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Ella holds him, that night. Lets him cry. Tucks him in to her shoulder and squeezes him so tightly in her thin little arms that she’s not sure what will break first - her, or his back. The salty moisture of tears clings to her skin, soaking her shoulder, the soft strap of her nightgown, but she holds him nonetheless, gives him the reprieve he deserves in her arms.
He’s never been the picture of anything less than a cocky confidence - strong, unyielding. Even in his exhaustion he holds a countenance of skill and pride, things that she knows he bears in equal measure.
He also bears grief, under the surface. Disappointment. Guilt. A hunger to fix mistakes that he thinks he allowed to pass.
And she watches it consume him.
Day after day.
Night after night.
Mission after mission.
Exhaustion. Hurt. Fear. Guilt.
The offer is casual. A brief extension. She thinks she knows exactly what’s going on, and she’s right. Ella had been around a good time. No longer than Captain, though she doubted many, if any, were. But long enough. She’d been given the paperwork, that day. Had processed it. Filed it. Left it stamped on her superior’s desk.
She’d have given anything to have burned it. Shredded it. Lost it. Anything to keep it from that desk. Anything to keep the motion from being carried out. But angel law was strict, and when a decision was made by the council, it was followed through. If she tampered with it, she’d only be prolonging the inevitable - and her own prosecution.
So she leaves it in a stack of papers on the large mahogany desk. Masks the worry on her own face as she inclines her head. Hides the pain in her eyes as she turns her back, hurries to her own desk once more.
When Blaire walks by, that day, expression void of feeling as he quietly hands in his paperwork, she knows the motion has been made final.
It doesn’t take long for it to be carried out, and she watches him move about the offices, at first brimming with a quiet, seething anger that bubbled and flamed just beneath the surface - and then slowly exhausted itself. Burnt itself out. Simmered low in to embers that lay, white hot, where they could no longer be stoked.
The Blaire that followed was worse than his silent anger. He seemed empty. Fake. Forced his smiles and lazy flirts. Left her with empty compliments. Finished his paperwork - which, at any other time, she would have been overjoyed with. But it worries her, now.
And so, when he hands over his paperwork the next day, her fingers grasp the papers, quickly settling gently over his hand before he can pull it away. “You can talk to me.” She tells him, “Or not. Whichever you need. I’m here either way.”
She remembers the recognition flitting across his eyes, the widening of thick lashed lids, the tremble of bright pink. And then he blinks, and it’s gone. Instead, he smiles, and gods, she’s no stranger to his smiles.
This one is empty.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He tells her, and she swallows before she lets go. The assassin’s footsteps are silent as he breezes past her desk, and then he’s gone. Ella watches him go, then hangs her head, settles her face in her hands, scrubs it with her palms. They’re friends, she tells herself. It hurts to see him like this. It’s normal to care. It’s normal.
For days, it eats her up as much as it consumed him. Devours her from the inside, gnaws at her ribcage, claws at her throat, aches to set itself free in burning vitriol and searing hate. She wishes she could ruin them. Wishes she could haunt every last one who hurt him, who ripped his joy to shreds, who brought a plague to the smiles she used to love so much. Every one makes her feel sick inside. When his lips curl at the corners, an almost perfect replica of picturesque confidence, she thinks she might throw up.
She offers again, daily, “I’m here for you.” and he responds, smile fragile, voice low,
“I know.”
She wants to kiss his broken mouth, cut herself on the pieces. She wants to taste his sorrow on her tongue, drink it from his lungs, drown in the tang of copper and bitter anger. She wants to stain her lips red with rage and grief, leave none left on his mouth, in his throat, clinging to the hollows of his chest. She longs to take his pain and make it her own - but she can’t, and she knows she can’t.
Her mouth is left as broken as his - and shattered glass cannot fix shattered glass.
Another day, “I’m here for you.”
Another, “I know.”
Ella would fight every last one of the council with her bare hands, bury them between the bones of their rib cage, offer him every last beating heart if she could give him one that wasn’t laden with grief. She would give him her own, offered up on a silver platter, if it wasn’t as heavy as his own. She feels as though the floor cracks beneath its weight, lugged around in her chest, sinking to her feet with every hapless beat.
His grief is hers, she cares for him, it’s only natural, they’re friends, but gods, what she wouldn’t give to take his away.
Finding him outside her door as she turns the corner is the last thing she expected, but the sight is far from unwelcome. She watches him, licking broken lips, shards of grief and anger staining the pink of his tongue, and he fiddles with his sleeve. Far from the put together man she’s come to know - but this is still him, all the same. From the glitter of pink irises, to the wisps of white hair that catch on long lashes. He’s beautiful, even in grief, even in anger.
“Can I…?” He’d asked, and she’d smiled, soft, and taken the quiver of his hand under control with a firm squeeze.
“Always.” She’d told him.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“That’s okay.”
The door had clicked open, and then closed. The air felt heavy, stagnant. Even the usual hum of her electronics seemed quiet, as though respecting the peace, the silence, afraid to shatter the moment, egg shell thin. It’s quiet enough to hear him swallow, hear him breathe, hear the shuffle of clothes and the whisper of his hand running through dishevelled hair.
It’s when she turns that he falls in to her, gathers her in to his arms, hides his face in her shoulder and lets out a sound - choked, raw, thick with anger and betrayal that finally claws its way, tooth and nail, from his throat. A sound of grieving that had ached to be heard, punching hard at his chest, ripping at the curtains in a vain attempt to let the light in.
Ella squeezes him as tight as he does her, buries her nose in his hair and closes her eyes. “I know.” She tells him. “I know. You don’t have to keep it up, not here.”
She feels his fingers claw at her back, curl in to her nightgown, draw her close - as though pressing his jagged edges in to her, forcing broken pieces back in to place. The grief in his chest tears at the curtains, sobs in relief when they finally crack open, part thick fabric just enough to feel light, sun, warmth on soft skin.
And so she holds him, that night. Lets him cry. Tucks him in to her shoulder and squeezes him so tightly in her thin little arms that she’s not sure what will break first - her, or his back. The salty moisture of tears clings to her skin, soaking her shoulder, the soft strap of her nightgown, but she holds him nonetheless, gives him the reprieve he deserves in her arms.
“I’m here for you.”
He curls around her tighter, clutches her in his arms as they stumble to the bed, keeps his face pressed to her shoulder.
“I know.”