Work Text:
Feyre Archeron stared at her computer monitor and tried to convince herself that her eyes weren’t, in fact, actually literally bleeding from how many times they’d scanned over the same words over the past few hours.
She blinked, as if finally remembering that such a thing was indeed a function of her body, and sighed as she leaned back in her swivel chair. Her back made several resounding popping noises that weren’t entirely unpleasant. With a grimace, she massaged a searing tightness in her left shoulder, and cursed herself for once again forgetting her posture. She slouched badly when distracted — and well, it was hard to remain exactly riveted when one had to review the same case file with a fine-toothed comb over and over again ad nauseam.
Feyre pushed her chair back farther from her desk and treated herself to a quick stretch. Still seated, leaning her back as far into the chair as she thought she could go without risking it tipping over. (Not that it had ever happened before. Of course not.) She even dared to bring her arms over her head and let the muscles in her shoulders stretch themselves out. Imagined herself as a vine reaching for a few precious rays of sunlight.
The chair creaked pathetically beneath her movements. Like most of the furniture that decorated the glorified supply closet she called her office, it was sad, cheap, and sagging. And gray. This was a very gray space, despite her feeble attempts to give the room a little color so she wouldn’t go insane in here. But when she’d accepted this position, she’d only had enough money on hand to cover purchasing a new, more professional wardrobe for herself, and had promised herself she’d make do furnishing the space they’d given her with whatever chairs and futons she’d had leftover from her law school-era apartment. Clearly, it hadn’t worked, and the result was ramshackle and stripped of identity. Anyone could occupy this space, and you’d have no idea who they were just from looking around at it.
Certainly nothing in this room, with its eggshell walls and windows too far up to let in any quantifiable amount of light, could compete with the shiny baubles and fucking velvet chaises decorating her boss, Beron Vanserra’s office. But seeing as he’d owned this firm for twenty years now, Feyre supposed that was to be expected. He’d had time and experience (and certainly, he’d had wealth well before even becoming a lawyer) that had helped him arrive at such a level of comfort.
She’d only been with Vanserra & Co. for about a year now — a shorter time than anyone else here, still the newbie so far. But in that time, she’d only scarcely seen Beron emerge from behind the doors to his office, although she saw various suit-wearing types popping in and out regularly during the weeks for scheduled meetings. Or evil scheming, or whatever it was they all did in there.
Enigmatic figure that he was, it seemed like everyone in the firm was constantly feuding for Beron’s attention. A few months ago, when he’d wanted a younger, fresher face to help handle a particularly time-consuming pharmaceutical company merger, it had been practically a bloodbath. Feyre couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory. You would’ve thought he was standing in front of a chocolate factory, waving around a fucking Golden Ticket, she thought, shaking her head. Though it wouldn’t be entirely truthful if she said she hadn’t been interested in the opportunity, too.
Of course, none of them had been surprised when that had gone to Rhysand. He was one of the best younger hires here, even if it physically pained Feyre to admit it.
Didn’t stop him from being a dickhead, though.
Her fingers curled into fists in her lap as her memories traveled inexorably to just a few months ago, to the office holiday party. The glitter of Christmas lights in the background, Frank Sinatra crooning over the speakers, and the look in Rhysand’s eyes as he’d sauntered up to her. She tried not to think of the conversation they’d had that night too often. Tried even harder to ignore the sudden dryness in her throat whenever she remembered what he’d looked like from up close, the way his violet stare had pinned her to the spot.
The way he always seemed to see her. Not through her, but directly into her, as if all her secret vulnerabilities and passions and thoughts were splayed out on an open table for him to observe. But there was never any eagerness in that steady gaze, no — just a curiosity, as if he were patient and content enough to study all of her from afar. As if that were all it would take to parse out the truth of her, because perhaps he already understood it.
She hated him a little bit for that.
Feyre pushed herself out of her seat, needing to banish thoughts of Rhysand as quickly as they’d settled onto her. She hated giving him that power, making him someone that could reduce her to a pacing, fretting thing. She told herself instead that she just needed to stand after hunching over her computer for so long — and anyway, as she glanced at the clock, she realized that it was just about time for her to wrap up here and head home.
