The Graveyard Shift

“I'm not takin' a job in a graveyard,” Imogen said for the third time in as many minutes, arms folded and mouth drawn into a firm line of protest. “That's not a real job. That's a plot to a horror movie where the girl with the bad judgment dies first.”

“Oh please,” Ashton muttered, tugging at the silver ring in their eyebrow. “You've got great judgment. You just make terrible choices under pressure.”

“Thank you for that,” Imogen said flatly.

She shifted on the stone bench outside the campus cafe. One knee was drawn up, the cuff of her jeans scuffed and fraying. Her fingers worried at the threads on her flannel sleeve, twisting them without thinking. Her lavender braid was starting to come loose in the wind. She hadn't had time to fix it that morning, she had been too busy helping the library assistant carry a box of donated dictionaries that she absolutely hadn't volunteered to lift.

“It's not even a weird graveyard,” Fearne said as she popped a grape into her mouth and gestured towards Imogen with the stem. “It's the old town cemetery – very respectable. All quiet and mossy and poetic. No skeletons clawing their way out of the ground. Yet.”

“Why would you say yet like that.” Imogen narrowed her eyes in Fearne's direction.

Fearne smiled with a certain glint in her eye that Imogen knew meant trouble. Ashton smirked and offered Imogen a sip from their drink, which was some caffeinated monstrosity that was the color of swamp water. She waved it off.

“I just don't see why y'all are so set on me doin’ this,” she said. “Y'know I don't like spooky stuff. I barely made it through that one field trip to the museum with the mummies.”

“You like horses,” Ashton said, as if that explained everything...or really anything at all.

“What's that got to do with anythin’?” Imogen blinked at them.

“They're like...big, haunted grass dogs,” Fearne said cheerfully. “You like things that are quiet. Things that don't rush you. Things with big eyes and a sense of mystery.”

“Y'all are the worst,” Imogen muttered. “I like horses because they're warm and honest and don't lie about how they feel. And they don't jump out from behind tombstones and give you a heart attack.”

“They would if they could,” Ashton said.

Imogen stared up at the sky like she was praying for it to open up and swallow her whole.

“Listen,” Fearne said, in the tone that meant she was going to try to be reasonable for thirty seconds. “The graveyard is peaceful. It's up on the hill by the chapel ruins...and the last groundskeeper left, so they need someone. You'd be locking up, walking paths, maybe keeping the squirrels from nesting in the mausoleum. That's it. You'd be alone. You could listen to your audiobooks or hum your little country songs. And you'd get paid! Plus...”

“Plus?” Imogen raised an eyebrow.

“You get a key to the chapel library.”

Imogen's fingers stopped fidgeting.

“It's not technically open to students,” Fearne went on, sing-song voice, like she'd been waiting to play that card. “But the groundskeeper gets access. They've got old field journals in there. Historical records. Maps. Probably some forgotten horse lore.”

“...horse lore.” Imogen repeated, deadpan.

“The deepest kind of lore,” Ashton said and took a sip of their drink.

Imogen sighed. It wasn't that she was scared. Not really. She didn't believe in ghosts. She believed in late nights and cold air and her overactive imagination getting the better of her. She believed in bills too, and overdue library fines, and the textbook for Comparative Linguistics and Symbolic Systems she still hadn't been able to afford.

She also believed in doing what needed to be done.

“Just a few shifts a week?” she asked carefully.

“Three, max.” Fearne beamed in her direction.

“No costumes. No rituals. No seances.”

“Only if you want to,” Ashton said, holding up both hands. Imogen closed her eyes.

“Fine. But if somethin' crawls out of a grave and grabs me, I'm hauntin' both of y'all for the rest of your natural lives.” Imogen looked at her two friends pointedly.

“Graveyard girl!” Fearne squealed. “We knew we could count on you. I'll let Nana Morri know when I get home!”

“I haven't even signed anythin’ yet,” Imogen grumbled, already pulling her hair back into a tighter braid. “Wait, why aren't you doing this if it's for Nana Morri?”

Fearne just grinned and stood from where she was leaning against Imogen on the bench.

“Fearne?” Imogen's voice wavered.

“I've got class!” Fearne shouted over her shoulder as she headed off.

“Fearne!”

-----

Imogen hadn't realized how far back the chapel hill stretched until she was walking it alone.

The gravel path crunched beneath her boots and each step kicked up the sharp, sweet smell of old grass and pine needles. The sun was low, washing the world in gold, but the cemetery beyond the rise was already tipping into a blue haze. It was all long shadows and still air. It was the kind of quiet that settles when the wind forgets to breathe.

There was a house, barely visible through the trees. It was small, crooked, and half-swallowed by ivy. It looked less like it had been built and more like it had just grown from the hillside, as old as the stone beneath it.

Imogen paused at the gate.

The front door creaked open before she could knock.

“Well,” came a voice like dry leaves and lullabies, “aren't you a soft breeze.”

“Ma'am?” Imogen straightened instinctively.

Nana Morri stood in the doorway, wrapped in layers that didn't look like clothes so much as layers of textures. There was wool, lace, and something gauzy and dark that shifted like shadow when she moved. Her hair was long and silver, braided and pinned with little bones and bits of dried flowers. Her eyes were pale. Not cloudy, not blind, just pale, like candlelight behind frosted glass.

“Don't fidget,” she said, stepping aside. “Come inside.”

Imogen did because the part of her that might have said no thank you was currently being stared down by a woman who looked like she could stop a thunderstorm with a glance.

The house smelled of old perfume and wood smoke and strange trinkets filled the walls. There were wind chimes made from what seemed to be delicate fish bones and shelves stacked with jars that held things suspended in amber syrup. The fireplace was cold but the whole place felt warm, like something was watching from the rafters and decided, for now, to be kind.

“You're Fearne's girl,” Nana Morri said, disappearing into a side room.

“I – no, ma'am,” Imogen said quickly. “I mean, I'm her friend. Not her – like, not with her.”

“I know what I meant,” Morri called.

Imogen pressed her lips together.

When the woman returned, she carried a ring of keys that were so old that the metal was turning green in places. She held it like it was something alive.

“The land's been quiet lately,” Morri said, coming to stand in front of Imogen. “But quiet isn't always peaceful. Sometimes it's just...waiting.”

Imogen swallowed thickly.

“I – I'm just here to keep the place clean. Lock up. Make sure no kids are -”

“You don't need to explain,” Nana Morri said, her voice soft now. “I'm not warning you.”

She held the keys out.

“I'm inviting you.”

Imogen hesitated. The keys clicked softly together as they passed between them. They were cool and heavier than they should have been. The largest one had a symbol etched into it. Something circular, almost a knot, but not quite. She didn't recognize it.

Nana Morri smiled like she knew that.

“The graveyard doesn't need guarding,” she said. “Just remembering. You walk it. You learn the names. You pay your respects. It'll respect you back.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Imogen nodded and cleared her throat, trying to make her voice work properly.

“Good girl.”

Then, just as Imogen turned to leave, Morri reached out and touched her wrist. Her touch was as light as dust but it made her heart skip.

“There's someone who's been waiting for you,” she said.

“Who?” Imogen blinked.

Nana Morri only smiled again and this time there was something strange and sad behind it.

“You'll know her when you see her.”

The door creaked open on its own.

Imogen stepped back out into the darkening evening, the keys cold in her palm. The wind finally started to move again around her.

She didn't look back.

-----

Imogen had always thought of graveyards as something you drove past, not places you stopped in. They certainly weren’t places you walked into alone at dusk, carrying a ring of keys that felt colder than they should be and a lantern borrowed from the cluttered hall closet behind Nana Morri's…tiki bar?

The old woman hadn't given her a manual. No checklist. Just a nod, a faint smile, and the words: “You'll know what needs doing.”

So far, what needed doing was not having a full-blown panic attack on the path between two rows of leaning headstones.

Imogen took a steadying breath through her nose. The air smelled like wet stone and cedar mulch, and something else...sweet and old, like pressed flowers left in a book too long. Her boots crunched over the gravel path and every step she took sounded too loud.

The lantern in her hand cast a golden circle around her feet, flickering when the wind pushed at it.

“Nothin' spooky,” she whispered, as if saying it out loud would make it true. “Just...names on stone. Folks long gone. Not a single reason to get jumpy.”

She adjusted her flannel and kept walking.

The cemetery sloped gently downhill with rows of gravestones nestled in between lichen-covered trees and broken bits of wrought iron fencing. She'd swept the front path, checked the latch on the side gate, and gently nudged a squirrel out of the mausoleum roof with the end of a broom. It wasn't exactly thrilling work but at least it paid. It was quiet here. Peaceful, even.

Or it had been.

Until she saw her.

At the far edge of the cemetery, where the lantern light barely reached, a woman stood among the graves.

Imogen stopped so abruptly that her boots slid a little on the gravel.

The woman didn't move.

She was facing a tall headstone with her back turned to Imogen, head bowed slightly like she was reading. Her dress, or coat maybe, was black and layered, fitted tight to her waist and falling long past her knees. It looked like a garment out of another century. Her hair was long and as black as ink, with a single streak of white curling through it like frost on midnight glass.

Imogen's fingers clenched the handle of the lantern.

Her throat dried.

The woman's skin was pale, nearly gray in the dim light. Her hands were long, delicate, and hung at her sides, not moving. Everything about her looked wrong. Still, in a way that things usually aren't. Like a painting. Or a dream. Or something else.

Imogen took one shaky step backwards.

The woman tilted her head just slightly, just enough.

Imogen gasped and stumbled. The lantern wobbled wildly in her hand, casting jerking shadows across the graves.

The woman turned.

And smiled.

It wasn't a threatening smile. It wasn't really a smile at all, just the ghost of one, soft and unreadable.

That was enough.

Imogen turned on her heel and ran.

She didn't scream, she didn't call out. Her breath caught high in her chest and her boots slammed down hard on the path as she raced back the way she came, keys jangling at her hip. Trees rushed past and gravestones blurred.

She didn't stop until she reached the chapel gate.

The rusted latch stuck and she had to wrench it open with both hands, fingers slipping once on the cold metal. She forced her way through and slammed it shut behind her, chest heaving.

She looked back only once.

The woman was gone.

The graveyard was quiet.

Too quiet.

And Imogen, shaking and breathless, whispered into the dark:

“What in the hells did I just see?”

Notes:

Bidet! This is just an idea that's been bouncing around in my head for a bit. Kudos and comments are my life blood.

Chapter 2: Made of Warmth, After All

Summary:

Imogen starts her second shift and maybe has a panic attack for two very different reasons.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“I saw her,” Imogen said for the third time in five minutes. “She was standin' out there in the dark, starin' at a gravestone like she lived there. Pale as bone. Long black dress. Hair like ink and moonlight.”

“Okay, but did you talk to her?” Fearne made a long, sympathetic noise and poured more cream into her coffee until it was roughly the color of wet sand.

“No!” Imogen said, aghast. “I ran!”

“She might've just been a person.”

“She had the aura of a ghost!”

“Was it cold?” Ashton asked from the couch in their shared living room, where they were eating cereal out of a mixing bowl with a fork. “Classic ghost cold. Or, like, did the air get weird? Buzz in your ears? Smell of blood or lavender?”

“Do you smell blood when you see ghosts?” Imogen stared at them.

“Not personally. But I hear that's a thing.”

“It didn't smell like anythin'. I didn't stick around to sniff!”

“You said she looked at you?” Fearne asked and crossed her legs, still perched on the kitchen counter like she belonged there.

“She turned real slow, like somethin' out of a horror movie. And she – she smiled.”

“Oooh,” Fearne said, delighted. “That's creepy.”

“Right?!”

“Or maybe she was being friendly,” Ashton offered. “Maybe she was like, 'Oh, good, the new girl's here,' and then you screamed and ran away like you were in a soap opera.”

“I didn't scream.”

“I bet you looked like you were gonna.”

“Why did I let y'all talk me into this?” Imogen dropped her head into her hands and let out a muffled groan.

“Because,” Fearne said, sliding off the counter and walking over with a very annoying amount of grace, “you're a good person. And you need the money. And Nana Morri said – and I quote - 'The land has chosen her, let it be.'”

“That's not comfortin’.”

“Look, you already took the key.” Ashton said as they leaned forward. “You told her yes. You think you're gonna walk back up that hill and be like, 'Sorry, I changed my mind because a woman with really nice cheekbones smiled at me'?”

“They...they were not nice cheekbones.” Imogen said, like a liar. “They were ghoulish.”

“Sure,” Ashton said. “But what if she's not a ghost?”

“What?” Imogen paused before turning her head slowly towards them.

“I mean,” they continued, around a mouthful of cereal, “what if she's just some weird art major with too much eyeliner and a deep love for death?”

“That makes so much sense!” Fearne lit up. “Oh! Maybe she's doing grave rubbings.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Imogen blinked.

“No, it's an art thing,” Fearne said, rolling her eyes. “They take paper and charcoal and press it to old tombstones. Very popular among broody types with fingerless gloves and secret crushes on Edgar Allen Poe.”

“I didn't see any paper.”

“Maybe she was just scoping it out,” Ashton said. “Or she lives nearby. Or she's mourning someone. Not everyone in a cemetery is undead, you know.”

“It felt like a haunting.” Imogen sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

“Sweetie, your nerves haunt you.” Fearne leaned over and patted Imogen's knee.

There was a long pause.

“...I'm not goin' back up there alone.” Imogen said, picking at the loose threads of her old flannel shirt.

“You don't have to,” Fearne said brightly. “I'll walk you up tonight.”

“I'll walk her up,” Ashton said at the same time, frowning slightly.

“We'll both walk her up.” Fearne said, turning to Ashton, equally polite and threatening.

“I don't need a whole parade.” Imogen sighed.

“You're getting one,” Ashton said. “Because you're our friend. And also because I want to see if your ghost girlfriend shows up again.”

“She's not my ghost girlfriend!”

“Yet.”

-----

That night, as the sun dipped low and the shadows stretched long over the chapel hill, Imogen stood again at the iron gate. She had the keys in hand and was flanked on either side by Fearne and Ashton, like they were some sort of fashionable gargoyles.

She hadn't stopped thinking about the woman in black all day.

As much as she wanted to believe that she imagined it and just write it off as nerves and a full moon and an overactive brain, something in her mind still whispered:

You saw her.

She saw you, too.

The sky was melting into a bruise-like purple by the time Imogen got the old key into the old lock.

“You don't have to be brave about it,” Fearne said, turning on her heel to walk backwards, facing Imogen with one of her hands perched on one of her antlers like a visor. “Just, you know, medium-courageous. Nana Morri already likes you – she's not going to toss you into the crypts for getting a little freaked out.”

“She might,” Ashton muttered. “She once made me weed her entire garden with a 'cursed trowel' because I was late returning her scissors.”

“That was your fault,” Fearne sing-songed. “You gave them back sticky.”

“They were sticky when I borrowed them!”

Imogen trailed behind them both. Her hands were stuffed deep into her coat pockets and the gravel path crunched beneath her boots. The wind tugged at her scarf and whistled through the cracked iron gate. It was colder tonight. The kind of cold that gets under your clothes and sticks to your skin.

“I said I'd do this,” she muttered, mostly to herself.

“And we love that about you,” Fearne said. “The responsibility. The buried trauma. The whole...scrunched brow thing.”

“Scrunched brow thing?” Imogen asked as she scrunched her brow.

“Yeah, that!” Ashton clapped her on the shoulder. “We'll be at the diner. Text us if you see another ghost. Or if you don't – we're not picky. You're not gonna pass out if she shows up again, right?”

“Wha- No, Ashton. I'm not gonna pass out.”

“Because I can only handle one haunted lesbian crisis at a time and Fearne's already committed to, like, three.”

“I like this for you, though,” Fearne said as she twirled beside Ashton, her scarf trailing behind her like a ribbon caught in the wind. “It's very gothic poetry. She's pale, mysterious, appears after sundown...honestly, I'd marry her just for the aesthetic.”

“Y'all are terrible,” Imogen said, rolling her eyes and tugging her coat around her tighter.

“Terribly supportive,” Fearne corrected. “And Nana Morri says that the spirits know when someone's meant to tend to them. So if she was a ghost, she probably liked you.”

“Thanks, that's exactly what I want to hear right now,” Imogen said, then watched them peel off into the shadows. Fearne was practically skipping and Ashton was lighting a cigarette with their hand cupped around the flame.

She stood at the gate alone for a moment.

And then, sighing, she pushed it open and stepped into the graveyard.

-----

The fog had rolled in early.

It clung to the grass and curled around the tombstones like it belonged there. Imogen's lantern threw a dim, flickering light that barely cut through it. Every time she turned her head, the trees seemed closer than before.

She was trying to focus on her tasks: Stone. Cloth. Oil. Whisper the name if you can read it. Leave the others be.

She'd just finished clearing the pine needles from a headstone half-swallowed by ivy when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

She stiffened.

Turned.

And there she was.

Again.

She was sitting on the edge of a low, rectangular single crypt like it was the edge of a fountain. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, sketchbook in her lap, and a pencil in her hand. It was the same long, dark hair with the white forelock that Imogen remembered from her last shift. There was also the same strange softness about her, like she was drawn in watercolor and the pigment hadn't quite dried yet.

Imogen's breath hitched.

Her whole body went rigid and her heartbeat lurched to somewhere behind her throat. Her vision swam slightly at the edges. The lantern in her hand tilted, the light wavering slightly.

No. Not again. No no no.

The cold sweat came fast and her lungs felt like they were filling with the fog that surrounded her. Her brain was trying to drag her into motion, into flight, into get away from that thing, but her boots had locked to the earth below her. She couldn't move.

The girl looked up.

Her eyes were wide and dark and deeply, terribly kind.

“Hello,” she said, her voice as soft as rain on stone. “Are you alright, darling?”

Imogen didn't answer. Couldn't answer.

The girl set her sketchbook down gently beside her and slid off the low crypt. Her shoes made the faintest sound against the gravel path. She didn't approach fast. She approached slowly, palms open at her sides like she was walking up to a frightened animal.

“You're scared,” she said, not unkindly. “Are you afraid of me?”

Imogen opened her mouth but no sound came out.

The girl stopped just a few feet away. Her dark eyes flicked down to Imogen's trembling hands, then to the way her shoulders were clenched up to her ears. Her voice dropped even gentler, if that was possible.

“I promise I'm not a ghost,” she said.

That almost made Imogen laugh, but she couldn't quite breathe.

“You thought I was, didn't you?” the girl continued, a wry little smile pulling at her dark-painted lips. “That's not a new one. I get that a lot.”

“I-” Imogen gasped out. “I don't – know what you are -”

She hated how small she sounded. How exposed.

The girl's expression softened completely. She closed the last bit of space between them and reached out, slowly, so slowly that Imogen had every chance to pull away.

She didn't.

The girl's fingers brushed Imogen's arm. It was barely a touch, just a warm press through the fabric of her coat.

It was real.

Not cold. Not a trick of the light or the fog.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Imogen flinched like she had been shocked, but she didn't pull away.

“There,” the girl said, voice threaded through with calm. “See? Not a ghost. Sorry to disappoint.”

Imogen stared at the place where she had been touched. Her hand came up and curled lightly over it, like she needed to hold onto the proof.

“You're real,” she breathed out.

“Very.” The girl smiled, not triumphantly but gently. “I bruise like a peach and everything.”

There was a long silence.

Imogen finally looked up and met her eyes.

Up close, the girl was almost too beautiful to look at. Her face was all strange, sharp angles and softness. It was a kind of haunting loveliness that seemed designed to unsettle, if it wasn't for the warmth behind it.

“I'm Imogen,” she said, because it felt like the only thing she could offer that might anchor her.

“Laudna,” the girl said and her smile widened just a little.

A pause. A breath.

“Would you like to sit with me?” Laudna added, quietly. “I can move my things. Or – I can go, if you want.”

“Don't!” Imogen shook her head. “Sorry. Don't go. I mean – I don't mind. I just thought I was losin' it.”

“You're not,” Laudna said, like it was a fact.

Imogen finally let herself breathe.

When Laudna bent down to pick up her sketchbook and walked towards the nearest bench-shaped stone, Imogen followed.

-----

Group Chat: “Bone Appetite”

Imogen:
ok
so
update

Fearne:
?????

Ashton:
oh no
are you dying
tell me if you're dying, I get your coat

Imogen:
not dying
actually
turns out she's not a ghost

Fearne:
WHAT
ARE YOU SURE
did you throw salt at her?? ask her to name a current pop star??? test her breath on a mirror????

Imogen:
she touched me
like my arm
she was warm. very solid.

Ashton:
oh
oh no

Imogen:
what

Ashton:
a cute girl touched you
you poor thing
your second biggest fear :(

Imogen:
I hate you

Ashton:
you should
I'm delightful

Fearne:
wait
WAIT
is she cute
like cute cute
or like “I see the shape of my doom in her eyes” cute

Imogen:
yes
both
very that

Ashton:
incredible
love this for you
haunted crypt romance. classic college experience

Fearne:
did you get her name???
what's her major???
does she also hear the bones whisper under the soil???

Imogen:
her name's Laudna
art major. restoration.
and honestly...maybe?

Fearne:
<3 <3 <3

Ashton:
you're falling in love in a graveyard
that's so on brand, I'm furious

Imogen:
I'm not
I'm just
texting you so you can make fun of me and I regret it immediately

Ashton:
you regret nothing
you're flushed and weird and writing poetry in your head right now, aren't you

Imogen:
I hate that you're right

Fearne:
ASK HER OUT OR I WILL DO IT FOR YOU
seriously. I will put on your jacket and pretend to be you and everything

Imogen:
ok
ok
I'm just going to sit here for a bit
maybe breathe normally again

Ashton:
10/10
remember: if she turns out to be a ghost later, that's still kind of hot

Fearne:
we'll be at the diner with fries and hot cider and zero chill. text us if you elope.

Imogen:
shut up
love you

Ashton:
always

Notes:

Bidet! Updates will probably be every few days/weekly from now on. This is all I had written so far. Kudos and comments are my life blood.

Chapter 3: The Living Kind of Trouble

Summary:

Moments of softness and a moment of bravery.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Imogen stayed exactly where she was, perched on the edge of the single crypt. She was gripping the cool stone with both hands like it might keep her grounded. Her heart had finally started to slow, though it still beat faster than she liked.

Across from her, Laudna sat sideways, long legs tucked beneath her like a crow roosting on a windowsill. Her sketchbook was resting on her knees but she wasn't drawing anymore. She was watching Imogen with a tilted head and a curious, calm expression.

“I...I really did think you were a ghost,” Imogen said, her voice still a bit too tight. Her eyes dropped to her lap. “I was sure of it actually.”

“You're not the first person to assume I was here to whisper Latin backwards and disappear into the fog.” Laudna smiled, soft and amused.

“No?” Imogen risked a glance up.

“I once made a philosophy major cry behind the west crypts. He swore I was the spirit of existential despair.” She paused, then added helpfully, “I was wearing a lot more lace back then.”

Imogen let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself. She cringed slightly. It had been short, surprised, and too loud in the stillness. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.

“Sorry. I'm – uh. I'm not good at this.”

“At...sitting?”

“At talking. At being around...” Pretty girls with beautiful eyes who sit on mausoleums like it was nothing, like they belong here, like they were conjured from the fog itself-

“-people,” she finished quickly. “Being around people.”

Laudna didn't laugh at her. She just smiled again, warm this time. Gentle.

“Would it help if I told you I'm not very good at it either?” she asked.

“You seem pretty good,” Imogen murmured.

“I've had practice.” Laudna shrugged one shoulder. “It helps when you're not trying to be liked.”

“You're not?” Imogen tilted her head.

“I'm just trying to be known. Liked feels...more exhausting.” Laudna turned her sketchbook in her hands absently. “Besides, most people get uncomfortable after five minutes with me. You stuck it out through a panic attack. I think that earns you a little credit.”

Imogen smiled. Then she frowned a little.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don't be,” Laudna said, tone light but sincere. “It was kind of flattering, in a strange way. Like I have presence.”

“You do,” Imogen said without thinking. Her eyes went wide and her mouth clamped shut a second too late. “I mean – I didn't mean-”

“Thank you.” Laudna's smile widened.

Imogen cleared her throat and looked down at her boots, willing herself to pull it together.

“So...you're in the art program, right?”

“Mhm!” Laudna nodded. “Restoration track. Old paintings, religious scripture, ruined things with stories. I like helping them last a little longer.”

“That's kind of beautiful,” Imogen said quietly.

“I think so.” Laudna looked over at her, brushing a loose strand of black hair from her cheek. “You're psych, yes?”

“How'd you know?” Imogen blinked.

“I've seen you around campus. Always with a book and a look like you've just read something you didn't want to believe.” Laudna tilted her head. “And you have the posture of someone who overthinks everything.”

“That's...terrifyingly accurate.” Imogen laughed nervously.

“I'm a terrifyingly accurate kind of woman.”

That made Imogen blush again. She tried to hide it by adjusting her scarf.

“Are you feeling okay now? Really?” Laudna looked like she wanted to reach out to Imogen again but she pulled her hands back at the last second, instead wringing them together in her lap with a nervous sort of energy.

Imogen hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Just...sometimes my brain tricks me into thinkin' something's wrong before I know what I'm reactin' to.”

“Well,” Laudna said, “if it ever tries that again, you can always look at me and remember: ghosts don't have a GPA.”

“You're ridiculous.” Imogen snorted and then laughed softly.

“I try.”

They both sat in the quiet again for a moment. The mist had thinned just slightly and the trees were silvered by the bright moonlight.

Imogen didn't want to go back to walking the rows just yet.

Laudna didn't seem like she planned to leave.

“Do you...want to sit here a little longer?” Imogen asked. “I mean, if you're not busy.”

Laudna smiled like that was the best question she had heard all night.

“I'd like that.”

-----

Imogen didn't expect her second week on the job to come with company, much less consistent company, but Laudna is always there. Not waiting, just appearing. She's always somewhere near the back of the cemetery, where the headstones lean and the moss grows thicker, perched on the lip of a broken monument or sitting cross-legged on the mausoleum roof. She brings a little sketchbook most nights and draws by lantern light, occasionally glancing up like she's listening to something only she can hear.

At first, Imogen tries not to think too hard about it. It's easier that way. Laudna doesn't interrupt her work and she doesn't ask questions. She just greets her with a small smile and the flutter of long, delicate fingers, then settles into her own strange rhythm. She sketches twisted trees, cracked stone angels, and bits of the sky between branches.

One night, without comment, Laudna offers her a small thermos of tea. Imogen takes it with both hands, grateful and flustered, her pulse raging loudly in her ears. It smells like lavender and cinnamon and tastes better than anything she's made for herself in weeks.

They don't talk much at first. Imogen doesn't know how to start something with someone like Laudna, someone who seems made of secrets and soft shadows...but the silence between them isn't empty. It's easy. It's a shared kind of quiet that doesn't need to be filled.

Some nights, Laudna hums under her breath while she draws, half-songs that don't sound like anything Imogen recognizes. Some nights, Imogen works faster just to give herself a reason to move, to stay busy, to not sit too long beside the girl who's beginning to take up far too much and yet not nearly enough space in Imogen's chest. Her crush is getting worse but she always insists that if she just ignores it, it will go away. Every sideways smile, every brush of fingertips as the warm thermos exchanges hands, every offhanded “I saved a second mug for you” adds another log to the already raging fire.

