Work Text:
Your body feels alien as you open the car door and slide in behind the wheel. You know for certain your hands are unattached from you, robotic in their motions and completely and wholly not yours. You stare at them where they're white-knuckling the rounded, dark vinyl. Have your knuckles always been that prominent? Have your fingers always been that long? Are your hands really that far away or — no, wait, they're definitely filling up the entire frame of— Oh hell, how can you even tell when your vision is going fuzzy on the edges?
Is this what disassociation feels like?
She says your name, and your hear it faintly from across the rental car. She repeats it, louder this time, but you don't jump a foot in the air until she brushes a hand against your shoulder.
Your whole world has shifted in the last half hour and part of you wants to run as fast and far as you can from everything including her, because no, no, this isn't how it was supposed to happen, something so good cannot possibly come from something so horrible.
"Dimitri, you're scaring me." Her voice is the eye of your hurricane, bringing you back to shore. "I've been calling your name for the past two minutes."
You turn to look at her, still half out of your body. The motion is weird, like when you try to stare at a fixed point as you loop upside down on a roller coaster.
She doesn't appear frightened. It's more of an intense concern for your well-being, something you haven't seen in awhile. The nightmares are continuing to become more infrequent; it's been a few weeks since she's had to put on kid gloves around you. You can see her own wheels turning, but it's clear she's shelving her own emotions for yours at the moment. Thank God. You don't know if you could get through the next few hours on your own.
"I don't think you should drive," she says gently, eyes flicking to your vice grip.
You follow her gaze. Any tighter and you'd rip the steering wheel in half. You force yourself to let go and stretch your fingers out. They ache when you fan them out as you consider switching seats. Driving gives you a sense of control. Giving that up now is impossible for you to handle.
Deep breath. In for six, out for seven. Again. And again.
"I'm—" You stop. Your voice is so much weaker than you'd like it to be. Another deep breath. In for six, out for seven. That seems to do the trick. The last of you falls back inside yourself. "I'm alright. I just—" You blink, shake your head. "I need to drive. Just give me that right now. You can yell at me if we crash."
You don't have to look at her to know the shifting is her silent I'm not happy but I'll let you have this one. It's not a cold shoulder; it's more of an irritated-but-relenting shoulder. That particular bit of body language was among the first you were treated to the night you met her.
It's still another few heartbeats before you're digging the keys out of your pocket and turning over the ignition. She doesn't say anything.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks a little bit later, sneaking a glance at you. Watching you in her peripherals is the only thing she's been doing since you two left Clarence's. Her voice is quiet. She's trying not to frighten a wounded bird.
Your shoulders are tense, your elbow resting at the junction where the window disappears inside the door and your free head propped against your fist. To someone sitting in the backseat, it probably looks like you're leaning as far away from her as possible.
"Not really," you reply, barely able to get the words out. Some inane pop song is playing low on the radio and you switch hold of the wheel to flip through the presets. Everything is irritating, grating — too loud — and you scan down to the 80s to find the classical station. There's enough interference in your own head. You don't need canned, repetitive lyrics filling the gaps between your thoughts.
"I don't want to talk right now," you amend. You chance your own look at her — wild dark hair barely held back in a ponytail, blue jeans and white t-shirt giving her the kind of simple elegance models spend their whole lives wishing for. Her lower lip is between her teeth, worrying it relentlessly as she looks out the window. In her lap, she flips her phone without pause.
You want to reach out and touch her — take her hand, tuck an escaped stray lock of hair behind her ear, anything to reassure her that you're here with her. Something's stopping you, though, something you can't name, so you settle for dropping your hand from radio to gearshift.
You could kill Adrian right now, with your bare hands and the kind of raging bloodlust you've always had to work to keep under control your whole life.
Sydney, too, though admittedly you like her a smidge more than Adrian for various reasons. Still.
Things have been so great with you and Rose lately. She finally convinced you into therapy, and talking to someone who doesn't already know everything has made a drastic difference on both your mental health and your relationships. You don't talk about last year with Tristan, the therapist you see at Court. You find it much easier to talk to Sonya Karp about everything related to that; it's the one thing that's impossible to explain to someone who hasn't lived through what the two of you have.
