Work Text:
The ball held at the very height of the Bloom is a time-honored tradition, and as Mistrex of Ceremonies Rue has planned more of them than they can easily recall, and faithfully attended each one.
In all that time, they have never danced.
Even the lively group dances the fey so enjoy have seemed too risky, for were another to stumble into them or brush against them for even a moment, they might sense the discrepancy between Rue’s outward appearance and physical form. Instead they have stood apart, clad in one of their elaborate ensembles that so neatly dazzle the eye while discouraging proximity. They have had to disappoint their share of hopeful suitors over the years, but no one has ever seemed to find it strange that the Mistrex of Ceremonies should hold themselves aloof, watching the fruits of their labor unfold, ready to attend to any matter that might arise.
As this Bloom’s ball approaches—the first Rue will attend as their true self, the first at which dancing will truly be an option—they are not surprised by the lack of inquiries and offers that have come their way in advance of the occasion. It’s one thing for the assembled fey of the courts to accept and even applaud the abandonment of their glamour, and quite another for anyone to be eager to dance with an owlbear. It would be foolish, they tell themselves, to be surprised.
(As Rue enters the ball with Wuvvy at their side, the thought of asking her for a dance crosses their mind—but no, of course not. Rue may not return Wuvvy’s affections in the way she wishes they would, but they do cherish her as a friend, and are keenly aware that they’ve already used her ill this Bloom. To play upon their friend’s unrequited feelings merely to secure a dance partner would be unforgivable.)
As the assembled fey mingle, waiting on the winner of the Crystal Heart to open the dancing, Rue cannot help the way their eyes seek out Captain Hob. Nor can they help the affectionate smile that tugs the corners of their beak when they find him, looking splendid in his white and gold uniform, standing by the punch bowl as stiff and proper as if he were on a parade ground awaiting review by his commanding officers.
Rue has not allowed themselves to consider the possibility of a dance with Hob for more than a moment; their mind lights on the thought and then darts away, like glancing at something too bright to look at directly. They feel the weight of his medal, safely concealed within the ring on their claw, and recall the certainty with which he spoke of them as courageous.
As a room full of expectant eyes turn to Binx, Rue continues to glance in Hob’s direction, and sees him place a hand on Andhera’s shoulder and say something to the young prince. In that moment, Rue feels certain they know the Captain’s mind, and finds his intended course of action an excellent one. The mutual attempt to push the two young folk together ends disastrously, but still, Rue looks back toward Hob with a smile and finds an answering warmth in his gaze.
Rue could go to him now, they think. Use the moment as a reason to engage him in conversation, see if he would ask for a dance, perhaps even be bold enough to request one themselves. It hasn’t escaped their notice that, like them, Hob showed up to the event bearing a small, gilt-edged dance card with a delicate pen tethered to it, a purely optional tradition embraced by those fey who enjoy the romance and formality of it.
But after countless balls, countless Blooms spent holding themselves aloof, they know that to approach Hob now would be to invite gossip and rumor, something they fear far more for his sake than their own. Or perhaps after so long standing on the sidelines, it’s simply easier to remain there, no matter how their heart yearns to do otherwise. Perhaps they are not so brave as Captain Hob thinks them, after all. Whatever the case, they cannot bring themselves to approach him.
In the end, it’s Hob who comes to them.
If Rue lives another thousand thousand years, they will never forget the feeling of strong arms wrapping around them from behind, a lithe, furred body pressed close to theirs for but a moment. Nor will they forget the way Hob draws himself up when he realizes Rue has no partners, the courtesy with which he asks if he might inscribe his name on their dance card.
As he returns the card, Rue glances down and notes with delight that he’s written his full name, though the middle name is somewhat hard to make out on the tiny card under the changeable light of the fireworks. They’ll puzzle it out later, they decide, and for now simply take a moment to admire the neat, precise lines of his handwriting, straighter and sparser than their own flowery script, but elegant in its own way, much as an immaculately tailored military uniform is no less elegant than a flowing gown.
Hob gives over his own card when Rue requests it, and they inscribe their own name with care. When they hand the card back, Hob doesn’t tuck it away; rather, he regards it for a moment, folds it smaller than it already is, and raises his lovely eyes to meet theirs.
