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AN: In a development that I'm sure will shock everyone, I've written a bit of post series Machias/Emma fluff. My last fic was a story for TX that didn't have a lot of dialogue compared to some of my other works, so I wanted to try and continue in the same vein with this one! There's some (but not a lot) and considering how much I normally rely on people talking it was a bit of a change :P That said, it's always nice to experiment with different approaches from time to time IMO, it really helps to keep things fresh writing-wise.
Emma can toss and turn all she wants, but at the end of it all she still finds sleep eluding her. She knows it probably would her first night – she's never been one to be immediately comfortable in new surroundings, it can be disorienting – but knowing about a problem and understanding how to solve it are unfortunately two distinct things.
Opening her tired eyes, Emma looks and stares aimlessly through the guest room's sole window, her gaze idly floating from the myriad stars to the bright streetlamps to the pale light of the moon beaming down on her through age-streaked glass.
It looks a little different than it would have looked from the vantage point in her own room back in the village. Not wrong, mind you, just – different.
She sits up and surveys her accommodations as best she can in the moonlit darkness, and judging from the lack of reproach this brings up she can only assume Celine has yet to return from her impromptu evening stroll.
The décor is somehow both austere and welcoming all at the same time, and though it was clear it hasn't seen an occupant in quite a while the space nevertheless has everything she needs; a spacious closet, a surprisingly comfortable bed, and perhaps most important of all - multiple bookshelves filled with as many volumes as they can hold.
"I won't lie," Machias had said with a sheepish cough, holding back a grin at how her eyes had lit up with pure, undisguised delight when she had seen the wealth of reading material available to her, "This room may have another purpose besides housing unexpected visitors for the night."
"Oh, I don't mind. I've always wanted to know what it was like to live in a library anyway," she teased, setting her pack down before immediately starting to peruse the shelves, much to her familiar's exasperation.
Even now, the still air carries the scent of dried ink and aged paper. Goodness, it's wonderful.
Emma rolls out of bed and gingerly climbs to her feet, the floor pleasantly cool on her bare soles as she walks toward the window to look down on the streets of the Ost District, deserted and peaceful at this late hour. Her eyes trace the worn pavement leading into the dark, and she thinks she remembers Machias offhandedly mentioning a small park nearby where he, Patiry and Kargo would all play.
Her lips curl up in a small grin at the thought of a little Machias glaring sullenly at a rusty swing set as the chains clinked in the breeze, or furiously chasing after the pair as they ran around trying to cause trouble for anyone that would give them the time of day; their unique version of tag.
She's curious if he himself had ever given in to the urge to tear through the house when he was younger, if the dignified silence of the empty halls had ever been unceremoniously broken by the excited pitter patter of tiny feet. Normally she'd be quick to say yes, surely he must have, but if any child was serious enough not to…
Clearing her (rather parched, it occurs to her) throat, Emma quietly makes her way over to the door, her hand alighting on the dull brass knob before she twists and pulls. She's in need of some water, and if she happens to take the scenic route on the way to the kitchen – well, it's only a natural consequence of trying to find one's bearings, isn't it?
The second, fourth, and seventh steps of the staircase all let out telltale squeaks, just as Machias said they would. Not that she can picture him skulking around late at night trying to avoid the noises and sneak out, or the like. He would have almost certainly been too busy studying.
Emma freezes in the living room when she hears a groaning sound reverberate around her, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. In an instant Emma's tensed and coiled, ready to dodge the fangs or claws that sought to draw blood and rend flesh before calling forth a burst of light to split the darkness asunder -
And just like that, she shuts her eyes.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Her shoulders relax when she wills the power to dissipate, hoping that the surge of adrenaline coursing through her body does the same before too long; she remembers what this is now, you see.
"My dad always said that this place likes to remind us of how old it is every so often. I'm pretty sure this is the only house in Heimdallr where water running through the pipes or the ductwork contracting sound like vengeful ghosts coming to wreak havoc on us all."
Emma, for her part, had assumed he was over-exaggerating somewhat. Clearly, he was not.