Yes, Rose was there, and yes, she saw you at your absolute worst, but she never experienced it for herself and you pray daily that she never has to.
So it's Sonya you talk to about your life two springs ago and you listen to her worry over working with spirit so much. There was one time, back in the winter, when she wondered aloud what the world would be like if Mikhail had found her before the how-to manual on Strigoi restorations became public knowledge. You'll never forget the haunted look in her eyes when she turned to you and asked if you'd wished Rose had succeeded that night on the bridge.
Sometimes, you admitted. Mostly on the bad days, when I'm away from her for a while. But then I see her or hear her voice, and I realize how happy she is with me around. She's so full of life that it makes my bad days a little more bearable.
As hard as it is to talk about it, you find some inner peace during those conversations.
Tristan wants you to start taking anti-depressants. You say no every week. It's a stubbornness left over from your childhood more than anything. You've come to accept the validity of mental illness, but you still can't shake the the stigma you grew up with, a rotation of societal conditioning that it's all in your head — everyone has hard times, stop acting like a child — you need to smile more, Dimka — only crazies in the hospital take medication — it's all in your head — everyone has hard times . . .
Americans are much more open about their health in comparison and it's still mind-boggling how willing they are to share their struggles with those who ask. It flies in the face of what your culture believes.
You're more or less yourself by the time you get to the rental car facility at the airport, and you're able to get through the motions of returning the car with a fake ease you spent a lot of time practicing while working through Ivan's death.
Rose is still watching you, though she seems a bit more relaxed now that it's obvious you're no longer a powder keg waiting for a spark. On the shuttle to the terminal, she folds the leg next to you up against her body, head angled to look out the window. A thin gap is left between you two, maybe half an inch wide. You're thankful she's picked up on your temporary need for space. You wouldn't be able to breathe without it.
That's one of the countless things you love about her, how she figures out your moods before even you are away of what you're feeling and knows exactly how much distance you need to work through things. She's got a wife's intuition.
You wish you could take credit for realizing that yourself. It was your mother's words, actually, said to you one morning during your trip home last year. It'd been early; the ridiculous Blood King trip had dredged up things you still weren't ready to face, and so you'd risen with the sun after a sleepless night. Only your mother was awake when you'd gone downstairs to drum up some coffee and food, and she'd jumped on the opportunity to have a solo conversation with you, her only son, in the kitchen where you once nearly beat your father to death.
I can't begin to explain to you how happy I am that you worked things out with Rose, she'd said. She smiled, a pulling tight thing that pushed crow's feet into the corners of her eyes. It's your smile, the one you give when you, too, are overcome with affection.
How did you—
The sounds of water in a tea kettle mumbling away on the stove was comforting, taking you back to a time when girls had cooties and the hardest thing you had to face was double-digit addition. The feeling stayed with you the rest of the day.
She does talk to people outside of you, Dimka, even if she rotates around you like the earth around the sun. . . . I like her. She has the intuition of a wife and the heart of a woman in love. She's much better for you than any of those girls who caught your attention when you were younger. She gave you a look and you couldn't help but laugh because it's the kind of seriousness she gives low school grades, unwanted pregnancies, and other assorted fuck-ups. I'll be very upset with you if she doesn't end up my fourth daughter. You need to stop screwing around before you lose her for real.
"Dimitri."
You pull out of your thoughts and sheepishly hand over your passport. The attendant at the ticket counter couldn't care less, her face all business as reads the inside cover of the booklet.
"Do you have a visa?"
Pull it the fuck together, Dima.
"Yeah," you say with a shake of your head, finding your wallet and pulling out your green card to slide across the counter.
A little voice in the back of your head starts nagging you about how much easier processes like this would be if you got your shit together and applied for citizenship already. The rest of you is amazed you can even think about that given the implosions going off in your brain every other minute.