By the end of the week, Imogen knows three things for certain:

1. Laudna's sketches are always a little eerie and a lot beautiful.

2. The tea is always warm.

3. And Imogen is in so much trouble.

-----

Group Chat: Graveyard Gays

Fearne:
soooooo how's your little haunting going tonight?

Ashton:
how's the spooky girlfriend
or is she still just haunting your thoughts and not your pants

Imogen:
she's not my girlfriend
and I don't even know if she likes girls
also she's just sketching. like always.
stop.

Fearne:
she brings you tea every shift.
she's sketching you, babe.

Ashton:
she 100% is
gonna find your face carved into a tombstone one day
very romantic

Imogen:
I hate both of you

Fearne:
you LOVE us
just like you looooooooooooooove the cemetery ghost girl :p

Ashton:
Fearne's right
you've had that look in your eyes for a week
like you're about to pass out every time she brushes your hand

Imogen:
not every time
…
shut up

Fearne:
you gonna ask for her number or what?

Imogen:
fearne no
absolutely not
I'm not even sure she uses a phone

Ashton:
she's drawing with charcoal by lantern light
she either doesn't have a phone or she has the coolest one any of us have ever seen

Fearne:
ooo maybe it's one of those clear ones with the glitter inside <3

Imogen:
I'm not doing this

Ashton:
yes you are

Fearne:
she brings you tea
she sits next to you and doesn't leave
she looks at you like you're a full moon behind a crypt
just give her your number

Imogen:
Fearne I swear to all the gods
I am barely surviving her just being near me
I can't also survive initiating contact

Ashton:
you're acting like giving someone your number is a marriage proposal

Imogen:
it basically IS
what if she thinks it's weird? what if she thinks I'M weird??

Fearne:
Imogen. honey.
you work in a graveyard
she haunts a graveyard
you're both weird
you're already soulmates

Ashton:
you literally matched weird frequencies in a haunted zone
that's a stronger connection than texting

Imogen:
this is bullying

Fearne:
this is love <3

Imogen:
I'm gonna throw my phone into a grave

Ashton:
okay dramatic
just write your number down
slip it to her like it's contraband
or fold it into a tiny little bat

Fearne:
make it romantic!!! fold it into a little ghost

Imogen:
how do you even fold a ghost???

Ashton:
bold of you to assume that Fearne doesn't have a tutorial saved for this exact scenario

Fearne:
check your texts :3<3

(*Fearne has sent a 2-minute video titled: “How 2 Fold Ghost Love Notes”*)

Imogen:
I hate you both so much

Fearne:
no you don't
you love us <3
just like you love your soft-spoken fog witch

Ashton:
seriously though
you've been smiling after every shift
and you never smile after work
that means something

Imogen:
it means I'm tired and maybe the tea is magic

Fearne:
she's the magic <3

Ashton:
do it. just once. you don't even have to say it out loud. hand her the note, walk away.
let her be the one who decides what to do next

Imogen:
…
what if she never texts me

Fearne:
then you'll still have been brave

Ashton:
and we'll buy you pizza and make you feel better by reading your horoscope in dramatic voices

Imogen:
…
okay
okay I'll do it
but if I black out halfway through and accidentally bury myself alive I expect a memorial

Fearne:
done. I already have the floral arrangements planned

Ashton:
I'm saying something rude at your funeral, just FYI

Imogen:
business as usual, then

-----

The graveyard is quiet, wrapped in that soft kind of dusk that barely counts as night. The lanterns are lit and their glow is weaving long, swaying shadows through the trees. A breeze lifts the surrounding mist just enough to make it feel like something is breathing alongside Imogen.

She swallows hard, the folded note with her number on it clutched tightly in her palm.

It's ugly. Like...genuinely ugly. She had folded at least twenty paper ghosts and finally settled on the one that looked the least like a crime against origami. The folds are lopsided, the eyes she drew on are crooked, and the whole thing looks more like a squashed jellyfish than anything resembling a ghost. She should have scrapped it and just written her number on a normal piece of scrap paper. She should've done anything else.

But now Laudna's coming towards her with the usual thermos of tea between her hands, smiling in that way that makes Imogen's stomach go traitorously warm, and it's too late to rethink her plan.

“Chamomile tonight,” Laudna says, offering Imogen the thermos. “With a little mint. You looked like you needed something grounding.”

Imogen stares at her. She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Just a noise.

She takes the tea with one hand and, before she can chicken out, thrusts the folded ghost forward with the other. She practically jabs it into Laudna's hands.

Laudna blinks, surprised.

“I – uh – it's dumb,” Imogen blurts out, already blushing. “It's just – I thought maybe if you ever wanted to, like – talk? Or send me weird tree drawings or whatever, you could, um...text me.”

Laudna tilts her head. She unfolds the ghost gently between her fingers, treating the lopsided mess like it's made of gold leaf instead of cheap notebook paper. Her eyes skim the number written beneath the crooked little face.

There's a pause. Imogen forgets how to breathe.

Then Laudna smiles.

Soft and bright. Like it means something.

“I love it,” she says simply.

Imogen makes a sound that might be “oh” or “thanks” or possibly a full-body meltdown. She nods, too fast, takes a huge sip of the tea that’s still boiling hot, and spins to flee like she's on fire.

She doesn't get far.

Her boot clips a raised root near the path, and she trips, hard, barely catching herself on her palms as the tea sloshes over her hand.

She lets out a very undignified “shit!”

Behind her, Laudna gasps softly and takes a few steps forward.

“Oh dear – are you alright?”

“Yep!” Imogen scrambles upright, half-laughing through sheer panic. “Totally fine! Just testin’ gravity. Still works!”

She speed-walks away without looking back, her ears burning.

Behind her, Laudna's soft laughter follows her like a lantern swaying gently in the dark.

Notes:

Hey y'all! Surprise! I was inspired by the love you all have given this little fic and I had some free time the last few days, so...here's another little chapter :] Thank you for the comments and kudos, they genuinely make me so excited to continue working on this.

Chapter 4: Four Days Later

Summary:

Terrible cocoa and wonderful company.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The warehouse smelled like sawdust, varnish, and faintly of pine. Midday light filtered in through the dusty windows as the group gathered around Chetney's old, scarred workbench. Each person that surrounded the table was elbow-deep in their own project. Orym was whittling with quiet focus, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Dorian had stained half of his fingers a deep, walnut brown and was pretending it was one-hundred percent intentional. Letters was offering everyone “emotional reinforcement” via affirmations and wood glue. Chetney, of course, was in his element, barking pointers like a tiny drill sergeant with a chisel.

“Laudna,” Chetney grunted without looking up from the dovetail joint he was perfecting, “your posture's off. You're leaning like a cursed marionette.”

“I am a cursed marionette,” Laudna said with a dreamy shrug, sanding the corner of a crooked birdhouse that looked like it might fly away on its own.

“And even cursed marionettes should square their shoulders,” Chetney snapped, but it lacked any real heat.

She didn't answer, instead distractedly brushing sawdust into swirling patterns on the bench top.

“You good, Laudna?” Orym asked gently, glancing up. “You've been sanding that same corner for fifteen minutes.”

“Oh. Yes.” Laudna blinked. “Perfectly fine. Just...contemplating symmetry.”

“She's brooding,” Letters stage-whispered. “And I detect faint traces of romantic turmoil. Possibly stage four pining.”

Laudna turned very still.

“I am not -”

“It's been four days,” Dorian interrupted, smiling over his half-painted jewelry box. “Four, Laudna. That's basically a century in text message years.”

“She gave me her number. That's all.” Laudna leaned forward until her forehead thudded lightly against the workbench. “A sweet, fleeting kindness. Like a stranger handing you an umbrella in the rain. You don't text the umbrella person.”

“Yes, you do,” Orym said. “Especially if the umbrella person is cute and gave you a ghost with lopsided eyes.”

“Aw, Origami Casper,” Dorian said with a dopey smile on his face, raising his hand to place it over his heart and promptly getting stains all over his favorite shirt.

“Casper has so much judgment in those eyes,” Laudna muttered into the wood grain.

“That's just projection,” Letters said cheerfully.

“It would be awkward.” Laudna sat up with a sigh. “I haven't even gone back to the cemetery. I didn't want to make things weird. What if she only gave me her number because she felt bad for me?”

“She flirted,” Dorian said. “And then tripped over a root like she was in a romantic comedy. That's not pity, that's gay panic!”

“She definitely looked panicked,” Laudna murmured.

“Exactly,” Orym said, smiling. “Text her. You like her.”

“I do,” Laudna whispered, like a confession, curling her long fingers around the birdhouse clutched tightly in her grasp. “And that's the problem. What if I ruin it?”

Chetney let out a sharp whistle through his teeth.

“You know what ruins things?” he said. “Inaction. Rot. A piece of wood that doesn't get used warps in the dark.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” he grumbled. “Woodworking metaphor. You're welcome.”

Laudna looked down at her birdhouse. It was a little off-kilter and a little messy, but it had a strange charm to it. It was crooked and lovely and real.

“I don't know what I'd even say,” she mumbled.

“Start with 'hi',” Letters offered. “That's a classic.”

“Or,” said Dorian, pulling a marker from behind his ear and handing it to Laudna like it was the pen of destiny, “write it down first. We'll workshop it. We're very good at romantic subtext.”

“Speak for yourself,” Chetney muttered. “I'm all about context.”

They waited. Not pressuring, just there. Kind. Ready. As always.

Laudna pulled her sketchbook out of her bag and placed it on the tabletop. She slowly began to scribble something onto a scrap of paper. Her hands were shaking a little.

“Hello,” she murmured, reading aloud as she wrote. “This is Laudna. I'm sorry it took me a few days to write. Your little ghost is on my bookshelf and he's very polite. I wasn't sure what to say. But...I want to. Say something, that is. If you still want me to.”

She looked up, face pale but expression steady.

“Is that too much?”

“It's perfect,” Orym said.

“It's you,” Dorian added.

Chetney grunted, which might have meant approval.

Laudna nodded slowly and then exhaled like she had been holding it in for four days straight. She picked up her phone, C-Pop Originals wooden case and all, and began to type.

She hit send.

And every one of them, silently and not-so-subtly, leaned a tiny bit closer.

-----

The apartment smelled faintly of lavender and burnt toast. It was the kind of comforting chaos that came from three semi-functional college students living together without a single adult-supervision-gene among them. Imogen paced the living room with her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her bare feet made soft, anxious thuds against the hardwood.

“She's not going to text me,” she muttered for the fifth time. “It's been four days. That's too long. She's not goin' to text me because I ruined everythin'.”

“You didn't ruin anything,” Fearne said from her throne of blankets and snack wrappers on the couch, chewing on a strand of dried mango like it was a rare delicacy. “You handed her a tiny ghost. With your number on it. That's adorable. It's practically a fairy tale.”

“No, it's pathetic!” Imogen groaned from low in her throat. “I said 'text me if you want' like some kind of tragic middle school diary entry and then immediately tripped over a root and nearly ate dirt on the way out. That's what she's goin' to remember. Not the ghost. Not me. The face-plant.”

“Okay, yeah, the exit was a disaster.” Ashton looked up from where they were sitting on the windowsill, rolling a cigarette that they absolutely would not smoke indoors but needed for the fidget. “But you still did it. You talked to her. You handed her something. You made contact.”

“I fled,” Imogen corrected, dragging her hands down her face. “I panicked and fled.”

“You didn't panic,” Fearne said. “You made a dramatic retreat. There's a difference.”

“What if she thought it was a joke?” Imogen stopped pacing and looked at both of them, wide-eyed. “What if she threw it in the trash?”

Ashton arched an eyebrow.

“Then she's a jerk,” they said.

“She's not a jerk,” Imogen said quickly, then immediately regretted how fast that came out. “I just – I felt something, okay? When she smiled. She looked surprised. Not in a bad way. More like...like no one had ever given her a ghost before.”

“Have you ever given someone a ghost before?” Fearne asked.

“No!”

“Then it was special,” Fearne declared with a flick of her wrist, like it was law.

“I keep checking my phone. I feel crazy.” Imogen flopped down onto the plush armchair in the living room and hugged her knees to her chest. “What if she thinks I'm waitin' around for her? I mean – I am, but I don't want her to know that.”

“You didn't double-text her,” Ashton said. “You're already miles ahead of half the disasters on campus.”

“I would if I could,” Imogen admitted. “Just something dumb. Like 'Hey, sorry about the ghost. You can throw it away if it's weird.'”

“Oh my god,” Fearne groaned. “Please tell me you didn't send that.”

“I didn't!” Imogen cried. “I typed it out like six times and deleted it every time before realizing I don’t even have her number. Because it is dumb, right? Who hands someone a paper ghost with a phone number in its belly?”

“You do,” Ashton said. “Which is exactly why it might've worked. It's dumb in a you way. It's not, like, weird in a 'restraining order' way.”

“She hasn't been back to the cemetery either.” Imogen let out a long, slow sigh. “I thought maybe I'd run into her. That she'd show up again. But nothin'. It's like she disappeared.”

“Maybe she's shy,” Fearne said gently, leaning over to tug at Imogen's sleeve. “You said she seemed surprised. Maybe she's just scared to reach out.”

“I'm scared to reach out,” Imogen muttered.

“Well then, congratulations,” Ashton said, “you're both terrified. That sounds like the perfect foundation for romance.”

“I just wanted her to know I saw her.” Imogen let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, her voice barely a whisper. “That someone sees her.”

“She got the message, babe.” Fearne pressed her hand over Imogen's and gave it a warm, gentle squeeze. “Sometimes it just takes people a little while to believe it.”

Imogen didn't even realize she'd brought her phone into her lap until it buzzed against her knee, lighting up with a soft glow that painted the ceiling in a faint blue light. She blinked at it, like it might vanish if she looked at it too directly.

Then she froze. Her spine straightened. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“What?” Fearne asked as she sat up with a predatory speed, her dried mango forgotten. “What is it? Is it her?”

Imogen stared at the screen. A single notification. One message.

Unknown Number:
Hello! This is Laudna. I'm sorry it took me a few days to write. Your little ghost is on my bookshelf and he's very polite. I wasn't sure what to say. But...I want to. Say something, that is. If you still want me to.

“Holy shit,” Ashton said, sliding off the windowsill and crossing the room in two long strides. “Is that - ?”

“It's her,” Imogen whispered, like saying it too loudly might make the moment vanish. Her heart was in her throat. She read the message again and again, as if the words would shift if she blinked. “She said she wants to talk. If I still want her to.”

“Of course you do, you love-sick gremlin!” Fearne squealed so loud that the neighbors probably heard. “Text her back!”

“I – I can't just say 'yes' like it's nothin'!” Imogen cried, flailing slightly from where she sat. “What if I sound too eager? Or not eager enough? What if she thinks I've been sittin' here for four days thinkin' about her -”

“Which you have,” Ashton pointed out, already reaching for her phone with steady hands and entirely too much boldness. Imogen pulled it back before they could get a good grip on it. “Just say something honest. But, like, emotionally curated honesty.”

“Ohhhh, she's nervous too,” Fearne said after leaning over Imogen's shoulder to read the text again. “Look at those ellipses. That's the symbol of social panic.”

“I need to breathe,” Imogen murmured. “I need to...gods, I need to say somethin'.”

She stared down at the blinking cursor for what felt like years.

“I could say...'thanks for texting'?” Imogen offered weakly. “Too bland?”

“Lukewarm soup,” Ashton said. “Try again.”

“What about...” she hesitated, thumbs trembling, and began to type. “Thanks for taking care of him. He's lucky to have you. And yes. I still want you to.”

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. The three of them sat back, eyes fixed on the phone as if they were willing it to light up again.

Seconds later, it buzzed once more.

“Good. He's happy. So am I.”

Imogen felt a smile break across her face, warmth blossoming in her chest. She looked up at Fearne and Ashton, who were grinning at her like the proud conspirators they were.

“I think,” Imogen whispered, “this might actually work.”

-----

Laudna:
are you working the cemetery tonight?

Imogen:
yep
just me, a temperamental lantern, and several overly confident squirrels
pretty glamorous

Laudna:
the elite graveyard experience then
I hope the squirrels at least paid their respects

Imogen:
one of them threw a pine cone at me last shift
so I'm guessing...no

Laudna:
rude
I hope the ghosts were more polite

Imogen:
mostly
except for the one I may have imagined near the tool shed
could've been fog
or a very dramatic possum

Laudna:
I hear dramatic possums are rare this season
you might have seen something special!

Imogen:
oh good
my second week and I'm already making friends with dramatic wildlife

Laudna:
I made tea today
it's cinnamon, chamomile, and a little something that might be sage or might be not-sage
do you want some for your shift?

Imogen:
...you're offering me mystery tea in a cemetery
you really know how to win a girl over

Laudna:
oh!
I didn't mean it like
I just thought it might be nice! warming
but I'm not trying to

Imogen:
no, no, I know!
I was just teasing. sorry
I'd love the tea. really

Laudna:
okay. good.
I didn't want to overstep

Imogen:
you didn't!
you're honestly the nicest part of this job so far.
well, you and the grave with the pigeon that always looks offended

Laudna:
I know that one!
its name is Squab
the pigeon, not the grave

Imogen:
of course
I look forward to his judgment every shift

Laudna:
I'll bring the tea
maybe it will soften him

Imogen:
see you soon?

Laudna:
see you soon!
save me a spot
and maybe warn the squirrels

Imogen:
no promises
they've unionized

-----

Imogen sat beneath the great willow in the center of the cemetery, the one with roots like curling fingers and a trunk so wide that it held shadows even at sunset. Her boots were tucked under her on the bench, shoulders hunched against the breeze, and hands curled tight around a battered old thermos. The hot chocolate inside had been mixed from a packet she had found crammed in her coat pocket, wedged beneath a crushed granola bar and some lint-covered change. It tasted like watery sugar and vaguely of desperation, but it was warm. More importantly, it gave her something to do while she waited.

Laudna had said she was coming. She had said it that afternoon, just after offering to bring tea. “Save me a spot.”

Imogen believed her, she really did, but believing didn't stop the butterflies from roiling in her gut. They had four whole days of silence behind them, four days of Imogen wondering if she had been too weird, if the ghost note had been too much, if she should have just walked away without saying anything at all...but then Laudna texted, and kept texting, and now she was coming.

She took another sip of the cocoa and winced. Gods, that's awful.

The breeze tugged at her hair, catching strands of lavender and making them tickle her cheek. She pressed them back behind her ear and glanced again towards the gravel path, her heart thundering in her chest like a rusted nail rattling around in an old can.

And then, there she was.

Laudna stepped into the clearing like the shadows had parted just to let her through. Her coat swayed as she walked, dark and draping like something half-spelled, and her hair caught in the wind like ink spilled in water. She had a thermos tucked against her chest, and her smile when she saw Imogen was small and hesitant. Hopeful.

Imogen's heart did something stupid. She stood too fast.

“Hey,” she said, a little too brightly, her voice cracking with the effort not to sound like she had been holding her breath.

“Hi,” Laudna said, slowing as she reached her. “You weren't hard to find. Big willow. Kind of gives you away.”

“Well, I've always had a flair for dramatic seatin’ arrangements.” Imogen laughed and hugged her lukewarm thermos closer.

“I brought the tea,” Laudna said, lifting her thermos slightly like a peace offering. “Unless you would rather keep sipping whatever questionable potion you've concocted there.”

“This?” Imogen raised her cup like she was showing off a prize pig. “Oh, just some cocoa packet I found inside my coat. It was under a granola bar and three coins stuck together with somethin' I didn't want to identify. It might have been in there since last fall, come to think of it...”

“You drank it anyway?” Laudna blinked.

“I have regrets.”

They traded thermoses. Their fingers brushed. Imogen tried not to think about it, or about how cold but soft Laudna's hand was, or about how her voice always sounded like the quiet hush between the pages of a book. She took a sip of the tea. It was light, floral, and a little sweet. She sighed.

“Oh, that's so much better.”

“I figured I owed you something drinkable after you gave me such a...spirited paper companion.”

“I folded him in under thirty seconds,” Imogen said through soft laughter and bold lies. It had taken her at least twenty minutes and she still had the rest of her paper-ghost-reject-army stashed in her car. “His arms don't even match.”

“He's charmingly off-kilter,” Laudna said, easing down onto the bench. “Like someone I've just started getting to know.”

Imogen's smile faltered for half of a second, softening into something more vulnerable. She looked down at her tea and sat down next to Laudna on the bench.

You like her. You really like her.

Not just in the isn't-she-interesting way. Not just in the I-want-to-hear-her-laugh-again way. In the I'd-really-like-to-hold-her-hand-and-not-ruin-it way. That was terrifying, because she didn't want to push and scare Laudna off with how much her heart had already packed and moved.

“You don't have to keep the ghost,” she said suddenly, trying to sound casual. “If he's cluttering your bookshelf.”

“I like him!” Laudna looked at her, a little startled. “He makes the space feel less empty. I haven't had much company in a while.”

Imogen's throat caught. She turned her gaze to the gravestones.

“Me neither.”

A breeze moved through the willow, rustling the branches like something exhaling.

“It's nice, though.” Laudna shifted slightly, their shoulders close but not quite touching. “Talking to you.”

“It really is.” Imogen nodded.

In the quiet that followed, Imogen let herself think, not for the first time, that she would wait forever under that tree if it meant Laudna kept showing up.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! In comes the rest of the gang (minus Braius, sorry Braius). I hope you enjoy this chapter. It kind of kicked my ass a little bit. I have the next chapter already locked and loaded so I might post that tomorrow or the next day! Thank you again for the lovely comments and kudos on this little project. They've really been making my days brighter.

Chapter 5: A Moment of Courage

Summary:

It's the Great Panic, Charlie Brown!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The cottage waited at the far edge of the cemetery like it had been grown from the same earth as the various graves around it. Its chimney curled smoke into the sky that was getting lighter by the second, the scent of rosemary and old coals carried downwind to where Imogen stood near the crooked gate.

She had gotten the message hours ago near the start of her shift, scrawled on the back of a cemetery note slip:

Come after first light. No later. Don't bring fear with you.

It wasn't signed, but it didn't have to be. Only Nana Morri wrote like that, like she knew more than she should. Like she didn't ask so much as declare.

Imogen knocked once and waited.

The door creaked open not with a “come in,” but a wordless invitation. Warmth spilled out into the cold morning air. She stepped over the threshold.

Inside, the walls were cluttered with dried flowers strung from wire and bundles of herbs hung up like talismans. A thin trail of candle wax had hardened across the windowsill, and somewhere, a clock ticked though Imogen couldn’t see one. The light inside wasn't quite firelight, not quite artificial, but something in between.

“Boots by the door,” came Nana Morri's voice, half-lost in steam. “Shoes carry stories, and my house is full enough.”

Imogen complied.

“Thanks for...invitin’ me. Or – summonin’ me?”

“You're welcome,” Nana said, not looking up from her kettle. “I figured it was time we talked properly. It's different, now that you walk the grounds.”

Nana Morri turned then, her sharp eyes shadowed by wild silver curls.

“People think the dead are quiet. They're not. They just speak slowly. You hear them yet?”

“I think so?” Imogen blinked.

“Good.” Nana poured two cups of something that smelled faintly of burnt sugar and violets. “Then you're listening.”

They sat across from each other at a narrow wooden table. One candle flickered between them, low and the color of bright amber.

“Fearne's told me bits,” Nana said after she took a sip of her tea. “About your friend.”

“Laudna?” Imogen tensed.

Nana Morri nodded, slow and deliberate.

“The one with the paper bones and crow-shadow smile. You've been texting her.”

Imogen choked on her...tea?...and flushed immediately.

“We've just been talking. She's kind. And strange.”

“And?”

“And I can't tell if I'm imaginin’ the way she looks at me or if I'm just...lonely.”

“Ah.” Nana's lips curved into something unreadable. “The fault-line. Where wanting meets not-knowing. Love always lives there, at first.”

“You talk like – like you've done this a thousand times.” Imogen stared at her.

“I haven't,” Nana said. “But the ground has.”

Imogen's brow furrowed.

“The cemetery remembers every unfinished story,” Nana said, folding her hands over her cup. “People come here to be left alone, or to be found. Sometimes they don't even know which.”

“And which do you think I am?” Imogen went still, her voice quiet.

“You?” Nana tilted her head, her gaze glinting in the low light. “You're rootless. But reaching.”

Imogen didn't speak for a long moment. Her drink had gone lukewarm in her hands.

“I want her to keep comin' back is all.”

“Want's never just anything,” Nana murmured. “It's the first truth. Doesn't mean it won't ruin you. But it's a good place to start.”

“You think I should tell her?” Imogen swallowed.

“No. I think you should let her see. Truth's a tree. Grows taller if it's not yanked at.”

That silenced Imogen. She looked down at her chipped cup and began tracing the rim with her finger.

“You scared?” Nana asked.

“Yeah. A little.” A lot.

“Then you're doing it right.” Nana leaned back and folded her arms.

They sat in silence again but it wasn't empty, it was full of things unspoken like a whisper that pressed into the corners of the room and hummed like the din of crickets.

Nana reached out and gently tapped Imogen's wrist before standing and walking slowly through the room.

“When she looks at you,” she said softly, “does the world go quieter, or louder?”

Imogen met her gaze, surprised.

“...Quieter,” she whispered.

“Then it's worth listening.” Nana smiled, the kind of smile that didn't reach her mouth so much as settle directly in her bones.

Imogen was halfway through her drink when she noticed the taste had changed.

“What...is this?” she asked, peering into the cup. “It was violets before. Now it tastes like pepper and peaches.”

“It changes with your thoughts.” Nana Morri was crouched near a wooden drawer, rummaging for something, and didn't look up. “Tea's honest that way.”

“Is that...normal?” Imogen tilted the cup, suspicious.

“No.” Nana stood with a satisfied grunt, holding a bundle of dried roots tied with a fraying red string. “But neither are you.”

Imogen opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it and closed her mouth with a soft snap. She set the cup down, watching the leaves swirl in the bottom like they might form words.

They didn't. Not yet.

Nana moved back to the table and dropped the root bundle near a stack of yellowing fliers. One of them was covered in block-y lettering and poorly drawn pumpkins. She nudged it towards Imogen.

“You're going to the Harvest Festival, I assume?”

“Fearne keeps saying that I have to.” Imogen looked down at the flier. “She wants me to try the beet fritters.”

“They're dreadful! I make better ones.” Nana plucked up one of the fliers and held it to the candle on the table until the edges browned, then dropped it in a nearby basin. “Still, I'll be there.”

“Are you going to wear your scarf with the teeth sewn into it again?” Imogen smiled faintly.

“Only if the wind's right,” Nana said, deadly serious. “And I'll be reading!”

“Readin' what?”

“Tea. Bones. Runes. Whatever a soul's brave enough to hand me.”

“You're doing divination in the middle of the fall festival?” Imogen blinked.

“'Course I am!” Nana exclaimed. “People want to pretend they don't believe until the leaves start falling. Then they remember their grandmothers and want to know what the wind thinks.”

“Do you...want me to help?” Imogen leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the table.

“No,” Nana said simply. “I want you to bring that girl of yours.”

“She's not-” Imogen's voice stuttered out. “She's not mine.”

“Not yet,” Nana murmured. “But she's closer than she was!”

