sorry, babe):
Ash -
I hope this new season is kinder to you than the one before. Thank you for the music.
- Alia
[God he doesn't want to reach out. He's been avoiding Ash for a reason. But, given the latest batch of new arrivals, he knows he needs to force himself to warn him. Even if it's just a simple-]
steve's here
sgr on the network
[-before he's back to ignoring his phone entirely once more. For both their sakes.]
steve's here
sgr on the network
[-before he's back to ignoring his phone entirely once more. For both their sakes.]
Dear Ash,
Do you remember the first time you took me home with you? I couldn’t believe where I was, out of all the places in the world. Middle of nowhere America. Nobody knows where Missouri is, you know, and the fact that it’s called Kansas City is incredibly fucked up and misleading.
Meeting your mom, meeting Kay — that was the first time I ever realized what a home could be. What a home should be.
I mean, you’ve met Vivienne. You’ve met fucking Morgan. We existed between a hundred beautiful walls, and we didn’t want for anything. But we never made it a home, not the way you did.
I was empty when you met me, Ash. You have no idea how empty. I ran to the other side of the world, right to the middle of a war, because I was that desperate to feel something. And I ran right into you.
Any good thing about me, it came from you. Everything that makes me want to be brave, that makes me want to be better, it’s only because I know you. There’s nowhere for me to be that’s not by your side. My home is wherever you are.
I love you.
I can’t believe you left me.
Embry
Edited 2025-03-09 15:52 (UTC)
[No message. Just an image that means a whole lot more than he could actually put in to words. But if he's going to share the news with anyone, well...Ash feels like the right person to reach out to. And not just because he's the only one here who knows what she means to him.]
[ Three months later, Embry is sworn in. Three months later, Greer instantly recalls looking down at the Bible he's sworn in on and recognizing it as Ash's — the one she'd often found him reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose, soft pajama pants verging on threadbare for how often he donned them for sleeping in. A day later, she's looking down at a positive pregnancy test in her hand and numbly thumbing out a text to the new president-elect. Three months after that, Embry marries her with the ring that was already hers — the ring Ash gave her, on their day.
All of it, as Merlin says, was meant to happen in the order that it happened in — for peace, but even as Greer grapples with her newfound understanding that the three of them are part of this strange, cosmic cycle, meant to occur again and again, she also finally wakes with the knowledge that this time, they'd got it right. There's a three-story house an hour's drive outside of DC that exists as overwhelming proof of that, run by a dark-haired groundskeeper with piercing green eyes that instantly make her want to fall to her knees.
When Greer wakes, after an untold number of days, her cheeks are damp from a myriad of emotions newly lived — from grief, yes, and mourning, but also from happiness and joy, and the incandescent possibility of hope, even hope that must exist in secret. Before she rises, her hands seek out her belly — not finding the taut swell she most recently remembers, but a flat plane that confirms the worst; she's still here, trapped in this strange manor, head swimming with memories that she has no time to adequately sort through, not when she needs to find both of the men who matter most to her in this existence and the next.
Her steps are shaky, as she gets to her feet, muscles weak from lack of use, and she nearly stumbles once or twice before the pins-and-needles sensation eases, but she's still wearing the pajamas she fell asleep in, a silk camisole and matching shorts, as she pads down the hallway, familiarity with even these changing corridors coming back like a childhood reflex. She would still remember the way to Ash's room even with a blindfold tied around her eyes, but she's too driven to realize that the windows are dark, that the hour is late. She's only reaching for the doorknob with trembling hands and nearly sobbing an exhale once she finds it unlocked. Her gaze is wide, and wild, lashes dark with tears she's fighting to blink back, as it lands on Ash still awake in bed — sitting up against the headboard, book propped against his knee.
She can't breathe, not until she gets to him — crawling from the foot of the mattress like a child scrambling in to sleep with her father, only instead of curling up underneath the covers she's prising the book out of his hands, straddling his lap, cupping his face between both hands, her fingers mapping every familiar angle of his features, and ducking down to kiss him possessively, until she can taste the salt of her own tears on their tongues. ]
All of it, as Merlin says, was meant to happen in the order that it happened in — for peace, but even as Greer grapples with her newfound understanding that the three of them are part of this strange, cosmic cycle, meant to occur again and again, she also finally wakes with the knowledge that this time, they'd got it right. There's a three-story house an hour's drive outside of DC that exists as overwhelming proof of that, run by a dark-haired groundskeeper with piercing green eyes that instantly make her want to fall to her knees.
