Chapter Text
By the time Elle made it back to the castle from the Merp Manor Café, she was running on something that could generously be described as spite and caffeine.
She had, against all reason and advice, decided that the café needed to be cleaned immediately after the storm. And not just a light tidy. Not the usual “wipe the counters and call it good.” A full, top-to-bottom clean. Floors scrubbed. Spice shelves reorganized. Chairs flipped, legs wiped, windows polished until her arms shook with the effort.
It reminded Drift uncomfortably of the first weeks after Elle had been turned—burning through energy she didn’t quite understand yet, refusing to rest, terrified that if she stopped moving she’d fall apart.
So Drift didn’t say anything when, back at the castle, Elle sat down on the plush couch, blanket rolled around her body… and didn’t get back up, relived that she was finally resting.
Minutes passed. Then more.
At some point, without comment or ceremony, Elle leaned sideways. Her shoulder bumped Drift’s side. Drift shifted, making space, expecting her to correct herself, like she usually did.
Elle didn’t.
Instead, she slumped fully, head tipping until it rested fully against Drift’s shoulder. Her eyes slid closed, lashes dark against her cheeks.
Drift froze.
“…Elle?” she asked quietly.
No response. Just a soft exhale.
Shelby looked over from her laptop, took in the scene in one glance, and smirked. “Wow. She really said goodnight.”
Drift huffed under her breath but didn’t move Elle. Instead, she adjusted, carefully, easing herself down in the couch so Elle’s neck wasn’t bent at a weird angle. Her hand hovered, uncertain, before finally settling at Elle’s waist to keep her from slipping.
“Comfy?” Drift murmured.
“Mmh,” Elle answered vaguely, not opening her eyes. “You’re cozy.”
That did something unpleasantly fond to Drift’s chest.
Shelby squinted at them. “You know you’re basically cuddling now, right?”
Elle cracked one eye open. “Yes.”
Drift added, “She pretty much just passed out on me.”
“Tragic,” Shelby said.
Elle shifted again—deliberately this time—curling closer, cheek pressed more firmly into Drift. Drift stiffened for half a second, then exhaled and let it happen, her arm coming around again without thought, hand resting at Elle’s side like muscle memory, like they would do when the young vampire had just turned.
“Relax,” Elle murmured sleepily. “I’m not stealing anything important.”
“That’s debatable,” Drift muttered, but her fingers still toyed with the seam of Elle’s sleeve anyway.
Then before Elle could think of it better she just leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on Drift’s cheek. It was clumsy and gentle and entirely unplanned—more instinct than intention.
Shelby stared.
“Oh my god, you two” she said. “I’m still in the room—”
Elle crossed the room towards her and kissed Shelby’s cheek as well without warning.
Drift followed a heartbeat later, doing the same on the other side.
Shelby yelped. “Hey—! That’s— you can’t just—”
“You’re very kissable,” Elle said sweetly.
Drift nodded. “Scientifically speaking.”
Shelby groaned and buried her face in her notebook. “I hate both of you.”
Neither of them believed her.
Elle yawned, settling back into Drift’s side like she belonged there, exhaustion finally winning. Drift adjusted again, gentler now, and let herself stay.
Shelby left the table at that, lowering her laptop’s lid and joined Drift’s free side, deciding to enjoy the cuddle pile.
Scott had been keeping a very concerned eye on Avid for a while now.
Not in the predatory sense, but with the kind of careful attention one reserved for something precious and fragile and trying very hard not to appear either.
Avid sat at the table with his ‘lapped top’ open, shoulders hunched, jaw tight. The glow of the screen painted faint shadows under his eyes, highlighting the kind of exhaustion Scott had come to recognize far too easily.
Ever since the lights had come back on—the systems replaced for something more robust by professionals and the leaks in the roof patched—Avid had decided to compensate for the lost time.
He pulled long shifts at the café and extra study hours. As if electricity had returned not just to the castle, but to some invisible ledger in Avid’s mind that now demanded repayment.
Scott, of course, disapproved.
The assignment deadline loomed—Scott was well aware of that, if only because Avid had mentioned it exactly fourteen times over the past three days, each with increasing strain and decreasing progress. And yet, for all the urgency, he was not writing.
He was staring.
Avid sighed, dramatic and defeated, and let his forehead rest briefly against the heel of his hand.
Scott waited.
Nothing happened.
Squeak, sensing an opening—or perhaps simply existing in a state of perpetual need—scuttled across the table and tugged at the edge of Avid’s sleeve with tiny insistence.
Avid did not react.
Squeak squeaked. Loudly.
No response.
Scott’s mouth thinned.
“That,” he said quietly to the room at large, “is unacceptable.”
He rose from his chair and crossed the space with deliberate calm. Avid did not notice him approach, too busy glaring at the laptop screen as if it had personally betrayed him.
Scott paused just behind him, assessing.