Imogen was quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

“You think she'd want a readin'?” she asked.

“She wouldn't come to this cottage if I asked. Too much shadow. Too much...knowing.” Nana's pale gaze caught the candlelight. “But a festival's different. People pretend magic is sweet there. They come open.”

“I don't want to push her.” Imogen turned her cup slowly in her hands.

“Then don't. Ask, don't chase.” Nana smiled. “You've got soft hands. You hold things well. Let her decide if she wants to be held.”

Imogen blushed and turned her eyes back to the tea. Holding Laudna, what a thought.

“What would you read, if she came?” she asked.

“That girl's walking with a thread tied to something old.” Nana's fingers twitched, tracing through the air like she was already casting the bones. “Something frayed. I'd like to see if it's still knotted at both ends.”

“...That sounds bad.”

“Doesn't have to be.” Nana shook her head. “Threads tangle. That's how they hold. So...”

Nana stood and began packing the root bundle into a basket.

“So! Ask her. Invite her to the festival. Say nothing about me. Let the bones do the talking when the time comes.”

“She's...” Imogen stood slowly, hesitating at the threshold. “She's hard to read sometimes.”

“Then don't read her, girl!” Nana gave Imogen a long, level look. “Let her show you.”

“Alright.” Imogen nodded once, fingers brushing the door frame like it might give her an answer. “I'll ask her.”

As she stepped outside into the warming morning, Nana called after her -

“Wear something red! It'll make her braver.”

The door creaked shut behind her and, from inside, the tea leaves in Imogen's abandoned cup swirled once more...settling, at last, into the shape of a crow in flight.

-----

Group Chat: Gay in the Hay

Imogen:
ok
need emergency romance consultation
and before you say anything
yes it's about her
and no I'm not emotionally stable enough for this but here we are

Ashton:
10/10 opening
is this a panic about asking the hot cryptid to the festival or did she already appear in a swirl of fog and say something devastatingly gentle again

Fearne:
“emotionally stable” is a social construct
go on my sweet lavender ghost magnet
what happened

Imogen:
nana morri told me I should invite her to the harvest festival
but like
casually
not “come meet my best friend's maybe-witch grandmother and get your bones read”
just like
“hey do you want to look at decorative gourds with me while I pretend I'm not hopelessly enchanted by you”

Ashton:
so romantic
so doomed
I love it

Fearne:
ask her like this:
“there's a harvest festival next week. will you come hold hands with me near pumpkins? <3”

Imogen:
NO
I am trying to be CHILL
normal even
a real girl
who eats kettle corn and has composure

Ashton:
you gave her an origami ghost and then ran away
let's let go of “normal”

Fearne:
she left you a feather last night when she couldn't make it and said “this feels like you” and you texted “:)” and screamed into your coat for ten minutes
it's already romantic
you just need to seal the deal with cider

Imogen:
ok
what about:
“hey, the festival's next week. wanna go with me?”
does that say “I like you” or “I'm trapped under a bale of hay and need help”

Fearne:
needs a little spice
try:
“hey, the festival's next week. want to come with me? we can people-watch and judge scarecrows.”
then add a black heart <3
or a little leaf if you're feeling bold

Imogen:
I am feeling bold
or reckless
because update:
I'm going to ask her in person
with my mouth
like a fool with a crush and a death wish

Ashton:
bold of you to attempt mouth-based interaction in this economy
but okay. go off, walking heart attack

Fearne:
ahhhhHHHHHH
you're going to say words!
you're going to look her in the eyes!
you're going to die!

Imogen:
correct on all fronts
what if I open my mouth and just say “harvest” and then fall over?

Ashton:
then we'll carve that on your tombstone and throw corn kernels at your ghost in tribute

Fearne:
“here lies Imogen Temult
she tried her best but she also said 'harvest' like it was a love confession”

Imogen:
I HATE BOTH OF YOU
I am LITERALLY shaking
what if she looks at me and tilts her head like she does and I just short-circuit and say “want to go to the...fruit...thing”

Ashton:
it's a festival, not a produce riddle
pull it together

Fearne:
fruit thing??
FRUIT THING???
Imogen she's not a sentient melon you're trying to barter with

Imogen:
I PANICKED AND FORGOT THE WORD “FESTIVAL”
do you understand the level of brain melt we're dealing with?

Ashton:
yes
and I'm choosing to be supportive in the most antagonizing way possible

Fearne:
omg imagine you say “fruit thing” and she just laughs and goes, “I know exactly what you mean”

Imogen:
I'd instantly turn into a puddle of warm cider

Ashton:
Just keep it simple:
“hey, the fall festival's next week. wanna go with me?”
no complicated words, no weird metaphors

Fearne:
and then pause like you're waiting for her to say yes and fall in love right then and there

Imogen:
but what if I say it wrong and she thinks I'm summoning a demon or asking her to marry me on the spot?

Ashton:
then you two demon-married festival queens can rule autumn together

Fearne:
you've got this
she likes you
she's been waiting for you to say the words
go be soft and nervous and perfect

Imogen:
soft and nervous I can do
perfect is not in my vocabulary unless it means “stumbling over every syllable”

Ashton:
perfect is overrated
messy, awkward, and sincere is way more you anyway

Fearne:
exactly
and honestly, if you say something weird, it'll just be adorable

Imogen:
okay
okay
here goes everything
if I disappear, send help

Ashton:
we'll be ready with reinforcements and a pumpkin spice recovery kit

Fearne:
you're gonna be amazing
now go ask her to the festival and start your autumn love story

-----

The cemetery was quieter than usual.

Not the kind of quiet that meant nothing was happening, but the kind that meant everything was holding its breath. The sun was beginning to tip down into the horizon, casting long, sleepy shadows between the gravestones. The willow tree in the center of it all swayed just slightly, like it knew something was coming.

Imogen stood a few paces from it, nervously twisting the edge of her yellow scarf between her fingers. She'd been rehearsing for ten minutes. Maybe more. Her palms were sweaty and her heart was thudding hard enough that she could hear it in her ears.

Across the grass, Laudna knelt by one of the older headstones. She was brushing her fingers across the moss with a kind of gentle reverence, like she was in conversation with something that couldn't quite speak back.

Imogen almost turned around. She almost fled, but then Laudna looked up and smiled.

It wasn't a big smile. It was soft, almost surprised. It was a little sleepy, like someone waking from a long, lovely dream. It was the most beautiful thing Imogen had ever seen.

“Hi,” Laudna said, standing slowly and dusting off her skirt.

“Hi.” Imogen said it too fast, too loud. “Sorry, I didn't mean to – uh – interrupt.”

“You're not.” Laudna tilted her head slightly, like she always did when she was curious or interested or just trying to understand something more than she let on.

Imogen sucked in a breath, then laughed nervously.

“You, uh...you look nice,” she said, then immediately wanted to walk into an open grave. “Not that you don't always look nice, I just mean – your hair's doin' that float-y thing again, like there's a breeze that only listens to you.”

“Maybe there is.” Laudna smiled softly again, that eerie and beautiful little thing she did with only half of her mouth.

“That's not helpin’,” Imogen muttered, mostly to herself.

Laudna raised an eyebrow, amused.

Okay. Deep breath. Now or never.

“So there's this thing,” Imogen said, trying to sound casual, but the words tumbled out like someone had cut the brakes on her mouth. “Next week. In town. The, uh – the harvest festival. It's kind of dumb, honestly, there's cider and pie and like...really bad music, and a haunted corn maze that's not haunted, it just smells like teenage angst.”

Laudna was still watching her with her head tilted, a gentle smile still plastered to her face. It was making it nearly impossible for Imogen to think.

Imogen took another breath. Her voice went softer. Braver.

“I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go. With me.”

The silence stretched just long enough for Imogen to panic. She felt her stomach fold in on itself like wet paper. Maybe she had said it too weird. Maybe she should have led with a joke. Maybe -

“With you?” Laudna asked, her voice so light it felt like it barely touched the air.

Imogen nodded, hard, and suddenly found that she couldn't meet her eyes.

“Yeah! I mean – not just as friends, unless you'd rather. I just...I thought maybe we could go together. Like, together together.” She huffed out a nervous laugh. “I don't know. We could people-watch. Judge the scarecrows. You can laugh at me when I fall into the apple barrel again -”

“Imogen.”

She went quiet.

When she finally looked up, Laudna had taken a step closer. Her hands were clasped in front of her, but she looked steady. Steadier than Imogen felt, anyway.

“I'd love to go,” Laudna said softly. “With you.”

“You – yeah?” Imogen blinked.

“Yes.” Laudna's smile curved up again. “I didn't think...anyone would ever ask me something like that. But I was hoping.”

“Oh,” Imogen said, and then again, breathless: “Oh.”

“Is that okay?” Laudna tilted her head the other way.

“Yeah. Yes. I just...” Imogen laughed, and it came out small and disbelieving. “I really thought I was gonna trip over a grave or forget how words work or spontaneously combust. I still might.”

“Then I'll be very careful where I step.” Laudna's eyes crinkled with something close to joy.

They stood there for a beat, not touching, just warm in each other's presence. The sky above them slowly turned to rose and violet.

“Okay,” Imogen said, smiling now, cheeks pink. “I'll pick you up. Or...meet you there. Whatever you want.”

Laudna's gaze softened and she nodded once.

“I'll be there.”

Imogen nodded back, the kind of nod that tried to hide how dizzy she felt.

Then she turned to leave before she could say something deeply unhinged about cider or fate or the way Laudna's voice made her ribs feel like glass. She glanced back just once, scarf tucked snugly around her throat.

Laudna was still watching her.

Still smiling.

Like maybe she had been waiting for her the whole time.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm not sure when the next one is going to be posted but I'm very excited to write Bells Hells Harvest Festival shenanigans so it might be sooner than any of us expect. Thank you again for reading and commenting and leaving kudos. I started this because I needed something to focus on that wasn't my horrid mental health, and you all have certainly given me something lovely to focus on. Thank you. Truly.

Chapter 6: The Space Between Hello and Now

Summary:

Doubting, friendship, and first glances.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun filtered lazily through the high, dust-streaked windows of Chetney's workshop. The light threw long slants of gold across the far corner where Laudna had made her own strange little kingdom. Her art room looked, at a first glance, like a cluttered mess. Maybe it was, but it was the kind of mess that told a story.

The walls were lined with crooked shelves that were sagging under jars of paint and hand-mixed pigments. Threadbare lace was pinned above the windows, catching bits of light like spiderwebs. Various dolls sat quietly in their places. Some were pristine, some were scorched or stitched back together in places that didn't quite match. Ribbons and dried flowers dangled from the ceiling and bones were bundled with twine, tucked into the nooks between canvases and sketchbooks. It smelled of turpentine, old wood, and something slightly sweet.

Laudna sat on her usual stool in the center of it all, with her knees drawn up and a brush dangling loosely from her hand. She wasn't painting. She was just...still. Her dark hair fell around her face like curtains pulled half-shut.

The door creaked.

“I knocked,” Dorian said, his voice light as he stepped into the room, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. “You were in your own little world, so I let myself in.”

She didn't look up but a faint smile ghosted across her lips.

“You always bring tea when you're worried about me,” she murmured.

“Well,” he said, carefully stepping around a canvas that was lying flat on the floor, “it's either that or a lute solo, and the acoustics in here are honestly a war crime.”

He offered her one of the mugs. She took it quietly and wrapped both hands around the warmth. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal, leaving faint black fingerprints on the ceramic.

“You've been quiet today,” Dorian said gently, lowering himself onto an overturned crate near her. “Quieter than your usual spooky, poetic silence. What's going on?”

She took a small sip of the tea and looked down into the mug like it might conjure the answer for her.

Then, softly: “Imogen may have asked me on a date.”

Dorian blinked, straightening a little.

“Like...a real one?”

“To the Harvest Festival.” Laudna nodded. “She said, 'Do you want to go? With me? Like, together together.' And then she blushed so hard that I honestly feared for her health.”

“Laudna!” Dorian's eyebrows lifted high, but his smile was bright and warm. “This is amazing!”

She didn't look up.

“Is it?”

“Yes?” he said, drawing the word out with a light laugh. “Do I need to throw confetti? I will! I will craft celebratory confetti out of Chetney's stash of receipts. Don't test me.”

Laudna's smile tilted a little more to one side, but it was brief.

“I've never been on a date before,” she said.

“Okay. That's fair.” Dorian's voice gentled. “But you want to go, right?”

“I do,” she said, so quiet that it was nearly a whisper. “I really, really do. So much so that it makes my ribs ache. But I don't know what to do. I want it to be good. For her. I want her to feel like I heard her. Like I...understand what it meant for her to ask.”

Dorian watched her for a moment, the silence in the room thick and warm like molasses. The light caught on the glass eye of a doll above Laudna's shoulder, making it glint like it knew something.

“Laudna,” he said gently, “you're not a cryptic painting that someone has to interpret. You're a person. And she's not handing you a perfect moment wrapped in a ribbon – she's asking you to make one with her.”

“But what if I panic?” Laudna looked at him, dark eyes wide and glassy. “Or say something strange or ghost-adjacent or -”

“Well,” Dorian said with a grin, “speaking as someone who has seen you talk to spiders and knit sweaters for your taxidermy projects, I think that's probably baked into the deal.”

She laughed, truly laughed, and covered her mouth with one sleeve.

“I just -” she started, then shook her head. “I want her to have a good memory of it. I don't want to be the weird, twitchy story she tells her friends later.”

“You already are,” Dorian said, and when her eyes went wide, he added quickly, “But, like, in a good way. She already has a story about you – she's just hoping to live in it a little longer.”

“I want to be good.” Laudna's smile faded into something more thoughtful, more fragile.

“You are good,” he said firmly. “You're good and strange and lovely and the world's a little better with you in it. You don't have to become someone else to be worth dating.”

Laudna blinked rapidly, and for a moment the little room felt very still. It was just the two of them, the warm tea between them, and the quiet hum of something like hope.

“I keep thinking it was a mistake,” she said. “That she didn't mean it.”

“She meant it,” Dorian said. “Because how could she not?”

“Thank you.” After a beat, Laudna reached out and placed a hand gently on his wrist. “Thank you, Dorian.”

“Anytime.” He gave her a little nudge with his foot, grinning. “And hey – if you want, I'll give you a crash course in 'How To Survive a Date Without Completely Losing It.'”

Laudna sniffed a laugh and brought her sleeve up to her eye to wipe away an errant tear.

“Please,” she said.

“Lesson one: don't panic. Lesson two: bring snacks.”

“Snacks?”

“Absolutely! Nothing says 'romance' like offering someone a festival donut and accidentally powdering them in sugar.”

She laughed again, softer this time, but it reached her eyes. The strange little room around them seemed to exhale. Even the dolls looked a little less creepy.

“Alright,” Laudna said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Snacks. Got it.”

“No pressure,” Dorian said, raising his mug in a toast. “Just be Laudna.”

This time, she believed him.

-----

Imogen's bedroom looked like a linen closet had exploded.

The bed was covered in an avalanche of sweaters, scarves, pants, dresses, shawls, and things she had long since forgotten that she even owned. The closet doors were wide open, the hangers inside swinging slightly like they were judging her. A pair of boots stood solemnly in the corner, almost like they had walked themselves out of the mess in protest. The air smelled faintly of cedar and dried lavender, with a thick thread of panic laced through it.

“I have nothing to wear,” Imogen declared, for the fourth time, tossing another perfectly fine blouse into the growing chaos.

“You've said that four times, and yet, your closet continues to exist.” Fearne said, from her position where she was reclined luxuriously across the pillows at the head of the bed. She was draped in a lace-trimmed robe that absolutely wasn’t hers.

“It's all wrong,” Imogen groaned, pressing her palms to her flushed cheeks. “Everything I own is too bulky or too stiff or too -”

“Too you?” Fearne offered, twirling a soft flannel scarf around one finger.

Imogen made a strangled sound and flopped face-first onto the bed, narrowly missing a folded pair of corduroys.

“Exactly! I need something that says romantic but not desperate, interested but casual, soft but not like...fragile. And preferably not in barn red.”

“You're spiraling.” Fearne raised a brow.

“I know I'm spiraling!”

“Well, keep doing it,” Fearne said cheerfully, sitting up and tossing a knitted poncho off the edge of the bed. “I love watching this. It's like a small-town tornado made entirely of wool.”

“What if she thinks I'm trying too hard?” Imogen rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

“Imogen Temult,” Fearne gasped, “if there is one thing Laudna will never think of you, it's that you're trying too hard. She's going to think you're radiant and charming and probably a little bit in danger of fainting, and she's going to love it.”

“You think?” Imogen blinked.

“She said yes, didn't she?” Fearne said with a nod.

“I asked her to judge scarecrows with me.” Imogen sat up slowly and rubbed at her forehead. “That's not exactly sweeping someone off their feet.”

“Oh, sweet Imogen.” Fearne smiled wide, folding her legs underneath her. “You could ask her to stand in a ditch and count mud bubbles and she'd still say yes. She's gone for you.”

“You're not helping.” Imogen blushed furiously and reached for another sweater.

“I'm helping in exactly the way you need.” Fearne said, gasping again in a mock-wounded sort of way. She reached down into the pile beside her and pulled out a soft rosewood-colored sweater with wide sleeves and little flecks of gold thread in the knit. “Now, this. This is gentle. It says, 'I love poetry and seasonal festivals' but also, 'I might kiss you behind the cider cart.'”

“It's a little...” Imogen hesitated, running her fingers over the fabric.

“Perfect?” Fearne offered.

Imogen held it up against herself and looked in the mirror across the room. It did look nice. Cozy. Soft. A little her, but not in the way that made her feel awkward or overexposed. She grabbed a pair of well-worn black jeans from the bed, the ones that hit just right at the ankle, and held them up beside it.

“I could do my hair,” she said slowly. “Maybe leave it down? Just...natural?”

“Yes!” Fearne clapped. “Romantic! Windswept! Like you just stepped out of a tragic novel but without the tragedy!”

“I hate how good you are at this.”

“I know.” Fearne beamed.

They sat for a moment in the quiet, the mess of fabric around them slowly settling. Imogen looked at herself in the mirror again and held the sweater and pants in front of her.

“She really said yes,” she murmured.

“She did,” Fearne said, softer now. She reached over to squeeze Imogen's hand. “And she's going to fall even harder when she sees you.”

Imogen squeezed back, trying not to look as giddy as she felt.

Then Fearne stood, stretched, and tossed a pair of socks over her shoulder.

“Now. What are we wearing to the festival?”

“We?” Imogen raised an eyebrow.

“Well, someone has to make sure you don't float off like a blushing balloon halfway through your date.” Fearne gave a mischievous smile, already digging into the closet.

Imogen groaned and threw the sweater at her. Fearne caught it easily and laughed. The room buzzed with warmth and nerves and something just shy of magic.

-----

Group Chat: Chetney's Workshop Crew

Dorian has changed the group name to “Dorian's Backup Band”

Dorian:
Laudna
festival's almost here
what's the plan? subtle hand brush?
romantic cider toast?
mysterious vanishing into the corn maze?

Laudna:
my plan so far is to stare longingly and hope she doesn't notice how often I forget to breathe around her

Chetney:
here's what you do:
you build her a chair.
carve something into the back. then offer her half an apple
no talking. just gesture to the sky like you both understand something bigger

Dorian:
that sounds like the plot to a war-era movie where one of them gets drafted mid-kiss

Chetney:
AND IT WORKED
I still have the limp to prove it

Orym:
...did the chair survive?

Chetney:
damn right it did. hickory. solid joinery.

Letters:
from a psychological standpoint, gift-giving paired with shared vulnerability can deepen emotional connection!
though wartime injury is not a requirement :)

Laudna:
all of you are unwell
but also...what kind of apple are we talking about?

Dorian:
gala says “I think your smile is soft”
granny smith says “I hope you'll kiss me even if I spill cider on myself”

Orym:
honeycrisp is commitment

Letters:
crimson golds: rare, expensive, ideal for symbolic gestures

Laudna:
...okay
so I need a chair, a knife, a rare heirloom apple, and someone to cue a breeze at just the right moment

Chetney:
now you're getting it!

Dorian:
I can't tell if this is romantic or a summoning ritual
but either way I support you

Orym:
just be yourself. you're more than enough without any of this.

Letters:
agreed! :)

Laudna:
I adore you all
please stop making me laugh while I'm practicing my wistful expressions in the mirror

Chetney:
build the chair
it's what she deserves

-----

The path into the Harvest Festival wound between rows of flickering lanterns. There were jars of firefly-bright light hung low on shepard's hooks and some nestled into artfully placed hay bales, casting golden pools across the dirt. It smelled like cinnamon, wood smoke, and apples that had been mulled, spiced, baked, or candied in every possible way imaginable. A folk trio strummed somewhere near the main square and the sound of laughter and crunching leaves gave the whole night the feel of something that was gently enchanted.

Imogen kept twisting the hem of her rosewood-colored sweater.

“She's not even late,” Ashton said, glancing sidelong at her. “You're just early. Very early. You practically got here before the cider warmed.”

“I just -” Imogen huffed, adjusting her sleeves again even though they already sat perfectly on her wrists. “I didn't wanna be late. It's rude.”

“You put your boots on an hour ago and stood at the door for ten minutes before speaking,” Fearne said airily, her cloak trimmed in curling ivy and something faintly glittery. “That's not punctual, babe. That's prophetic.”

The fairground was spread across the old orchard, farmland, and the town's green. It was lit by hanging string-lanterns and warm bonfires in wide stone pits. Booths sold caramel apples and roasted squash, knitted scarves and bundles of dried herbs. There were scarecrow contests, pie tastings, and a stall where someone was painting tiny constellations on people's cheeks in glitter dust and glue. Children chased each other with paper masks and the scent of kettle corn drifted on the breeze like a spell just waiting to take hold.

Imogen's eyes flicked between the lanterns and between each bobbing head in the crowd. She gently tucked the soft fall of her lavender hair behind one ear and smoothed the front of her sweater again.

“She's probably not even here yet,” Ashton added, clearly trying to help but sounding more like they were delivering a report from a war front. “Or she's lurking dramatically behind a corn display waiting for the exact right moment to appear.”

Imogen made a small, strangled noise.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” Fearne leaned close, resting her chin on Imogen's shoulder with a grin. “She's going to melt.”

“I feel like I'm gonna pass out.” Imogen flushed, staring down at her boots. “Or catch fire. Or both.”

“Perfect,” Fearne whispered. “That's the exact level of drama a first date at a fall festival requires.”

Then, over the music and the hum of conversation, Imogen heard it. She heard the soft, musical voice. Distant but unmistakable. A laugh like dry leaves stirring under moonlight. Her heart jumped.

Her hand went to the hem of her sweater again, plucking at it like a harp string.

“Oh!” Fearne straightened, eyes scanning the crowd. “There she is!”

Imogen's breath caught.

Then, just beyond the cider stand, through a veil of string lights and falling leaves, Laudna stepped into view.

-----

Laudna hadn't let go of the sleeve of her coat since they had arrived.

It wasn't nerves, exactly. It was something deeper and stranger, like the air itself had turned honey-thick around her, every sound echoing a second too long. Laughter, music, and the gentle sound of leaves underfoot all sounded like a memory she hadn't lived yet. Like a dream she might wake up from at any moment.

Dorian had been talking, something about ribbon dancers near the pie contest, and Laudna had nodded politely, but her eyes had been scanning the crowd since they stepped past the old gate posts. The glow of lanterns cast soft halos around people's heads, and for a moment, everything looked like it was moving through warm candlelight.

And then -

“Oh,” she breathed.

They were just arriving, Imogen and who she assumed to be Fearne and Ashton. They were walking in through the central path, flanked by ivy-wrapped posts and strings of tiny copper bells. They looked like a trio cut from laughter and light. Fearne first, looking like she was floating rather than walking, wreathed in glimmering ivy and grace. Ashton beside her, sharp and steady and already muttering something that made Fearne toss her head back and laugh.

In the middle, looking like she might dissolve into mist at any second, was Imogen.

Laudna froze.

Imogen was wearing a soft sweater. Her hair was down, not braided, soft around her face and catching on the wind. She looked like a candle flame left too close to an open window: flickering, lovely, and nervous.

And she was looking. Scanning the crowd. Her fingers plucked again and again at the hem of her sweater.

“She's here,” Laudna whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

“Hm?” Dorian turned, caught her expression, and smiled slowly. “Ah.”

“That her?” Chetney leaned in to squint. “The one with the purple hair? The boots? Strong hands. She could build a porch.”

“She's been living rent-free in your rib cage since day one, huh?” Dorian grinned.

Laudna smacked his arm, half horrified, half glowing.

“Want me to walk you over?” Orym asked gently, already knowing the answer.

“No.” Laudna shook her head, fast and quiet. “Not yet. I just want to...look. For a second.”

And gods, she did.

Imogen was lit in lantern light like a painting. Her profile was soft in the glow, sweater sleeves too long, boots scuffing the grass as she scanned the crowd. She looked a little panicked. A little flushed, like maybe she was holding herself together with sheer willpower and stubbornness and the thought of cider in her future.

“She's looking for you,” Letters said beside her, observant and kind.

Laudna nodded, silent. Her throat felt like it was full of leaves.

“Now's a good time to make your entrance,” Dorian said, nudging her. “Dramatic, but approachable. Go.”

“I don't know what to say,” Laudna said, barely above a whisper. “What if I say something strange?”

“You will,” Chetney said cheerfully. “And it'll be perfect!”

Then, as if she were pulled by a tether connecting her to Imogen, Laudna took a step forward. Toward lanterns, and music, and the girl who made autumn feel like spring.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I've been furiously writing to try to get to this festival as quickly as possible. The festival may span over a few chapters or the next chapter might be longer than usual. We'll see what happens! Thank you all so much for continuing to read and comment and leave kudos. It really means the world to me so, again, thank you.

Chapter 7: A Raven Named Haggis

Summary:

The Harvest Festival, Part One

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It started with her voice.

It was low and lilting, cutting through the noise like a string pulled tight between them. Imogen didn't catch the words that were spoken, just the cadence and the soft curl of something familiar that made her heart stutter and stumble behind her ribs. She turned before she meant to, fast and uncoordinated, and searched the crowd with a sudden urgency.

Then came the sound of boots on cobblestone, light and deliberate, and the soft swish of fabric shifting with each step. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It cut through the warm din of music and laughter like a bell that had been rung just for her.

Imogen spotted her across the festival square.

Laudna.

She was making her way through the festival crowd, the long hem of her black skirt catching the glow of jack-o'-lantern light. Her maroon blouse shimmered faintly with hand-stitched embroidery, like a secret between friends sewn into the seams. The black coat she wore hung on her like something familiar and just a little dramatic. It was simple but striking. Her hair fell straight over one shoulder, smooth and dark, like ink poured with a purpose.

Her boots clicked in rhythm, slow and deliberate, not tentative but thoughtful.

And she was looking straight at Imogen.

Imogen forgot how to breathe.

Gods, she's beautiful.

Her whole chest ached with it, with how stunning Laudna looked and how strange it was to be looked at in return, like they were the only ones here. There was no poetic metaphor for it, no clever turn of phrase she could think of. Laudna was beautiful. Startlingly so. The kind of beauty that didn't ask for attention, didn't perform or reach, it just was. It unspooled across the distance between them and wound itself into the hollow of Imogen's chest, warm and clumsy and impossible to ignore.