When Greer wakes, after an untold number of days, her cheeks are damp from a myriad of emotions newly lived — from grief, yes, and mourning, but also from happiness and joy, and the incandescent possibility of hope, even hope that must exist in secret. Before she rises, her hands seek out her belly — not finding the taut swell she most recently remembers, but a flat plane that confirms the worst; she's still here, trapped in this strange manor, head swimming with memories that she has no time to adequately sort through, not when she needs to find both of the men who matter most to her in this existence and the next.
Her steps are shaky, as she gets to her feet, muscles weak from lack of use, and she nearly stumbles once or twice before the pins-and-needles sensation eases, but she's still wearing the pajamas she fell asleep in, a silk camisole and matching shorts, as she pads down the hallway, familiarity with even these changing corridors coming back like a childhood reflex. She would still remember the way to Ash's room even with a blindfold tied around her eyes, but she's too driven to realize that the windows are dark, that the hour is late. She's only reaching for the doorknob with trembling hands and nearly sobbing an exhale once she finds it unlocked. Her gaze is wide, and wild, lashes dark with tears she's fighting to blink back, as it lands on Ash still awake in bed — sitting up against the headboard, book propped against his knee.
She can't breathe, not until she gets to him — crawling from the foot of the mattress like a child scrambling in to sleep with her father, only instead of curling up underneath the covers she's prising the book out of his hands, straddling his lap, cupping his face between both hands, her fingers mapping every familiar angle of his features, and ducking down to kiss him possessively, until she can taste the salt of her own tears on their tongues. ]
Edited 2025-07-21 18:37 (UTC)
( it's a night like any other, in that sleep is few and far away and ash is searching for solace through the scriptures of his bible, well worn and dog-earred and annotated to the point of near madness. it's a different kind of sleeplessness, these days. ash has known about his death far longer than embry has, which has been convenient these last few months, at least in that he hasn't had to think about it with any true devotion. it's just a truth, existing there and in the distance, waiting with cold arms to welcome him on their inevitable return home. now? it's forefront, evident. this long lasting debate with himself that keeps him up later into the night, unable to find sleep: is it cruel to want embry and greer now, when he knows it's doomed? should he be pushing them together, taking himself out of the narrative?
he can't find an answer, and is aware there likely isn't one, even as greer helps herself into his room, a look of affection on his face. at least — until the lamplight catches greer's expression and forces him to knot his brows, hands coming up to cup her curvy hips as she crawls over him, settling onto his lap. his sweet, little girl. she remembers. not even the sad stuff necessarily — but that they're married, that she's his wife and possibly his widow, that she holds the full width of their love story in the cavity of her chest. it's a hungry kiss, because ash is always starved for her, his reading glasses mussed as he slides a hand up her back, a three-fingered claw cinching through her hair, fisting tightly. his opposite hand seizes her waist, digging up her tiny sleep shirt, until he has a warm grip of her perfect skin, strong enough to flip them over in one swift motion.
against her mouth, he moans ) Greer. ( and then, with a little more control, more domination, ) Greer.
( it does the trick and they pull apart, greer pressed down into his mattress and ash looking down at her, cataloguing her beautiful tears, her perfect face, the everything about her that he loves so much. he leans up, kisses her salty lashes, stroking his hand against her cheek like trying to soothe her, his wild dog. )
We're okay. It'll be okay. ( cooing, in between kissing her flushed cheeks and red eyes, her needy mouth, her heaving throat. ash, as ever, has one perfect solution to everything. ) Tell me your safeword, angel.
he can't find an answer, and is aware there likely isn't one, even as greer helps herself into his room, a look of affection on his face. at least — until the lamplight catches greer's expression and forces him to knot his brows, hands coming up to cup her curvy hips as she crawls over him, settling onto his lap. his sweet, little girl. she remembers. not even the sad stuff necessarily — but that they're married, that she's his wife and possibly his widow, that she holds the full width of their love story in the cavity of her chest. it's a hungry kiss, because ash is always starved for her, his reading glasses mussed as he slides a hand up her back, a three-fingered claw cinching through her hair, fisting tightly. his opposite hand seizes her waist, digging up her tiny sleep shirt, until he has a warm grip of her perfect skin, strong enough to flip them over in one swift motion.
against her mouth, he moans ) Greer. ( and then, with a little more control, more domination, ) Greer.
( it does the trick and they pull apart, greer pressed down into his mattress and ash looking down at her, cataloguing her beautiful tears, her perfect face, the everything about her that he loves so much. he leans up, kisses her salty lashes, stroking his hand against her cheek like trying to soothe her, his wild dog. )
We're okay. It'll be okay. ( cooing, in between kissing her flushed cheeks and red eyes, her needy mouth, her heaving throat. ash, as ever, has one perfect solution to everything. ) Tell me your safeword, angel.
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