Rue’s breath catches in their throat as Hob lifts the card to his mouth. His movements are slow, deliberate, and he holds their gaze as he places the card in his mouth and swallows it whole.
Rue feels their entire body flush, heat racing over them like faerie fire. They are, of course, well-versed in the traditions of many different courts, and the Goblin Court is no exception. They understand the implications of a goblin devouring something given to them by another; holding it as close as possible, ensuring in the most primal way that it cannot be taken from them. They know what it means when a goblin does this overtly, in full view of the gifter. Rue has handed Hob a card inscribed with their name, and Hob has responded by taking it into his very body and making certain they see him do so. Their knees feel weak, the bodice of their gown suddenly too tight.
Their own card, bearing Hob’s name, is still in their hand. For a dizzy moment Rue wonders if they should eat it as well, show him that his sentiment is not only understood but shared. But to do that would be to never lay eyes upon it again, which Rue finds they want to do very badly. They want to press the card between the pages of their private journal when this night ends, so that they might revisit it at their leisure, tracing every dear line of his name with eyes and claw tips. For now, they tuck the card carefully into a well-concealed pocket, and hope Hob will understand that their failure to devour it makes it no less precious to them.
As the noise from the fireworks display dies down, the band strikes up with a lively, up-tempo waltz. Hob offers his hand with a confidence Rue has previously seen from him only on the field of battle, and Rue places their hand in his, reflecting again on the similarity there as he steers them onto the dance floor. Everything about the way Hob touches them is entirely proper; long arms held out to maintain space between their bodies, right hand high up on their back, left hand not so much holding Rue's as made into a perch for them to lightly rest their own hand upon. Even that much physical contact has Rue's heart pounding, and they take a moment to gather themselves before placing their left hand on Hob's arm, lest he feel them trembling.
There is no uncertainty from either of them as they move into the first steps of the waltz. Rue may not have danced at a ball before, but the Court of Wonder saw them well-instructed in all courtly graces in their youth, and they find the knowledge comes back to them easily now. Hob is sure-footed as well; Rue cannot imagine there is much occasion for waltzing among the Goblin Court, but it comes as no surprise that this most gentlemanly of goblins has learned it somehow. His posture remains impeccable as he leads them in the dance, back ramrod straight, elbows not dipping for even a moment.
Rue imagines that to an outside observer the pair of them may seem ungainly or even ridiculous—two hulking creatures with fur and claws going through the motions of an elegant waltz—but they find themselves utterly unconcerned with anyone outside the circle of Hob and themselves. They feel light as air in his arms, trusting his lead as the two of them glide across the floor, breathless and exhilarated as he guides them into a spin.
All too soon, the waltz draws to a close; Hob leads them through one last graceful turn and then steps back, keeping hold of Rue's hand. He makes a smart little bow, and they dip in an answering curtsy, beaming at him as they straighten.
“Captain Hob, that was…” Rue searches in vain for the words to tell him what this moment means to them, how he has met and surpassed their every romantic daydream of what their first waltz might be like. “That was wonderful,” they settle on, inadequately. “Thank you.”
There’s a brief pause in the music during which the fey mill about, those who have dance cards seeking out their next partners. Hob glances around the room, then back at Rue, just a hint of goblin mischief in the glint of his eye and the curve of his mouth.
“It would seem, Mistrex de la Rue, that there are no other names on my dance card.”
Rue can’t hold back a delighted laugh, one hand coming up to cover their beak decorously. “Are you certain, Captain?” they ask teasingly. “Perhaps you should check your card to make sure.”
“Quite certain,” he replies, visibly pleased with himself. “If I might prevail upon you for another dance…?”
Rue makes a show of considering the request, then inclines their head. “I believe I can accommodate you.”
The next song the band strikes up with is still lively, but decidedly not a waltz. Many of the fey seem not to recognize the song, but those that do react with delight and begin forming themselves into lines.
The lines are what jog Rue’s memory. “Oh, I know this one!” they tell Hob. “It’s another dance from the material plane. I believe it’s called the Electric Slide.”
They know it, in fact, from a party they hosted some years ago at which a group of young Seelie, recently returned from a sojourn on the material plane, began calling for the dance with increasing fervor until Rue used a divination spell to look it up.