She felt herself go dizzy with it. Her sweater suddenly felt too warm and her jeans felt too tight at the waist. She tugged instinctively at the sleeve cuff, as if grounding herself with that soft, familiar texture would somehow steady her.

Laudna smiled, nervous but real, and the last few steps closed the space between them. When Laudna stopped in front of Imogen, the world narrowed to just the two of them. Imogen looked up, Laudna looked down, and they spoke at the exact same time:

“Hi.”

It echoed slightly between them, too perfect to be planned.

They blinked. Both startled. Then, softly, they laughed.

Not loud. Not awkward. Just...relieved.

“Sorry,” Imogen murmured, though she wasn't quite sure what for. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smiling at the ground for a half-second before looking up again.

“No, me too,” Laudna said gently, fingers folding over each other at her waist.

Before either of them could get another word in, a voice cut through the moment like a firework going off in a silent cathedral.

“Hello!” Fearne announced, suddenly at Imogen's side with a grin that could melt sugar. “Sorry, sorry, I tried to wait, I really did, but the tension was too much and I had to save you both.”

A moment passed.

“I'm Fearne,” she said as she turned to Laudna with a dramatic flourish. “You're taller than I thought, and also more beautiful, which is just unfair. If Imogen doesn't fall in love with you, I might.”

“Fearne!” Imogen whined, embarrassed. Her hands came up to cup around her eyes, like putting blinders on a nervous horse.

“It's...” Laudna blinked, then smiled a little, clearly flustered. “It's lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise!” Fearne beamed.

“Ashton,” came a dry voice from just behind her. “I'm here to stop Fearne from narrating your date like it's a nature documentary.”

“I would have made it tasteful!” Fearne huffed, completely unbothered. “Elegant. Maybe a little British.”

Ashton gave Laudna a curt nod, then wrapped their arm around Fearne's shoulders.

“And I'm dragging her away now because the pie-eating contest's about to start and I'm not missing any whipped-cream related incidents,” they said, already pulling Fearne away into the crowd. “Last year was chaos.”

“Ooh, right,” Fearne said, already turning as Ashton gently herded her off. “You two behave! Or don't – just take notes if it's interesting.”

And then they were gone, swept into the current of the crowd, Fearne's laughter trailing behind like a ribbon caught in the wind.

Imogen released a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and looked up at Laudna again, her voice softer now.

“Hi,” she repeated.

“Hi.” Laudna's smile lingered, like it was something she hadn't decided to take off yet.

They stood there, blinking into the quiet left by Fearne and Ashton. The crowd surged around them, warm and golden, full of fiddle music and the smell of sugar and hay, but it all seemed distant. Muffled. Like the world had tilted slightly on its axis, leaving just the two of them in focus.

Laudna still had that small smile. Her hand drifted to her coat sleeve, fidgeting with the button. Imogen's throat was dry and she was too aware of how sweaty her palms had become. Her heart thudded like it was trying to send her some kind of message. One she didn't have the skill to translate yet.

Say something. Gods, do something.

Imogen inhaled softly, willing her arm to move before her brain could talk her out of it. She extended it, bent awkwardly at the elbow, and offered it out towards Laudna with a shy sort of tilt to her head.

“Wanna...walk with me for a bit?”

It came out quieter than she intended, and far less smooth, but Laudna's dark eyes lit up like lanterns catching flame.

“I'd love to,” she said, and slipped her arm through Imogen's.

The contact was light, barely there, but Imogen felt it like lightning down her spine. Laudna's long fingers curled gently into the crook of her arm, cold, where her own skin was flushed with heat. They began to move in tandem, their steps uncertain at first, like dancers finding rhythm for the first time. Every brush of Laudna's coat against her side sent a ripple through Imogen's chest.

Her hand is right there. We're walkin’ arm in arm. She said yes to this. She's really here with me.

She smiled to herself, ducking her head slightly as they passed beneath a string of lights that were shaped like crescent moons.

“I've never really done this before,” she said after a beat. “Like...a real date. Not one where I wanted it to go right.”

“Me neither,” Laudna said as she glanced towards Imogen, dark eyes impossibly soft.

“Well, if we mess it up, at least we'll mess it up together.” Imogen exhaled, the knot in her stomach loosening.

“That's kind of the perfect way to do anything,” Laudna murmured.

Their boots clicked gently against the stones as they passed stalls painted in autumn golds and rich maroons. Paper leaves rustled overhead in the breeze, and somewhere nearby, someone let out a victorious whoop at a game stall.

Imogen glanced up at Laudna, taller, wrapped in shadowed red and quiet grace, and felt her pulse stumble like it had just remembered what it was beating for.

Yeah, she thought, I can do this. Especially with her.

-----

They hadn't gotten far from the main square. The noise of the crowd still curled around them. There was laughter, distant fiddle music, and the occasional cheer from someone who probably just won a pie or lost a tooth.

Imogen swore she could feel every nerve ending in her body lighting up. Laudna's arm was still looped through hers. Not tightly, but certainly not accidentally. It was intentional. It was real.

Which meant she was walking arm-in-arm with Laudna.

Which meant: oh no.

“So...do you come to festivals like this often?” Imogen asked, voice uneven but growing steadier.

“Honestly?” Laudna glanced down at her, a small, awkward smile tugging at her lips. “Not really. I tend to avoid big crowds, but...well, you made it hard to say no.”

“Glad I'm persuasive.” Imogen's cheeks warmed. She tried to step a little taller, a little more confident.

“You're pretty brave, you know.” Laudna's eyes darted away for a second before meeting Imogen's again. “Getting out here.”

Imogen laughed softly, feeling her nerves soften.

“Brave? More like terrified, but determined not to ruin a good night.” She nudged Laudna gently. “Besides, I like you too much to let my anxiety win.”

“I get that.” Laudna's smile grew, a little crooked and completely genuine. “I'm nervous too, but it feels kind of nice.”

“Want to, um...grab some cider?” Imogen pointed to the nearby cider cart. “Might help with the nerves.”

Laudna's eyes lit up.

“That sounds perfect.”

They made their way over, the smell of warm apples and cinnamon wrapping around them. Imogen fumbled with her coins, feeling clumsy, but Laudna's encouraging smile made her fingers steady. As the vendor handed them each a paper cup, Imogen caught Laudna's gaze and felt a flutter that had nothing to do with nerves.

They sipped on their cider quietly for a moment before Imogen found the courage to speak again, more sure now.

“So...what's somethin' weird about you I wouldn't guess?”

“Mm.” Laudna tilted her head, considering her options. “I make tiny clothes for my pet rat.”

Imogen blinked.

“You...make clothes. For your rat.”

“Pâté.” Laudna nodded solemnly, as if she was certain this was a step too far for Imogen. “He's very fashion-forward. I have a whole little box of outfits for him – tiny cloaks, waistcoats, a scarf with its own little button. He has a harvest ensemble with a corn-print cravat.”

Imogen laughed, and for a moment, Laudna felt the cold sting of shame settle in her bones.

“You're serious.” Imogen laughed again, softer, delighted and genuinely charmed.

“Deadly.” Laudna relaxed.

“I don't know what's more impressive, that he lets you dress him up or that you found fabric with corn on it.”

“Laudna magic,” she said lightly, wiggling her fingers. “Also, a very specific corner of the market stalls near the bridge.”

“I can't believe there's a rat out there that has a better wardrobe than me.” Imogen said with a teasing grin, swirling her cider in its paper cup.

“Pâté's outfits might be impressive, but,” Laudna's eyes sparkled as she smiled back at her, “honestly, Imogen, you look downright dashing every time I see you.”

Imogen's breath hitched. She took a sip of cider to hide her flush and immediately choked, coughing into her hand as the sudden compliment caught her off guard.

“Are you alright, darling?” Laudna reached over, her voice soft but amused.

“Yeah,” Imogen said, still blinking away the surprise. She laughed nervously. “Just wasn't ready for that.”

Laudna's smile deepened, her fingers brushing gently against Imogen's arm.

“I suppose I'm better at this flirting thing than I thought.”

-----

The crowd buzzed around them, thick with laughter, flickering lights, the clang of bells, and the soft thump of footsteps on packed earth. Imogen and Laudna had found a narrow bench tucked between two game booths, the din of bells and barkers slightly muffled here, like the edge of a dream.

Laudna was still gently holding Imogen's arm. Her fingers occasionally tightened, not in fear, but like she was anchoring herself. Imogen didn't mind. In fact, she was trying very hard not to mind too much, not to melt into a puddle every time their hands brushed.

They sipped their cider in the kind of silence that's warm and crackly around the edges.

And then, Imogen noticed it: Laudna's eyes were drifting again.

Not at her. At something behind her.

Imogen turned, casually, like she was just stretching. Her gaze landed on a crooked little prize booth not far from their bench, where a tired man in a vest leaned against a pile of wonky-looking plush toys.

And there, hanging limply among the neon pumpkins and stuffed bats, was a raven.

Sort of.

It was...a noble attempt at a raven. Its wings were soft but uneven, one eye was a shiny button and the other looked like it had been stitched on upside-down. Its beak tilted slightly to the left, and its stuffing was clearly rebelling against the seams.

It was ugly.

It was weird.

It was perfect.

Laudna was trying to be subtle, but she kept sneaking glances at the poor thing like it had whispered to her in a language only the misunderstood could hear.

Imogen stood up without thinking.

“Wait, where - ?” Laudna blinked.

Imogen tossed her empty cider cup into the nearest trash bin and cracked her knuckles like she was about to enter a duel.

“You've been starin' at him for five minutes,” Imogen said.

“Have I?” Laudna blinked, too innocently.

“He's a little creepy.”

“I think he's misunderstood,” Laudna said with a small shrug. “He has...character.”

Imogen felt bold in that nervous, reckless way that always hit her right before she did something ridiculous.

“Well, I can't let him go home with just anyone.”

“Imogen -” Laudna sat up on the bench a little straighter. “What are you - ?”

But Imogen was already off, dodging around a murder of toddlers with sticky hands and nearly walking face-first into a hanging lantern. Her heart was pounding, but there was a lightness in her steps, like she had caught a good breeze and didn't want to let go.

The man at the booth raised an eyebrow at Imogen's approach.

“Three rings for a copper.”

“Alright,” Imogen said as she handed over the coin, muttering to herself. “For the raven. For her. For glory.”

First ring: wildly off. Hit the corner of the stall with a harsh ding.

Second: closer – bounced just shy of the bottle.

Imogen took a breath and focused. She pictured Laudna's delighted face. She pictured that weird, beautiful, lopsided bird sitting in her arms.

She tossed the third ring.

Clink. Thunk. Ringed.

A victorious cheer escaped her before she could stop it and she pointed at the sort-of-raven.

“The raven! The haunted one.”

“You've got odd taste, kid.” The man handed it over with a grunt.

“Thanks,” Imogen beamed.

She returned to the bench, triumphantly brandishing the stuffed raven like she had won a battle against fate itself.

“For you,” she said, a little breathless. “He stared straight into my soul and said, 'Take me to her, or suffer the consequences.' I didn't argue.”

Laudna looked stunned for a beat, then reached out with a reverent kind of joy.

“He's...he's awful,” she whispered. “I love him.”

“He's all yours.” Imogen grinned.

Laudna stared at the raven, then up at Imogen with a growing smile. She clutched the misshapen plush raven to her chest like it might vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough. Its crooked beak poked upward at an odd angle, and one wing flopped limp against her elbow. She looked at it with something close to awe.

“Haggis,” she said, like the name had simply arrived in her mouth. “He's definitely a Haggis.”

“Like the food?” Imogen blinked.

“Yes.” Laudna nodded, completely serious. “Unsettling. Mysterious. Misunderstood by many. Adored by some.”

“Well, if the shoe fits.” Imogen grinned, her heart doing entirely unhelpful things.

They both looked down at Haggis, who stared blankly into the distance with his mismatched eyes, one of them barely stitched on.

“I think he's glarin’ at me,” Imogen said.

“He's protective,” Laudna murmured, and then, without thinking, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Imogen's cheek.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't grand. It was just the brush of lips against skin, light and fast and real.

Imogen froze.

Laudna froze harder.

They turned to look at each other at the exact same moment, wide-eyed and horrified by their own existence.

“I -” Laudna started.

“I'm -” Imogen said at the same time.

Imogen touched her cheek where Laudna had kissed her, like she was still trying to make sense of the fact that it had actually happened. Her skin was burning, but she didn't mind. Not one bit.

“I wasn't really thinking,” Laudna said suddenly, quiet, panicked. “About the kiss, I mean. It just sort of...happened.”

“I like that it happened.” Imogen swallowed, her heart racing.

Laudna looked up.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Imogen said, her voice steadier than she was expecting. “You can do it again sometime. If you want.”

“He might insist on it.” Laudna clutched Haggis a little closer, her grin crooked and bashful.

“Pushy little bird.” Imogen laughed, nervous and delighted.

“Very opinionated,” Laudna agreed. “He says I'd be a fool not to.”

Imogen reached out, brushing her fingers against the edge of Haggis's limp wing, then let her hand fall, brushing lightly against Laudna's wrist instead. She didn't pull away.

Neither did Laudna.

They didn't say anything else for a long moment. They just sat there, breathing the same cool air, surrounded by festival lights and the hum of other people's joy, hearts full of something quiet and new and impossibly bright.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I decided to split the harvest festival into a few parts so that the chapters don't get too long. I like them all being around the same length! Thank you so much for continuing to read this little story. I'm not sure where we're going but we're certainly getting there. All the comments and kudos have been making me grin like an idiot, so thank you for that. :)

Chapter 8: Coffee & Formaldehyde

Summary:

The Harvest Festival, Part Two

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the back edge of the festival, the noise had thinned out into a gentle softness. Gone were the children's games and pumpkin pies, the fire-eaters and fiddlers and cider merchants with overflowing cups. Out here, the tents leaned sideways and the booths were built from scavenged wood, patchwork signs nailed on crooked with hand-painted lettering. The lights overhead were dimmer. There were paper lanterns and string lights hung too low, humming soft and golden like fireflies caught in jars.

Laudna walked a little ahead of her, not quite tugging Imogen along, but close enough that their arms brushed every now and then.

She still clutched Haggis. His button eye had come loose on one side and Laudna was using her thumb to gently hold it in place. It was as though she thought that the pressure might keep the little creature from falling apart entirely.

“You didn't have to carry him the whole time,” Imogen said softly, just behind her.

“Are you kidding?” Laudna turned, eyes wide and alight with something akin to thinly veiled horror. “Haggis is having the time of his life.”

“Yeah?” Imogen smiled, helpless.

“He loves the smell of dried herbs and mothballs and regret,” Laudna said, and gestured towards the booth beside them with her chin. It was filled with trinkets: small, hand-carved creatures with too many eyes, dried flower crowns woven through small, rusted chains, and a doll made entirely of matchsticks. “I mean, look at this.”

She leaned close to a display of tiny brass cages. Each one was no bigger than a teacup and each one was holding a small, carefully sculpted figurine. One had a mouth but no face. One was a hand clutching a lock of white hair. Another held what looked like a small clock made of teeth.

“This is art.” Laudna's voice dropped, reverent.

Imogen didn't say anything at first. She just watched her. The curve of her mouth when she was delighted. The way her fingers hovered like she didn't want to disturb the air too much. The soft sway she did when she was happy, like she might start to dance if the wind caught her just right.

“You're beautiful when you look at things like that,” Imogen said, before she could stop herself.

“What?” Laudna blinked.

“Just – when you're seein' somethin' you love. It's like...” Imogen's throat went dry and her voice got smaller. “Like you light up from the inside.”

There was a long beat. Laudna held her gaze, quiet now. Haggis sagged gently against her ribs.

And then Laudna smiled. It wasn't the wide, sharp grin she used to deflect attention, but something slow and soft and blooming. She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing Imogen's.

“You know, you tend to talk like that when you're nervous,” she said.

“Do not.” Imogen's face went warm.

“You do,” Laudna whispered, grinning through a blush. “It's very charming.”

They stood there, close enough that the backs of their hands touched as the soft sound of a wind chime rustled nearby. People moved through the shadows behind them but it felt like the world had gotten small. Just the two of them. Laudna, and her weird little trinkets. Imogen, and her heartbeat drumming so loud that she was sure everyone in the surrounding tents could hear it.

Laudna leaned in, close enough that Imogen could feel the whisper of her breath by her ear.

“Tell Haggis thank you for bringing us back here,” she murmured.

“You think it was his idea?” Imogen swallowed.

Laudna pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, cradling the plush bird with an absurd amount of gentleness.

“I think sometimes we need a silly little thing to hold onto when the world gets too real.”

Imogen didn't look away. Couldn't.

And after a long, slow second, she reached up and smoothed a stray strand of hair from Laudna's cheek.

“I'm glad I won him for you.”

Laudna's smile turned crooked and bright.

The next booth glimmered with baubles made of sea-glass and small stones, throwing errant rays of multicolored light across the two of them, but neither of them moved just yet. The air between them felt heavier than it had a moment ago, charged and a little wild, like something wanted to shift.

Imogen could feel the heat of something unnamed buzzing in her fingertips and humming against her lips. The space between them thinned, breath to breath.

And just before the world could tilt -

“So...art, huh?” Imogen asked.

Laudna blinked.

Imogen's voice had gone high and a little rushed, that unmistakable lilt of nerves catching her by the heel and dragging her back down to earth. She scratched at the back of her neck and her eyes darted towards the trinket booth like it might save her.

“I mean – uh, I know you're studyin' it and all, but I've only ever seen you sketchin'. At the cemetery.” She winced at herself. “Not in, like, a weird way. You just always seem really focused. I didn't wanna interrupt.”

Laudna's mouth parted in a small, surprised smile. She didn't tease her even though she probably could have. Instead, she shifted Haggis to her other arm and tilted her head, considering.

“I do sketch a lot,” she said. “It helps me think. Like...wringing thoughts out of my fingertips before they get too loud in my head.”

Imogen nodded, still not quite meeting her eyes.

“Do you paint too?” she asked.

“I do,” Laudna said. “Mostly at home or in my studio, when the light's right. I like painting on wood better than canvas. Something about it feels heavier, like it wants to remember.”

“That's poetic.” Imogen's lips twitched.

“And a little pretentious,” Laudna added, grinning.

“Nah,” Imogen murmured. “I like it.”

They started walking again, slowly, side-by-side, the booths falling away into tangled paths of hanging moss and lantern glow. It felt like the back of the world. Private. Off the map.

“I do taxidermy, too.” Laudna spoke again, quieter this time.

“You what?” Imogen blinked.

“Odd little animals mostly.” Laudna chuckled softly. “Mice. Squirrels. One unfortunate crow. They're not always pretty, but...I make them my own. Add little things. Bits of lace, copper wire, flowers for eyes sometimes. It's like storytelling but you start with something dead.”

Imogen stared at her, stunned for a beat, and then she smiled. Soft and real.

“I didn't know that.”

“My father was a taxidermist,” Laudna said. “He had a little workshop behind our house. I used to sit on the stool beside his table and hand him pins. The air always smelled like coffee and formaldehyde…my mother hated it – she would always wrinkle her nose and say that it smelled like someone had poured breakfast into a corpse.”

Imogen laughed, then immediately covered her mouth.

“Sorry.”

“No, no,” Laudna said, beaming. “She meant it lovingly. She would always bring him fresh coffee anyway. And he'd wink at me when she turned her back.”

There was a pause. Haggis's loose button eye bobbed against Laudna's side as she adjusted her grip on him.

“They passed a while back,” Laudna added softly. “I kept the tools. The smell's gone now, but...sometimes I swear I can still feel the weight of those pins in my hand.”

Imogen didn't speak at first. She just reached out and gently brushed her fingers along Laudna's arm, light and grounding and present.

“I think that's beautiful,” she said. “The way you keep it goin'. Make it yours.”

Laudna looked at her, dark eyes searching.

“I don't know if other people would call it beautiful.”

“I'm not other people,” Imogen said.

The quiet hung around them again, but this time it felt full. Not awkward. Not afraid. Just soft.

Then Laudna gave a crooked smile but it was gentler now, something quieter at its edges. She looked down at Haggis, then back up at Imogen.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low, “for letting me talk about them.”

“Thank you for lettin' me listen.” Imogen's hand brushed Laudna's again, this time on purpose.

They kept walking, arms close, the space between them warm and humming. And Imogen thought, not for the first time tonight, just how easy it would be to fall in love with someone like this.

Someone who made strange things beautiful. Someone who carried grief in one hand and a lumpy plush raven in the other. Someone who let her in, little by little, and didn't flinch when she stayed.

-----

The lights grew more sparse the farther they walked. The air smelled like fresh firewood and the dry crispness of fallen leaves, and Imogen's heart was beating a little too fast for no good reason.

Well. One good reason.

Laudna was just ahead of her. Haggis was tucked under one arm, her black hair bouncing as she turned to look at a row of crooked wind chimes made from small, delicate bones and silver keys.

Imogen swallowed.

“Hey,” she said, a little too soft at first. “Um – Laudna?”

“Hm?” Laudna turned, one brow raised, a small smile already tugging at her lips.

Imogen shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans, then pulled one right back out again like it didn't belong there.

“Can I...hold your hand?”

Laudna blinked. Not surprised, exactly, but something in her expression gentled.

“You can,” she said, and offered a hand, palm up.

Imogen took it carefully, like she might mess it up somehow. Their fingers laced together slowly and when they fit, she let out a breath she didn’t even know she had been holding.

“I was wondering how long you would make me wait,” Laudna said, giving Imogen's hand a small squeeze.

“I had to be sure it wasn't too soon.” Imogen laughed, quiet and a little breathless.

Laudna tilted her head, smile curling.

“It's not.”

Their joined hands swung gently between them as the path curved beneath arching branches that were strung with mismatched lanterns. A quiet settled in, thick enough that Imogen could hear her own breathing.

She squeezed Laudna's fingers.

“Can I...tell you somethin' a little heavier?” she asked, her drawl softer than usual.

“Anything.” Laudna tipped her head towards her, dark eyes steady.

“I was six when my mama left.” Imogen's gaze drifted to the gravel path beneath their feet. “No warning. She just packed a bag one night and drove off before the sun came up. Didn't leave a note. Barely looked at me.”

Her voice stayed even but there was something careful in it, like she had learned how to keep it from cracking.

“I remember standin' on the porch, watchin' the light hit her hair as she walked away. Then all I could hear was the car on the road gettin' quieter and quieter.”

She paused, thumb tracing a slow circle against Laudna's hand.

“Daddy stayed. Kept things goin'. But he was never really there, y'know? I think lookin' at me just reminded him of her – of everythin' she left behind. So I grew up in that house like a shadow he couldn't quite shake. It was quiet, but not in a peaceful way. More like...bein' surrounded by things no one wanted to talk about.”

Laudna's thumb stroked the ridge of Imogen's knuckles in silent encouragement.

“I ain't told many folks that,” Imogen continued. “But tonight you gave me a piece of your past – coffee, formaldehyde, little pins in your daddy's workshop – and it felt...safe. So I figure it's only fair that I hand you a bit of mine.”

“Thank you for trusting me with it.” Laudna's voice was quiet but clear.

“Reckon that makes us even.” Imogen managed a small smile.

Laudna shifted Haggis to the crook of her elbow and lifted Imogen's hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. No theatrics, only warmth. Imogen's heart stutter-stepped.

“I don't know what happened to your mother,” Laudna said, “but I do know that looking at you is the easiest thing in the world.”

Heat bloomed in Imogen's cheeks. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You sayin' I'm easy on the eyes?” she asked.

“I'm saying,” Laudna whispered, leaning in so the lantern light gilded her smile, “I'd like to keep looking, if you'll let me.”

“I'd like that too.” Imogen's answering grin was shy and tilted, but so sure.

They walked on, fingers still laced, each of them carrying one more story and feeling lighter for it.

-----

Group Chat: Dorian's Backup Band

Dorian changed the name to Laudna's Little Love Coven <3

Dorian:
laudna
LAUDNA
status report
we are dying out here

Chetney:
I'm already planning her background check
I need her last three employers and at least one ex that hates her

Orym:
don't mind them
just checking in
how's it going?

Letters:
just a gentle check-in! how's your affect regulation? feeling safe and emotionally validated? is she holding space for your inner world??

Dorian:
what letters said but with less flashcards

Chetney:
seriously though
if she's not nice to you I will feed her shoes to my band-saw

Laudna:
hi

Dorian:
ALIVE
YES

Laudna:
it's going
really, really well

Laudna:
we're in the strange end of the festival
everything smells like cinnamon, wax, and something that might be regret
she won me a battered little raven from a ring toss booth
he's hideous
I named him Haggis

Chetney:
well you always did know how to pick a winner

Orym:
that sounds like you're smiling while you type so I'm happy

Letters:
the plush raven is symbolic!
classic transitional object behavior – she's giving you a concrete token of safety + connection
very healthy! very present!!

Dorian:
I love how you translated “won me a weird bird” into therapy language

Laudna:
she keeps doing this thing
where she says something awkward and then apologizes for it
but every time
it's the kindest thing I've ever heard

Laudna:
she listens
really listens
like she wants to know the strange parts too and not just fix them
just...witness them

Chetney:
ok but is she funny
or just “polite laugh” funny

Laudna:
she's funny in that sideways, stammered way
like she's thinking of ten metaphors and only saying one
but it always lands

Orym:
that sounds like a good match

Dorian:
ok
I'm gonna cry
you're falling for her
I knew it

Laudna:
I don't want to jinx anything
but it feels easy
and soft
and rare

Letters:
this is a beautiful example of emergent trust!
I'd be happy to do a post-date debrief with charts <3

Chetney:
if she breaks your heart I will feed HER to my band-saw

Laudna:
I don't think she will
she's careful
even when she's nervous
especially then

Laudna:
okay we're headed towards a tent that looks like it was built by a witch with a sewing problem
I may not survive
if not
please turn my bones into wind chimes

Dorian:
we love you
text when you're out
or from beyond

Letters:
remember: eye contact builds oxytocin
physical proximity increases trust
deep breathing lowers cortisol
also, have fun!!! <3

Orym:
you've got this
go fall in love a little

-----

They rounded a bend where the festival thinned into shadows and silence. A crooked tent sat tucked beneath a thicket of willow branches like it had grown there. It was stitched from mismatched panels of violet velvet and lace, sagging at the edges but proud in its posture.

Bones lined the poles. There were bird femurs, thin jawbones, and ribs lashed together with twine. Charms hung in tangled rows from the canopy: tea-stained ribbons, foggy beads, and yellowed teeth strung on hair. The air smelled like mint, damp moss, and the inside of an old music box.

Laudna came to a halt so suddenly that Imogen nearly bumped into her.

“Oh...” Laudna breathed, eyes wide. “She's beautiful.”

Imogen followed her gaze to the looming velvet tent.

“You mean that?” she asked, half-smiling. “Looks like it might swallow someone whole.”

“Exactly!” Laudna's voice was almost reverent as she clutched Haggis close to her chest, her fingers tightening around Imogen's.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Imogen huffed a soft laugh.

“It smells like...peppermint and something older.” Laudna's smile widened as she tilted her head, studying the way the charms swayed in the still air. “Like dust and teeth.”

“That's comfortin'.” Imogen said, but her voice was quiet. And maybe a little curious.