The instructions given to you and Rose were to be on the next plane back to Pennsylvania as soon as it was ascertained that Jill was safe for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, "next plane" meant mid-afternoon at one of the busiest airports in the country, making security a bitch to get through, but at least it eats up an hour and half.
Not that Court holds all that much entertainment upon your arrival. Reports need to be filed with various people and entities; there's already a private jet with half a dozen guardians on its way to bring Jill and the rest back to Court; Lissa and Rose want to see each other in person as soon as possible so the former can get all the off-record details of the extraction.
Running your to-do list in your head keeps you from losing it.
You can feel how carefully blank you're keeping your expression and you wonder how many other people in the TSA line know how close you are to breaking down.
Rose sits at the gate for all of five minutes before she's up and gone, off to walk aimlessly around the terminal and get food. In moments like these, when your world has been rocked, you retreat in on yourself; for Rose, the only thing keeping her together is her own corporeal body.
You cave when she returns shortly before boarding, McDonald's bag in hand. You let your eyes run over her body as she approaches, fixating on her lower torso. It's as flat as it's ever been; that doesn't stop you from letting your imagination wander.
Then, last night hits you like a brick to the head. And then the night before that. And the afternoon two days before that. You could keep going, all the way back to a year ago, if only you hadn't lost count a long time ago.
You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and bury your face in your hands. It's a wonder something hasn't happened sooner. No, scratch that. It's a fucking miracle.
"I made an educated guess," she says when she takes her seat and you slowly drag your head up. The bag is on the floor next to you. From your vantage point you can see two water bottles and enough fries for five people.
"Thanks," you reply, voice hoarse from emotion and disuse.
She presses her lips together, folds her legs under her and grabs one of the waters. The sun backlights her beautifully through the terminal window. Her neck silhouettes against the strong afternoon sun, her Adam's apple drifting up and down when she swallows.
You wonder if Sonya has an easier time with looking at throats because she's Moroi.
"I'm here," she says softly, slowly capping the bottle. She holds it tight to her stomach. Her smile is small and delicate, jarring you from yourself. Those are words you don't usually use for her.
If this is how you're processing the news that you can have biological children with the love of your life, you can't begin to imagine what she's going through.
It's a sentiment she echoes aloud almost in time with your thoughts.
"I won't pretend to know what's going on with you," she says and God above do you love this woman. "But I have complete faith in you that you'll figure yourself out. Just please don't shut me out while you do. I'm here and I love you. We'll get through this."
There are tears in her eyes. She's just as overwhelmed by the news as you are.
The weight in your chest is a soaked towel to the face, and you instinctively wrap an arm around her, crushing her to you. She goes willingly, likely dying for your touch the whole day, and you bury your nose in her hair until the towel disappears and a flight attendant calls for boarding to begin.
"Everything I say here is confidential, yes?" you ask for the billionth time.
Tristan nods. "Unless you're a danger to yourself or others, this time is between you and me and whoever you decide to share these sessions with."
You're still dubious about doctor-patient confidentiality even though Tristan hasn't given you any reason to be. While Moroi openly joke about sending their therapists Christmas cards, a guardian admitting to even considering talking to someone risks a major blow to their career. It's kept under tight wraps who's seeing Tristan, who's on medication, and any combination thereof, both in the past and present. If Americans are quick to share their mental health issues, guardians more closely resemble Russians in their mindset.
As demoralizing as it is to admit to needing help on a weekly basis, it's better than continuing waking up in the middle of the night to sweat soaked sheets and a frantic Rose.
"I, um—"
Fantastic. Not even two minutes in the stammering has already begun.
"It's a, um, long story but—"
"You tell me as much as you want, Dimitri. This is your conversation to lead."
Tristan has a policy of using first names so as to make things more relaxed. You still haven't decided how you feel about that.
Deep breath. Six in, seven out. "When I decided I wanted to be with Rose, I gave up the chance to have a baby, because that's a sacrifice for being in a relationship with another dhampir. But last week . . ." You run a hand over your face as you slide down in your chair a smidge. It creaks under your weight. You're grateful Tristan's office is too small for a couch. That would make you feel even smaller than you already do.
