Chapter Text
They don’t consult Lucy about it. In fact, everyone made sure to keep everything very, very quiet. She knew nothing of the context when she was called to her father’s study. This is why, in a state of extreme wariness, she pauses just inside the doors as they are pulled closed behind her.
There’s a broad, muscular man standing behind and to the left of her father. She notices two things about him at once: his hair (spiked and bright, bright blond) and his scar (directly over his eye, shaped like a bolt of lightning). Immediately after that she discreetly furrows her brow in distaste at his clothes (black pants, no belt, purple shirt, no tie, fur-lined coat hanging over his shoulders like a cloak—it has sleeves for a reason, dumbass).
“Who is this?” Lucy asks, not even curtseying to her father in greeting. “And what is he doing here? He certainly isn’t dressed like a suitor.”
Jude Heartfilia is a stern man by nature, so his glare isn’t much different than his resting expression. Growing up on the receiving end of that glare, though, has taught Lucy the difference. She tries not to shrink backward. “Do not be impolite. This man is your private escort.”
The blond man rolls his eyes at the title. This might have amused Lucy on any other occasion (anyone rolling their eyes at her father are friends to her), but not now. Now, she feels nothing except rage.
“‘Private escort’?” she repeats, malice dripping from each syllable. “Father, you misspoke. Perhaps the term you were looking for was babysitter. This is because of last week, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer her question, not outright. “You are a Lady,” her father says. “Therefore, you must behave as such. That does not involve running off into the night—alone, for that matter.”
Lucy is silent. Her gaze, sharp as daggers, does not waver from her father’s for a long, tense moment. It is broken when she whirls around and throws open the doors to exit. They fall closed behind her.
The obvious place for her to go would be her room. This is why, when she kicks off her heels and lifts her skirts, she runs to the hall with the door leading to the garden. Auhert isn’t there; no one is. The door is unlocked. She flees outside and only stops when she reaches the fountain, which isn’t even turned on. It hasn’t been, not since the last time they had guests. Due to this, the statue looks almost withered, the cracks in the stone more apparent.
The fountain was nothing like this when her mother was alive.
Lucy sighs to herself. What is she thinking? Nothing is the way it was when her mother was alive. Her father changed so much with his severity and harshness. Even the staff, previously chipper with skips in their steps, become more like zombies near Jude.
There’s something wet on Lucy’s cheek. She wants to believe it’s started to rain, but when she looks up, the only clouds are far in the distance, over the hills. Shaking herself, she wipes the tear away and squeezes her eyes closed until they sting. Crying is not an option. Especially when her new babysitter is likely just out of sight.
Focus, Lucy, she tells herself, keeping her eyes closed. First mapping out the life energy of plants and creatures, she attempts to stretch from there and sense any magic energy that her subconscious might find familiar… yes. Just inside the gate.
“Don’t just stand there,” Lucy snaps, but her words are without bite. God, she’s tired.
He doesn’t hesitate in doing as she asked and walking out toward her from behind some trees. The guy is even taller up close, especially without her heels on for a few inches’ boost. His very presence is large; just being near him, Lucy feels like she needs to move aside to make room. In a way, it reminds her of Jude’s.
“I thought ladies weren’t supposed to run off,” he says, breaking the silence.
Lucy huffs a bit and drops onto the edge of the fountain, resting the palms of her hands behind her and leaning back. “You’ll have to get used to it,” she says, “because when I talk to my father, that’s generally how conversations end.”
“Could’a sworn most of ‘em have a ‘goodbye’ somewhere in there.”
She scoffs. “With him, it’s usually just ‘Return to your room.’ He ignores me if I don’t. A heartwarming relationship, huh?”
The guy sits down on the fountain’s edge next to her, elbows on his knees. “Dads fuckin’ suck,” he says. Lucy looks up. He doesn’t. “I don’t think I know anyone that has a decent relationship with theirs.”
They’re both silent for a while, after that. Lucy trails her fingers through the water. The guy seems lost in his own thoughts—perhaps memories. Lucy is the first to speak again.
“If you call me Lady Lucy, I’ll fire you,” she warns him. “And don’t expect me to call you ‘mister’ anything.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” he replies. “Mister Dreyar sounds like some old snob’s name. Just Laxus.”
“Laxus Dreyar, huh?” Lucy says thoughtfully. Then she pauses, and gasps. “Hold on. Like, the Laxus Dreyar of Fairy Tail? Did my father employ a Fairy Tail mage? Seriously?”
Laxus, without shame, lifts up the bottom of his shirt to show his guild mark, woven into the design of a tattoo. Lucy almost squeals, leaning over and tracing it excitedly with her fingertips.