So, as luck would have it, standing was necessary and not at all a byproduct of being hung-up and moony over her obnoxious coworker.
She snatched her coat from where she’d draped it over the futon on her way in this morning — she should probably get a coat rack, would it be more professional to have a coat rack? Pulling it on and gathering her things, she headed for the door and gave the room a final cursory glance. Computer turned off, notes all tucked away and ready to last the weekend in this dark little hole of an office. It was as good as it was ever going to get. Satisfied, Feyre nodded to herself and headed out for the evening, locking the door behind her on the way.
The building was quiet this evening, the assorted desks and sofas and squat little modern chairs casting tall, thin shadows along the walls. Now that she’d stepped out into the common area (which actually had windows, she thought bitterly) she could see it was nearly full dark outside.
Fuck. Had she really stayed so late? She was lucky the cleaning crew hadn’t locked her in.
Huffing an exasperated sigh, she headed for the elevators, trying her best not to think about how spectacularly creepy this place looked at night. Like a ghost town, or something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. As she reached the elevator doors, she slammed the button, and told herself she wasn’t being frantic, just efficient. She hugged her coat closer to her body and bounced restlessly on the balls of her feet. It seemed chillier in here with all the people gone.
She hardly even noticed anyone was behind her until she heard a familiar voice drawl, “Funny seeing you here, Archeron.”
Well, you know what they say, Feyre, she thought to herself. Speak of the devil . . .
Stomach fluttering, Feyre slowly turned around and came face-to-face with the very man she’d hoped to avoid all day. In all his smirking, arrogant glory.
“Hello, Rhysand,” she sighed, fixing him with a saccharine smile so tight that her teeth ground together. “You do realize I work here too, right?”
He returned her smile with one of his own, something like wicked amusement dancing in his eyes. “And how am I supposed to forget that? I think you’ll find someone as charming as yourself tends to be remembered, whether you want to or not.” Somehow, he made it sound as if it were both a compliment and insult in the same breath.
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks for that, I guess,” she snorted.
“An actual thank you from Feyre Archeron? Oh, day of days!”
She barely managed to reign in an eye-roll at the sarcasm dripping from his voice. Still, something lightly teasing in his words tugged at the corners of her lips, made her tempted to crack the barest traces of an amused smirk. She fought it, stifled the instinct to laugh, and instead folded her arms protectively across her chest. He spoke to her like he knew her, like . . . like they were actually friends.
Was that what they were? After that night at the holiday party, were they anything at all anymore? Or were things between them forever destined to just hover in this strange, uncomfortable stagnance, both of them tiptoeing around it?
Feyre cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the elevator. Of course, it had to choose tonight, of all nights, to be so damn slow. When she returned her gaze to Rhysand, though, his expression had relaxed into careful neutrality — as if he were indeed simply waiting for the elevator, just like her, and didn’t intend to cause her any further trouble. In his hands he clutched a sleek black briefcase — which matched his equally-sleek black suit. His raven-feather hair gleamed oily blue-black in the low light.
“Working on something important tonight?” he said at last, making small talk when the silence had drawn on just long enough to edge into discomfort.
Feyre blinked, bemused by the question, then realized. “Oh — oh, no, not really. I mean, yes, I guess it is, but not . . . I don’t know, not important enough for me to have spent this much time on it. I don’t know why I stayed so late tonight. I don’t usually fall into my work like that.”
“You’re meticulous,” he said, and she couldn’t quite determine if it was a simple observation or if he’d intended to flatter her with it. “When you really care about something, that is. You hold yourself to high standards.”
Enough heat rushed to her cheeks that Feyre ducked her head slightly, hoping the curtain of her auburn hair would block him from seeing how deeply his words had resonated. Even if he’d just meant it as a passing detail he’d noticed, it had hit with more certainty than he knew. They’d worked on a few cases together in the past, but she hadn’t really thought he’d even paid attention to anything like that.
At last, the elevator gave a feeble ding to announce its arrival. The doors slid lethargically open, and Feyre tried to ignore their metal whining as she stepped in. Only four floors, and then she’d be out again. She’d always hated elevators, but especially this thing — though the rest of the office was fairly nice and new, this elevator was old and unreliable and finicky. Hopefully the trip to the lobby wouldn’t take as long as it had taken for it to get up here in the first place.