Shaking her head a little at her kneejerk impulse (old habits die hard), she sighs and continues her trek, carefully minding her footsteps all the while.
It's strange how something so mundane and ordinary can manage to elicit the most visceral of reactions, and she can't help but wonder if Machias has ever had the same experience.
She adds it to the growing list of questions she has to ask when the time is right. It's a project she rather looks forward to clearing someday.
Emma quietly sips her water in the darkness of the kitchen, the window letting in just enough of the light from the orbal lamps to illuminate her surroundings. There are pots and pans hanging from hooks over the range, cups and plates stacked neatly in cupboards, and – of course – the scent of coffee beans permeating absolutely everything. If nothing else, it further fuels her resolve to get him to switch his allegiance over to the brothers and sisters of the brewed leaf; her own personal crusade, one whose flag she'll fly until the end of days or he finally concedes. Whichever comes first.
When the glass is drained and her thirst is quenched, Emma's content to sit at the table for a few moments and simply listen to the faint sounds in the distance; proof positive that despite the time of night and the empty streets in front of the house, Heimdallr is still a city that never truly sleeps.
Her ears catch the telltale click of a gate latch opening and she turns toward the window again, her curious eyes managing to catch sight of a man briskly walking away from his house, leash in hand and an adorable dog merrily trotting in front of him the whole time, joyfully yipping with every step.
"Try to tune out Mr. Barton if you ever hear barking late at night. He's got an odd habit of taking his pets for walks at bizarre hours and Aidios only knows how often I've heard them over the years…"
"Hehe. Are they cute?"
"… I suppose."
Coming from Machias that was almost certainly a 'yes', though she can certainly understand why he'd been so cagey about it given that Celine in earshot. It was something of an open secret that the familiar had a notable sore spot toward the 'opposing' species, try as she might to convince everyone that she was above that sort of thing.
Her feet take her closer to the glass, and even the blackness of the hour can't stop her from noticing the flashes of pink, yellow and purple that just barely tip into her field of vision. She presses her nose to the pane, squinting, and it's only then she sees the single bed of flowers by the door, the vibrant petals gracefully dancing in the cool air.
She's fairly certain they're tulips, though considering horticulture is by no means her strongest discipline all Emma can muster up is an educated guess. Fie surely would have known, though she doubts her little sister in all but blood would appreciate being asked right about now; she was still far too fond of her sleep.
The weighty heads and slender stalks continue to sway to and fro when she finally decides to head back to her room, and she has the feeling the question of whether or not Machias has any sort of green thumb (along with the remarkably charming image of him wearing a straw hat with a comically oversized brim) will keep on lingering in the back of her mind long after she's resumed her travels.
If she closes her eyes, she swears she can almost smell them.
His door is ajar.
Looking back, it's not difficult to see how she hadn't noticed the first time around; after all, it had been hard enough to simply make her way through the darkened house as it was. That said, what's been seen can never be unseen and before she can stop and do something sensible - like mull over the occasionally conflicting concepts of 'can' and 'should' - she finds herself standing in front of the door, her fingers coming up to gently brush the varnished wood.
A sharp breath.
She knows she really shouldn't, knows that he's probably sleeping and it was late enough as it was…
And yet in spite of those well-reasoned and utterly rational arguments Emma's still gingerly pushing it open and slipping inside, cautiously tiptoeing over the threshold with nary a sound.
(Somewhere in the distance, a dog happily barks away).
This is his room, she realizes now. His room.
She sees full bookshelves, much like the ones in the guest room she's staying in. Piles of papers and notebooks are spread out on the desk in the corner, somehow managing to look impeccably organized in spite of the mammoth amount of reference material atop it. On one of the stacks lies a portable chessboard, neatly folded. There's a picture frame by the desk's lamp, and she knows whose photograph is enshrined within without needing to look. His jacket and tie are carefully draped along the room's only other piece of furniture, a sturdy looking chair that's nevertheless seen better days.