"What happened last week?" Tristan prods gently.
His chair is catty corner to yours. One of his legs is folded over the other, his hand wrapped around the ankle resting on his knee. He doesn't take notes during your time together, another thing you're grateful for. You've been dissected enough for this lifetime and the next.
"We found out that because . . . because I'm resto—"
Tristan waits a few seconds and then supplies, "Because you're restored—"
"Rose can have my children."
It lands with a dull thud, less dramatic than how it sounds in your head. Tristan isn't fazed, which is amazing in your view. You've got a guardian mask to rival the best of them, but Tristan makes you look like your sisters when they start gossiping about their friends. You've wondered what he saw when he was in the field to make him so poised, how much he's heard from other guardians. Lots of stuff about death and guilt, probably.
"You're conflicted about this," Tristan observes. "Do you want to talk about why?"
You don't know where to begin, so you pick a random place and start talking.
"Rose was . . . shocked when I chose her over having a kid. She called it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I remember that vividly because I remember thinking to myself that my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was loving her. I can have a baby with anyone. I can't love anyone the way I love her." The words sound convoluted to your ears, but you think you get your point across.
"I sense a 'but' coming."
"Yeah." You give a half-smile that quickly fades. "I wouldn't trade what I have with Rose for the world, not even a chance to go back in time and change certain events, but . . . she's made it clear more than anything else that she doesn't want kids."
Tristan only nods. It's weirdly comforting.
"It was always a non-issue up until now," you add. "It couldn't even happen, so we never talked about it."
"This new information scares you."
It does? No, I don't think it does.
"Your relationship with Rose has been pretty stable for the past year or so, all things considered. This change is a threat to that stability. And regardless, I can see it all over your face."
Damn. Okay, so maybe you are scared, just a little.
"You're what, twenty-seven?"
"Twenty-six."
"Mid-twenties," Tristan compromises. "Settling down is something you're starting to think about, especially since you're closer to thirty than twenty now. That's totally normal." He sits up straighter. "I want to make sure you understand that."
You nod.
"You're in a committed, hopefully long-term relationship. You're in your mid-twenties. You come from a more traditional background. I'd be worried if you weren't conflicted about this." He tilts his head. "How old is Rose again?"
"Nineteen."
It sounds so young coming out of your mouth that it sickens you for a beat. You forget all the time how young she really is and when you are reminded of it, you try skip over the thought. It doesn't normally bother you. In this context, though, it's a dirty thought, and not the good kind, either. If her eighteenth birthday was a sigh of relief, her twentieth will be a blessing. Taking 'teen' off is going to make the age difference thing sound a lot less creepy.
"Rose is nineteen," Tristan says, unmoved by something that used to plague you on a nightly basis. "That's young to be thinking about settling down, at least for someone like her. Rose is in a unique situation, and I call it unique because while nineteen is about average for female dhampirs to have their first baby, she's in a relationship with another guardian. It makes sense for you guys to move slowly given how unprecedented your relationship is. I'm sure the age difference also plays a factor into the speed of things. You're her first serious adult relationship. Even after a year together, I'm sure there's still plenty she's learning and figuring out."
That you know all too well. You've talked about marriage in the abstract, an inevitability given that neither of you are planning on breaking up, and more immediately, you've been dropping hints about moving in together, especially after you realized you were able to go weeks without stepping foot in your own apartment. Part of you has been waiting for the tipping point, a feather that crushes the camel's back that is the honeymoon period your relationship is still in; since Adrian's reveal, you've been starting to think your relationship's sudden lack of infertility may be that lead feather.
But it's the little things, too — navigating time apart, days and weeks and occasionally months filled with a deep ache from not having her by your side, something she also feels just as keenly; her balancing you with everyone else in her life; both of you taking the other's mood swings in stride and adjusting accordingly, because she has almost as many issues as you do.
"What're you thinking right now?" Tristan asks, pulling you from your internal swirl.