Imogen opened her mouth to speak again but the tent flap suddenly burst open, causing her to jump nearly clean off the path. Ashton came stomping out with a hand in their hair like they were trying to rub out whatever they had just heard.

“Gods, Ashton!” Imogen yelled. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“She said I'm a freight train with karma for fuel and a brick wall for a destination,” they muttered. “Which, like – fair, I guess.”

Fearne appeared just behind them, radiant and unbothered.

“I thought it was beautifully phrased. She lit one of the cards on fire! On purpose, I think!” Fearne brought her hands up to clap daintily in front of her.

“I need something fried.” Ashton shook their head, already walking away.

Fearne lingered and her gaze flitted between Imogen and Laudna.

“She's waiting for you, you know,” she said.

“Who is?” Imogen asked. “Nana Morri?”

“Mhm!” Fearne said cheerfully. “She said the air's been restless all day. Said you'd ‘come walking in with lavender in your lungs and storm clouds tucked behind your ribs.’ You know...I'm not sure if that was meant to be literal.”

“That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard.” Laudna practically vibrated.

Fearne leaned in close to Imogen as Ashton called impatiently from down the path.

“You're doing great on your date, by the way,” Fearne murmured as she leaned in even closer, just before skipping off.

“Fearne - !” Imogen flushed immediately, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I know,” Fearne said over her shoulder with a wink, then twirled after Ashton without waiting for a response.

Imogen watched her go, heart still thudding stupidly fast.

“Approval from the queen of chaos?” Laudna leaned closer with her brow raised in amusement.

“Somethin' like that,” Imogen said as she huffed out a small, quiet laugh. “She's been hypin' me up all week.”

“She should be.” Laudna tilted her head. “You're doing beautifully.”

The quiet, steady way she said it made Imogen glance at her, lips parted, but whatever she was about to say fell away. Instead, she gave Laudna's hand a gentle squeeze.

“Come on. Before she sends a moth out to fetch us.”

“Oh, we can only hope!” Laudna smiled.

And together, they stepped through the curtain of bones and lace into the waiting dark of Nana Morri's tent.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I hope you enjoy this chapter and the chapter that's going to come after it! I don't know what Nana Morri is going to say yet, and honestly, maybe she doesn't either. We'll see if she possesses me or not. Thank you for the kind comments and kudos. They really do make me very happy. I hope you're all doing well <3

Chapter 9: Tethered

Summary:

The Harvest Festival, Part Three

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The tent loomed like a large, dark bruise on the edge of the festival grounds. The purple velvet flaps sagged with age, heavy and dark, like old blood dried into delicate silk. Violet lace that was torn in places and mended in others hung like curtains at the entrance, catching the faint breeze and fluttering like a moth's wings. Imogen pulled the tapestry of fabrics aside and stepped through, Laudna's hand clasped tightly within her own.

Inside, the world dimmed down to faint lamplight and dust. The thick air smelled faintly of dried lavender, old paper, and something that was faintly metallic, like rainwater on old iron. The festival faded behind them as the tent flaps closed, like the music and laughter was playing on repeat in a completely different room.

Laudna let out a soft breath, caught somewhere between awe and delight.

“Oh, Imogen...” she murmured. “This place is...”

Antique furniture crowded the space, as if it were standing sentinel around the edges of the tent like old, watchful friends. Each piece was sagging under the weight of various oddities. Glass domes covered wilted flowers with too many petals, and there was an old bureau overflowing with trinkets of all kinds: chipped porcelain figurines, tiny cages holding skeletal birds, cracked compasses forever pointing north, and glass jars full of smooth river stones. Different lamps that were haphazardly placed around the tent let out a soft glow. Their colored-glass shapes were warped and faded, casting long, strange shadows across the mismatched rugs that lined the floor.

Laudna drifted forward like she was caught in the tide of curiosities. She crouched down beside a low curio cabinet and peered through the smudged glass at a set of tiny music boxes. Each one was missing its small winding key. They were chipped, dented, and long past their glory days. Her crooked smile bloomed, soft and unguarded, as she pressed her fingertips to the dark wood surrounding the glass.

“They're so quiet,” she murmured. “Like they're all holding their breath, waiting to be heard again.”

She didn't seem unnerved by it all. If anything, she seemed downright charmed. She reached out to trace a fingertip down one of the dusty panes, as if she was trying to feel the story that was sealed inside.

“They remind me of me,” she added with a little laugh, glancing over her shoulder, eyes sparkling with a sort of dark humor. “Broken, but still a little pretty if you squint.”

Imogen felt her heart catch hard in her chest, like with every sentence Laudna was cracking open her sternum to reveal all of the mushy feelings hidden inside. Something warm and aching settled just behind her ribs. She was struck by how Laudna saw the world, the way she gave affection so freely to the forgotten, the eerie, and the unloved. It was as if the entire tent had bloomed open just to show her to Imogen in a new light.

And gods, she looked radiant in it.

Imogen barely breathed. She was too caught up in the curve of Laudna's smile. Something inside her slipped loose, quiet and trembling and unbearably full.

From the center of the tent, a voice drifted up like curling smoke from a fire that had just been put out.

“Mm,” came the rasp, low and frayed. “No wonder the threads have started humming again.”

Imogen turned with a start, her breath caught tight in her throat.

Nana Morri sat at a low table in the center of the cluttered room, a weathered silhouette among bone and velvet. Her long silver hair was coiled on top of her head, like a small storm cloud waiting to unleash a downpour, tangled through with small bits of carved antler and string. The pale bones that were scattered on the surface in front of her gleamed faintly in the low light, arranged in a pattern that didn't belong to any language.

She didn't look at Laudna. Not yet.

Her pale eyes, as dull as sun-bleached fabric, were fixed solely on Imogen.

“Been waiting to meet the reason the wind's changed,” she said softly, almost as if she wasn't speaking to either of them at all. “Funny thing, how the tide turns without telling the shore.”

And then she blinked, slow and heavy, and finally let her gaze drift over to Laudna.

“Well,” she said. “You finally brought her.”

Laudna blinked, her head tilting like a curious bird.

“Brought me?” she echoed, glancing quickly between Nana Morri and Imogen. “That sounds premeditated.”

Imogen winced, feeling like she was being pinned in place by Laudna's unreadable look.

“Okay. I mean – sort of,” she said.

“Sort of?” Laudna's brows arched with a theatrical amount of suspicion.

“Nana Morri asked me last week. Said I should bring you by her tent.” She gave a small, nervous shrug. “She said she wanted to do a readin'. Somethin' about...old ties and makin' sure the knots were still holdin'.”

Laudna turned slowly, her eyes scanning the room again, taking in the shelves cluttered with dried flowers and bird skulls, the old keys on tangled strings, and the chipped teacups filled with buttons and teeth.

And then she looked back at Imogen.

“So you lured me into the bone-sorceress's lair,” she said, “with the promise of caramel apples and cider?”

Imogen's face went red.

“I didn't lure you!”

“Oh no,” Laudna said, deadpan. “Just walked me hand-in-hand into a haunted pocket dimension full of emotionally charged antiques. Totally casual.”

Imogen winced again, then laughed, embarrassed.

“You think it's weird, don't you?”

“Weird?” Laudna smiled, wide and sharp and somehow impossibly soft. “Of course it's weird. That's why I like it.”

Imogen's brow furrowed, still uncertain.

“So...you're okay with this?”

“Oh, I'm curious,” Laudna said, spinning slowly to take in the whole eerie, dust-choked space. She gestured to a porcelain doll missing its eyes that was seated in a chair that was far too small for it. “Slightly alarmed. But mostly charmed. This is so my kind of evening.”

“You're really not bothered?” Imogen let out a small laugh, genuine this time, a little breathless with relief.

“If Nana Morri tells me I'm haunted, possessed, or half of a prophecy – I'm not saying she's wrong.” Laudna shrugged with one shoulder, Haggis jostling in her grip. “I'm just saying it's good information to have.”

Nana Morri moved slowly in her seat. She shifted her hands, pale and ring-heavy, across the array of bones in front of her.

“Sit, then.” She tilted her head slightly. “Let's see what the bones have to say before they get restless.”

Laudna gave one last look to the unsettling doll perched in its chair and then turned back toward the center of the tent, where Nana Morri waited like the answer to a question neither one of them had asked.

“I guess...we sit?” Imogen gestured awkwardly towards the two velvet-lined chairs that sat opposite Morri.

“After you.” Laudna gave a small bow of mock-ceremony. “Wouldn't want to offend the bones.”

They both sat, knees nearly brushing beneath the narrow table.

Nana Morri gathered the bones in her hands, clutching tightly to small leg bones and pieces of splintered vertebrae. She threw them after a moment and stared down at the scattered pattern before her, as if the bones were already speaking. Her long fingers hovered over them like she was waiting for something.

Her eyes lifted slowly to Laudna.

“No name yet,” she murmured. “Interesting.”

“Should I be worried?” Laudna blinked, smile faltering only slightly.

Nana's fingers danced across the bones and selected a small handful, shards of something curved and thin. Maybe bird or rabbit or something smaller. With practiced motion, she rolled them across the dark surface of the table again. The bones clicked and scattered into strange, yet seemingly intentional shapes.

The light in the room seemed to pull inward for a breath.

“Mm.” Nana Morri's gaze didn't move from the table and her voice dropped to a thin rasp. “Death sits close.”

Imogen stiffened.

Laudna's posture didn't change but her hands folded in her lap, carefully still.

“You carry grief like a stitch in the spine,” Nana Morri said. “Tight. Crooked. You've learned to walk with it, but it pulls.”

The silence in the room hung heavy between all of them.

“It wasn't clean,” she continued, brushing one finger beside a bit of fractured bone. “There's sorrow here, yes. But fury too. Long buried. Red-edged.”

“That's...not inaccurate.” Laudna's eyes darkened slightly, though her voice was steady.

Imogen turned to look at her with concern etched across her face, but Laudna didn't meet her gaze. She was too enraptured by the bones.

“They were taken.” Nana Morri traced a fingertip along a crescent-shaped chip. “Sudden. Violent. Metal and glass. A woman behind the wheel.”

Laudna's breath caught, just barely.

“She wasn't drunk.” Nana nodded slowly. “She wasn't tired. She meant it.”

Imogen's hand twitched where it rested on her knee.

“You're saying it wasn't an accident.” Laudna's voice was soft.

“I'm saying it was made to look like one,” Nana said. “And you've always known that. Somewhere down in the marrow.”

The tent suddenly felt too still.

Laudna stared at the bones, at the twist of them, like they had spelled out something that she had never dared to place a name on.

“I knew I hated her,” she whispered.

Nana Morri finally looked up, eyes locking with hers.

“Hate's a thread, too. It knots itself around grief. If you don't unspool it carefully, it strangles everything it touches.”

She let the bones sit. Silent. Waiting.

Then, her voice gentled, but it didn't lose its weight.

“You've kept too much of it for too long. You don't have to carry their ghosts alone.”

Laudna's eyes shimmered, a sudden glint of moisture threatening to spill down her cheek. She blinked rapidly, forcing herself to look away, biting her lower lip as if she was trying to swallow the ache whole.

Imogen caught the subtle trembling of Laudna's hands resting in her lap and Nana Morri's pale gaze flicked to her with quiet understanding. Neither said a word. They let the silence stretch, soft and heavy and protective, giving Laudna the space she needed without intrusion.

Imogen reached out and grasped one of Laudna's trembling hands, just to let her know that she was there.

After a few heartbeats, Nana Morri's voice broke gently through the stillness, carrying a thick thread of mischief as she looked towards Imogen.

“And you! Time for a love reading.”

Laudna's lips twitched into a barely concealed smile, amusement sparkling in her eyes even as she sniffled. She looked over to Imogen and brought Haggis up to dab at her eyes.

Imogen's cheeks flared red as if she was caught in a sudden spotlight. Her fingers fidgeted nervously with the edge of her sweater sleeve, her other hand holding tighter to Laudna's. She cast a quick, desperate glance towards the tent's entrance, halfway to considering a strategic retreat through the heavy velvet flaps.

But Nana Morri's presence was like an ancient stone wall, silent and immovable. Imogen's feet felt glued to the mismatched rugs beneath her. Her escape had been thwarted by that steady, unwavering gaze.

“Well,” Imogen muttered under her breath, voice dry and resigned, “guess I'm stayin' for the bones' judgment of my love life.”

Nana Morri's fingers drifted over the scattered bones once more, gathering a handful in her palm. She let them fall slowly across the table, watching how they settled into uneven patterns.

Her pale eyes lifted, scanning Imogen with a steady but almost unreadable gaze.

“The thread you carry is slender,” Nana Morri murmured, voice low and deliberate. “Taut and unyielding, stretched over years of quiet exile – not broken, but worn thin by absence.”

She paused, fingers lightly tracing a circle in the dust on the table.

“You walk among others, yet move apart – an island in a sea of faces, wrapped in stillness like a second skin.”

Imogen's breath caught softly but she said nothing. She felt Laudna's hand tighten around hers.

“The bones whisper of a hollow shaped by loneliness,” Nana Morri continued. “A space carved by unspoken words and warmth withheld. It is not empty, no, but patient. Expectant.”

Her gaze flicked briefly towards Laudna, then slowly back to Imogen.

“Something waits in the shadows of your path. Unseen, yet stirring – threading nearer with each quiet step.”

The bones shifted slightly, as if stirred by a breath.

“The knot is not yet tied, but the weaving has begun.”

Nana Morri's fingers stilled.

She looked up at Imogen, eyes deep and knowing.

“Prepare yourself.”

Nana Morri was silent for a moment longer, her eyes lingering on Imogen. Then, without a word, she stood.

The movement was slow and almost ceremonial. Her long skirts gently brushed against the tent floor, trailing shadows behind her as she moved to a narrow cabinet tucked beneath a crooked standing shelf. The wood was warped and water-stained, its drawers mismatched, and its knobs were different shapes of bones and palm-sized stones.

She opened it gently. The hinges squeaked.

From within, she retrieved something small that was soft and coiled. It was a length of red string, faded with age and weathered like something that had waited a long time to be useful again.

She returned to the table, each step unhurried. Her presence filled the small space, heavy and inevitable.

Imogen and Laudna both turned slightly in their seats, watching her as she came around to their side of the table. She said nothing.

Then, with practiced fingers, she wrapped a length of the thread around Imogen's wrist. Just once, not tight, but firm enough to be felt, then tied it tight with a simple and clean knot.

She moved to Laudna next, wrapping the same thread around her wrist, mirroring the gesture and tying the same knot.

Only when both wrists bore the red loop did she speak, voice low and as smooth as a stone at the bottom of a riverbed.

“Two ends of the same thread,” she said. “Drawn not by the hand, but by the pattern beneath it.”

She looked down at the knots.

“This is not a binding of will,” she added, barely above a whisper, “but of recognition. Of what already was. Of what already pulls.”

Nana Morri stepped back then, her hands falling loosely to her sides. The space between them was quiet and strange, like something soft and sacred had just settled into place.

She met their eyes once more and gave a single, knowing nod.

“The bones have seen it. Now the rest is yours.”

-----

The festival had begun the ritual of unraveling.

Lanterns flickered low, their glow softening as vendors packed away their goods with the slow, tired grace of people who had given all they had to the day. The crowds were thinning down to loose, wandering threads as the last wisps of music drifted out from somewhere beyond the shuttered food stalls. It was soft and slow and almost a little mournful, like it wasn't quite ready to let go of the festival yet.

Imogen and Laudna walked side-by-side, sharing a warm cinnamon pear tart between them. It was wrapped in wax paper that had gone translucent with butter. They tore it carefully between them, passing pieces back and forth.

Neither of them spoke much since stepping out of Nana Morri's tent.

Their wrists brushed occasionally as they walked and each time the red thread tied snugly around them caught a bit of the dying light. It was a little frayed and a lot faded, but it was unmistakably present.

“So,” Laudna said at last, glancing sideways as she licked a smear of filling off of her thumb, “that was...unsettling-ly poetic.”

Imogen huffed a soft breath through her nose.

“Yeah. She has a way of doing that.”

“I don't even know what half of it meant,” Laudna said, casting a glance at the tents, “but I feel like I'm going to be thinking about it for the next decade.”

“Sounds about right.”

They walked a few more steps. Someone in the far distance was laughing. It sounded high and tired and it was unraveling into hiccups. A soft breeze tugged at the paper streamers tied between poles, and somewhere behind them, a vendor muttered while dismantling a kettle corn stand.

“Want it?” Laudna asked as she held out the last bit of tart.

Imogen hesitated.

“We could split it,” she said.

“Imogen,” Laudna said, mock-serious, “if there were ever a moment to let someone have the last bite...”

“Thanks.” Imogen smiled and plucked it from her hand, blushing slightly as their fingers brushed.

Their eyes met, quiet and considering, with the kind of look that didn't need to be named yet. Neither of them mentioned the thread. Neither of them needed to.

They were only a few steps from the exit when it happened –

ping

ping

Both of their phones buzzed at the same time.

They stopped.

“That's...weird.” Imogen blinked and pulled her phone from her back pocket, brows beginning to scrunch together.

“Yes,” Laudna said, already peering down at her own screen. “Very weird.”

-----

Fearne:
hey imogen
soooooo
we may have done something :p

Ashton:
met a pack of chaos goblins
good vibes

Fearne:
one's named Dorian
he sparkles, like...actually sparkles
I think he moisturizes with moonlight

Ashton:
Orym's got big “I can bench-press a horse and then apologize for startling it” energy

Fearne:
Chetney might be part raccoon
we didn't ask
he was gnawing on a candied apple stick

Ashton:
and there's one guy
just goes by “Letters”
we didn't question it because they said it with confidence

Fearne:
anyway
plot twist
they were also here to supervise a certain Laudna

Ashton:
isn't that a crazy coincidence

Fearne:
turns out we were ALL babysitting two disaster romantics

Ashton:
long story short
we formed a temporary alliance and ditched you both

Fearne:
FOR LOVE <3

Ashton:
we're giving you space
don't make us regret it
or do
it's your call

Fearne:
now go!
offer her a ride
fall in love
and name your future pets something fun

Ashton:
also if you kiss in your busted car, we expect updates

Fearne:
but like
tasteful updates

Ashton:
mostly

-----

Dorian:
okay
tiny confession
we left

Orym:
not because we don't love you
but because we do

Letters:
the environment was becoming ripe for meaningful one-on-one engagement! :)
and we collectively chose to reduce external stimuli

Chetney:
yeah anyway
we bailed so you and Imogen could be alone
really alone
you're welcome

Dorian:
we ran into her friends
Fearne and Ashton
total agents of chaos
loved them instantly

Orym:
turns out they were also there to keep an eye on their friend

Letters:
it was a beautifully improvised support group convergence!
textbook emotional alignment

Chetney:
so we all just backed away slowly
like cool, supportive ninjas

Dorian:
if she offers to drive you home, say yes
if she doesn't, ask

Orym:
be safe
trust your gut

Letters:
emotional connection flourishes in liminal spaces
cars are very liminal! :)

Chetney:
just don't let her drop you off with an awkward “well, see ya”
you deserve better than a sitcom exit

Dorian:
you've got this
don't overthink it

Letters:
but if you do overthink it, be gentle with yourself!
that's growth too :)

-----

The texts lit up their screens at the exact same time, soft pings cutting through the quiet hum of the winding-down festival.

Imogen blinked down at hers, thumb hovering over the keyboard, rereading Fearne's emoji-laced chaos at least three times before it really sank in.

Laudna made a small sound, something between a laugh and a scoff, as she lowered her phone. She looked over at Imogen.

“Well, I've been abandoned,” she said.

“You too?” Imogen looked up, eyes wide.

“Dorian and the others teamed up with your friends.” Laudna turned her screen so that Imogen could see it. “Apparently, everyone decided they were on babysitting duty and...mutually resigned.”

“Ashton said that they all formed a 'temporary alliance',” Imogen said as she held out her own phone. “‘For love’, says Fearne.”

“Love?” Laudna's eyebrows lifted and she tilted her head.

Imogen's face flushed instantly.

“Their words, not mine.”

They stood there for a beat, near the parking lot, surrounded by the soft unwinding of the fairgrounds. A half-deflated jack-o'-lantern bobbed in the breeze, its little face seeming to judge Imogen with every flappy wave.

“I suppose that leaves just us,” Laudna said, trying for 'cool, calm, and collected', but sounding unsteady even to herself.

Imogen's hand found her own wrist, rubbing gently at the red thread still knotted there. She watched as Laudna's hands worried at Haggis's unfortunate plush feathers.

“I was goin' to offer you a ride home anyway,” she said, voice quiet.

“Oh?” Laudna asked, just a touch too high-pitched. “As a courtesy? Or a...fate-mandated obligation?”

“Somewhere in between, maybe.” Imogen smiled, crooked and shy.

“Well, I suppose I should accept.” Laudna looked down at her shoes, then back up again. “It would be irresponsible to ignore the will of our matchmaking overlords.”

“I do fear them,” Imogen said with a chuckle. “Especially Fearne.”

“Do you think they'll all be waiting at my house?” Laudna reached out to link their arms together gently as they began to walk in the direction of Imogen's car. “With scorecards?”

Imogen laughed, surprised.

“Gods, I hope not. But if they are, I'm fully prepared to pretend this was just a very elaborate Uber ride.”

“Mm. Then I get to leave you a five-star rating. And a very generous tip.”

The space between them grew warmer as they walked into the fading lights, quiet laughter trailing behind them like the red thread that now connected them.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I just got done with this chapter after furiously writing for the past few days (the perks of being unemployed I guess), like some sort of sentient, over-caffeinated typewriter. I kept going back and forth on whether or not to include Delilah in this story and I landed on...kind of? I want her to be a part of Laudna's not-so-distant past because she's an important part of it, for worse or for dang worse, but I really do want this to first and foremost be a fluffy little story. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Thank you for all the comments and kudos, I look forward to reading what y'all think. <3

Chapter 10: The Goodbye That Wasn't

Summary:

A drive home and a moment neither of them expected.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The parking lot was mostly empty now. It was just a wide stretch of packed gravel and dirt, dimly lit by a few stubborn floodlights that buzzed overhead. Crickets filled the near-silence with their soft rhythm, and somewhere far off, someone slammed a car door closed and drove away, their headlights briefly sweeping across the lot before vanishing.

Imogen and Laudna walked slowly, arm-in-arm, their footsteps crunching softly with each step they took.

Neither of them said much. They didn't need to.

The air still held a slight sweetness from the festival food and the faintest trace of smoke that was now giving way to the acrid smell of diesel fuel from the vendor trucks. The red threads around their wrists swung gently between them, catching the occasional glint of harsh light. They sat as small reminders of the moment they hadn't quite named yet.

Imogen's car sat tucked near the edge of the lot, parked in half-shadow. It was scuffed and rusted in spots, but it looked like a dependable little thing. As they reached it, she pulled the keys from the back pocket of her jeans and hit the old, worn fob. The locks clicked open with a soft beep-beep, headlights flashing once like a fast blink.

She walked ahead a step, untangling their arms, and opened the passenger door for Laudna, holding it with one hand as she glanced over.

“I know it's not glamorous,” Imogen said, a little sheepishly. “She's old, the heater's fussy, and there's probably a few granola bars under the seats from last winter.”

Laudna leaned in, peeking at the worn dashboard and the scuffed paint. The faint smell of old upholstery and pine-scented air freshener clung to the small space. Her smile turned soft.

“I think she's lovely,” she said, running a finger along the door frame. “It looks like she has stories. I like that.”

“You do?” Imogen looked at her, a little baffled that the same care Laudna showed to everything else was now being directed at her old beater car. Maybe she shouldn't have been so surprised. It seemed as if that brand of particular loveliness was stitched directly into Laudna's soul.

“Mhm!” Laudna nodded. “Shiny and new is fine, but...I don't know. Things that have been through something feel more trustworthy.”

Imogen didn't say anything right away, just stood there for a beat. Her heart was caught somewhere behind the protective barrier of her ribs, thundering like a tiny storm cloud.

That's at least the fifth time tonight, she thought. How many times does a heart get to stutter before someone notices? Before she notices?

“Well,” she murmured, “she's all yours for the ride home.”

Laudna looked up at her, almost bashful.

“Lucky me,” she whispered, and slipped inside.

Imogen pressed a palm over her chest as if she could settle the small, skittering creature that lived there as she closed the passenger-side door with a soft thunk. She flicked the key fob again, just to busy her hands, and swallowed down a ridiculous smile as she stepped around the hood.

Okay. Focus. Drive. Don't stall – literally or figuratively, she thought.

But the flutter came back anyway, light and stubborn, as if it already knew that tonight wasn't quite finished making her feel this way.

The crunch of gravel under Imogen's boots was suddenly the loudest sound in the world as she stepped up to the driver's side door. She ran a hand through her hair, catching on a random tangle, and breathed out slowly before pulling it open and slipping inside.

The interior was cool from the evening air, the chill of autumn clinging to the worn fabric of the seats. She adjusted her position, shivering just slightly, as she reached for the ignition. Her fingers hesitated on the key.

Then.

Click, turn.

The car gave a reluctant growl, then settled down into a soft, purring hum. It was low and scratchy, more house cat than lion.

Imogen gave a nervous little laugh and looked over at Laudna.

“See? Temperamental. But she's got heart.”

“Honestly, that's the best kind.” Laudna grinned, knees pulled together and hands folded neatly in her lap.

“So, um...where to?” Imogen swallowed, mouth suddenly very dry.

“Oh! Kind of over by Briarbank and Third. There's this odd little green house with peeling shutters and a mailbox shaped like a frog.” Laudna paused, then added with a touch of amusement, “I rent it with Dorian, Orym, and Letters.”

“That tracks.” Imogen nodded, not surprised. “I live in a shoebox-sized apartment with Fearne and Ashton. At least one of them is always tryin' to adopt somethin' that doesn't belong indoors.”

“Do they take turns being the chaos?” Laudna gave a laugh.

“Nope.” Imogen grinned as she shifted into reverse. “It's fully collaborative.”

“It's surprisingly harmonious at my house,” Laudna said through a grin. “Dorian sings when he folds laundry, Orym labels the spice rack, and Letters schedules 'intentional rest blocks' on the shared calendar.”

“That sounds...kinda perfect actually.” Imogen chuckled.

“It's a little chaotic,” Laudna said, glancing out of the window as they pulled out of the lot, “but the good kind. The kind that makes you feel like there's always something waiting for you when you come home.”

Imogen didn't answer at first. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road, but her grip on the wheel softened. That fluttering feeling in her chest returned yet again, but it wasn't sharp this time. It was gentle. Familiar.

“Sounds nice.”

-----

The road stretched out in quiet lines, headlights brushing over the shadow-streaked pavement and the occasional reflective road sign. The windows fogged faintly at the corners from the contrast of the autumn chill and the low hum of the heater, just warm enough to take the edge off. Inside the car, it was quiet. It was like a little bubble of warmth carrying them gently through the night.

Laudna glanced over at Imogen now and then, but not too often. She didn't want to scare away the tender silence that had settled between them. Imogen tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, her eyes flicking to the rear view mirror, then to the road ahead.

“So...what was your favorite part of the festival?” she asked, her voice pitched low, warm from the heated air and the buzz in her chest that hadn't let up since they left Nana Morri's tent. That hadn't really let up since the first time she heard Laudna speak back at the cemetery all those weeks ago, if she was being honest.