And then her gaze falls upon the green haired man lying on his side, sound asleep on a bed that's far smaller than the one she's supposed to be in right now, and she can only shake her head fondly as she watches the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. The thin shirt he's wearing is a little large on him; if he hadn't rolled up the sleeves they'd probably be hanging just past his wrists so she can only imagine how it would look on her. His fingers loosely grip the blanket, threatening to slacken at any moment, and there's a quiet innocence on his face that Emma had committed to memory long ago because she knows she'll never see it when he's awake.
He'd probably just gotten to bed a little while before she decided to roam around; he had mentioned earlier that he was staying up to look over some documents. Emma would be truly surprised if late nights weren't a well ingrained routine at this point, especially given his infamous study habits.
She keeps observing him in silence, this one that holds her heart, and the enormity of the moment doesn't escape her in the least.
This is where he had read all those books that they had discussed so avidly over the years. Where he had reviewed all those chess games that he could recite from memory, no matter the board position or color. Where he had studied for that fateful Thors entrance exam, the results of which had earned her a rival for their entire time at school. Where he had slept and cried; where he had grown and dreamed.
This is hallowed ground upon which she stands, this place that helped shape the foundation for who he is today... and she knows so, so little about any of it. It doesn't sit well with her, not at all, because she does want to know, wants to know so badly it's almost frightening.
She nods once, her hazy resolution taking form and crystallizing into determination.
There's still a lot she has to learn about him (still a lot they have to learn about each other, really) and learn she shall because Emma's always prided herself on being a diligent pupil. The fact she happens to like this subject more than anything else she's studied before… well, that's just a happy bonus.
He stirs then, shifting the covers with an indistinct murmur, and try as she might Emma can't quite help the startled squeak she lets out in reflex. She clamps her hands over her mouth with a desperate zeal, hoping with every fiber of her being that it wasn't enough to wake him up.
Alas, her hopes are dashed when his eyelids flutter once, then twice, before they open fully to meet her nervous gaze, and there's no doubting his exhaustion when all he does is stare at her blearily, apparently unable to muster up the customary panicked stammering she had been expecting.
"... H'lo," he half says and half yawns, one hand coming up to rub his eyes and brush the scattered, haphazard locks away from his forehead, clearly still on the fine edge between awake and asleep.
Emma's probably not supposed to find the sight adorable. She does anyway.
"Hi," she says back, dropping her hands as her lips curl up in a warm smile, the apprehension melting away as fast as it had come. "Don't mind me. Go back to sleep, Machias."
He stares for a moment longer before slowly nodding in acquiescence - maybe he thinks he's dreaming, who knows? - and her smile only grows wider when he shifts over to the edge of the bed in wordless invitation, making sure to leave enough blanket on the other side before he closes his eyes again, halfway towards slumber already.
She's a guest, she reasons, willfully ignoring the selfish burst of joy that blooms in her chest and makes her soul dance, warming her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. It would be rude to refuse, and she was never anything but perfectly polite in the face of hospitality.
Emma carefully slips in next to him with a content sigh, her arms wrapping around his waist with her nose pressed against the comforting warmth of his nape, adjusting herself until a cocoon of fabric enshrouds them both.
Her heart beats lazily in her chest, a stark contrast to how he's made it race in times past. The cool pillow carries his scent, both familiar and alluring all at once. She fits against him perfectly, just like she always does, and she wonders what it would be like to always go to sleep like this, his warm hands atop hers and her breaths measured and gentle on the back of his neck.
They'll both rise with the sun tomorrow morning, more than ready to face the day. She'll help him make breakfast while making a production out of brewing her first cup of tea, pointedly ignoring his eye-rolls and sarcastic comments and giggling when he sniffs and turns away. He'll start to leisurely drink his coffee after putting out Celine's bowl of milk, only to be confused and set his mug down when she starts peppering him with eager questions about parks, neighbors, and flowerbeds, each one tumbling out faster than the one before. He'll answer as best he can, his smile growing with every passing second, and she'll beam at him with eyes as blue as the sky and keep on asking because she wants to know everything.
She laughs. She learns. And more than anything else, she loves.