You're not feeling particularly chatty all of a sudden; you hate being asked what you're thinking, so you keep staring out the window to avoid answering. It's nearly sunrise — there's a streetlamp somewhere underneath the third story window that's muting the pale pinks and purples streaking across the sky. You've got a patrol shift in a little bit; you know yourself well enough to admit that you think too much to get any kind of decent sleep the night after you see Tristan.
"Let me propose a hypothetical," Tristan says.
It only took him two meetings to figure out if he lets you sit in silence, you won't start talking on your own again. Your eyes drag from the window to his. They're a washed out blue, bordering on gray, and with his short, dirty blond hair, it's what you expect Eddie to look like in his early thirties.
"Let's say you've talk to Rose about this. You want a child in the future. She doesn't. Walk me through the fallout, what you think the worst case scenario would be."
Your answer is instant.
"She leaves me."
His response is just as fast.
"Do you think she would?"
That makes you pause for half a second. "Yes. Maybe."
"Really? It doesn't seem like something she'd do, based on everything you've told me about her."
"She'd . . ." How to phrase this? "She'd feel like I was sacrificing this huge, lifelong desire by staying with her and not having a baby. She'd rather I be happy than grow to resent her for not giving me something I've always wanted."
"Is that what you think she would feel or is that what you think you would feel?"
You stop. That's a good question. You have a feeling it's one you'll be asking yourself for a while.
Tristan flashes a smile. "You're a smart man, Dimitri. I don't have to tell you that you won't figure that out until you talk to her."
It might be a while until you have your answer. This is a conversation you're not looking forward to having anytime soon. You're too terrified of what could happen. No matter the reasoning for it, your worst case scenario exists because of the very real possibility things could play out like that.
"Thank you for sharing this with me," Tristan says, unfolding himself with a glance at his watch, and when your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, he adds, "Fertility is a big issue for couples who struggle with it. I know it wasn't easy for you to bring it up."
You both stand. "Why wouldn't I?" you ask when he opens the door. "Isn't talking about my problems the whole point of therapy?"
"You'd be surprised how many people avoid what's really bothering them," Tristan says. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. It makes this time a lot more productive, which is only to your benefit."
"Then send my mother a Christmas card and tell her that," you say and when Tristan laughs, you crack half a smile.
"I won't ask you about going on medication this week. I'll see you next Tuesday, Dimitri."
You unconsciously throw yourself into work, giving yourself some bullshit excuse about wanting to start saving extra cash for the slew of birthdays and holidays that start up in a few months. It's how you've always coped with your problems — avoiding them until they bury you alive, mostly by overthinking them during endless patrol shifts.
Christian notices you're suddenly spending nearly all of his waking time with him, and when you start working doubles, picking up overnight shifts even though he doesn't need them with Lissa's twenty-four hour, six guardian coverage, she also picks up on the change. To your relief, they both quickly figure out that you're not about to start telling them why.
As far as charges go, Christian's great — he's as low-maintenance as they come, and his wit and sense of humor are similar to his aunt's. Most of the time it's appreciated. Sometimes, though, it tugs at you, a painful reminder of what could have been had you taken Tasha's offer. It hits you particularly hard whenever he gets excited about one of his trainees mastering a new spell or making noteworthy progress.
Guarding Tasha certainly would have made this whole fertility thing a lot easier, and more generally, one of your oldest friends would still be alive. You probably would've had a baby by now, too.
You banish the thought before your imagination really runs wild. The con of not being with Rose always outweighs the pro of some fictional baby with Tasha that will probably never be.
It's this path your thoughts are wandering down in the middle of the night a couple weeks after your return from Palm Springs, and they're interrupted when you see Lissa, up way earlier than normal, stopped in the entrance of her suite's kitchen. You're leaning against the sink, nursing a glass of water, and you nod to acknowledge her presence.
"Are you and Rose fighting?" she asks without preamble, blearily rubbing sleep from her eyes as she makes her way to the coffee pot on the counter near you.