The screen displayed the same half-written sentence it had shown ten minutes ago. The cursor blinked, patient and judgmental.
Scott leaned down slightly. “You appear to be in a stalemate.”
Avid startled, shoulders jumping. “I’m working!”
Scott glanced at the screen. “In spirit, perhaps.”
Avid groaned and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. “I can’t make it sound right. And if I don’t finish this tonight, I’ll be behind tomorrow, and then I’ll have to stay late after my shift and—”
Scott placed his hands on Avid’s shoulders.
He felt the tension immediately. Too much. Held too long.
“That will do,” Scott said.
Avid blinked. “What?”
“You are exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
Scott’s thumbs pressed gently into the tight muscle at the base of Avid’s neck. He felt the immediate, involuntary softening and filed it away with satisfaction.
“This,” Scott continued calmly, “is not productivity. This is self-punishment disguised as diligence.”
Avid opened his mouth to argue.
Scott leaned down and pressed a kiss into his hair, right at the base of his horn.
The argument dissolved on contact.
Avid’s shoulders dropped a fraction.
Scott straightened slightly, decision made.
He moved around the table and closed the laptop with a soft, decisive click.
Avid made a noise of protest. “Scott—”
“No,” Scott said, very gently. “You have reached the point where you are no longer permitted to make decisions.”
Avid let himself be pulled up, resistance half-hearted at best. Squeak immediately squeaked in approval, fluttering over to land on Avid’s shoulder as if endorsing the intervention.
Scott glanced at the bat. “Thank you for your patience.”
Squeak squeaked proudly.
Avid laughed despite himself, tension finally cracking. “You two planned this.”
“Yes,” Scott said simply.
He guided Avid back toward the couch, sitting and drawing him down with him without ceremony. Avid went willingly, curling in close by instinct.
Scott adjusted him carefully, one hand settling at Avid’s back, the other combing through his hair with slow familiarity, ensuring it sat comfortably around the horn.
“You do not need to atone for having electricity again,” Scott said quietly.
Avid went still.
Scott continued, voice low, certain, making sure that Avid still remembered that. “You do not need to earn rest. Or belonging. Or my approval.”
Avid leaned into him, forehead resting against his shoulder.
Scott pressed a kiss there, lingering.
“For the next hour,” he added, “you will do nothing productive.”
Avid exhaled. “You’re sabotaging me.”
Scott allowed himself a small, pleased smile.
“I am saving you.”
And this time, Avid did not argue.
Three minutes passed then Avid shifted.
It was subtle—just a small movement of his knee, the faintest attempt to sit up, the kind of reflex that suggested his mind was already crawling back toward obligation.
Scott felt it immediately.
“Mm,” Avid murmured, halfway between apology and habit. “I should probably—”
Scott tightened his arm around him.
“No,” he said, softly and with absolute finality.
Avid stilled.
Scott tilted his head and pressed a slow kiss to Avid’s temple. Not hurried. Not distracting in the obvious way. Careful. Meant to sink in.
Avid exhaled, a helpless sound, and sank back into him.
Scott considered that a promising start.
He shifted slightly, arranging Avid more comfortably across his lap, one hand resting warm and steady at his lower back. His other hand returned to its earlier task, fingers combing through dark hair, following the curve of horn with practised familiarity.
He did this often. Too often, perhaps. Avid’s hair was soft and fun to play with, and Scott took a quiet, unreasonable pride in knowing exactly how to touch it without snagging or discomfort.
Avid made a noise.
It was small. Involuntary. Very telling.
Scott’s mouth curved.
“Scott,” Avid said, voice already thinner. “You’re doing that on purpose, distracting me so I don’t go work.”
“Yes.”
There was no shame in it.
Scott leaned down again, this time kissing behind Avid’s ear—once, twice—each press of his lips deliberate and unhurried. He felt the way Avid shivered, the way his shoulders tensed and then melted, resignation settling in.
“I am concerned,” Scott said mildly, “that you have mistaken endurance for virtue.”
Avid laughed weakly. “You’re quoting at me from a psychology textbook now.”
“I am making a point.”
Scott’s thumb began tracing slow, idle shapes against Avid’s side. Nothing scandalous. Nothing that could be reasonably protested.
And yet.
Avid’s hand fisted in the fabric at the front of Scott’s shirt.
Scott hummed thoughtfully. “You have stared at that document the entire afternoon and produced nothing but despair.”
“I was working,” Avid protested.
“You were suffering,” Scott corrected. “I will not allow it.”
He kissed Avid again, this time at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a full kiss. An almost. A suggestion.
Avid turned his head without thinking, chasing it.
Scott obliged.
This one lingered. Soft, warm, grounding. Scott kept it slow, infuriatingly so, pulling back only when Avid leaned in too eagerly.
Avid groaned. “You are the worst.”
Scott smiled against his lips. “And yet.”