“Hmm.” Laudna hummed. “Aside from being dramatically cursed with fate?”

Imogen laughed.

“Right. Aside from that.”

Laudna leaned her head back against the headrest for moment, thoughtful.

“I think...just spending time with you.”

Imogen glanced over, surprised. Then she looked back at the road quickly, trying not to crash the car from sheer emotional whiplash.

“And you won me Haggis,” Laudna added, holding up the scruffy plush raven like it was a badge of honor. “That was extremely heroic.”

“I think the guy at the booth was surprised I actually landed it.” Imogen grinned.

“Hard-earned and rightfully claimed!” Laudna said, hugging the plush to her chest.

“So...how's Haggis doin' over there?”

“He's perfect and he smells like popcorn grease.” Laudna cradled Haggis dramatically. “He's everything I ever wanted.”

Imogen chuckled, chest warm, cheeks starting to ache from smiling so much.

She took a left instead of going straight.

Laudna noticed.

She didn't say anything.

They fell into another stretch of silence, comfortable again. The kind that only settles in when something new feels oddly familiar. Imogen's hands stayed steady on the wheel, but she felt her heart give that now-familiar flutter when Laudna shifted in her seat, just slightly closer, so that their arms brushed over the center console every time the car took a soft turn.

“Do you always take the scenic route?” Laudna asked eventually, her voice casual.

Imogen didn't look over, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Only when I don't feel like sayin' goodnight just yet.”

Laudna didn't tease her for it. She didn't make a joke. She just let the answer settle like warm tea in her gut and leaned back into the seat, watching the streetlights flicker past in a slow, amber rhythm.

“I don't mind,” she said quietly. “If you want to keep driving a little longer.”

“Yeah?” Imogen swallowed, trying to keep herself steady.

“Yes.” Laudna said, and smiled out the window. “It's nice.”

-----

The tires crackled against the pavement as Imogen finally eased the car up to the curb, the headlights sweeping over a crooked little green house that was tucked just off the corner of a quiet street. It looked like it had once stood with a storybook sort of charm, and maybe it still did in the right kind of moonlight, but time and weather had left their marks. The paint had faded to the color of dying moss and the black shutters on the windows flaked at the edges like peeling bark. The bay window at the front was glowing with warm, amber light from the inside and the wind chime from the front porch jingled softly in the breeze.

Imogen's eyes drifted to the frog-shaped mailbox sitting stubbornly at the edge of the winding walkway, mouth wide open like it was ready to chomp down on any unsuspecting bills. She smiled faintly at the ridiculousness of it.

“So that's the infamous frog.”

“He's even grumpier in person, right?” Laudna grinned and unbuckled her seat belt.

“He looks handmade. Is he?” Imogen asked, tilting her head in Laudna's direction.

“Oh, yes!” Laudna nodded. “Chetney carved him.”

Imogen hesitated, then gave Laudna a look.

“Wait. I have to ask. Chetney. That's not, like, a nickname for some teenager who's really into carvin' wood, is it?” she asked.

“Oh, no.” Laudna snorted. “He's ancient. And terrifying. He's secretly a huge softy, though. He has a whole workshop in town, and I rent out the little side room as a studio. We help him with his projects on the weekends – me, Dorian, Orym, and Letters. It's kind of like...wood-shop meets group therapy. With more cursing.”

Imogen laughed, wide and surprised.

“Gods, I thought he was like...your cousin or somethin'. Or maybe a guy in a punk band,” she said.

“He would be flattered!” Laudna leaned back in her seat, eyes dancing with mirth. “Then he would probably call you a 'dumbass' for thinking so.”

“I respect that,” Imogen said, still smiling as she glanced towards the porch. “He did a great job on the frog. Kind of looks like he's ready to bite someone's hand off.”

“Oh, he has. Twice.”

“You're kidding.” Imogen raised an eyebrow.

“Am I?” Laudna just grinned.

And then the quiet came, soft and heavy and expectant. It draped itself around the car at the end of a night neither of them really wanted to end.

Imogen cleared her throat, eyes glancing over at the porch light that was flickering gently, like it's bulb was slightly loose in the metal and glass casing.

“Would it be weird if I...walked you to the door?” she asked, her voice low and a little rough with nerves.

“Weird?” Laudna blinked, surprised and pleased. “No. Courteous, maybe. Chivalrous, even.”

That made Imogen smile.

“Alright then.”

Before Laudna could even reach for the handle, Imogen was already out of the car, door thudding shut behind her. She circled the front quickly, nearly tripping in her haste, her breath coming out in little puffs of clouds in the chill air. She got to the passenger door just as Laudna's hand brushed the handle, and Imogen reached for it, swinging it open with a sheepish smile.

“Got it.”

“Why, thank you,” Laudna teased, gently placing Haggis beneath one arm. Imogen offered her hand, a little stiff at first, but Laudna took it with both grace and care. Thread-braided wrist against thread-braided wrist.

They made their way up the walkway in slow steps, not quite willing to close the distance between them and the front door too fast. The night had gone still again, with just a slight breeze rustling fallen leaves somewhere down the block.

When they reached the front step, they both turned at the same time to say something, then stopped as their words tangled together in midair.

“I had a -”

“This was really -”

They both froze. Then both laughed.

“Sorry.” Imogen rubbed at the back of her neck, cheeks pink. “Go ahead.”

“No, no, you -” Laudna waved Haggis slightly, like a conductor with a particularly squishy baton. “You first.”

“I had a really good time with you tonight.” Imogen looked up at Laudna, sincere.

Laudna's expression went warm and open.

“I did too. Truly.” Her thumb brushed against Imogen's hand before she let go. “I'll see you at the cemetery tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, I'll text you.” Imogen nodded, voice small and nervous.

Laudna stepped back towards the door, Haggis still in hand. Then, with a playful glance over her shoulder, she raised the raven and gave Imogen a soft kiss on the cheek...well, Haggis did, but it was her hand guiding it, and the warmth lingered just the same.

“There,” she said with a laugh, voice airy. “From both of us.”

Imogen stood there for another breath after the door clicked shut behind Laudna, her fingertips still tingling from where Laudna had held her hand, and from where Haggis had pressed a kiss to her cheek, ridiculous and tender and utterly perfect.

She turned slowly, walking back towards her car, boots crunching quietly along the small pebbles and loose stones of the walkway. The cool air nipped at her cheeks and her eyes prickled, though she couldn't really say why. Maybe it was just the night. Or maybe it was the way that her heart ached a little, sweet and low and unsatisfied, because –

You should've kissed her.

The thought hit like a punch to her gut. Imogen's fingers flexed at her sides.

You could've. She wanted you to. Or – maybe she did. Maybe she didn't. But you wanted to.

Her steps slowed as she neared the driver's side door. One hand reached for the handle, but it just hovered there, hesitant, as her reflection warped in the car window. She looked at herself.

Coward.

She stared at her distorted reflection on the car’s surface for a beat longer, breath shallow.

And then...

Suddenly...

Without thinking...

Imogen turned.

She spun back on her heel and marched down the walkway, gravel scattering underfoot, her breath quick and shaky and visible in the cold. Her heart thudded hard and fast, too loud in her ears. She didn't give herself the chance to second-guess, didn't pause to rehearse it. She just raised her hand and knocked.

It was louder than she meant it to be.

A little frantic.

A little desperate.

The porch light flickered as the door opened a moment later.

Laudna appeared, hair a little mussed from having already relaxed a bit, Haggis still tucked under one arm like a sleeping pet. She blinked in surprise.

“Imogen? Are you alright? Did you forget something or - ?”

“Can I kiss you?”

It came out rushed, almost breathless.

Laudna froze, her lips parted. Her eyes widened just a little, and then softened.

“Oh.”

A beat.

Then quieter, unsure but not unwilling –

“Alright.”

Her fingers curled around the door frame like she needed something to hold onto to steady herself.

Imogen stepped forward, a nervous breath catching in her throat.

Laudna's smile wobbled, nervous and flustered. She gave a little nod, and then a second one, slower.

“Alright.”

Imogen's heart slammed against her ribs as she stepped forward, the cold air pulling tight across her skin. She barely felt it. All she could see was Laudna. She was barefoot now in the doorway, and her coat had been hung up on a hook just past the door. She was looking at Imogen as if the world had paused just for them.

Imogen stopped when there was only a few inches between them. Her voice had vanished, swallowed whole by the rush of everything that she was feeling, the nerves and the want and the staggering rightness of this moment.

Laudna's eyes searched hers, gaze flicking down to her mouth and then back up again, uncertain but open, vulnerable in a way that made Imogen's chest ache for the millionth time tonight. It's uncertain who moved first, maybe it was both of them, maybe it didn't matter, but the space around them closed like the exhale of a long-held breath.

Their foreheads touched, just for a second. And then –

Their lips met.

Soft. Tentative. Like a question held in both of their mouths.

Imogen's breath hitched through her nose and she tilted her head just enough to lean into it, her hand lifting to cradle Laudna's cheek with the gentlest of care, like she might vanish if she pressed too hard. Laudna responded like a string pulled taut, leaning into Imogen's touch with a sound so small and so full of emotion that it nearly undid her.

The kiss deepened, not in urgency but in meaning. It wasn't rushed or messy. It was slow and reverent, full of quiet awe, like they were both discovering something they hadn't known that they had lost. Something that was stitched between their ribs and forgotten there, just waiting for the right touch to wake it from its slumber.

Imogen felt the press of Laudna's fingers at her waist, holding on with the same trembling hesitation she felt deep in her own bones.

Gods, how many times has my heart tried to tell me that this was what it wanted?

Every look across the cemetery. Every time Laudna laughed and Imogen forgot how to breathe. Every moment she tried to talk herself out of believing that something this good could be for her.

And now it was, or at least it felt like it was closer. Something tangible and hers to hold.

Laudna's nose brushed hers as they broke apart just slightly, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Her eyes were still closed. When she opened them, they were shining.

“Sorry, I just – I didn't want to leave without...” Imogen's voice was barely more than a whisper.

Laudna smiled. Not a crooked grin or her usual too-wide, toothy upturn of lips, but something soft and unguarded. Like she had finally let the walls fall completely, just for Imogen.

“I'm really glad you didn't,” she whispered back.

They stayed there a moment longer, close enough to share the same air, to listen to each other's uneven breathing. The world around them blurred. The porch light continued to hum above, and somewhere far off, a dog barked...but here, in this tiny stretch of night and this gentle repose between heartbeats, it was just them.

And for the first time in a long time, Imogen didn't feel like she had to run.

She'd found something steady.

She had found her way home.

-----

The door closed behind her with a whisper-soft, final click.

Laudna stood there, fingers still curled around the doorknob, listening to the distant hum of Imogen's car as it disappeared down the street. The sound faded slowly, until there was nothing left but the low rattle of the wind chime on the front porch and the quiet, impossible beating of her heart.

She turned around like she was sleepwalking and drifted through the entryway hall to the living room, sitting down gently on the edge of the couch. Haggis was still held gently against her chest. The house was empty, warm, and quiet, lit only by the hallway lamp and a strip of moonlight pooling on the hardwood floor. It should have felt familiar and grounding. Instead, it felt a little like waking up in different skin.

She sat on the edge of the couch and just...stared. At the floor, at her hands, at the red thread still tied neatly around her wrist. Her thumb ran absently over the knot.

That just happened.

That had just happened.

Imogen had kissed her.

No. Imogen had turned around for her and fought through every ounce of that beautiful, stammering nervousness and came back. Just to ask.

Laudna pressed her fingers gently to her lips, still warm from the kiss. It wasn't clumsy, but it wasn't some bold, movie-perfect thing either. It was real and honest. Soft in all the right ways and shaky in all the better ones. The kind of kiss that left an ache behind, not from regret but from the knowledge that something in her life had just changed. That something in her deserved that kind of tenderness, no matter how long she had convinced herself otherwise.

It had been her first kiss...and she couldn't imagine a better one.

Haggis dropped down into her lap, his floppy wings splayed out across her knees. She hugged him close, and bent down, curling in on herself to rest her chin on the top of his battered plush head. Her eyes burned, but she didn't cry. Not yet, at least. Her body was too full of something else, something warm and strange and glowing faintly behind her ribs.

She had never imagined herself in this kind of moment. Not really. Not beyond the half-joking stories that she spun with Dorian. The ones where she was always the misunderstood romantic lead, doomed to pine forever in dramatic candlelight. It had always been easier to imagine herself as more of a haunted house than a person, as something that people wandered through, got spooked by, or maybe admired from a distance. But no one stayed.

Until tonight.

Imogen had stayed.

Imogen had seen her.

For a few perfect hours, she had let herself be seen. Not masked or twisted into something easier to stomach. Just her. Just Laudna...nervous and weird and bursting with too much emotion and not nearly enough practice with holding it.

She smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the little red thread.

Somewhere in the kitchen, the old clock on the wall clicked over another minute.

She wondered when the others would get home and if they would pile in laughing, if Dorian would tease, if Letters would analyze every little micro-expression she had made before the kiss. She hoped not. Not yet.

Tonight still felt like it belonged to just the two of them. Her and Imogen.

As she curled her legs up onto the couch and rested her cheek back against Haggis's head, she let herself stay in that moment a little longer.

Maybe, just maybe, she was allowed to have this.

Maybe a haunted house could be a home too.

-----

The apartment door opened with a rush of laughter and the soft jingle of settling keys. Fearne slipped in first, her heels dangling from her fingers, eyes bright from the cold and the company. Ashton trailed behind, already peeling off their jacket with a grunt and kicking the door shut behind them.

“I still can't believe that guy's name is Letters,” Ashton said, voice low so that it wouldn't carry across the quiet apartment.

“He introduced himself with a bow and then diagnosed my attachment style in, like, two sentences.” Fearne's smile widened. “I love them.”

“He called me 'emotionally honest with a tendency towards misdirected loyalty.'” Ashton paused. “Which is rude. And accurate.”

Fearne chuckled, padding into the living room, and then stopped short.

“Shh!” She lifted a hand.

“What?” Ashton paused, boots already halfway off.

Fearne just pointed.

Imogen was curled up on the couch, already fast asleep, tangled halfway in the throw blanket. Her boots were kicked off, haphazardly strewn about the hardwood floor. She still wore the soft sweater from earlier, rumpled and comfortable. She was out cold, one hand curled up under her cheek, her brow soft in sleep.

“She's home,” Fearne whispered, a little unnecessarily.

“She's out,” Ashton muttered.

Fearne moved closer, her hand on the edge of the blanket, pulling it gently over Imogen's shoulder. But then she paused, and squinted.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Oh my gods.”

“What now?” Ashton sighed.

Fearne leaned down, hovering just above Imogen's face, and pointed to the faint, unmistakable smudge of plum-colored lipstick near the corner of her mouth.

“She kissed her,” Fearne whispered, eyes wide. “Imogen kissed Laudna.”

“Huh.” Ashton crossed the room and blinked.

“That's Laudna's lipstick,” Fearne insisted, like she had just uncovered state secrets. “I'd recognize that shade anywhere. It's called Nocturne #5.”

“I believe you,” Ashton said, deadpan. “You catalog other people's makeup like some people do birds.”

Fearne turned slowly to face them, hands hovering in the air like she might start levitating.

“Imogen. Kissed. Laudna.”

“Apparently successfully,” Ashton added, looking down at the peaceful curve of Imogen's soft smile. “She doesn't look traumatized.”

“She looks smug,” Fearne whispered. “Smug and sleeping like the cat that finally caught the red dot.”

Ashton chuckled.

“Should we wake her up?” they asked.

“No!” Fearne swatted them. “Absolutely not. She deserves this moment. She was so nervous. And now look at her. Our girl's out here being brave.”

“Do you think she thinks it actually happened?” Ashton tilted their head.

“She will when she sees her face in the mirror.” Fearne stood back, hands clutched tightly around her phone, thumbs flying across the keyboard. “Or when she sees my seventeen texts in the morning.”

“Seventeen?”

“Seventeen so far. I'm still work-shopping the emoji ratio. Oh, I have to tell Dorian!”

Ashton signed and slouched towards the kitchen.

“You're gonna give Dorian a stroke.”

“He'll be so proud.”

Fearne gave Imogen one last look, soft and quiet, and pulled the blanket snug around her one more time.

“Goodnight, brave little cowboy,” she whispered. “You did it.”

Then she followed Ashton into the kitchen, back to typing furiously, while Imogen breathed slow and steady behind them, the faintest curve of a smile still tucked into the corner of her lipstick-stained mouth.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I just got done with this chapter and honestly, this is all I really had planned so far. I hope you all enjoyed the kiss. I thought Imogen turning around and knocking on the door was a cute idea and I hope y'all agree. The one thing I love more than Imogen Temult being a nervous mess, is Imogen Temult being brave.
The next update might take a while since I have to work on some D&D stuff. I'm a forever DM so I have a lot of story to work out for my players this upcoming week. I'll work on the next chapter as often as I can, though!
As always, your kudos and comments are much appreciated and I really do hold them close to my heart. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 11: Second Knock

Summary:

A little spiraling and an invitation.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The booth at Eshteross's Diner smelled like maple syrup and hot grease, the tabletop slightly sticky even though someone had clearly attempted to wipe it down. A local radio station crackled softly above the clink of mugs and forks and outside the window, the morning sun made the red thread on Imogen's wrist shine like a fresh ember.

She was stirring her coffee, not drinking it, watching the cream spiral into little clouds like her racing thoughts. Her pancakes sat untouched.

“I kissed her,” she said.

Fearne let out a gasp so theatrical that it drew a tired glance from the waitress behind the counter.

“You what?!”

“Fearne, come on.” Ashton snorted into their hash browns.

“What?” Fearne blinked wide, innocent eyes. “I'm shocked! I'm scandalized! I'm -”

“You're the worst liar I've ever met,” Imogen muttered, smirking.

Fearne grinned, entirely unrepentant.

“Okay, fine, technically we may have noticed the lipstick smudged across your mouth when you were passed out on the couch last night.”

“And maybe,” Ashton added, “Fearne may have mouthed 'they kissed' at me so hard it looked like she was trying to summon a demon.”

“Well, just go ahead and tar and feather me in the town square for being a little excited!” Fearne threw her hands up.

Imogen shook her head, but she was smiling into her mug now, just a little.

“Well...yeah. I drove her home after y'all abandoned us, and I asked if I could kiss her,” she said.

“And she said yes?” Fearne asked, leaning forward, absolutely glowing.

“She said 'alright'...twice.” Imogen ducked her head. “The second time was quieter. Real soft. Like it surprised her.”

Ashton raised an eyebrow.

“That's a yes for sure,” they said.

“She kissed me back,” Imogen admitted. “Held me real close. And when I pulled away, she looked...I don't know. Like she wanted me to stay. But then I left, and now it’s the next day, and I can't tell if it meant somethin'. Or if she's goin’ to wake up and want to pretend that it didn't happen.”

Fearne's smile dimmed just a little.

“You think she didn't want it?”

“I don't know!” Imogen's voice pitched high, a little panicked. “What if it was just a weird, in-the-moment thing? What if she didn't really mean it? What if she wants to forget it ever happene-”

“Here we go,” Ashton said under their breath.

“-d, and here I am at breakfast actin' like we're – what – datin'? Are we datin'? Are we girlfriends? Are we even gonna talk about it or just leave it hangin’ like some cursed festival souvenir?”

She gestured wildly with her coffee spoon, and Ashton calmly reached over the table to lower it before she could send any more cream flying.

“Breathe,” Ashton said flatly. “Try chewing some pancakes. Revolutionary stuff.”

“Hey.” Fearne reached across the table, taking Imogen's free hand. “I already texted Dorian about it.”

“What?”

“I had to tell someone! And he loves a good pining-becomes-smooching plot line.”

“Oh my gods, Fearne – what if Laudna didn't want him to know yet?!”

Fearne winced.

“...Too late for that.”

Imogen groaned and dragged her hand down her face.

“Okay. Okay. It's fine. It's...fine. He was gonna find out eventually. I mean, hopefully from her. Unless – oh, gods – unless she doesn't mention it at all.”

“She will,” Ashton said.

“You don't know that!”

“She kissed you back, Imogen. That counts for something.”

Fearne squeezed her fingers.

“Maybe she's nervous too,” she said. “Maybe she's sitting in her kitchen right now wondering if you regret it.”

Imogen stilled, like she was surprised by the thought.

“I...hadn't thought of that.”

“Of course not,” Ashton said, stealing one of her bacon strips from her still untouched plate. “Because you're too busy speed-running your spiral like it's a competition.”

Imogen laughed despite herself and dropped her forehead against the table with a groan.

“I hate you both.”

“No, you don't,” Fearne said cheerfully.

“I really don't.”

For a while, they just sat in the soft cacophony of the morning clatter. Eventually, Imogen picked up her fork and took a bite of pancake. It didn't solve anything but at least it was warm and solid and real.

She glanced down at the red thread still tied around her wrist, the one that Nana Morri had tied around her and Laudna both. The knot hadn't slipped. The thread hadn't frayed anymore than it had been from the start.

It was still there, and so was she.

-----

Laudna sat hunched at the tiny kitchen island, her knees tucked up on the stool like a perched bird. Her lithe fingers were absently twisting at the red thread at her wrist. She had already tied it into four increasingly complicated knots and was now picking them apart with her nails like she was unraveling a delicate curse.

“She meant it,” Dorian said for the third time, waving a butter knife around like it was a baton. “I'm telling you, if she didn't mean it, then I will – we will – gather as a household and file a complaint.”

“She's not a landlord, Dorian,” Orym said from where he was methodically chopping onions, quiet and calm as always. “You don't file complaints against girls who kiss you. That's...not how romance works.”

“Well then I'll duel her,” Dorian huffed. “Or no – Orym will duel her. I'll write a strongly worded poem.”

“I'm not dueling Imogen,” Orym said flatly, “Unless she hurts you, Laudna. In which case, I'll duel her and win.”

Laudna gave them both a look that was halfway between fondness and full-body horror. She looked down at the thread again.

“But what if she regrets it? What if it was just...a weird little moment she got caught up in and now she's at home thinking about how she kissed the strange person who talks to bones and -”

“Laudna,” Dorian cut in gently, finally setting down the butter knife. “Let's rewind. What exactly happened?”

“She...she dropped me off. We walked to the porch together. She said goodbye. I went inside after Haggis gave her a kiss on the cheek.” She tugged at the thread a little harder. “And then there was a knock! I thought she had forgotten something, so I opened the door and she just – looked at me. All soft. And she asked ' Can I kiss you?' Just like that. Like she was asking permission to set my soul on fire.”

Orym and Dorian both went still for a second.

“She asked?” Orym said, eyebrows raised.

“Laudna,” Dorian said, eyes wide, “That is criminally romantic.”

“That's capital-R Romance,” Orym agreed.

Dorian moved closer and leaned over the island, wrapping his arms around Laudna like a warm blanket with glittery eyeliner.

“Was it your first kiss?”

Laudna's eyes flicked up to his.

“...Yes.”

Both men blinked.

“It was?” Dorian whispered, like he'd just been entrusted with the entire moon.

Laudna nodded, small and sheepish.

“Well, now we definitely have to duel her if she breaks your heart,” Dorian said cheerfully, and pulled her into a tight hug. “Tell me everything. Was it good?”

Laudna gave a hesitant smile.

“It was...soft. And slow. And my teeth didn't even knock into hers or anything.”

“That's already better than mine,” Orym offered from the sink. “Mine was behind a barn back home. We were both twelve. I sneezed halfway through and I think he thought that I gave him something contagious.”

“Laudna, mine happened in an improv scene,” Dorian groaned. “I thought we were pretending. They weren't. I panicked and said 'good show, chap' and bowed. We never spoke again.”

“I think that might be worse than Orym's,” Laudna said, blinking.

“Oh, it is! I relive it at least once a week.”

Letters, who had been standing at the far counter assembling a suspicious looking fruit salad, turned around with their usual gentle smile.

“I believe what you're experiencing, Laudna, is a classic case of a post-intimacy vulnerability spiral. It's common after meaningful firsts, particularly where the individual is emotionally invested and/or existentially haunted!”

They paused.

“Also, congratulations!”

“Thank you, Letters,” Laudna said faintly.

Letters set down their knife and clasped their hands together in front of them.

“You should invite her to dinner. Saturday dinner. Tonight. Here. Comfortable environment. Familiar faces. Three backup entrees in case of sensory overwhelm!”

“I have a seating chart,” Dorian said proudly.

“I don't know...” Laudna whispered, twisting at the thread again.

“Text her,” Orym encouraged. “The worst thing she says is no, and then we still get to eat my mom's sweet potato stacks.”

“Text her,” Dorian echoed. “And I'll wear my charming host pants.”

“I think those are just your regular pants,” Orym noted.

Dorian gave him a smug smile and shrugged slightly.

“Exactly.”

Laudna gave them all a hesitant nod, pulling her phone out from the pocket of her too-long cardigan.

Then she froze.

“Oh shit.”

Everyone turned.

“Pâté!”

Her eyes went wide with horror.

“He's not ready to meet her. He's not even wearing a shirt!”

She launched herself off the stool with a gasp and ran for the stairs, nearly tripping in the process.

“Pâté! We have to prepare for company!” she shouted, bolting up towards her bedroom with wild, frantic energy.

There was a long pause.

Dorian took a slow sip of his coffee.

“She's going to make him wear a bow tie again, isn't she?” he asked.

“Last time it was a cummerbund,” Orym said with a grin.

Letters held up a tiny, rat-sized top hat without breaking eye contact.

“I prepped options.”

-----

The front door groaned open, and Imogen was the first to kick off her boots, sighing as she stepped into the soft warmth of their shared apartment. Morning light still spilled across the scuffed wooden floors, cutting through the curtains that were half-drawn. Ashton followed, grunting something half-hearted about gravity, while Fearne strolled in last, her over-sized sunglasses still on and her purse held close to her chest like a sacred artifact.

“I don't want to alarm anyone,” she announced with exaggerated solemnity, “but I've acquired the motherlode.”

Ashton groaned from where they were already flopped belly-down on the couch, one boot still half-on, like they had been hit by a speeding syrup truck. Maybe three stacks of pancakes had been a bad idea.

“Unless you stole an ambulance and brought it straight here, I don't care.”

Fearne beamed as she carefully and reverently began unloading a suspicious amount of jam pouches and tiny butter cups onto the coffee table.

“For emergencies,” she said, wiggling her fingers dramatically. “I will not be caught off-guard by dry toast ever again!”

“You took all that from the diner?” Imogen snorted and dropped into the armchair across from the couch.

“I liberated them,” Fearne said airily. “They were orphans. Unclaimed. Left behind to expire.”

“I watched you put six in your purse before the waitress even brought our check,” Ashton mumbled into the couch cushion.

“That's called foresight,” Fearne countered.

Imogen chuckled and leaned her head back, letting herself relax into the quiet hum of home. Her phone buzzed, screen lighting up on the armrest beside her. She didn't think much of it until she saw the name.

Laudna <3

She sat up straighter, heart thudding for reasons she would absolutely deny out loud. She unlocked the phone.

“Hello, Imogen! Would you maybe want to come to dinner at my place tonight? It's just me, Dorian, Orym, Letters, Chetney, and Pâté. I want you to meet him. Only if you want to though, no pressure <3”

Imogen read the message three times, each pass softening the edges of her day. Her lips curled into a helpless smile. It was the heart at the end that did it, really. The tiny, glowing emoji in black, bashful and careful and Laudna.