"No." As a coincidence of schedules, you've only seen Rose twice in the last week, both times at the combat portions of Christian's offensive magic trainings. The one night you both had off, you made a half-assed excuse over text about needing to call your mother, and slept in your own apartment. You know Rose didn't believe you, and even though you felt like a dick for blowing her off, it was better than not sleeping all night because you're afraid of touching her, like, at all. "Why do you ask?"
"She showed up here the other night in tears but wouldn't say why, and you're putting in more time than most of my guardians." Lissa's going through the motions of making coffee with a sloth's sense of purpose. The time on the stove says it's half after three. "She said once that you do this. Work yourself to death when you're beating yourself up about something."
It sounds like how Rose would phrase it.
"Don't try to tell me you're not, either," Lissa adds. The look she shoots you when she finally turns the machine on to start brewing is intense and hard, a lioness protective of her favorite cub. "Rose doesn't tell me everything about her relationship with you, but I know enough to pick up when things aren't going right."
"This is the first time," you point out.
Lissa turns to reach for a mug from the cabinet in front of her. "Second."
"Second?"
"What, do you not remember how she reacted when I included you on the brainstorm team I sent out to Palm Springs last fall?"
You set the water down, crossing your arms over your chest. "She was . . . pretty okay with it," you say slowly, trying to recall her having any problems with the group Lissa had put together. "As far as I can remember, at least."
"Huh. Maybe I'm projecting. She went off on me for a solid ten minutes about how nothing good could come from you and Adrian being in the same room so soon after everything that happened."
"Really?"
Lissa laughs once, waking up a little with the action. "Yeah. It was pretty memorable. She was convinced Adrian would say just enough snarky shit to push you into smothering him in his sleep. I should've recorded it."
You half-smile at that, still running through the big conversations you had with her before you left. "No, she was pretty calm when we talked about it."
"You're good at that," Lissa remarks, deciding there was enough coffee in the pot to pour a cup for herself. A couple brewed drops splash with a sizzle when she pulls the pot off. Stains on the hotplate show she doesn't usually wait for the coffee to finish brewing. It seems like a Sydney thing, ironically enough.
"Good at what?"
"Calming the tempest within," Lissa jokes, spooning sugar into her coffee. It smells like heaven, reminding you the last time your head hit a pillow was nearly thirty-six hours ago. Shiftwork is the second most dangerous part of being a guardian, if nothing else.
She stirs, tiptoeing around a thought. "I thought I did a pretty good job of getting her to slow down and smell the roses, for lack of a better metaphor." She smiles to herself, hands wrapped around the blue watercolor ceramic, thumb tapping the marble counter. "But you . . . there's something about you that brings her to a full stop. It's good," she adds, catching sight of whatever expression is on your face before you remember to slip back into full guardian mode. "She charges through life. I used to worry about what would happen to her if she didn't find someone like you to pull her in when she needs it."
"She still would've had you," you offer diplomatically.
Lissa shakes her head. "We get different parts of her. You've got the market share on this one."
Things could've turned out very differently between you and Lissa. You're both fiercely protective of Rose and you give Lissa a run for her money on whose love and devotion is stronger. If things had worked out differently — if Lissa hadn't been the one to restore you or you hadn't needed it in the first place because you'd never gone Strigoi — it would've been very easy for animosity or jealousy to wedge itself in your relationship with Lissa. You like this dynamic you have with her. Friends is a lot better than the alternative.
"So you two aren't fighting," Lissa says, bringing the conversation back to her original aim, and this is one of those moments when you understand, clear as day, why Rose is so close to Lissa. Your wild girl has a penchant for gravitating towards people who don't let her off the hook.
"No."
"But you two aren't talking."
So Rose hasn't told Lissa. Interesting. You're not about to spill that particular secret, then. It's Rose's information to share . . . when both she and Lissa are awake and alert.
You also can't imagine Rose is going to keep this to herself forever. It's probably something that'll need to be cleared with Adrian and Sydney, though, so it might be a while before Lissa knows.
