Work Text:
Please note BEFORE READING:
!Othelloxfem!reader (“PG” rating)
!Manga spoilers
!Non-canon/imagined Shinigami mythology
!Fluffing fluffery fuffy fluff
!Like you guys seriously get the insulin ready
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
Three weeks.
It had been three weeks since he’d agreed to our customary game of Chess on Friday evenings. Sometimes we played different card games, too, as I had mastered these as part of the social circles I was loathe to participate in during my life. It was the games themselves I enjoyed, and he was a far more tolerable partner than any of the old bats in the county who would come to dinner, wearing their snobbery along with their best silks.
Othello was something else entirely. When he found out I was interested in chess, books, science, and other things most unbecoming a proper Victorian woman, he had eagerly invited me to his workshop to play. I no longer needed a chaperone to do such things, I knew—although Mr. Spears always seemed to be keeping an eye out for any sort of transgressions that might affect the flow of productivity—so I had bucked my initial shyness to take him up on his offer.
It hadn’t been long since I’d started working as a Reaper; my training was not extensive, as I had carried what I considered to be rather dubious gifts from my human life into this one, and they were immediately made use of. I worked at my own desk in the small department reserved for those of us who made The Lists. “Intelligence” was rather an inept name for what we did, as I never felt that quality could be related to the identification of the dates and manner in which people were fated to pass into the next world. It was unsettling work, but work I had no choice but to accept as my lot in this life, having chosen my way out of the previous one.
It wasn’t bad working there, but a bit dull and bureaucratic. I longed to clear the cobwebs from my mind as they built up throughout the day; as I had enjoyed singing in life, so now I did as well, and I often hummed or sang old, beloved songs to myself when I felt I could get away with it. My favorite time to do it was while working in the main library room; I was often by myself there for at least a little while each day and I took advantage of this.
Just a song at twilight
When the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows
Softly come and go
Though the heart be weary,
Sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes love's old song
Comes love's old sweet song
I moved in and out of the melody as I clung to one of the library’s rolling ladders, retrieving a tome that I wished to peruse. In the absence of my father’s books, these certainly made interesting replacements, and all the more fulfilling in that they were all pure truth. I flipped through the pages, humming to myself.
“You should be careful of falling if you’re going to go up there in all those skirts.”
Startled by the sudden commentary from six feet below, I emitted what could only be described as a squeak before dropping the book and losing my balance on the ladder step. My free hand had been holding the ladder rail; I fell back and clung on to it desperately. This resulted in my rather inelegant descent to the floor, with my full skirts bunching up as the skin of my palm squeaked along the rail. Having a handhold at all had slowed my fall but I think I would have preferred to fall headfirst, given this alternative.
I felt arms grab me about the ribs in an attempt to ease my fall; I was lowered carefully the rest of the way down and plopped on my rump on the floor. I frantically rearranged my skirts to cover my legs, crimson in the face of the raucous laughter that erupted from the man now standing over me.
This was how I met Othello.
His laughter had settled to a chuckle, and he smiled at me, offering me a hand to my feet. “Up you go. I didn’t mean to scare you; I just noticed someone else was in here doing some reading.”
I accepted his help, grateful that he’d moved the subject past the one involving my petticoat being shoved up to my ears. “Thank you…I know it’s a bit strange, but…”
“You don’t need to justify it to me.” He shook his head. His hair, a wildly-unkempt deep green, contrasted with the chartreuse of the eye color he and I shared. He stuffed one hand into a pocket of his white lab coat, turning to run his fingers over the spines of the books lined up on the shelf. “A universe of autobiographies, completely unedited and here for the reading.”
I blinked. It appeared he cared little for what his superiors might think of his attitude towards the stuff of our work, nor did he seem to have an expectation for what a woman from my era would be expected to take an interest in.
“I was looking for someone who had studied medical sciences…” I offered, cautiously.
“Oh!” He turned to look at me again, his eyes shining. “I can give you the notes I’ve taken on that and recommend some individuals, depending on what you’re curious about.”
“Th-thank you! That would be very kind.” I fiddled with the twin lockets I wore on their links of chain over my waist; their history as well as the handheld sickles they hid comforted me in my mild misgivings with the situation.
“Goodness, you’ve got scythes—a set, no less—while working in Intelligence? My my, how intriguing.” He selected another book, taking it down to flip through it.
“Well…don’t you have one?” I retorted, sensitive to anything that might or might not be the snark of condescension.
“I do; it’s nowhere near as nice as yours are.” He snapped the book shut. “Hey, do you play Chess?”
That was how our Friday night tradition had begun.
He made the tea (sometimes I intervened if I wanted it done properly) and we nibbled on biscuits as he sat in his desk chair, sandals kicked off and feet tucked under him. I sat primly on my chair opposite him, using my skirts to obscure the fact that I, too, had left my boots on the floor, my legs curled against myself in their black wool stockings. We discussed the things he’d learned about physiology and epidemic illnesses, and he showed me the bits of machines and things he enjoyed tinkering with.
One Friday, I came across a small metal box I hadn’t seen before; it had a crank of sorts, and a cylinder. I picked up what appeared to be a large flower-like trumpet lying next to it.
“PUT THAT DOWN.”
He had returned from preparing tea, the tray in his hands shaking and tea spilling over the lip of the teapot. His eyes were wide, a look of anger or fear or both darkening his face. I froze in place, staring at him, my brain still not able to react to a side of him that was completely new.
“Oh!! I’m—” I finally regained control of my limbs and gingerly set the trumpet back on the table. He set the tea down with a clatter and rushed over to place himself between me and the device. I couldn’t completely read what he wanted to say from the look on this face; his brow furrowed and his lips were pressed thin, but his eyes looked afraid of something.