He kissed him again.
Avid forgot about the laptop and work entirely.
Somewhere nearby, Squeak fluttered to the back of the couch, settling there with the air of a creature witnessing something both inevitable and deeply satisfying.
Scott pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Avid’s.
“You will rest,” he said quietly. “Or I will continue this.”
Avid laughed breathlessly. “That’s not the threat you think it is, Scott.”
Scott kissed him once more, slow and certain.
“I know.”
And Scott, entirely unrepentant, settled in to ensure that no studying occurred for the foreseeable future.
That night, evening settled gently over the castle, the storm reduced at last to a steady patter of rain against the windows. The lights were on—properly on this time—and no one was pretending not to appreciate it after all they’ve endured.
A radio murmured from somewhere near the kitchen, a low wash of classical music that no one was actually listening to. It was there mostly for the comfort of it. Proof that things worked.
“I still keep expecting them to flicker,” Drift admitted, glancing up at the chandelier like it might betray them out of spite.
“They won’t,” Shelby replied, smug. “I watched the electrician triple-check everything. I made eye contact.”
“That explains why he looked so afraid,” Elle said brightly, setting mugs down on the table. “Okay! Blood espressos. Brand-new machine I have ordered in. Still warm!”
Avid eyed the cup suspiciously. “You know I appreciate the effort, but I still don’t like how… yucky they taste.”
Drift laughed. “That’s the espresso part.”
Avid nodded. “Yeah, that’s the part I don’t like.”
Scott didn’t comment. He had other priorities—namely, keeping Avid firmly not at his 'lapped top'. Avid was seated sideways on his lap instead, legs tucked in, shoulder against Scott’s chest. He’d gone boneless there sometime during the conversation and never recovered, purring softly without quite realizing he was doing it—that seemed to happen a lot around Scott.
Scott’s arm stayed looped around him, hand resting at his waist. Every time Avid shifted like he might get up, Scott tightened his hold just enough to discourage the idea.
“You’ve done enough work,” Scott said mildly, for perhaps the fourth time. “The lights returning does not mean you must immediately martyr yourself to academia.”
“I wasn’t—” Avid began, then sighed and leaned back into him again. “…Okay. Maybe a little.”
Squeak had claimed his own spot, curled up neatly against Scott’s clavicle, tiny body rising and falling in sleep. Scott had no memory of when that happened, only that moving now felt unthinkable.
Across the room, the girls had… rearranged themselves.
Shelby was sitting on the couch, notebook abandoned for once, and Elle had somehow ended up on her lap, arms looped loosely around her shoulders. Drift sat behind them, painstakingly attempting to braid Shelby’s hair with the careful concentration of someone diffusing a bomb.
“Hold still,” Drift muttered.
Shelby rolled her eyes but didn’t move her arms from where they’d settled around Elle’s waist.
Scott watched the scene unfold with growing amusement. His mouth tilted, already preparing something sharp and teasing—something he felt he earned, after months of being on the receiving end.
Avid felt it before he heard it.
He tipped his head back slightly and glanced up at Scott, one brow lifting in warning. Scott opened his mouth anyway.
Avid kissed him.
It was quick and deliberate and entirely effective.
Scott blinked, thoughts derailed completely.
Avid murmured, barely audible, “Don’t.”
Scott huffed a quiet laugh, conceding defeat. “Very well.”
Drift looked over. “Ugh. Get a room.”
“Boy cooties,” Elle added, wrinkling her nose.
Shelby snorted and grabbed the nearest harmless object—a folded throw pillow—and lobbed it at them. It bounced harmlessly off Scott’s shoulder and slid to the floor.
Avid laughed, bright and easy, curling closer again. Scott tightened his arm, content.
The radio droned on. The lights stayed steady. Outside, the rain kept falling, but inside everything was warm and full and right.
No one went anywhere.
And no one needed to.
The lights hummed. Soft. Reliable.
Avid tilted his head, listening—not to the radio, but to the quiet outside. “It stopped raining.”
Scott followed his gaze to the window. The world outside was dark and damp and calm again, the last drops sliding lazily down the glass. No thunder. No wind. Just night.
“Hm,” Scott said. “So it has.”
No one rushed to celebrate. No one felt the need.
Shelby broke the silence eventually, voice thoughtful rather than teasing for once. “You know,” she said, “it was still home. Even without the lights.”
“Even with the attempted murder,” Drift added.
“Especially with that,” Elle said, fond. “It has personality.”
Scott huffed softly. “The castle has always had opinions.”
Avid smiled, pressing his face briefly into Scott’s shoulder. “I think it was just testing us.”
“And we passed,” Scott said, certain.
They stayed there as the night settled fully in, lights glowing steady and unafraid, the storm nothing more than a memory now. It hadn’t needed to be perfect. It hadn’t needed to be easy.
It had just needed to be theirs.
And it was.