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It was no secret that Hubert von Vestra had a cultivated image of a man who could work in the shadows, who had no qualms silencing the cries of a traitor, whose true face was rarely seen, and one that resulted in...fewer social connections with others, to put it lightly. It was not uncommon for people to not-so-unsubtly back out of a conversation with him. A necessary price to pay for building the world he wanted, or so he told himself through his years at Garreg Mach, as both a student and a soldier.
During the war, he was well aware of rumours in squadrons he wasn’t involved in that detailed his terrible exploits, about how he summoned dark powers through sacrifice, how he had a horrific accident that left him unable to experience empathy. In the rare circumstance somebody would mention it, he’d dismiss the gossip, but it never ceased. There was little option other than to brush it off, act like it wasn’t happening, like it didn’t cross his mind.
Of course, it did. Obviously it would. He was human, despite the rumours.
And they continued, even well into Edelgard’s rule. It rarely came up, but there was the rare case of someone being visibly frightened in the streets, or a group of people whispering far too loudly about how they heard Hubert had killed their friends’ mother’s book club member.
On the off chance he had: she would have deserved it.
And the rarer they became, the more they caught him off-guard. It wasn’t that he regretted that persona he had adopted for so long, it was necessary, a required part of the process to crack the world’s shell. But, goddess, he was different. He was 20, back at the monastery! His persona was almost propaganda, and those closest to him knew it, even if it took some people longer to realise the person underneath the threats.
Once again: he did not regret the persona. He simply found it difficult to reconcile it with his own humanity, with the fact that, after the war, after dealing with those who slither in the dark, he had little time for himself. And, little time for Bernadetta.
The comments on his persona that involved her were, truly, the most affecting. Had he scared her into submission, had she developed some complex with the most evil and sinister men becoming the most attractive to her, was it simply blackmail in return for the timely death of her father, something that many people had blamed Hubert for?
None of this was true, and as much as she protested how she did not care, he most certainly did. This girl deserved the world! Not petty gossip and idle rumours.
The latest time this occurred was at a theatre.
It was unfortunately not one of Dorothea Arnault’s shows - they were usually affairs for more than just Hubert and Bernadetta, as Ferdinand and Lindhardt would often arrive for those performances, even Emperor Edelgard would go as far as to come for those - it was a small show, a retelling of an old fairytale that originated somewhere lost to either time or war, but still told, even if details changed every year. "Modern retelling," of course.
Shows like this were their joint passion. They would arrive hand in hand, dressed to the nines, not to impress anyone but each other. Rarely was it intentional, but frequently they matched. Those who did not know who they were turned their heads as frequently as those who recognised the emperor’s right hand and her close friend.
Hubert’s suit was as perfect as ever, a three-piece suit that him look as sharp as ever, a peak lapel and ever-so-slightly tight fit giving him sharp points around his head and shoulders, leading down his slender body. While Bernadetta was not one to often wear something as slender as Hubert’s clothing, a matching dress that was tight around the waist, bouncy around the legs, and flared into a dangling point on the sleeves complemented him surprisingly well.
During shows, they would sit together, take it in, find a stiff drink to admire one another over through any intervals, and retreat home after, often with Bernadetta enthusing about something she appreciated on the way. The lead’s voice, the costume work, the sets, the adaptation for the stage. She would find something to adore, and Hubert would snicker to himself, trying to work out whether a kiss, one that would certainly make her go quiet with flushed cheeks, was worth it when he wanted to continue listening.
He typically would, and Bernadetta would make a gentle yelp - one that reminded them both of how she used to view the man - right into his lips.
During this show, however, eyes were on them as people whispered chatter to one another. In the interval, as they both sat at a table in relative quiet, they overheard a group near the window.
“I hope she’s okay.”
“Who?”
“The Varley girl, with him.”
The nod this stranger gave was not nearly as subtle as he thought.
“She seems fine…?”
“I just worry. You know the stories about him, I hear he-”
The sentence was cut off from the couple by a group who had just walked into the bar. Neither Bernadetta nor Hubert reacted to it physically, but both were well aware the other had heard it.