“…I’m sorry,” I whispered. And I was. I turned away in a whirl, the black silk of my skirts rustling and my locket chains clinking against one another. My tears made not a sound.
That had been three weeks ago. I hadn’t seen more than a passing glance of him in the building after that. If our eyes did meet, he looked away. Feeling a bit brave and missing our conversation after the first week, I had gone to knock on the door to his workshop to attempt to clear things up, but there was no response.
The second week, no response. I stood outside for a little while, but no sound betrayed his existence beyond the door.
Now it was Friday again. I had spent much of the week in a listless haze, not even caring to keep up with my usual pursuits in the library when I’d finished my work. I had tried looking for something interesting to read, but every volume contained something I wanted to show him or ask him a question about. I missed our discussions.
I missed our games of chess and cards.
I realized, stomping down the hall to his door, the curls in my updo jostling enough to force a few of themselves loose, that at the heart of it was something far less complicated.
I missed him.
I missed him, his laugh and easygoing nature, the way he got sucked into his own explanations of anything and everything, his terrible tea. I missed him affirming me in the way I thought and believed.
I feared, after his outburst, that maybe it was that he didn’t see me in this way.
“OTHELLO!” I banged madly on the door, ignoring the protest of my glove fist. “Please open this door and TALK to me! Please—” I stopped banging, hearing nothing more than I had these past weeks from inside.
I leaned against the door, slowly sinking along its panels to pile myself in a heap on the floor.
“’Thel…”
I hadn’t noticed I was crying until I heard myself sob. “I like nothing more than being with you but…I just need to hear it…if you don’t want me around anymore.” My shoulders shook under the weight of my heart.
Just then, I heard a rapid shuffling inside, and the door was thrown open. I caught myself from falling inward just in time, but soon found the support of the door replaced by arms and a chest in rumpled white, round glasses knocked askew as he buried his face in my hair.
“The last thing I wanted was for you to cry…it’s the last thing I’d ever want.” He rubbed his palm over my back; I felt the heat in it reach my skin through my layered clothing. "I’m so sorry, I—please, just come in here. There’s something I want to show you.”
He helped me to stand, taking off his glove to brush away my tears with the back of his hand. He then grabbed mine to lead me inside the workshop. I was startled by the sudden uptick in familiarity since he’d appeared, but this quickly faded as my curiosity over his words increased.
He led me over to the table; atop it sat the device that had started the entire rift between us. I looked at him quizzically, but he only sighed deeply, placing a hand—was his hand shaking?—on the crank and sending the cylinder spinning. The “trumpet” was mounted to the device now, and I heard sounds begin to emerge from it. I squinted behind my spectacles, as if trying to get a better view of the device would give me more clues. Then, I heard it clearly.
Once in the dear dead days beyond recall.
When on the world the mists began to fall,
Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng
Low to our hearts love sang an old sweet song
And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam
Softly it wove itself into our dream
Just a song at twilight
When the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows
Softly come and go
Though the heart be weary,
Sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes love's old song
Comes love's old sweet song
I gasped, my hands covering my mouth. These sounds—the singing that emerged from the device—
It was me.
Somehow, somewhere, it had captured me during one daydream or another, singing as I often did in the library or the courtyard. My voice had been gathered from the air, preserved, protected so that it might remain just as it was. It was here, receiving such loving care in the workshop of someone I thought had not wanted me to bother him.
“…Othello?”
I tried to search his eyes, but he’d averted them, his cheeks dusted pink and hands finding occupation in filling his pockets. At length, he managed a few words. “One hundred and eight days.”
“What..?”
“You’ve been here one hundred and eight days, ten hours and—” he pulled out his pocket watch “fifty-two minutes.”
I swallowed, my hope rising in my throat along with a delirious panic. “You…read my book?”
“I found it and read it, one hundred and five days ago.” He rubbed the back of his head, shyly, his eyes glancing at my face before darting away. “The first day I heard you sing that song.”
I took a step forward, grasping the sleeve of his coat. “And this?” I asked, indicating the device.
“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me when I approached you…” he frowned. “I’m not exactly a catch…at least, some don’t think so. So in case you never wanted to be near me again, I recorded that.” He shrugged. “I thought you’d be creeped out if you discovered what it was, and if you were after all that time we’d gotten to know each oth—”
He stopped mid-utterance. I had pressed my face and arms to his chest, overwhelmed with relief.
“…” He slowly wrapped his own arms around my shoulders. Surrendering to his own victory, he nuzzled his face into my neck, lightly breathing in the scent of my hair. “I’m such an idiot…but I suppose I can just chalk it up to Trial and Error.”
I lifted my head to meet his eyes. “What error? We can just call this experiment a success.”
“You—” he started, then shook his head, chuckling. “I have nothing to say to that, so…I…erm.”
“Yes?” I pouted, not wanting him to cut off our discussion.
He smiled, his eyelashes lowering slightly. He leaned in to kiss me, softly, and—after a few more “trials,” data pending—I found I didn’t mind the pause in conversation all that much after all.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
GUYS he’s baby I love him so much. I had to do a little something cuz even though U. is Husbando-sama, I have the baddest crush on this boy.
The device Othello uses to record and play back sound is a Graphophone; they were invented in the mid-1880s.
The song is “Love’s Old Sweet Song” (1884) by J.L. Molloy. I know it wouldn’t be popular these days, but it’s really pretty. This is a nice version of it (I like 30s-40s music so the style appeals to me, even if it’s not Victorian) -> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0Thn9ay1rw&ab_channel=nipstertunes