Rhysand trailed in after her, and the doors closed behind his back. Inside the elevator, the lighting was a sallow yellow, a single flickering bulb over their heads. The floors beneath them were fraying carpet, and the walls were plastered with posters advertising all the varied and oh-so-exciting things one could pursue legal action for. Beron Vanserra’s grinning face leered at her from one of them. She tried not to make eye contact with it for too long.
“What about you?” Feyre finally asked. “Were you working on anything, er—” she made a vague gesture with her hand, “—special?”
Rhysand gave a snort of derision.
“You could say that,” he said. “Although I suspect it serves Beron’s interests more than my own.”
Feyre shrugged, but didn’t bother asking him to elaborate. After all, no one in the office was at all surprised whenever Rhysand got handed these flashy, fancy assignments. In comparison, she supposed her menial work was embarrassing, juvenile. She tried not to bristle at the thought.
Before either of them could say anything else, the elevator gave a shudder beneath their feet. Groaned in protest like some slumbering beast that had woken up to discover them resting in its mouth. There was a piercing clanking noise, the squeal of metal on cables — above them, the light flickered on and off so quickly that it was nearly dizzying — Feyre’s hand shot out to the nearest wall to keep herself steady —
— and with a thud, the elevator came to a grinding halt in the middle of its track, before it could reach the ground floor.
“Shit,” Rhysand cursed colorfully, his voice right by Feyre’s ear, holding her steady as if he’d —
— he’d reached out to keep her from falling or injuring herself.
Feyre opened her mouth, nearly too stunned to speak, but before any words could tumble out, the light overhead flickered one last time.
And then went out entirely.
Their breaths rasped noisily in the heavy darkness, both of them holding as still as possible in case the slightest movement sent them careening out of control again. Rhysand’s hand still pressed against the curve of her waist, holding her steady in the dark. She found herself only dimly aware of the heat of his touch. But at that moment, it wasn’t an entirely unwelcome sensation. In fact, Feyre felt rather grateful someone else was here with her.
Grateful that she wasn’t alone, because . . .
“Oh my god,” she finally breathed, her voice a thin wobble. “Oh my god, we’re stuck in here.”
How had she never noticed what a tight space this was before? And now that it was so dark that she could barely even tell if her eyes were open, now that it was difficult to even see her hands in front of her face . . . her chest tightened, hands shaking at her sides.
“Take a deep breath,” Rhysand told her, his voice carefully smooth, as if he were doing his best to hold back his own worries for her sake. “It’s going to be alright. Hang on just a second, okay, Feyre?”
Feyre nodded, too consumed with the cold creep of anxiety in the pit of her stomach to bother with quipping back at him about whether or not he had the right to boss her around. And slowly, purposefully, she did as he said, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. As she exhaled on a shudder, she found herself still sick with needle-sharp worry, but the sensation had dulled somewhat. As if she could hold it at bay for just a little longer.
She heard rather than saw Rhys fumble in the darkness. Then, in the next instant, a square of light blossomed between them, bathing the elevator car in the white-blue shine of the flashlight on his cell phone. The light cast his features into stark relief, his eyes flashing at her across the distance.
“At least now we can see,” he murmured. “Hold tight. I’m going to try and get the emergency button working, see if we can call anybody with that. I don’t think my phone has any bars in here.”
Feyre nodded shakily, raking her fingers through her hair. “Fuck,” she exhaled under her breath. Then again, a bit louder: “ Fuck! I can’t believe this fucking happened to me!”
From over where he stood fiddling with the elevator buttons, Rhys gave a low chuckle. “Quite a mouth on you,” he said, as if he found this endlessly amusing. “Are you sure that’s workplace appropriate?”
Feyre muttered something darkly under her breath in response that she hoped Rhysand couldn’t hear — something about “working this foot up your ass” that she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate.
Or maybe he would, given how exceedingly funny he’d seemed to find her cursing.