Bernadetta reached out, across the table they were at, gloved palm towards the ceiling. He took it and held on tightly, smiling at her.
“THE SHOW WILL RECOMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES” exclaimed a mildly ragged teen who had been rushed up two or perhaps three flights of stairs just to make this announcement. “PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY BACK TO YOUR SEATS.”
They let the crowd disperse before getting up themselves, in no rush to return. Surprisingly, Bernadetta was the first one to stand.
“I am extremely okay, and safe, with you. I know you can’t ignore it, but know that I would rather be with you than anyone else right now.”
He smiled back at her, and nodded slowly, standing too as the bar had fully emptied.
“Come, Lady Bernadetta.” He said as he took her hand once again.
“Stop with the pretense, Hubert!”
He smirked.
“Old habits.”
The show they had seen this time was fine. It was nice, and lovely, and left the theatre happily buzzing away as the lights grew after the curtain fell. It wouldn’t be anybody’s favourite, but it was nice.
When they left, Bernadetta wasn’t quite as talkative as she usually was. When they entered a carriage they waved down from the side of the street, Bernadetta turned to Hubert, and placed a hand on his leg.
“Are you okay?” She asked, a rare bluntness in her tone.
He smiled and nodded, then let out a long sigh. He took her hand, and stared down at it.
“I worry for you.”
That was a phrase Bernadetta still hadn’t grown accustomed to, as much as Hubert insisted on repeating it so often. Much like him, she took a deep breath and stared down at the floor.
“I-I know,” she stuttered, stumbling over her words, “but don’t need to! I’m fine. I-I...the words of strangers hurt me far less than the words of those I’m close to. Your words mean far more to me.”
“But I can tell they affect you!” She exclaimed with a burst, balling one hand into a fist. “You don’t need to let it affect you to somehow protect me!”
Hubert leaned back a little, surprised by her intensity. She wasn’t angry, she was passionate, she cared for him, she loved him, how could he stand there and take emotional turmoil for her?
A million thoughts raced through her mind, about how he shouldn’t have to deal with people like that, about how he deserved better, each one more self deprecating than the last, culminating in the conclusion that she blamed herself. However, as much as she wanted to say all of that, her jaw did not move, her lips only quivered as her vocal chords did the same, not making a sound.
They sat in silence for a minute, as Hubert wanted to give her the space to talk, despite the fact she could not. She wanted to shout! And yell! She wanted to turn the carriage around and find those men to tell them how wrong they were! She did not, she simply held Hubert’s hand, squeezing it every time the urge to shout came, unable to indulge it.
Eventually, he spoke up.
“I don’t mind it much. We are both well aware I could speak up about it, and Emperor Edelgard would happily give me a stage to clear my name. In fact, she, and Lady Byleth, have mentioned it before. I said no, I wanted to let things be, not risk anyone, but I see, now, that the rumours do not affect just me.”
He lifted her hand slightly, and looked Bernadetta in the eye.
“I see that as my partner, it bleeds onto you as well. I see that as long as I am seen as such, as some evil snake in the grass,” he giggled to himself, although his laugh rarely reassured anyone who didn’t know him deeply, “you will be either a victim or a co-conspirator, in their eyes.”
His chest grew tight, a feeling he had slowly learned to accept in recent years.
“It would be wrong for me to tell you how to feel, here,so please, Bernadetta, what would yo-”
“TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL!” She cried, exploding once more. Her hand shook slightly. “P-Please, Hubert. Stop protecting me, here, I don’t care what they say about me! I don’t care if some stranger thinks I have a fascination with the macabre - I-I do, if I’m honest! - but I care when you get upset by it.
“I’m fine. I promise. For once, I don’t need protecting. Please tell me how you feel.”
With a smile - a genuine one, the kind she saw in private - he nodded, lifting her hand to kiss it gently.
“I am scared, Bernadetta.”
