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The wedding is perfect, of course. As it should be; they deserve no less. It’s a New Year’s Eve wedding, the decorations are elegant, the music is lovely, and the happy couple…
Adalind has never looked more stunning. If you’d told him a few years ago, he would have laughed, but the woman looks like she was born to be a bride. She’s beaming as she walks down the aisle, Nick never takes his eyes off her, and the two seem to be in a bubble of their own, even as the preacher speaks.
Sean’s not sure why he’s here. Maybe it’s the fact that they invited him, after everything. He highly suspects that his daughter is responsible for that, although he doesn’t have proof. And he doesn’t want to disappoint her, so maybe that’s it. Or maybe it’s his way of punishing himself for all the things he’s done. Or…
Or.
He exhales slowly, gaze landing on Eve. She’s put up a good front-done her makeup perfectly, faked a smile that seems to have everyone fooled, and complemented Adalind a dozen times-but now that the reception has begun, and all eyes are off of her, her facade is starting to crumble. She looks exhausted, staring down at a flashy white piece of cake she has yet to try.
No one’s sitting by her, though he doubts that’s deliberate on their part. She’s awfully good at isolating herself. (Not that he can say anything about that.)
If he goes about this wrong, he could lose a limb or two, but something in him begs him to try. They are, after all, kindred spirits in all this; it could easily have been him and Adalind, or her and Nick, if they hadn’t messed up so badly in their own ways.
Gathering himself, he makes his way to her side. “This seat taken?” He asks softly, gesturing to the empty chair beside her.
She blinks, before shaking her head, turning her attention back to the cake, studying it like it’s some sort of puzzle. He settles in beside her, but she makes no move to acknowledge him.
“You’ll have to let me know if it’s good. The cake,” he clarifies, when her brows furrow. “It looks good.”
“It looks perfect,” she agrees, and there’s just a trace of something in her voice.
He sighs, and something in him surrenders. He’s good at games, but he doesn’t want to play them. Not with her. “You okay?” He asks, and he flashes back to a moment years before: her hand, painfully gentle against his cheek, as she asks him if it hurts. This answer seems as obvious as that one, but he lets it hang, nonetheless.
To his surprise, she doesn’t brush him off with a simple ‘fine.’ Instead, she turns to him, arching a brow. “Are you?”
They’ve always known each other too well. He allows himself a quiet chuckle, letting the question roll around in his mind. No is the obvious answer, but he can’t bring himself to say it, to admit that he’s absolutely miserable. It isn’t even about Adalind; not completely, anyway. But the air is thick with what might have been: he could’ve been happy, could’ve had a family with the mother of his child.
“They deserve this,” he offers instead, and she’s nodding before he can even get the words out.
“They do. Especially after…” The words seem to catch, and he clears his throat.
“Us?”
“Yeah.”
They fall silent, the past hanging heavy between them. He wants to say something, to offer her some sort of comfort. Or maybe he wants her to say something; time was, she could always brighten his spirits a little. But at the moment, it looks like they’re both running on empty.
Finally, a thought occurs to him. “You know, there’s a garden outside.”
The look she gives him is a little too careful. “And?”
“And I could use some fresh air. What do you say?”
She hesitates, and he can practically feel her searching for hidden motives. The truth is, he doesn’t know if he has any or not. He’s not even sure what the garden will look like, in the middle of winter. He just wants to get out of there, and he thinks she must want that, too.
Apparently, she does, because after a moment, she nods. “Let’s go.”
No one even notices them slipping outside; he’s not altogether surprised. On the bright side, the garden is large and lovely, with a winding path through it.
On a whim, he offers Eve his arm. She stares at him at first, as if she’s not altogether sure what he’s doing, but then she tentatively takes it, and they start off into the garden. Her grip is a little too tight, and he wonders if she’s even aware of it.
For awhile, they say nothing, just make their way down the path. He can feel himself relaxing, and the tension seems to drain from her as well. Hundred of beautiful flowers cover the ground, in every color he can think of. He likes to think of himself as extremely knowledgeable, but flowers aren’t exactly in his repertoire. Whatever they are, though, they’re gorgeous, and they smell absolutely lovely.
After a few minutes, she pauses, staring down at one patch of flowers. Half are pink, half are purple, and there isn’t anything particularly impressive about them, but he holds his tongue. Obviously, this is important to her.