She tried to hide her expression behind her phone, but the damage had already been done.

“Uh-oh,” Ashton said, lifting their head. “What's got you grinning like that?”

“Oh no,” Fearne gasped. “Is she glowing again?”

“I'm not glowin',” Imogen muttered, ears already turning bright red.

“Oh, she's glowing alright,” Ashton said, stretching a leg out to poke her with a socked foot. “It's happening. She's in love.”

“She's textin',” Imogen protested, batting Ashton's foot away. “Big difference.”

“What's it say?” Fearne asked, practically sliding across the room towards Imogen. “Did she write a poem? A dirty limerick? Please say it's a dirty limerick.”

Imogen rolled her eyes but read the text aloud. By the time she got to the 'I want you to meet him' and the '<3', both Fearne and Ashton were circling like sharks. Not physically, but she could feel it.

“Pâté,” Fearne whispered reverently. “You're meeting the rat. This is sacred.”

“She's introducing you to her child,” Ashton added, dramatically clutching their chest. “This is real. This is a milestone.”

“He's not her child,” Imogen laughed, pink creeping up her neck.

“You're basically a step-parent now,” Fearne said, nodding seriously. “You're gonna have to start making him little lunches and driving him to school.”

“Rat school,” Ashton said.

“He probably has a tiny backpack,” Fearne whispered. “And opinions about bedtime.”

Imogen groaned, dragging a hand over her face, though she couldn't stop smiling.

“Y'all are insufferable.”

“Imogen Temult.” Fearne grinned. “Soon-to-be Mother of Rat.”

“I will end both of you,” Imogen muttered, but she was biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

“You'd better bring a treat or something,” Ashton added. “First impressions matter.”

“Oh, here!” Fearne exclaimed, holding up one of the tiny jam pouches like an offering. “You should bring one of these. Let him know you come bearing gifts.”

Imogen took the jam and held it up thoughtfully.

“Do you think he's more of a strawberry or grape kind of guy?”

Fearne and Ashton answered in unison:

“Strawberry.”

“Alright then.” Imogen tucked it into her pocket. “Strawberry it is.”

She glanced down at her phone again, rereading the message. Her thumb hovered over the screen.

“You gonna say yes?” Ashton asked, already knowing the answer.

Imogen smiled to herself.

“Yeah. I think I really, really want to.”

-----

The sun had just started to droop behind the tree line and gilded the rooftops and telephone wires in a honey-like gold as Imogen pulled her car into the patchy gravel spot in front of Laudna's house. The engine shuddered and gave out one last cough as she turned the key and killed it, then sputtered once more for the drama of it all before going quiet.

Imogen sat there a moment, gripping hard at the wheel like it might tell her what to do next.

She had agonized over what to wear, which was stupid, because this wasn't a date. Not really. It was dinner. With soon-to-be friends. Hopefully. And Laudna. Casual. But it felt like a date, and that made her want to look like herself...just with a little more intention.

She had settled on a long black skirt that brushed her ankles and moved like ripples through water when she walked, paired with a crisp white button-up blouse. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows under her long coat, the top few buttons left undone to keep the shirt from feeling too stiff. Her boots were polished and black, lace-up leather with a low heel that thudded softly with every step. Her hair was curled loosely and pinned back with a silver, crescent moon-shaped clip. Her lips were lightly glossed, at Fearne's insistence, and she wore a single silver ring on the pointer finger of her left hand.

Soft. But not meek.

She stepped out of the car, cradling the small Tupperware she had brought. It was cornbread, still warm from the oven. She had no idea what was on the menu for tonight but she figured she had to bring something, and cornbread was really the only thing she could make without burning the kitchen down. She walked carefully up the crooked stone path toward the little house that sat near the end of the quiet street. Her stomach fluttered with every single step she took.

The last time she had knocked on this door, she had kissed Laudna.

Just thinking about it made her cheeks flush pink, her fingers tightening slightly on the lid of the cornbread container. The soft sound Laudna had made when Imogen leaned in, the way her hands had fluttered and then stilled before she kissed back, cautious and desperate and so damn sweet. Imogen swallowed hard. She wanted that again, she wanted it so badly that it hurt.

The porch creaked under her boots. She paused at the door, took a breath, raised her hand to knock and -

CRASH!

There was a clatter from inside. Something squeaked. A voice that may have been Dorian's yelled, “No no no – don't let him up on the curtains!”

More thumps. A burst of laughter. Then -

The door flung open.

Laudna stood in the doorway, out of breath, hair a little wild like she had been running around. One shoulder of her thin, black cardigan slipped halfway off. Her dress was an over-sized, warm black thing with a faded spiderweb print down one side. It seemed a little loose and worn to softness, cinched with a pale grey ribbon at the waist. Her feet were bare and she had silver rings on nearly every one of her fingers. There was a black lace ribbon tied gently around her throat. She looked like a gothic dream curling out of a fog-bank, only far too warm and breathless and real to be untouchable.

Imogen's brain briefly shut down.

“Hi,” Laudna breathed, smiling so wide that it crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You're here.”

“I'm here,” Imogen echoed, her voice caught up and tangled in her throat.

They stood there for a beat too long, drinking each other in.

Imogen's fingers flexed around the Tupperware. Laudna's eyes flicked towards them and then back up. Her mouth opened, like she might say something.

Then the quesiton about what to do about their proximity arose like a thick wall between them. Should they hug? Shake hands? Was that dumb? Were they dumb?

Laudna hesitated then reached out, gentle and deliberate, and took Imogen's free hand in both of hers. Her skin was cool and her grip was light. She leaned in and pressed a slow, soft kiss to Imogen's cheek. It wasn't rushed, and it lingered.

Imogen forgot how to stand upright, wobbling a bit before finding her balance again.

“I'm really glad you came,” Laudna whispered near her ear.

Imogen smiled so hard that it hurt.

“Me too.”

Laudna stepped back just enough to tug her gently into the house by the hand, the warmth of the little home spilling out around them. There was laughter in the background, something bubbling on the stove, and the faint scent of lavender and cloves.

And Imogen, still pink-cheeked and dazed, stepped inside like she was coming home.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I just couldn't stay away from these absolute goobers for too long. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I was a little worried that I may have jumped the gun with the first kiss being last chapter, but then I realized that there are a bunch of other little firsts that I want them to experience during this little adventure. And genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for all the love you've all shown this little world through comments and kudos and bookmarks.

Chapter 12: A Place at the Table

Summary:

Saturday Dinner, Part 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind them, the chill of the autumn wind outside cut off like a faucet turned tight. The foyer smelled like rosemary and old wood, and the warmth inside made Imogen realize how cold her fingers had gotten just from the walk up the little, winding stone path from her car. Laudna's hand was still in hers, long and cool and a little twitchy, like she was trying not to hold on too tight. Imogen didn't let go either.

They stood there in the entryway, surrounded by a kind of organized clutter. The house felt alive with motion even though nothing moved. Various plants were tilted towards windows or spilled their leaves across shelves and stools, and string lights tangled in dried flowers and indoor wind chimes. An antique mirror, slightly cracked and mended with glitter glue, was leaned against the wall, half-covered in necklaces and feathered things.

Imogen cleared her throat and offered up the container that was in her other hand, the plastic still warm and the lid fogged.

“I brought cornbread.”

Laudna's eyes went wide, lips parting just slightly.

“It's one of the only things I can bake without the smoke alarm throwin' a tantrum,” Imogen added quickly, already feeling heat creeping up her neck. “I think it's a family recipe. Found it in a box of Mama's things before I left for college. Most of it was all scratched through, but this one – this one wasn't.”

There was a beat. Then Laudna reached out like Imogen was handing her something breakable and precious. She softened completely, like candle wax too close to an open flame.

“You made this?” she whispered.

Imogen nodded.

“Yeah. I mean – it's nothin' fancy. I just thought, since y'all were havin' me over -”

Laudna didn't let her finish.

“Hold on, just – hold on.” She turned and practically floated down the hall and into the kitchen with the cornbread tucked against her chest like a bouquet of the finest roses. Her voice drifted back through the beaded curtain, trying to speak low to someone but failing in her excitement. “She baked something for us. For me. I mean – look at it! It's still warm. I can't belie – shut up, don't look at me like that, it's adorable.”

Imogen stared down at her boots, her face flushing bright red as her heart did a ridiculous little kick in her chest. If that was the kind of reaction she got from just baking a little something...hell, maybe she should open up an entire damn bakery. Name it Laudna's Loaves or something equally as embarrassing. Or at least learn a second recipe.

She was already halfway through creating the logo and the first Pastry of the Day in her head when Laudna returned, slightly breathless, like she had jogged the whole ten steps there and back.

Imogen glanced down and noticed her bare feet again. She hesitated, then bent to unlace her boots.

“Oh – you don't have to – it's not really a rule. Letters drags in half the lawn some days,” Laudna explained.

“No, it's fine,” Imogen said quickly. “Feels rude not to.”

She tugged her boots off and immediately winced at the sight that greeted her. Her socks were pale pink with little prancing horses stitched all over them.

Real smooth, Temult.

Laudna made a delighted noise.

“Imogen Temult. Are those prancing ponies?”

Imogen gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh.

“They were a gift from Fearne. I didn't think anybody'd be seein' them today.”

“Well, I'm very glad I did,” Laudna said, still grinning.

Imogen stood quickly and started to shrug off her coat before anything else could be said about the equine party taking place on her feet. Laudna let out a little laugh and stepped close, head tilted, her hands already half-raised.

“Do you want help with your coat, darling?” she asks, voice light and careful, like she doesn't want to assume.

Imogen hesitates just a moment too long, all the Big Gay Synapses in her brain firing on all cylinders.

“Um...sure! Y-Yeah. Thank you.”

Laudna slides her fingers beneath the collar and eases the coat from her shoulders, slow and warm and a little too gentle for how simple the task is. The fabric slips down Imogen's arms and Laudna catches it at the elbows. Imogen just barely manages to suppress a full-body shiver at the feeling of Laudna's hands on her body, like a strike of lightning down her spine.

Their hands brush at her wrists and both of them notice the exact same thing at the exact same time.

That flash of red.

The threads that Nana Morri had tied there last night at the festival still cling to their skin, bright against the muted light of the house.

Laudna glances down at hers, then back up at Imogen.

Imogen's looking too.

“Yours is still on,” she says, softly.

“So is yours,” Laudna says, a little smile tugging at her mouth.

They both laugh, quiet and sheepish.

Neither of them says it out loud, but neither of them has had the heart to take theirs off.

Laudna turns and walks to the coat hooks by the door, where everyone else's layers already hang. There's Dorian's sweeping sapphire cloak, Orym's compact and well-kept jacket, a yellow monstrosity with every patch imaginable stitched onto it that belongs to Letters, and Laudna's own embroidered shawl half-falling off the peg.

She nestles Imogen's coat carefully between her own and Orym's, giving it a neat little tug, like making space for it was always meant to happen.

Laudna turns back from the coat hooks, hands starting to fiddle with the hem of her long dress sleeves.

At the same moment, Imogen takes a half-step forward.

“Did you -”

“I was just -”

They both stop, wide-eyed.

And then a flush rises on Imogen's cheeks, mirrored by the soft pinkish purple blooming on Laudna's.

Their eyes meet.

A beat. Then a laugh slips out, first from Laudna, then from Imogen, light and helpless and just a little breathless.

Before either of them can attempt to speak again, a swirl of blue sweeps into the foyer like a cresting wave. Dorian, resplendent in a layered ensemble of deep cerulean, pale aqua, and stormy navy, every piece flowing as if caught in a permanent breeze, strikes a dramatic pose before them both. Ever the showman.

He holds a half-full wine glass in one hand and something far more animated in the other.

“Someone very important has something to say,” he announces, eyes bright, while raising his hand towards the tall ceiling.

In his raised hand: Pâté de Rolo.

The little rat's jet black fur gleams, the streak of white across his little face parted perfectly. He's dressed to impress in a tiny, tailored red and black waistcoat, a crisp blood-red cravat secured with a tiny brass button around his neck. It's no more than a thimble's worth of silk but it shines so brilliantly in the low light.

Pâté squeaks as if on cue. It's loud and declarative and entirely confident.

“We've been working on his introduction all afternoon and, I must say, he nailed it.” Dorian grins like a stage manager on a sold-out opening night.

Laudna gasps, hands flying to her face before reaching out and gently scooping Pâté up into both palms like she's a doting stage mom being reunited with her child prodigy.

“Oh Pâté! The timing! The projection!” she beams, nuzzling him briefly. “And darling, I was right – that brass button brings out your whiskers so handsomely.”

Pâté squeaks again, quieter, somehow smug.

Imogen watches it all unfold with a huge smile tugging at her mouth, arms loosely folded, heart completely full.

“The rat's dressed better than I am,” she murmurs. Dorian gives her a soft laugh as if to say: but of course.

Then, gently and slowly, she steps a little closer and leans in near Laudna's hands.

“Hi there, handsome,” she says softly with a smile, holding out one finger to him with care.

Pâté pauses, then grasps her knuckle with one tiny paw. He gives her a slow, deliberate sniff...and lets out a soft, approving squeak.

Laudna almost swoons.

“He likes you,” she says, eyes wide, utterly delighted. “He really likes you.”

Dorian watches the little exchange between Pâté and Imogen with one brow raised and an increasingly fond smile curling across his face. As Imogen straightens up, he steps forward with the easy confidence of someone who's used to commanding attention, but whose warmth never seems performative.

He gives a little bow of his head, still holding his wine glass with practiced balance.

“Dorian Storm,” he says, voice rich and playful. “Songbird of the skies, heart-breaker of the airwaves, and very lucky housemate to your lovely...Laudna.”

Imogen blushes as she takes his offered hand.

“Imogen Temult,” she says, trying to sound steadier than she feels. “It's real nice to meet you.”

She's nervous and it prickles under her skin, meeting someone so close to Laudna. But something about Dorian, his ease, his flair, his absolute comfort in this peculiar house full of love, makes her shoulders relax just a bit.

“Oh!” She lets go of his hand with a little laugh. “Before I forget -”

Imogen reaches into the pocket of her skirt and pulls out a small foil packet and a neatly stitched cloth pouch.

“So, um – Fearne grabbed this strawberry jam this mornin' from the diner,” she starts, holding it up. “Along with, uh...a criminal amount of little butter cups. Like, truly. They're gonna ban her.”

She shifts, suddenly unsure, holding out the pouch.

“I wasn't sure rats could even have jam, so I looked it up just in case. Turns out they can't really – but I stopped on the way over and picked up some plain pumpkin seeds. They're safe and supposed to be good for little guys like Pâté. If – if that's okay.”

She trails off, biting her lip.

Laudna stares at her. Just stares. Her lips are parted slightly, her hands still delicately cradling Pâté, but her whole face has gone a little soft and a little stunned.

Then, slowly, she turns her head to Dorian, just to make sure she isn't hallucinating this whole interaction.

She doesn't say a word. She doesn't need to. Her eyes say everything.

Do you see this too? Do you see what she just did? Rat treats for my rat son.

Dorian looks back at her, already grinning. His expression mirrors hers, but with a little triumphant glint, almost like he's been waiting for this moment, for Imogen to do something sweet like this. He raises his brows slightly, tilts his wine glass in Imogen's direction, and mouths without sound: You deserve her.

Laudna gives the tiniest nod before looking back towards Imogen, like she's maybe starting to believe that.

She's still holding Pâté like he's spun from starlight itself, but her eyes are fixed on Imogen, wide and glassy and so full they barely blink.

She tries to speak once, inhales softly like a word might follow, but nothing comes.

She swallows and tries again.

“You...” she starts, then stops. Her voice is thinner than she expects.

Her gaze drifts to the little cloth pouch in Imogen's hands, then back up again. There's a moment where it looks like she might cry but instead, a soft, awed smile blooms across her face, fragile and bright.

“You're so...good,” she finally says, barely above a whisper. “Thank you. From me and...and Pâté.”

Pâté squeaks in emphatic agreement.

Laudna nods, overcome with emotion, and gently extends her hands to present the tiny rat, his whiskers twitching as if he knows something momentous is unfolding.

Imogen, cheeks flaring pink, reaches into the pouch and pinches one little pumpkin seed between her fingers. She offers it gently.

Pâté accepts it like a tiny gentleman, dainty paws clutching the seed as he begins to nibble with reverent precision.

Then –

“Right!” Dorian claps his free hand against his wrist, wine sloshing slightly, almost startling himself. “Before I melt into a puddle from all this sweetness, please, let's get to the kitchen. I think we still have a chance to save Orym from Letters's ongoing emotional dissection of his chopping skills.”

He sweeps a hand towards the hallway like a theatrical usher.

Laudna and Imogen exchange one last glance, soft and shimmering and unspeakably fond, before following him.

They walk side-by-side, close but not quite touching, and between them, held in Laudna's hands like a crown jewel, is Pâté.

Still chewing. Still smug.

The tiny seed clicks gently between his teeth as they make their way towards the light and laughter of the kitchen.

-----

The beaded curtain to the kitchen parts with a soft rattle of clacking glass on the tail end of Dorian's theatrical introduction.

“ – and here,” he says, gesturing with a flourish of his wine glass, “we arrive at the emotional crucible of the house: the kitchen. Where all wounds are salted, and all vegetables are judged.”

Imogen steps in just behind him, socked feet brushing the warm tile, arms folded tight across her chest. She had barely spoken since the foyer, still riding the strange blend of nerves and warmth that came from being pulled into this house, Laudna's house, where everything seemed half-familiar and totally unpredictable.

Laudna followed close behind, holding Pâté carefully in her hands. The little rat was still working his way through the pumpkin seed that Imogen had given him, his whiskers twitching to and fro with a kind of sleepy satisfaction that made him look very pleased with himself. She gently set him down on a tea towel that seemed to be placed on the counter specifically for him.

The kitchen was a mess of fading sunlight and smells. There was rosemary, onion, something earthy roasting in the oven, and a slight, buttery scent, like something that had been lovingly basted over the course of hours. The window was cracked open slightly to release some of the excessive heat from the oven and a breeze stirred the edges of handwritten notes pinned above the counter.

At the island stood a man with strong arms and a calm face, wearing a hand-embroidered apron that read 'Lettuce Turnip the Beet', finely chopping parsley. Beside him leaned another figure, angular and sleek, watching the process with the same energy one might use to observe a bank heist or a first date going wrong.

“See what I'm saying?” the observer said as they entered, his voice calm, precise, and unreasonably focused. “The wrist tension? The knife hesitation? Orym, this is classic. You're not chopping herbs – you're performing emotional repression.”

“I'm chopping parsley, Letters,” Orym replied, without looking up.

“Mm.” Letters nodded like a disappointed therapist. “And who taught you to hold your emotions like that, hmm? Your mentor? Your mother? A stern uncle with a love of garnish?”

Dorian grinned and gestured towards the speaker with a sweep of his free hand.

“Imogen, meet Letters. He's our personal sous-chef-slash-psychoanalyst,” he said.

Letters turned with interest.

“Ah. The guest. Boots off, shoulders tense, hands fidgety. You're either polite or panicking.” Letters gave Imogen a methodical once-over that made her feel like a science class frog mid-dissection.

“I'm both,” Imogen said with a quick smile. “Imogen. Hi.”

The man with the knife finally looked up. He gave her a small, friendly nod as he wiped his hands on a towel that was resting over his shoulder.

“Orym. Good to meet you. Thanks for the cornbread.” He gave a small smile that steered Imogen more towards feeling at ease in this new space.

“It's real good,” Letters added. “Moist. Confident. Almost suspiciously comforting.”

Imogen shifted her weight.

“I can help if y'all need it. I mean – I wouldn't mind keepin' my hands busy,” she said, hands nervously wringing in front of her.

“Oh!” Laudna perked up immediately. “Yes. She's very capable.”

“You don't actually know that,” Imogen looked over at her with a blink of surprise.

“No,” Laudna agreed, entirely unbothered, “but I feel it in my bones.”

“Fascinating.” Letters raised a brow. “Let's see if the carrots agree.”

“We're roasting. Any shape works.” Orym nudged a bowl of unpeeled carrots towards Imogen and offered a spare cutting board and knife.

Imogen took the knife. It had good weight to it. She glanced at the carrots, then back up.

“You want elegance or speed?” she asked.

“Whatever helps.” Orym smiled.

She started slicing, careful and steady, her fingers already relaxing.

“I grew up on a farm,” she said after a beat. “We used knives for everythin'. Not always vegetables. I used to carry one around in my left boot. Took a while to break that habit when I moved here.”

“See?” Laudna said proudly, drifting towards the stove. “Very capable.”

“She's already ahead of you,” Letters muttered to Orym. “At least she's emotionally honest with the root vegetables.”

Orym ignored him.

“You're fitting in beautifully, Imogen.” Dorian slid onto a stool with a dramatic sigh.

“You're all very...lively.” Imogen looked down at the cutting board, reaching for another carrot, cheeks warm.

“That's the polite version,” Orym said.

From his perch on the towel, Pâté gave a little sleepy shuffle and a small squeak.

“Even Pâté approves,” Laudna murmured.

With that, the chopping continued. Carrots gave way to onions and the sun inched lower across the tile. And for the first time since Imogen had let go of Laudna's hand in the foyer, her hands weren't shaking.

-----

The dining table is tucked just off the kitchen, sat beneath a low-hanging, seemingly handmade, stained glass chandelier that casts jewel-toned patches of light across the scuffed wood of the floor. The sounds of the kitchen bustle behind them, spoon against bowl, the soft clatter of pan lids, and Dorian singing to himself in a language that Imogen doesn't recognize, but dances elegantly through the air all the same.

Imogen holds two plates in one arm and reaches for a third with her free hand, nearly bumping Laudna's elbow as she turns.

“Oh – sorry,” she says quickly, laughing under her breath. “Didn't mean to almost knock your stack over.”

Laudna looks up from where she's balancing six tea cups on a platter, each one a different pattern. One's shaped like a bat. One's got a chipped rim that's painted gold. None of them match, and all of them are beautiful in their own peculiar way.

“Don't be sorry,” Laudna says, her grin curling uneven and fond across her face. “I think these dishes get along better the more chaotic we let them be. Like all of us.”

Imogen lets out a soft chuckle and sets her stack down at the end of the table.

“Y'all just...couldn't decide on a set?” she asks.

“Oh, no, no,” Laudna says with a dramatic wave of one long-fingered hand. “We decided on all of them.”

The table slowly takes shape between the two of them. Silverware (some bent), cloth napkins (none matching), and the occasional skeleton salt shaker make their way to the surface. The chairs don't match either. One is velvet and too tall, one looks like it might have been rescued from a bonfire, and one's painted in layers of colors that have flaked away in spots. Somehow, it's perfect, just like all of them, Imogen's coming to find.

Imogen pauses with a handful of forks, her gaze flicking towards Laudna, who's setting Pâté down in a little open drawer of a nearby side table lined with hand-stitched cloth. The rat immediately curls up, a fresh pumpkin seed clutched between his paws like a prize.

“You always set him down like that?” Imogen asks, voice low and amused.

“He likes to be part of the room.” Laudna shrugs one shoulder, brushing a thumb over Pâté's little head.

Then – BANG.

The front door clatters open, and Imogen jumps, silverware jangling as she clutches it to her chest.

“Shit,” she breathes, blinking towards the hallway.

From the front room, a voice calls.

“Sorry I'm late! Had a customer who wanted a rocking chair that doesn't rock because they're afraid of too much movement – took forever to explain that that's just...a chair.” There's a thump of boots and the shuffle of a package being adjusted under one arm. “I brought dessert!”

“That's Chetney.” Laudna smiles.

“Right. Chetney.” Imogen exhales slowly, tension slipping off her shoulders with a sheepish grin.

A few moments later, Chetney rounds the corner into the kitchen, squinting beneath his brow and holding a wax-paper-wrapped bundle in one hand.

“Well, well – did the new girl show up or what?” he asks.

He scans the room and then the adjoining dining room, eyes landing on Imogen, still halfway bent over the table, a spoon in one hand and the faintest flush on her cheeks, like a cartoon character caught in harsh spotlight.

Dorian, wiping his hands on a towel, grins and gestures.

“Chet, this is Imogen. Imogen, this is Chetney Pock O'Pea. Woodworker. Dessert enthusiast. Occasional menace,” he says.

“Hi.” Imogen straightens up and offers a hand as Chetney makes his way over. “It's good to finally meet you, Mr. Pock O'Pea.”

Chetney doesn't shake her hand right away, but when he does Imogen gets the feeling that her grip is being assessed. He tilts his head and squints at her, eyes sharp with appraisal.

“You got strong hands?” he asks.

“Um. I don't think so?” She blinks slowly.

“Hm. Shame. You've got the posture of someone who knows how to square a joint.”

“Is that a compliment or a warning?” Imogen gives him a baffled look.

“Yes.” Chetney grunts.

Laudna has to quickly turn away to hide her smile as Imogen keeps her expression polite but uncertain, like she's not sure whether she's passed a test or failed it completely.

Chetney finally thrusts the bundle in his hands towards Imogen.

“Anyway. Lemon bars. And something that used to be a tart before the wheel hit a bump. Still edible.”

Imogen takes the package and sets in gently down on the table beside the mismatched cups.

“Thanks. I, uh...like lemon bars.”

He nods curtly.

“Good. You pass.”

“Pass what?”

Chetney is already walking away.

“The first impression! Not bad. Still pending full judgment after dessert consumption.”

Laudna leans in close as Chetney disappears back into the kitchen.

“That was positively glowing praise, darling.”

Imogen just blinks, and then slowly grins, a slight blush blooming on her cheeks.

They return to their places, the mismatched table full of strange dishes between them and soft laughter emanating from the kitchen, sunlight caught in the glass and shadows gathering gently in the corners of the room as the sun finally sets beyond the horizon.

-----

The table is glowing under the soft, different colored lights of the chandelier, half a dozen different lanterns, and sconces casting warm pools across the cluttered spread. Plates clink, conversation flows, and laughter overlaps.

They're midway through the meal now. Orym's sweet potato stacks are criminally tender and caramelized around the edges, layered with slivers of apple and just enough nutmeg. There's crispy-skinned roast chicken beside them, golden and fragrant, and Laudna had roasted the carrots until they blistered and curled, their tops singed and garnished with salt and something that was bright and pickled. Imogen's cornbread, moist and just a little sweet, holds it's own, disappearing piece by piece from the cracked ceramic dish it had been put in at the center.

Pâté has a spot between Imogen and Laudna at the table. His rat-sized pillow, stitched from scraps of deep red velvet and embroidered with crooked little bones, is tucked neatly beside Laudna's plate. His rat-sized wooden table, lovingly carved and sanded smooth by Chetney, holds a few thin coins of roasted carrot and a handful of pumpkin seeds. He eats delicately, if a bit dramatically, making appreciative little noises and licking at his paws between bites.

Imogen, for her part, is quiet.

She's not withdrawn exactly, just...soaking it all in. The house hums with personality, with oddities, with people who have clearly known each other for a long time, and the kind of shorthand and teasing that comes from countless shared nights like this. Orym is gently ribbing Dorian about his 'dramatic wine pour.' Letters is describing in unsettling, precise detail the emotional metaphors he attached to the chicken marinade. Chetney interrupts every few minutes with a muttered critique of the table's wobble or a boast about his hand-cut joinery.