Not the words she had entirely expected, but the frank earnestness of his tone soothed her. She felt like she was going to burst once again, but did her best to hold it in.
“I am scared of you never seeing the world we created. I am scared of being a dark influence on people who live bright lives, like yours. I am scared of harming tho-”
“HUBERT!” She squealed, loud enough that they could have sworn a horse out front had jumped too.
“B-Bernade-”
“STOP MAKING IT ABOUT ME!” She exclaimed, stamping a foot down on the floor of the carriage. It shook a little, and Hubert sat back, recoiling. Finally, she looked up at him, some tears in her eyes. Taking his hand, she held it in both of hers, and, finally, found the words.
“I am fine! My life is incredible! I am able to write and paint as much as I like, I have distanced myself from the leadership we all had to do after the war, I have a brilliant husband who supports me in all my quirks, I am still different to other people, I know, but I am happy!
“There is nothing I would change in my life but your happiness! Nothing is ever easy, but, Hubert, please,” her voice slowed down as she became increasingly self-conscious of herself in that moment, “just tell me what you want for yourself.”
It was rare that Hubert was selfish, as much as the rumours implied otherwise. In fact, the reverse was true, he was selfless to a fault, at least to those he cared for. He would bend over backwards for those he loved. It was, in his mind, the way to be better than those who he had known growing up.
And yet it often resulted in a repression. When someone spread rumours about him, it was nothing, it washed off him.
When it hurt somebody he loved? Unacceptable.
But, truly, did it wash off him? He thought about it for a moment. Of course he hated it, it was crude, childish, immature, there was no purpose but it being the lowest form of entertainment, in his mind. So if he didn’t like it, surely it stung, in some way?
It did, he had to admit. It stung, to be thought of as such. Not least because of how it would hurt-
No, he thought. Stop thinking that. Bernadetta was right to say it, she was right to point it out - she wasn’t being insulted, her character put in doubt. She could be sad about it, she almost certainly was, an overabundance of empathy meant she had very similar problems. But she wasn’t the victim.
He balled his hand into a fist, two of her fingers trapped inside. He gulped, chest rising and falling heavily.
“It hurts.” He admitted.
“I don’t like it. I feel disappointed, attacked, I…”
It was Hubert’s turn to choke up this time.
“I don’t want to hurt the people-”
Bernadetta curled the fingers in his hand, as if to prompt him to rethink the statement.
“Do you agree with them, Lady Bernadetta?”
With a careful smile, she shook her head. And, raising her free hand, she carefully adjusted the embroidered flower on his lapel.
“No, my love. I can tell you what I think of you, if that would help. I am sure Edelgard, Ferdie, and others would too.”
It was always funny how the one nickname of Dorothea’s that stuck was ‘Ferdie.’
“Please.” He mumbled.
They were coming close to home now, on the edges of the city, the sort of place that managed to afford space and comfort while still being busy enough for Hubert to commute into the centre.
“Let’s get home, let me make you something to drink, I can spend all night telling you what I think.”
With a smile, the earnest one again, he nodded, a man of few words becoming more than silent in a moment like this. In their absence, he leaned forward, and kissed her cheek.
Of course, as luck would have it, the carriage bumped the side of the road at that moment, and he fell into her, his forehead bumping her temple. They both yelped, and started to laugh together.
For once, the old habits that Hubert had ingrained - to let Bernadetta out of the carriage, to open the door for her, tenets of care and servitude he had beaten into him - we let go. Bernadetta guided him from the carriage and unlocked their front door with her own, much-less-used key.
And when inside, she reached forward to tug on his coat gently, before he pulled it off, encouraging him to turn around. Before he had a chance to see why, Bernadetta was on her tiptoes, gripping onto his coat for balance, giving him a kiss on the lips.
It lasted a few seconds, until Bernadetta slightly lost her balance and had to step forward to not completely fall into his chest. He laughed, petting her hair softly, twirling it around a finger.
“You need not-”
Bernadetta immediately pouted, shaking her head and interrupting him.