“Hellebore,” she says finally. “Christmas rose.” Personally, he doesn’t think it looks much like a rose, but it’s not the strangest flower name he’s ever heard. “It can mean… Peace. Tranquility. I thought about planting some at my old house.”
Her voice is distant, and he’s not sure she’s even aware of him anymore, but he replies all the same. “Why didn’t you?”
She huffs, and it might be a watery attempt at a laugh. “Because it can also mean scandal or anxiety. And I didn’t want that. I wanted that house to be full of happy memories.”
The very house, he assumes, where Nick’s mother was killed.
“It’s a beautiful flower,” he tries, because he doesn’t quite know what to say. She turns to him, hand never leaving his arm, and shakes her head.
“I know it’s not fancy.”
“Doesn’t have to be.” An impulse strikes him, and since he’s apparently going out on a limb anyway today, he follows through, releasing her and kneeling down to pick a bright purple bloom.
“You can't-” She protests, but he waves her off.
“It’s one flower.” Moving slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away, he reaches up, tucking the flower behind her ear.
He’s not oblivious, and neither is she. They’ve never talked about the things that have happened between them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t remember. And the flower is an offer, to open that door back up if she so chooses. She knows that, and he knows she knows.
She doesn’t pull away as he tucks it into place, just stares at him, eyes narrow. “Why are you doing this?” She asks quietly, voice carefully controlled.
It’s not a request to stop, so he keeps his hand resting gently against her cheek, watching her for any sort of direction. “Thought that was obvious,” he murmurs, and she swallows.
“I’m not Adalind.” A hint of a question, draped in defiance.
“I’m not Nick,” he counters easily.
Her gaze drops to a spot on his shirt, and he can practically feel her thoughts whirling around her head. “I know.” And before he can process that, she adds, so quiet he can barely hear her… “No.”
No. And it shouldn’t be surprising after everything he’s done, but disappointment still curls around his chest as he moves to release her. Much more surprising is the moment that follows: she reaches out, catching his hand as it drifts from her cheek. Her palm is chilly against his skin, but her grasp is sure.
“No, I’m not okay.”
Oh.
It is not in his nature to admit weakness, but this moment is too important to lose, so he gathers his courage. “Neither am I.”
Silence settles over them as they wait, both well-aware of where this is going, but neither quite ready to bridge the gap. They simply study each other, her hand still curled around his, breath caught between them.
Before either of them can say anything, shouting from inside draws their attention away. They both tense, instinctively preparing for battle, before the steady pace and laughter mixed with the shouting clicks: New Year’s Eve.
“It must be almost midnight,” he murmurs.
Sure enough, he can just make out the sounds now:
Ten! Nine! Eight!
He doesn’t dare look down at her. It’s there, humming at the front of his mind, what the tradition is for the clock striking midnight, but everything hanging between them is so fragile right now, he can’t let himself go there. The last thing he wants to do is scare her away, and he’s already pushing his luck.
Seven! Six! Five!
It occurs to him that he hasn’t made a New Year’s resolution. Maybe he should think about it. What does he want from the new year? Who does he want to be? Not the man who hurt all of his friends, no matter how unwillingly, that’s for sure.
Four! Three! Two!
A hand curls around his collar, and he looks down in surprise, hardly noticing the shouts from inside proclaiming it one, and celebrating with abandon, as she pulls him down to her.
Their lips meet slowly, at first. She’s hesitant and unsure, testing the waters to see if this is what she wants. He’s careful, not pushing, just resting a hand at her waist to steady her. It seems to work; she takes a step closer, tilting her head to the side, and this isn’t how they’ve ever kissed before, but he never wants to stop. There’s no anger. No urgency. It’s gentle and new, and feels a little like hope.
As suddenly as it starts, it stops. She breaks the kiss, pushing him away. Not with force-he knows exactly what she’s capable of, Hexenbiest or no-but he knows better than to try to bridge the gap.
“I have to go.” She’s clearly aiming for the emotionless tone HW gave her, but she’s not that woman anymore; her voice trembles, just a bit. She stumbles back toward the Church, and an absurd part of his brain expects her to lose a shoe like the fairytales of old.
Finally, he gathers himself enough to call out to her. “Eve!”
She stops, turning back to him sharply, but he can read the look on her face perfectly clearly: not right now. She needs time to think about this. To process everything that’s happened tonight.
He can’t say he blames her. “Happy New Year’s!” He allows himself a wink, and she rolls her eyes, but her expression softens just a little, and he smiles to himself.
Sure, she’s walking away… But she still has the flower.