"It's . . . complicated," you say.
"So you definitely aren't talking then."
You sigh, suddenly exhausted, and run a hand down your face. "I'm not . . . I can't tell you why." Your thoughts are jamming, a jumbled mess of English and Russian and, surprisingly, what little French stuck with you from your pre-novice days in school. "It's not my place to go right now. But it . . . it changes things. Maybe. I don't know."
Curiosity and intrigue burns on Lissa's face. "Must be big, whatever it is, for you two to act the way you are."
"It's . . . huge," you settle on, referring to the impact is has on your relationship and the Moroi world at large, the latter unbeknownst to Lissa. "And it's divisive. We stand on very different sides of the situation and I don't . . ." You suck in a breath, gaze fixed on the couch on the other side of the breakfast bar dividing kitchen and living room as you try to summon up the self-confidence to share your thoughts. "One of us is going to have to compromise, and I don't want it to be her. She shouldn't have to change her mind on such a big thing just for my happiness. But if we can't compromise . . . it's the kind of thing that ends relationships."
Lissa's eyes are wide, her mug still in the air. No doubt her mind is running absolutely fucking wild with scenarios at the moment.
"I'm not thinking about breaking up with her," you say quickly, accent thickening out of your control. Your throat is tight just from saying the words aloud. The only reason you're sharing any of this with Lissa is because there's a connection between you and her — not a spirit bond, but something close. You owe your life and happiness, your soul and sanity to her, and you'll never repay that debt. Keeping her a part of your life is a single brick in the dam around your heart.
"Losing her would kill me for real," you say. "I can't imagine trying to live the rest of my life without her. But this . . . I don't know. We're a mess. We need to talk. I know that. I think we're both just worried about the outcome of the conversation we need to have. It's not . . . I can't . . ."
Lissa's setting down her mug and pulling you in for a hug before you even realize you're shaking. Her presence is soothing, a product of her spirit magic. It reminds you of all the times Karo collected you and your sisters together and snuck the four of you out the back door to Oksana's house when the fights between your parents got bad. Oksana, at least, always had warmth and attention for her younger neighbors.
Maybe you should call your mother for real.
"Work as much as you want," Lissa says when she pulls away a minute later. "But you can't hide out in Christian's shadow forever. Whatever happens because of your conversation with Rose, it won't be as bad as what will happen if you ignore the problem. She doesn't give time to those who don't put up a fight."
That's another thing you know better than yourself.
"I was about to pull the concerned mother bear card on you for making my best friend cry, but you're off the hook now that I know you're not being an ass about the situation," Lissa says and then she waves offhandedly at the coffee pot. "You can have the rest of that. Rose'll probably make convince me to make us stop at Starbucks on the way, so I won't need the rest."
Your eyes narrow. "Where are you going today?"
"Lehigh," Lissa replies smoothly, taking your lack of all communication with Rose in stride. "My guardians need to do a walk through of all my classroom locations for the semester, and she and I have rentals to pick up from the bookstore."
"No dorm this year?" you ask. You should probably be up to date on Lissa's activities at Lehigh anyway, you realize, if only because she's the queen and your charge's girlfriend.
"Nope." She pops the 'p', a sign she's been around Rose a lot lately. "We're living off campus now," she says, airquoting "off campus" with her inflection, like everyone involved is in on a secret.
You make a noise that's somewhere between a snort and a laugh. They'd had a dorm room last year with an Alchemist installed on the floor as an RA so Lissa could come and go with as many people as she wanted without issue. She'd usually only stayed when she had an intense workload for school or during busy exam periods. The one time you'd seen the room, it was pretty sparse — basic bedding and some clothes in the closets with a couple books on Lissa's desk. Their room in Portland had been more personal.
"Rose will be here in about a half hour," Lissa adds over her shoulder on her way back to her bedroom as you pour yourself coffee.
You tell yourself you're not going to disappear when the comes.
It's just coincidence that you're nowhere to be found when Rose arrives with the entire monarch entourage to pick up Lissa forty minutes later.