“Go, take your coat and shoes off, sit down, I’ll make you some tea. Let someone be there for you tonight.”
She gave him one more quick kiss, before, in one swift movement, slipping her own coat off and dancing her way to the kitchen.
Laughing to himself, and mumbling “alright then” as he took a seat in their living, on a grand leather chair that had, supposedly, lived in this house for decades, although neither of them believed it.
Clicking his fingers, Hubert watched a purple-and-black flame dance between them, a mildly more dangerous but infinitely more entertaining form of twirling a pencil between your fingers. Normally, Bernadetta would give him a wide-eyed look, silently asking him to stop, for fear of burning himself, but this time she simply placed a pot of tea beside him with a cup, and ran her fingers through his ever so slightly waxy hair.
Tea hadn’t been his thing, but ever since a...fling, as Ferdinand called it, Hubert had definitely grown to appreciate it. Hubert gave a cocky smile whenever asked about it, but refused to give any details about what their relationship was, or even is.
Sitting in a chair almost opposite Hubert, Bernadetta smiled.
“I remember giving you that flower.
“I remember being scared, in a way I hadn’t ever been before. I uh, know I was more than a little terrified of you for a long time, but that time it was different. I always felt physically vulnerable to you, but that was an emotional vulnerability, something I...never gave people the opportunity of seeing.”
“And this is supposed to make me feel better?” He teased.
“Let me continue!” She huffed.
“You were so kind. I’m not sure what was going through your head, but...I think I cried to Petra that evening. Her response was something along the lines of telling me that crying is fine, but also that knowing what we do of you, you would more than happily tell me if something wasn’t reciprocated.”
He smirked at that.
“Anyway! My point is you are an honest man. You are honest, earnest with those you are close to, your heart is...closer to your sleeve than I think you realise.”
She smiled at him, and cocked her head.
“And I could go on about how handsome you are, but...well, I’ll save that for another day, because I’ve never heard any rumours saying otherwise, and I wouldn’t want to make you shy, that’s your job to do to me.”
That one made him smile further, although underneath his pale cheeks a hint of red grew.
She sat forward slightly, as if to indicate the serious nature of what she was about to say.
“I could tell you for hours about how those people don’t matter but we both know that wouldn’t work, and it isn’t true. B-but,” she stuttered, an old vocal tick coming back, as she grew unsure of if she was doing the right thing, “I can, with a confidence you personally instilled in me, say that rumours have never shaken my faith in you.
“I have never regretted my time with you because of them. I am personally aware of and involved in your life, and I’m still here with you.
“I…” she paused for a moment, composing herself. Monologues and extended speeches, especially those she hadn’t pre-prepared, were not Bernadetta’s strong suit. She took a deep breath.
“And I want to make you feel that! I want to make you feel as safe and as comfortable as you make me!
“W-we spent years together before I felt safe outside. You helped me there. I think...I think we both know how it feels to not be a part of something, feeling like our presence is...not wanted. But you helped me! I know I’m not perfect, not yet, but, gosh, Hubert, I know. I-I just want to do what I can to make sure you know you’re wanted by me. By all our friends, by the people who know you.”
As Bernadetta finished, her vocal chords creaked, cracking, a few syllables struggled to make their way out. And, of course, she began to tear up once again.
She trembled and played with the hem of her dress as she tried to hold back a flood of tears, doing her best to not feel guilty that she was one showing such overwhelming emotion. Hubert sniffed, nodding slowly as he teared up too, although his pale skin hadn’t flared red like Bernadetta’s.
Reaching out, he met in the middle of their chairs by taking Bernadetta’s hand, running his thumb over the back of her fingers, holding them with a soft touch.
“I know, La-” He stopped himself. “I know, Bernadetta.”
With a deep breath, he considered his words carefully, mentally writing the speech he wanted to give.
“Gaining your trust, I hope you don’t mind me saying, is one of the things I am most thankful for in this world. I dare not think of my life without you.