Whatever Rhys did seemed to work, and the elevator filled with the staticky, distinctly pathetic sound of the emergency button dialing rescue services for them. She willed herself to feel at least a little relief to take the edge off those razor-sharp nerves. At least now there would be people who knew they were here, who were coming to get them.
When someone answered on the other end of the line, he explained to them smoothly, calmly, what had happened. Perhaps Feyre would have felt compelled to interject on her own, but she was still too shaken — too focused on keeping her lunch from earlier down in her stomach where it belonged. On any other occasion, she might have bristled at the idea of letting Rhysand take the reins, but in this case, she didn’t mind relinquishing responsibility. Especially since it was just now starting to feel as if she could breathe normally again.
Of course this would happen with Rhysand, of all people, here with her. Of course he would have to see her like this, so . . . vulnerable. So afraid. Because it wouldn’t have been easier for her at all to have just been able to keep him at a distance, after all this time. No, she couldn’t have that.
“They’ll be on their way soon,” he told her, standing from where he’d crouched near the emergency button and making his way back over to her. “In the meantime . . . I suppose we might as well get comfortable, hm?”
He sighed, then looked up. And, as if noticing her face for the first time:
“Feyre,” he said. “Are you alright?”
Feyre glanced up from where she’d been pointedly studying her shoes, concentrating on anything but the way the world seemed to sway dizzily around her. Rhysand’s eyes searched her face, something she thought looked startlingly close to genuine concern furrowing his brow. She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat, gave a few stilted little nods. Tried for a wan little smile that even she could tell didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m — yes, I’m fine,” she finally managed. “I just — ah, this is embarrassing . . . I don’t do tight spaces. It, uh, freaks me out a little.”
Something barely perceptible in his expression softened, and Feyre’s stomach twisted. Great. Now she supposed he’d pity her or something. Still, she held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her entirely crumble before him. Help would be on the way soon, as he’d said — she only needed to endure this for a while longer. She could manage that.
She could manage being here with him, all those words unsaid lingering much too heavily in the air between them.
“In that case,” he said, settling into a crouch, and then lowering himself fully into a sitting position on the elevator floor. “Why don’t you take a seat by me? We’ll talk about something else to pass the time. Keep your mind off of it until they get here to let us out.” He patted the empty space beside him. “Unfortunately, this is the one day I neglected to bring snacks with me to work, so . . . we’ll have to go hungry for now, but at least I’m never short on sparkling conversation.” And then he winked at her, a conspirator’s grin on his tan face.
Despite herself, a smile twitched at the edges of Feyre’s mouth, a dry laugh huffing from her almost involuntarily. “I think I have some old Tic-Tacs in the bottom of my purse,” she said. “I guess if we start starving to death in here, we’ll have those to fall back on.”
His laugh in return was surprisingly warm, a richer, freer sound than she’d expected from someone who she’d scarcely ever heard speak about anything other than work. Maybe that alone was enough to convince her — or maybe she was just frightened and desperate for anything to steer her thoughts away from this literal nightmare scenario she’d wandered into. Whatever the reason, Feyre didn’t care to think too deeply on it as she at last relented, and lowered herself onto the floor at Rhysand’s side.
“Even if we are trapped in here,” he sighed when she’d settled into place, “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy for the chance to talk to you, anyway. It feels like it’s been forever since . . . since we were able to just talk.”
She didn’t miss how his eyes found hers towards the end of his sentence, nor the beat of silence that passed between them afterward that felt just a bit too significant and pointed for her to completely ignore. Feyre cleared her throat, swallowed unevenly. Anything to avoid answering, to not think about the last time they’d been so close, the way she’d thought for a moment or two that — that he might have even kissed her —
With a shiver she hoped was too small for Rhysand to see in the dark, she nodded and said, “Yeah. I’ve just been really busy. You know how it is.”
The knowing smile on his face said he didn’t buy it for a second, but he humored her. “Of course. But I don’t want to waste these precious few minutes talking shop with you, Feyre darling. Why don’t you tell me what else has been going on lately?”
“What else?” she repeated blankly.
“Sure,” said Rhys. “You must have what we like to call a life outside of that sad excuse for an office. I’d like to hear about it. Know more about what interests you outside of writing brilliant contracts and reviewing case files.”