“Ah, capital!” Hob says. “Do you know, I never would have guessed the denizens of the material plane were so very fond of sliding.” He watches the dancers for a moment, and his ears dip slightly. “Does this one…not come with instructions?”
“No, but it follows a repeating pattern,” Rue tells him. “Here, we move this way, like so—“
Hob follows their lead, watching their feet with a look of intense concentration. Affection swells inside Rue at seeing the attention he brings to such a simple task, the determination to get it right.
All seems to be going well until Hob turns the wrong way, causing them to nearly crash into each other. Before they can course correct, Hob’s foot comes down on Rue’s, causing them to wince.
“I beg your pardon,” Hob says at once, hands gently cupping Rue’s elbows to steady them.
“I’m fine, Captain,” Rue says, resting their hands lightly on his forearms. “No harm done.”
Hob nods and releases them, and they take a moment to find their place in the dance again. Two rotations go by without incident, but then Hob steps on their foot again, this time hard enough that a little yelp escapes Rue before they regain their composure.
“Oh! Do forgive me,” Hob says at once, distress written across his face. “Are you all right? Perhaps we should sit for a moment?”
Rue nods their assent and lets Hob steer them over to a nearby arrangement of delicate gilt chairs. He doesn’t sit, instead hovering anxiously.
“Shall I fetch some ice?” he asks. “Or would you care to step on my feet, so that we are even?”
“Nothing of the kind will be necessary, Captain,” Rue says. There’s still a dull throbbing in their foot, but the pain is already fading, nothing even resembling a true injury. “Pray, don’t give it any further thought.”
Hob shakes his head. “You are as gracious as ever, and you show me far more kindness than a careless oaf who has hurt you with his stumbling deserves.”
To be fussed over so is touching, yet at the same time it strikes something flinty in Rue, and they draw themselves up in their seat.
“Knickolas,” they say, trusting that their use of his first name will command his attention. Hob's ears flick and he looks up at them at once, pupils dilating slightly. “I thank you for your concern, but truly, I am fine. I should hope that, by this point in our acquaintance, you do not take me for some fragile creature who cannot withstand some momentary discomfort.”
He blinks, and then his brow furrows ever so slightly. “Of course. I did not mean to—“
“Moreover,” Rue continues, “Had you stepped on my feet a dozen times more, that would pain me less than to hear you castigate yourself so for a harmless accident. You are not an oaf, Captain, and you are the farthest thing from careless, and I would beg you not to refer to yourself as such again.”
The furrow in Hob’s brow deepens, and he lowers his eyes. “Forgive me, Rue. I—“ he breaks off, ears flattening against his head and jaw working silently, and Rue realizes they have put him in an awkward position; wanting to apologize for causing them distress, but not wanting to compound the offense by denigrating himself further.
(They wonder, briefly and with a touch of true anger, if anyone has ever told him that even the most sincerely owed apology need not be accompanied by self-abuse.)
Awkward silence descends for a moment. The Electric Slide has finished by now, and the band moves into a slower, softer melody.
“In any case, Captain,” Rue says gently, “If you feel you have wronged me, I can think of a way for you to make amends.”
Hob’s eyes snap back to them at once. “Name it.”
Rue extends both hands to him, smiling. “Dance with me again,” they say, and Hob’s entire countenance brightens in a way that goes straight to Rue’s heart as he takes their hands and pulls them gently upward.
By the time two more dances have gone by, they’ve foregone even the pretense that either of them might dance with anyone else. As the music shifts into a slow waltz, Hob holds Rue far closer than he did for their first waltz, though still not as close as they would like. Rue is beginning to grow tired from dancing with barely a pause, and they use that as an excuse to lean into him more heavily than either good manners or their own trepidation would normally allow for. Hob tenses for a moment, then relaxes and tucks his arm more fully around them.
Despite having had only a single glass of champagne all evening, Rue feels nearly drunk; drunk on the music and the fireworks and Hob's nearness, drunk on their own boldness to dance with the one they love again and again and not care who sees them or what they make of it, drunk on the magic of the Bloom itself.