“And you’re right. I am affected by the rumours more than I let on. I dislike the idea of harming those who did not deserve it. The world has changed, the world is not perfect, but it is better. There is no need for subtle deception, knives in the dark, and so on. At least, not the kind I supplied.”
“Forgive me, Bernadetta, for this, but I am scared of what I am to you. I am scared I am your ‘least worst choice’ of a partner, that you put up with my past out of some misguided sympathy, that you are held back by a fear of me, that you cannot run.
“I am scared I want to help you in lieu of helping myself! I am scared I sought someone I could manipulate. I…”
He snapped his fingers, playing with a dark flame again.
“I moved on, we did, but some things don’t go, do they? I feel no guilt for what I did, what I did was right, I would take up a mantle in a heartbeat if necessary, but…”
He sighed. Not because he couldn’t find the words, but because he struggled to vocalise them. Bernadetta understood, and said the words for him.
“No matter what people say, no matter the time, no matter the place, I will love you, Hubert.”
“I love you too, Bernadetta.”
“Is it truly your fear of harming me that hurts you the most here?”
He nodded. Bernadetta smiled.
“And do you trust me?”
“Implicitly.”
Locking her fingers with his, she squeezed softly.
“Then! My dear, I will be explicit in my adoration for the wonderful, famous, and loved Hubert von Vestra. I realise I have never been one for grand gestures, and that’s...not really going to change, but I can do more than embroider flowers.
“I’ll make sure you know how much I adore your presence! I will make sure you step closer to you, hip to, well, I think your hip actually reaches my waist...maybe even the bottom of my ribs...but regardless, next to each other, close enough that everyone knows I am here because, my love, I adore you.
“I will make more flowers. I will smile even brighter than I do already when you walk into the room. My love, I will make it so, so clear that I am in love with you.”
He smiled at that, and for once, it did not fade.
They sat in silence for some time, and Hubert extinguished the flame in his palm. After some minutes, Bernadetta stood up, and walked behind him. Reaching over the back of his chair, she draped an arm down, such that it rested over his shoulder, a hand on his chest.
“Come, get up, misery boy, I have an idea.”
With a smirk, he pointed his head down to give her a kiss on the wrist, before taking her hand and getting up. Raising his, she reached back and flicked a switch on the music player in their front room.
The music itself was a generic waltz, one they and all of Adrestia had heard countless times but nobody ever knew the origin of. And, with a glide, Bernadetta stepped forward, into Hubert, taking his other hand and lifting it too.
He smirked to himself as he let her guide him. Surprisingly - especially the first time she showed him this, long ago - she was adept. With grace and elegance she guided the two of them around the room, his ever so slight clunkiness causing their feet to bump every so often, Bernadetta’s steps hitting the floor with only a creak of the floorboards, while Hubert’s had a thud to them.
Nevertheless, Bernadetta found his dancing beautiful. Not stiff, but composed, intentional, forceful. She danced around him, her dress showing off its full length as it swayed back and forth, the sleeves swinging around her wrists as she let go of one hand and threw hers back, wincing as she accidentally hit a knuckle on the chair, before retreating into him.
With each step, she arched her feet, getting onto her tiptoes to match his height more closely, although always aware she was certainly a few inches too short for it.
Then, as the music came to a stop, Hubert took the lead. Letting go of her hands, her wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up, giving her that rare perspective of towering over him, this time. Brushing his hair out of the way, she wanted him to hold her there for longer, to admire him from an angle she rarely could. Every other perspective was covered in her paintings, but not this one.
His pointed nose hiding slim lips, his jaw pointing out to the sides, and a glint of light in his eyes as he looked towards the sky - or, well, more accurately the ceiling, but her head certainly filled in the blanks for romantic effect - that rarely occurred when he had to look down to meet her gaze.
With a hand on either of his cheeks, she leaned in and kissed him. She held it until she could feel his arms struggling to keep her up, and she had to be let down with an unceremonious thud.
“But you must promise, dear, no more ‘Lady Bernadetta.’”
He laughed.
“Of course, my love.”