She tried to ignore the way the subtle, casual compliment — brilliant contracts, spoken as smoothly as if it were an irrefutable fact. Tried, and failed, to ignore the way it sang all the way through her, resonating to the bone. She’d always thought that her work, her meticulous attention to detail, had gone relatively unnoticed. Why had it never occurred to her that Rhys would have kept a close eye on it — would have not only remembered, but respected, the effort she put into it all?
“Well . . .” she said with a shrug, hating the way her sentence trailed off so sadly. She might as well have had a big, blinking I HAVE NO LIFE OR FRIENDS OUTSIDE OF MY WORKPLACE sign strapped to her forehead. When was the last time she had allowed herself to be truly happy, to lift her nose from her desk and take joy in the world around her? “Um, I went to a painting class a few weeks ago.”
Maybe the answer was embarrassing and stupid, maybe something like that was nothing to be proud of at all. But it was something — more importantly, it was the last time she could remember really caring about something outside of work. The last time she’d really felt free to express the tangled mess of jumbled-up emotion in the pit of her stomach, to get it out onto a blank canvas and leave some sort of indelible mark upon the world. It was no masterpiece, but she’d created it, and that was enough.
Before landing this job — before getting into law school, really — she’d painted almost constantly. Her tiny apartment that had seen her so bravely through all the drama of undergrad had been cluttered nearly to the brim with filled-up canvases and painting supplies, vivid and bursting with color. Ideas had come to her as naturally as breathing, and back then she’d had the time and energy to devote to nurturing them as they came up.
Now, whenever she tried to reach for the part of her that wanted to paint again, it was like reaching down into an empty hole, her fingers digging up nothing but dust. And occasionally there would be a glimmer, the barest hint of inspiration, but work and the obligations of day-to-day life would stifle it. It was always later now, I’ll do it later, paint it later, but when later inevitably rolled around, she was too exhausted or distracted to devote any time to anything beyond surviving.
She missed the feeling that creating had given her. And wanted it back more than anything. But to admit that to Rhys . . . she wasn’t sure if she could yet.
“That’s good,” Rhys said, and he genuinely seemed to mean it. “I remember you mentioned it before — the painting. Making time for things like that is important when you work that hard.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, then added, “What sort of things do you like to paint?”
Feyre blinked, nonplussed. She wasn’t sure if anyone had actually asked her about that before. Most peoples’ eyes tended to start glazing over the minute she started talking about painting.
“Uh, well, I usually like to go for a more impressionistic style. I like the suggestion of something, rather than a realistic interpretation. Like . . . like whatever moment or subject I’m depicting, it isn’t there anymore, and I’m . . . I’m just painting the mark it left behind.” She gave a soft chuckle. “Sorry. That probably sounds confusing and weird and . . .” her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. “Sorry.”
“No — please, don’t apologize,” said Rhys. “I mean it. I like hearing about your process. I’m not much of an artist, myself. Creative people fascinate me in that way. My cousin Mor, she designs dresses for a living — talks my ear off about it all the time. I’m sure she’d froth at the mouth to have you as her captive audience,” he laughed.
Feyre couldn’t help it, and smiled at the idea. “She sounds great,” she said. “Especially if she really annoys you as much as it seems.”
“I’m sure she’d be thrilled to know you said that.”
“Then by all means, tell her for me.”
They fell into laughter again, the sound soft and quiet in the darkness of the elevator. Feyre found herself surprised by it — the warmth of the moment. The ease and comfort of the two of them sitting together, just talking. Perhaps she’d missed his company these past few months a bit more than she’d initially realized.
And from there, it was as if they’d never had a disagreement before at all. Talking was so easy — so natural — that they fell into conversation without any struggle whatsoever. Just chatting about whatever happened to come to mind: work drama they’d both witnessed from the sidelines, cringe-inducing jokes they’d overheard in the break room, even down to the new television shows they’d been watching. It was pleasant, maybe even something close to fun, though she wasn’t sure if she’d admit that.
Somehow, it seemed as if she’d known Rhysand for much longer than a year; and even so, she got the sense that there was more to learn. And, in spite of herself, she wanted to know it all. Wanted to take the time to find it all out.