“So this is what it looks like up close! Sometimes the servants sneak me a Weekly Sorcerer, and I always skip right to the articles about Fairy Tail! I’ve always dreamed of joining, ever since I read an interview with Erza Scarlet! Crux has told me all he knows about Fairy Tail’s history, which is a lot, considering he knows a lot of history about everything, and Fairy Tail has a lot of history!” At this point, she realizes that not only is she rambling, but her face is incredibly close to his, and her hand is hot over his guild mark. Abruptly, she yanks her hand away and jerks back. She convinces herself she’s not blushing.
After a moment of hesitation, Lucy peeks from under her bangs at Laxus. His eyes are a tad wide. Is she imagining the pink dusting over his cheekbones? She must be. He clears his throat. “Ain’t that great. ‘Course, the Master’s my gramps—er, grandfather. So. It’s same-old, same-old, usually.”
The Lady sighs longingly, tapping her bare feet on the cobblestone path. “My same-old, same-old is being ignored by my father until he finds someone convenient for me to marry. I guess it’s kind of alright, though, since he doesn’t really notice me practicing magic.”
This seems to catch Laxus’ attention more than anything else that’s happened all afternoon. “Magic, huh?” he says, resting his elbows on his knees and glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s less interested than he is. “What kind?”
Lucy jumps to her feet, beaming. She raises one side of her skirts, revealing a small purse clipped to the white lace garter on her thigh. She’s too eager to show off to notice Laxus’ gaze hovering on her creamy skin. When she pulls some gleaming charms of some sort from the pouch, his eyes focus on them to avoid… well. “I’m a Celestial Spirit Mage!” Lucy’s tone is boasting, but her expression takes on a bit of fear, and she glances nervously at the door to the mansion, worried someone heard. Lowering her voice, she continues, “My mother was one, as well, and she taught me. I inherited her Keys when she died. I don’t have many, considering I don’t exactly get the opportunity to go out and find them, but I love the Spirits I have contracts with. They’re more of a family than my father could ever try to be.”
Laxus reaches out to the keyring, which Lucy hesitates to hand over. When she does, he studies the Keys carefully. “Y’know, I’ve seen some silver ones in stores here and there,” he muses. “And I’m pretty sure some jobs’ve mentioned some kinda keys in their rewards. In fact, I just got one. It’s gold, though, not silver.”
“You have a gold key?” Lucy covers her mouth with her hand. “Really? Which one?”
The man pulls a face. “I dunno. One of ‘em.”
Lucy whines, grabbing his sleeve and tugging it with a pout. “Which one though?” she asks again, drawing out the last word.
With a huff, Laxus runs a hand through his hair (which does nothing to tame it). “Shaped like an arrow, I think? Maybe?”
“Sagittarius!” gasps the other, pout disappearing in a heartbeat. “I can’t believe you have a Zodiac Key!” After a realization, she deflates. “Oh. But I suppose you’ll want to sell it, huh? Since you can’t use it? You’ll get an impressive amount of jewels for it, I’m sure.”
“Well. Ain’t like I’m a cheap hire. Your dad’s payin’ me enough that, uh… I really don’t need the cash I’d get from selling this thing.”
Lucy narrows her eyes at him. “What are you saying?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll give it to you. Provided you can handle it.” With that, he smirks.
Oh, that’s it. Lucy had been distracted by his guild and the talk of magic, but now she’s reminded just who he is and what he’s here for. A babysitter. To keep her out of trouble. To keep her from doing things like this. He’s probably going to tell her father the moment she goes to her room. Chances are, he’s even lying about having a Zodiac Key. Maybe he just saw a picture of it in a book, or something, and he’s teasing her. Teasing her that he has freedom, while she’s locked here, in her dressed-up prison.
“Get off your damn high horse,” she snaps, and this time, her voice is harsh, lined with anger. “Don’t think you can dangle a prize in front of my nose to get me to do what you want.” Lucy snatches her keys from his hand and jabs the end of one of them into his sternum, sneering. “You’re under the misconception that I’m some pretty little princess in her rebellious phase. Keep up that train of thought and I promise you, there’ll be no end to your regrets.”
With that, she whips on her heel and stalks away. However, her posture isn’t sulking; it’s powerful, shoulders back, spine straight, chin high, she walks with dignity, grace like a ghost in that she seems to glide. Her anger isn’t like the Salamander’s, Laxus realizes, nor the Titania’s, even his own. Her anger is dry ice, frigid to witness and scalding to touch.
Perhaps this won’t be the easy money he assumed, but Laxus has a strong feeling that it’ll be worth it.