They turn their head to speak close to Hob's ear, the soft feathers around their face brushing the fur of his cheek. "May I ask you something?"
"Of course," he replies, and oh, Rue can feel the way the words rumble in his chest, feel his whiskers tickling their cheek. They’re still swaying gently with the rhythm of the waltz, speaking just loud enough to hear each other over the music.
“When you wrote your name on my dance card, I couldn’t quite make it out,” Rue explains. “You needn’t tell me if you don’t wish to, of course, but I would very much like to know what the ‘P’ in ‘K.P.’ stands for.”
Hob makes a soft chuffing sound and tilts his head so that he’s speaking directly into Rue’s tufted ear. “The ‘P’ in ‘K.P.’,” he says softly, “stands for Pnackeless.”
It’s absurd, and absurdly charming, and it suits him so perfectly, and Rue is gone. Their heart swells with so much affection that it seems it might burst right out of their chest, and all they can think with every beat of it is I love him, I love him, I love him.
“Thank you,” they murmur, somehow finding the decorum to not declare their love right here on the dance floor. “I feel I ought to tell you something in exchange for that, but I'm not certain what…” They know, abruptly, what they could tell him, and do it before they can second-guess themselves. “I named myself. I had no name when I was young, at least none that I can remember. The name I was called when I was first brought to the fey realm—it doesn’t exist anymore. That was the first bit of true fey magic I ever worked on my own, writing that name out of existence and ‘Delloso de la Rue’ in its place.”
Hob pulls back to see their face and looks at them the way he did when he first saw their true form, admiration bordering on awe. “Small wonder, then, that your name is so beautiful,” he says. “Or that it suits you so perfectly.”
Rue wants to sob, wants to laugh, wants to kiss him. They duck their head down and lean it on his shoulder instead, and feel Hob’s intake of breath and the way his arms tighten around them.
If they were not already in love with him, they would love him for this moment of making them feel seen and understood. It touches them the same way as Binx’s friendship and Andhera embracing them at the tea party, filling spaces inside Rue that have stood empty so long they almost forgot they were there.
The last notes of the waltz die away, and no new song follows. Rue raises their head from Hob’s shoulder and looks around to see the musicians beginning to pack up their instruments and fey leaving the dance floor.
“I didn’t realize it had gotten so late,” they say.
“Nor had I,” Hob replies. He lets go of Rue and takes a step back, but only to offer them his arm. “May I escort you back to your rooms?”
Rue gives a slight hum of assent, tucking their hand into the crook of his arm. Now that they’re no longer dancing, the tiredness starts to really hit them, and the temptation to lay their head right back on Hob’s shoulder is strong.
A single black peony, dislodged from the arrangement on their head, flutters loose as they begin to walk. Hob catches it deftly with his free hand and offers it back to Rue, who takes it from him gently, twirling the stem between their claws.
It seems all too short a time before they arrive at the Court of Wonder’s tower.
“Thank you, Captain,” Rue says as they stand at the door to Rue’s quarters. “For…for everything. You’ve made this a truly magical evening for me.”
“You make magic for others constantly,” Hob tells them gently. “I’m glad I could return the favor for an evening.”
Rue looks down at the peony they still hold, and then, in a moment of impulsiveness, brings it up and tucks it behind his ear.
A blush would no more show through Hob’s fur than it would Rue’s feathers, but his eyes widen slightly and an almost bashful look comes over him. He takes Rue’s hand and bows low over it, his mouth skimming the air just above their knuckles.
“Goodnight, Rue,” he says as he steps back.
“Goodnight, Knickolas,” Rue replies softly.
In the privacy of their quarters, they float through their nighttime routine, humming softly to themselves as they leave the rest of the black peonies in a loose heap on the table and slip out of their dress and into a loose, comfortable nightgown. As they hang up the dress and use a cantrip to clean it, they remember to retrieve the dance card from their pocket.
Sitting on the edge of their bed, Rue lifts their journal from the nightstand and slips the card into it, just as they thought of doing earlier. Before closing the book, they read over the name once more with a fond smile.
“Captain Knickolas Pnackeless Hob,” they whisper, and just saying it to themselves makes their heart flutter.
Closing the journal and setting it down, Rue settles down into bed. In the morning, they have a letter to write.