Eventually, their conversation slowed to a natural, comfortable silence. Still, as their laughter died out, something about the air between them became charged. Somehow, she sensed without even asking that his thoughts had traveled to a similar place to her own — and she wasn’t entirely sure if that frightened her or not. Perhaps a small, hidden part of her wanted to know that Rhysand had missed her, delighted in the fact that he, too, seemed to be wondering whether or not this tiptoeing around what they both refused to talk about was worth it. It comforted her, on some strange level, to imagine that the words she so desperately wanted to say were just on the tip of his tongue, too.
It was Rhysand who broke the silence, as if that pressing quiet was too much for him to stand. “I just want you to take care of yourself, Feyre,” he murmured, as if it were some secret confession. “I know I might not always have given you reason to believe that—” here he huffed a laugh, full of irony, “—but it’s true. I just . . . hm. Let’s just say this place would be much too boring without you.”
Feyre looked down at her lap. Carefully studied her interlaced fingers. “Rhys . . .” she whispered, unable to bring herself to say anything else. Unable to trust what might come out if she did.
“Look, just . . . don’t forget to take time to care for yourself, too, okay?” he said at last, his tone lightening a bit. “Work is one thing, but . . . you deserve to do the things that make you happy. Without any guilt or shame for it.”
The smile returned to her face, this time as its own rueful shadow. It was a nice sentiment, to be sure, but . . . “Yeah, well, find me the time and energy to do something more than just work, and maybe I’ll consider it.”
Rhys elbowed her, but the movement was gentle, teasing. “Alright, smartass. Maybe I’ll just have to take you to a painting class myself sometime.”
Feyre snorted, her grin becoming more genuine now. “Yeah, okay. I’ll believe that when I see it, Rhysand.”
She could sense him working up a reply, and nearly opened her mouth to interrupt him before he could get it out — but both of them were stunned into silence as the lights flickered overhead, and, miraculously, sprung back on. Feyre squinted, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden change in lighting, even as relief flooded her stomach.
They were getting out — the rescue crew had gotten here, they were finally going to fix this fucking thing!
It was more of an effort than she thought it would be to be happy about it — to not think about the fact that she didn’t know when she’d next get an excuse to talk to Rhysand again. Not just the two of them, like it was tonight.
She didn’t want to think too much about why she even wanted that to begin with. After all, she hated Rhys. Hadn’t she just been thinking earlier about how obnoxious and insufferable he was? No, it certainly wouldn’t be much of a loss.
When at last they’d been pulled from the gaping maw of the elevator, the doors hauled open so they could wriggle their way between them, she made her best effort to avoid direct eye contact with Rhysand. Speaking with him so candidly in the darkness had been one thing, but in the harsh lighting of the now-deserted parking garage, she felt too bare under his gaze. Too raw from everything she’d revealed, embarrassed by the vulnerabilities she’d laid before his feet. They’d gone back into the real world now, and . . . well, she’d have to work hard to draw those lines back again.
Even if she maybe didn’t entirely mind that they’d been crossed.
“Do you need me to walk you to your car?” Rhysand asked, breath fogging out in front of his face. The face that had been, mere minutes ago, so close to hers in the darkness. Feyre shook her head mutely, and he answered, “Alright. Then . . . take care. And if you don’t mind, shoot me a text when you get home safely?”
A card from his pocket, pressed into her hands. His number scrawled on it, the warmth of his hand still bleeding into the paper. Feyre’s fingers curled around it, and she nodded again, pointedly ignoring the heat blazing in her cheeks.
His fingers gave hers one last tiny, barely-there squeeze before he allowed his hand to fall to his side again. “It was good talking to you tonight.”
“Yeah,” she breathed, finally allowing her eyes to meet his. “You too, Rhys. I’ve . . .” Well, she might regret it, but screw it, wasn’t she on some kind of honesty streak, anyway? It would be a shame to break it. “I think I’ve missed you lately.”
Something unreadable flickered in his gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly in its usual crooked grin. This time tinged with something strangely close to sadness, something that made her stomach twist inside her.
“Goodnight, Feyre.”