Imogen smiles here and there, even laughs once or twice, but her hands stay folded in her lap. Her shoulders stay tight.

Laudna notices.

She doesn't say anything, just reaches, quiet and sure, and slips her hand beneath the table. Her fingers find Imogen's easily and curl around them, cool and steady and anchoring.

Imogen startles a little, not visibly, but just enough to draw in a small breath. Then she exhales and lets her fingers lace with Laudna's. Her thumb brushes over her sharp knuckles, and the faint calluses she knows are from needlework and carving things in the dark when she can't sleep.

And somehow...that's enough.

The knot that had been tangled up behind her ribs loosens. She shifts in her seat, tucks her hair behind one ear, and leans forward just slightly.

“So...” she says, quietly at first, but not uncertain. “How long've y'all been livin' here?”

Five heads turn towards her, pleasantly surprised.

Dorian is the first to answer, elbowing Orym lightly.

“Since right after our first year of college, actually,” he says.

Orym nods.

“We all met through the dorms or classes. Kind of stuck together after that.”

“We're like gum!” Letters says, gesturing towards Imogen with a fried sprig of carrot top. “Once we bonded to each other, that was it. Lifetime commitment.”

“We didn't even like the same majors or...anything really,” Orym adds with a grin. “But somehow it worked.”

“And we found this place together,” Dorian says. “Cheap, weirdly laid out, terrible plumbing – we fell in love immediately.”

Imogen chuckles.

“And Chetney?” she asks.

“Oh, he came later,” Laudna says, glancing down at Pâté as she speaks, still holding Imogen's hand. “He was doing a chainsaw carving demo on the quad one spring.”

“Drew a crowd,” Orym says. “We thought he might decapitate himself.”

“Was carving a snarling wolf out of reclaimed ash! A lot of technique...a lot of sawdust.” Chetney beams proudly.

“I talked to him after,” Laudna says. “I ended up renting space in his workshop to work on my projects. He never got rid of me.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Chetney mumbles, but there's a fond smile curling his lips upwards.

“Now we all hang out there most weekends,” Letters says. “It's like a community center but with more blades.”

“Helping with projects, making their own,” Chetney says, nodding. “They're all halfway decent with tools now. Some more than others.”

He looks pointedly at Dorian, who clutches at his chest in mock-offense.

“You wound me!” Dorian gasps.

“You wounded the bookshelf, Dorian,” Chetney says, deadpan.

“That bookshelf was avant-garde.” Dorian points his fork at him. “It had spirit.”

“It had lean,” Orym adds, biting into a sweet potato stack. “And not the good kind.”

“I liked it!” Laudna raises her other hand to gently rest her chin against it. “It made the whole corner look like it was quietly deciding whether or not to collapse.”

“Ah yes,” Letters snorts, “the Schrödinger's Furniture aesthetic.”

Imogen, still half-tucked into herself, lets out a surprised laugh. It's sharp and soft all at once. Her hand stays tucked in Laudna's under the table, warm and grounding.

“I bring flair.” Dorian lifts his chin. “And splinters. And a thrilling sense of risk.”

“You bring free labor and snacks,” Chetney says, but there's no bite in it. He nudges Dorian's foot under the table with a boot. “Which is why you're still allowed near the sander.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says, clearly pretending its a victory.

“It's true, though,” Laudna adds, glancing towards Imogen. “All of us got a little better at building things, one way or another.”

“Including this weird, cozy, vaguely code-violating found family.” Letters lifts his glass.

“Hear, hear,” Orym says, raising his fork.

Laudna raises a carrot in agreement and Pâté, seated proudly at his miniature table between her and Imogen, lifts a seed in solidarity.

Imogen smiles as she watches them. They're all so easy with each other, like they have been orbiting the same brilliant star for years. Somehow, in all the mismatched plates and loud voices and soft touches, she feels the gravity pulling her in too.

Her fingers tighten around Laudna's under the table. And this time, when she laughs at Dorian's next theatrical complaint about being misunderstood, it comes a little easier.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! I apologize that this chapter took so long to get out, my depression was depression-ing. I hope you all enjoy the first part of the Saturday dinner at Laudna's! I'm also working on a collection of spicy imodna prompts if any of y'all would like to get in on that. I made a straw page where you can (completely anonymously) send any spicy prompts you'd like. There's a few things I won't write about and I might not get to everything but otherwise...go nuts, really, ya little freaks. You can find the page at: thaddeusturnbuckle dot straw dot page
As always, thank you for all the comments and kudos <3 I should have the next chapter up sometime this week!

Chapter 13: Proof of Belonging

Summary:

Saturday Dinner, Part 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The mismatched menagerie of dinner plates had long since been pushed aside, the table cloth a battlefield of butter smears and confetti bursts of crumbs. Scraps of roasted carrots and sweet potato stacks were left to cool in their serving dishes in favor of half-full wine glasses and the lazy stretch of conversation. The soft clink of glass and the occasional creak of a chair filled the quiet between the group's stories. Chetney and Letters sat like mismatched bookends at the heads of the table, Orym leaned forward on his elbows, and Dorian sat back with the easy sprawl of someone enjoying himself thoroughly.

Pâté, rotund with food and entirely unconscious, snored gently on his embroidered pillow between Imogen and Laudna. One of the cloth napkins had been pulled up over him as a makeshift blanket and his tiny feet twitched every so often under the fabric, like he was chasing something in a dream.

Imogen and Laudna still held hands under the table, fingers tangled like ivy and just as stubborn. Their shoulders touched and Laudna's thumb moved in slow circles against Imogen's knuckles.

Across the table, Dorian leaned in with a grin, swirling what was left in his wine glass.

“Well,” he announced, voice rich with mischief, “I do believe it's time for the post-dinner, pre-dessert Inquisition.”

Laudna groaned softly, hiding her face in her free hand.

“Go easy on her,” she begged, but she was smiling.

Dorian only winked.

“Absolutely not.”

He turned to Imogen.

“Where'd you grow up?”

“Gelvaan,” Imogen said easily, her accent curling thicker around the word. “Little farmin' town in Marquet. Real small. The kind of place where the church bulletin board doubled as a gossip column. Folks would pin up casserole recipes and prayer requests right next to, 'Saw Ella's boy sneakin' out of Miss Wren's window again – bless their hearts.' -”

“That's diabolical,” Orym said, grinning.

“Oh, it's an art form,” Imogen said.

That earned chuckles from around the table.

“I miss my horse the most,” she adds after a moment. “Flora. She's...the most patient soul I ever met. Kept all my secrets.”

“And your family?” Dorian asked gently.

Imogen's smile fades a bit, not all the way, just softens.

“It was just me and my daddy after Mama left. We lived on the farm.” Her voice lowered, losing a bit of the playfulness from earlier. “He was...around. Not really there, though. I don't know if he ever really knew what to do with me.”

A silence settled, gentle but real.

Laudna's hand squeezed hers. Imogen squeezed back.

Orym cleared his throat kindly, steering the moment away without fanfare.

“Are you studying something now?”

Imogen's face lit up a little, grateful for the subject change.

“Psychology. I want to work with kids eventually – either counselin' or early intervention. I just...” She looked down, then back up. “I want to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger.”

Letters, who had been sipping quietly from a bottle of dark beer, tilts his head with interest.

“Wait, you're in the Tuesday-Thursday seminar on cognitive development, right? You sit near the windows,” he said.

Imogen blinked.

“Uh, yeah. That's me,” she said.

“You asked that great question about trauma-linked memory recall in children,” Letters said, his tone both thoughtful and precise. “It sparked a great discussion about dissociative behavior. Very articulate. Very brave.”

Imogen flushes pink, ducking her head a little.

Laudna beams. She doesn't say anything, just looks at Imogen with a kind of reverent pride. It's like she's watching someone she knew was magic all along being seen by everyone else.

And then -

“Well now hold on,” Chetney said, leaning forward with the air of a man sharpening a pocket knife on his thigh. “I've let this go on long enough.”

“Here we go,” Dorian muttered into his glass.

“I've seen Laudna's weird,” Chetney continued. “Hell, I celebrate her weird. But I've also seen her softness. The parts she doesn't always show. And if you're gonna hold her hand under the table like you've earned it-”

“Chetney,” Laudna groaned, half-horrified, half-touched. “Please -”

“No, no,” Imogen says, giving her hand a squeeze. “It's alright.”

“Alright then.” Chetney squinted across the table. “Just a few questions.”

“Gods, he's doing the front porch shotgun speech,” Dorian said, eyes flicking between Imogen and Chetney.

The questions start simple: “What's your favorite snack?” (“Peach rings.”) “Can you fight?” (“With my brain.”) “Are you afraid of ghosts?” (“Used to be. Then I met her.”)

Laudna hides a smile behind her hand.

Then the questions get more serious: “What do you want from her?” (“Nothin' she doesn't want to give.”) “Have you ever broken a heart?” (“Yes. Mine, mostly.”)

And finally, he levels a finger at her, like this is the one that matters:

“What do you like about Laudna?”

Imogen's smile flickered into something more serious. She glances at Laudna, then down at their joined hands.

“I like how she sees the world,” she said, voice soft but sure. “Like it's this odd, terrible, beautiful place that's worth bein' a little stranger for. I like how she doesn't flinch away from dark things – but she still makes room for joy. I like how she laughs. I like that she still chooses to care about people, even when it's hard. And I like how she sees me, even when I'm tryin' to hide.”

She blinked, realizing she may have said too much, cheeks going a little pink.

“Sorry, that was...a lot,” she said.

But Laudna was staring at her now like she hadn't heard anything so wonderful in years, maybe ever. A little teary, a little breathless.

Softer.

If that was even possible.

Even Chetney leaned back, satisfied.

“Alright,” he muttered. “She's good.”

After a few moments of sitting in the syrupy sweet softness, Dorian clapped his hands together.

“Excellent! Now – who's ready for dessert?”

-----

Orym and Dorian had risen to start plating dessert. The lemon bars that Chetney brought were clean-cut and neatly stacked, but the fruit tart was...less composed. Orym muttered something about trying to save the crust as he carefully spooned portions onto plates, while Dorian made a show of refilling wine glasses and nudging another beer towards Chetney. The dining room was warm with laughter and overlapping voices...until it wasn't.

Letters leaned slightly into the space between Imogen and Laudna, his tone casual but annoyingly precise.

“You know,” he said, “psychologically speaking, first kisses tend to establish an imprinted emotional landmark. A foundational bond, even. Like a bridge between two people's limbic systems! It's kind of beautiful, in a neurochemical way.”

Imogen was mid-sip of her wine.

Then, Letters added:

“You were hers, by the way. First kiss, I mean.”

Time hiccuped.

Across the table, Orym froze with a tart-laden plate hovering above the table. Dorian looked up sharply and shot Letters a disbelieving look over his wine bottle.

“I thought we weren't gonna mention that,” he said, a little too late, and a little too amused.

Imogen choked.

The wine went down the wrong pipe and came right back up, splashing across the front of her white blouse in a streak of deep and damning red. She coughed, eyes watering, one hand pressed to her chest and the other flailing for a napkin as Pâté startled in his sleep beside her, snuffling irritably.

First kiss?

Her first kiss??

Oh no. Oh gods. Was it any good? Did she want it? Was it weird? Was it enough?

Did I use too much tongue? Not enough?

Was it soft enough? Memorable enough?

Oh fuck.

“Oh no – I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to – I spilled, I – shit, this is wine – of course it's wine – Laudna, I'm so sorry -” Imogen stammered, desperately blotting at her soaked blouse with a napkin that only spread the stain further, like blood from a wound.

Laudna shot Letters a look that could have withered all the plants in the house. She pushed back her chair gently, touching Imogen's arm in the hopes that it would calm her slightly.

“Darling, it's alright,” she said. “Come on, let's go get you cleaned up.”

Imogen blinked at her, throat tight and heart pounding. She didn't resist when Laudna stood and tugged her gently to her feet, her hands still gripping tightly to the useless napkin, the front of her shirt damp and clinging.

They stepped away from the table, back through the kitchen, back through the beaded curtain, the clinking beads clicking like chimes behind them as Laudna guided her up the creaky flight of stairs. Imogen barely registered where they were going. All she knew was the pressure of Laudna's hand around her upper arm, steady even as her brain buzzed violently like a kicked beehive.

Laudna didn't say anything. She just led her into a room that was low-lit, wall half-covered in tapestries and old band posters, a bundle of dried herbs hanging by the window. Imogen's eyes darted around, taking it in, but none of it really landed. Her ears were still ringing with first kiss, first kiss, first kiss.

“I'll be just a moment, darling,” Laudna said, letting go of her arm and stepping over towards a chest of dark-stained drawers. She pulled out a soft, well-worn band t-shirt that looked like it would disintegrate if you looked at it the wrong way, and a pair of baggy black sweatpants that were missing the drawstring on one side.

Imogen stood frozen as Laudna crossed the room back to her, placed the clothes carefully on the bed beside her, and met her gaze with a kind of gravity that somehow didn't feel heavy at all.

“You didn't ruin anything,” Laudna said, voice low and steady. “You're not in trouble. But if you are uncomfortable, or...feel anything you want to say out loud, you can.”

Imogen couldn't get her throat to work yet, letting out a pitiful little whimper.

Laudna nodded like she understood and then gestured towards the clothing.

“You can change, if you want,” she says. “I'll do everything in my power to get that wine out of your shirt, I promise.”

Then she raised her hand to give Imogen's arm a gentle squeeze, before stepping away towards the door.

“I'll be right outside if you need me,” she says, stepping quietly out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Imogen stood there for a beat. Then two. Then she let out a shaky breath and finally looked down at the shirt on the bed beside her.

It read:

“BLEAK MIDWINTER: THE RETURN TOUR” with a skeletal horse on the front and frayed collar seams. The sweatpants had little embroidered bats on the cuffs.

She smiles in spite of herself. Carefully, she peels off her wine-soaked blouse and begins to change.

The room hums with Laudna's quiet presence, and slowly, like a kettle taken off the flame, Imogen begins to settle. The air smells like lavender and old books, and there's something grounding about the tangle of dried flowers hanging from the ceiling and the paint-splattered rocking chair in the corner. Her heartbeat is still high in her chest, but Laudna's calm is like moss under bare feet...cool, familiar, and gentle. The shirt she's now wearing smells like her. Not perfume, not anything deliberate, just her. Dried leaves and something herbal. Imogen runs her hand down the soft fabric, exhales shakily through her nose, and listens to the soft sound of Laudna waiting just outside the door. Somehow, the silence she's been left in is kinder than her own spiraling thoughts. It holds her gently instead of echoing them back to her on a loop.

There's a gentle knock at the door. It's followed by a pause, then Laudna's voice, quiet and careful:

“May I come back in?”

Imogen clears her throat, shifting slightly where she stands in the middle of the room.

“Y – yeah. Yeah, you can,” she said, voice a little rough, a little hoarse from the emotions she's been swallowing whole.

The door opens with a soft creak and Laudna steps back into the room like she's entering a fragile dream she's afraid might dissolve if she's not careful enough. Her gaze lands on Imogen, standing next to the little pile of her clothes on the floor, Laudna's shirt hanging loose on her shoulders, a little baggy, collar crooked from where she's fidgeted with it. Something starts unspooling in her chest. It's worry, yes, but something quieter and stranger as well. Something like awe. Like gratitude. Like she's witness to something she never thought she would be allowed to look at for too long.

She studies Imogen in her clothes for a beat longer, then clears her throat.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Imogen nodded, looking down at her hands, then at the blouse and skirt at her feet, then back up again, eyes sheepish.

“Yeah, I – I'm okay. Sorry again about the wine. That was -” she exhales, awkward smile creeping in, “ - real smooth of me.”

Laudna shushes her softly, waving a hand.

“It's not a problem at all, darling. Truly. I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” she said.

And she is. Now. Imogen nods, small and bashful.

“I am.”

Laudna smiles, a little crookedly. She takes a step forward. Then another. Her hands fidget for a moment before she stills them, hands clasped together in front of her near her midsection. She looks nervous, visibly so, but her voice is clear when she speaks.

“Yes,” she said, “you were my first kiss.”

Imogen's breath catches.

Laudna tilts her head, dark eyes searching Imogen's face like it's a map she's so close to memorizing completely.

“And I was really rather hoping you might be my second as well,” she said.

Imogen's breath stutters in, lips parting slightly in surprise. Then something warmer blooms, something hopeful.

Laudna leans forward slowly, giving Imogen every chance to turn away, but she doesn't. The distance between them shortens until there's only breath, only the quiet rush of nerves and want.

The second kiss is nothing like the first.

Where their first kiss had been soft and trembling, held between their fingertips like something fragile that might break if they breathed too hard, this one finds a far fuller shape. It carries all the weight of the wanting they didn't say out loud. Laudna's lips press to Imogen's with more certainty and more hunger, but not in haste. Just in the quiet confidence of being wanted back. Her hand finds the side of Imogen's neck and she holds her there, grounding her, and Imogen meets her with something open and searching, something that's been blooming under her skin far longer than she'll ever admit.

Their mouths move together like a conversation both of them have been waiting years upon lonely years to have. It's no longer tentative and no longer unsure. Just full of heat and ache and the sweetness of being brave enough to reach out again.

They break apart, but their fingers stay where they've found home. Laudna's fingers are curled lightly at the back of Imogen's neck, and Imogen's are hooked into the fabric at Laudna's hip. The space between them hums, fragile and warm.

Laudna blinks once, twice, as if making sure the world hasn't completely shifted under her feet. Her voice is careful and testing.

“Was that...alright?” she asked.

Imogen's lips curl, a shaky little smile tugging at them. Her next words rush out of her like a dam breaking.

“I'll be your third. And fourth. And fifth. And sixt-”

Laudna laughs, the sound bright and startled, and leans in to steal a short, sweet kiss that cuts Imogen off mid-word.

When they part again, Imogen's cheeks are warm, her voice quieter.

“I'll be as many of your kisses as you want me to be,” she said.

Something fragile but fierce glimmers across Laudna's features. There's relief and affection and the sound of the lonely echo of years without hearing words like that meant for her breaking. Her fingers flex slightly at Imogen's neck, and her other hand drifts down until their fingers lace together between them.

“You might regret saying that,” Laudna murmured, with the ghost of a grin playing at her mouth.

“Doubt it,” Imogen said, a little breathless.

They don't move apart. Not yet.

-----

Group Chat: D&D (Dinner & Dessert)

Dorian:
Letters
anything you'd like to say?

Letters:
Yes.
Laudna, please convey my apologies to Imogen for mentioning that she was your first kiss without consent from either party.
While the timing was poor, I stand by the therapeutic value of mutual knowledge in strengthening emotional intimacy.

Chetney:
...you're like if a TED Talk got possessed by a greeting card

Dorian:
anyway
just letting you know that we all stepped out to see a movie
figured you could use the alone time

Orym:
we cleaned up the table before we left

Dorian:
Pate is asleep on his pillow in the living room like the tiny, regal monarch he is

Laudna:
oh
I don't know what to do alone with Imogen

Chetney:
oh I've got plenty of ideas

Dorian:
shut it, grandpa

Orym:
don't
just don't

Letters:
Statistically, whatever you're about to say is going to traumatize someone! :(

Laudna:
Chetney
if you finish that thought I'll have Pate chew through the leg of your favorite chair

Chetney:
y'all are no fun

Dorian:
show her to the living room
put on a movie

Orym:
or cards
or just talk

Letters:
Have meaningful, vulnerability-based dialogue! :)

Chetney:
or

Dorian:
no

Orym:
no

Letters:
No.

Laudna:
no

-----

They stepped into the living room, hand in hand, and it was immediately clear to Imogen that this wasn't just a space, but a collection. It was like a living scrapbook, a collage of lives and quirks and accidents that had been arranged into something that felt like home.

Plants occupied every space and every surface they could find, creating a lush and uneven indoor jungle. Some stood tall and glossy, leaves gleaming from being tended to by a meticulous hand. Others looked like they would survive the nuclear apocalypse, their survival based solely on a healthy helping of stubborn love and uneven watering.

The air was warm from the stone fireplace, where the flames had been left to burn low and soft behind the iron gate, casting an amber wash across the room and causing shadows to dance along the walls. Above, string lights were hung haphazardly around the exposed ceiling beams, their golden glow caught midair like fireflies in invisible jars.

In the corner, the television glowed faintly with an old black-and-white film on mute, subtitles marching politely beneath the picture of actors dressed in pressed suits and dresses. They were characters in a love story where everyone says what they mean just a little too late.

Laudna's touch was everywhere Imogen looked, in pieces that were both whimsical and a little macabre. There was a herd of taxidermy guardians standing sentinel in every little nook and cranny of the room: a crow in a tattered lace bonnet, a squirrel holding a teacup in its little paws that was perched up on its haunches, and a rabbit posed as though it was mid-curtsy with one paw clutching a tiny glass vial.

But the one that caught Imogen's attention the most was a duck in full Victorian finery. It had a burgundy velvet coat, brass buttons, and a pocket watch hanging just-so from its side. The little brass plate at its feet read: Balut.

Imogen shook her head with a grin and let out a soft laugh at the ridiculousness of the name. Squab, Haggis, Pâté, Balut...

The furniture was a patchwork mix of thrift store finds, curbside saves, and one piece that looked like it had been dragged out of an elderly grandmother's parlor room. The couch was a deep red, covered in mismatched hand-knitted and crocheted blankets. There were two chairs that looked like they had been taken out of two wildly different centuries, and an antique trunk absolutely covered in stickers ranging from funny to downright terrifying that doubled as a coffee table.

Imogen's gaze traveled to the shelves lining the back wall, filled with an eclectic jumble of treasures and knickknacks. Rows of what looked like novelty spoons glinted in the firelight beside mason jars filled with colorful 20-sided dice. Postcards from far-off places peeked out from between stacks of vinyl records and a collection of smooth river stones and jagged crystals sat next to a tiny, paint-chipped metal robot figurine. The nearby record player stood tall, wrapped in a blue feather boa. Bookshelves sagged under the weight of psychology textbooks, gothic romances, music notes, and leather-bound journals, their cracked and well-loved spines hinting at countless wonders held within.

Imogen turned back towards the archway entry and her breath caught in a soft gasp as she spotted the wall that was next to it. The entire surface was covered in photographs, like a chaotic constellation of memory. There were Polaroids, old and curling at the edges, and glossy prints. Some were framed and others were pinned up with varying shades and patterns of washi tape.

Imogen's hand slipped from Laudna's as if she was being drawn by gravity. She took a step closer.

“Is it alright if I...?”

Laudna's nervous pause was so slight that it could have been missed, but Imogen felt it in the air, that little catch in her breath before the words came.

“Go ahead, darling.” The permission was there, but something in her voice was taut, like a string pulled just shy of snapping.

Imogen eased forwards, letting her gaze wander. She took her time and breathed in the strange intimacy of it. The first photo that caught her eye was one of Laudna and Dorian standing in a narrow dorm hallway, a full-sized traffic cone raised like a trophy in Laudna's grip. Dorian, hair mussed and pajama-clad, clutched his chest in exaggerated scandal.

Another frame caught her: Letters , mid-sentence, gesturing wildly in front of a cork board littered with pictures of cereal mascots all connected by tangles of red string. His eyes were intense, almost as if he was unraveling the very fabric of reality through breakfast-time conspiracy. In the foreground, Chetney was laughing so hard that he was doubled over, mouth wide, teeth flashing.

A sunlit photo showed Orym balanced in a perfect warrior pose on the roof of the very house they stood in, a coffee cup impossibly steady in one hand. The morning light poured over him like golden honey. Down on the lawn, Dorian looked up at him, smile so fond that it nearly ached to look at.

There was Chetney again, chainsaw roaring over his head, smoke and sawdust curling through the air as he coaxed the carving of a large bear from the heart of a massive tree stump. The crowd around him was a storm of expressions, mostly alarm, but Laudna and Dorian stood just behind him, cupping their hands to shout encouragement through the noise.

A black-and-white photo booth strip was tucked between two larger prints, the kind that still smelled faintly of chemicals, no matter how long it had been. In one frame, they were all attempting to cram themselves into view, cheeks pressed together in laughter. In another, half of them had slipped out of frame, caught mid-laugh or mid-blink, chaos and affection spilling from them in equal measure.

Every single image spoke the same truth: we were here. We belonged. We loved each other fiercely.

And then –

Her breath caught when she caught sight of one photo in particular.

Laudna sat cross-legged on the floor, completely absorbed in her work. A chaos of thread, bits of fabric, beads, wire, and scraps of paper surrounded her in little, colorful islands. She had one knee drawn up towards her chest as a work surface, a spool of black thread between her teeth, her hands busy stitching something small and intricate in her lap. The lamplight was haloing her hair, catching the curve of her cheek and the concentration in her eyes. Her mouth was crooked in that way that it got when she was halfway between problem-solving and delight.

She looked...utterly herself. Not posing and not aware that she was being watched. She was just creating, as though the whole world had narrowed down to the thing in her hands.

It was the most beautiful thing that Imogen had ever seen. Laudna was the most beautiful thing Imogen had ever seen.

She turned to tell her as much –

- and stopped. Laudna stood near the archway, fingers twisting together, shoulders angled as though she was ready to retreat. Her eyes darted between Imogen and the wall, quick and uncertain, as if she had just given away more than she had meant to. It was like this wall wasn't just decoration but the beating flesh of her heart laid bare.

Imogen closed the space between them, taking both of Laudna's hands in hers.

“C'mere,” she said.

She tugged her towards the couch, not stopping until they both sank into the cushions.

“They're weird,” she said softly. Laudna tensed beside her. “Weird and wonderful. And gods, Laudna...it's beautiful. Not just the pictures – the way y'all love each other. The way you've all kept it.”

The tightness in Laudna's posture eased just a fraction, enough for her lips to pull into a smile that was small and genuine.

Imogen didn't let go of her hands. The couch sank under their weight, the knit throw behind them bunching at their shoulders.

They stayed quiet for a while, looking at the wall of photographs together. Outside the windows, the glass was black, reflecting the room back at them like they were the only two people in the world.

Laudna spoke first, her voice low, as though she was trying to match the quiet that had settled over both of them.

“It wasn't meant to be a wall. Not at first,” she said. “I'd just...tack one up here, frame another there. And then, one day, I stood back and realized that I had been collecting a life. In little pieces of paper.”

Imogen's eyes softened and she pulled Laudna further into her space.

“Looks to me like you've been collectin' proof. That you're loved. That you belong here.”

Something in Laudna's posture eased further, Imogen's words and her warmth pressed against her side easing her worry.

“Maybe I was. Maybe I still am,” she said.

They leaned back, shoulders touching, the quiet between them turning into something easy. Into something that hummed low in their chests.

“Ya know,” Imogen said after a moment, “we could add a few more. One day. Maybe of us?”

Laudna turned her head just enough for the firelight to catch on the corner of her smile as she rested her chin on Imogen's shoulder.

“I'd like that,” she said.

They sat there, side-by-side, watching the photographs glow softly in the shifting light. The shadows in the room were deep and still, the night pressing close from outside, but here in this small pocket of warmth the wall seemed to shine brighter...it's tangled mosaic of moments holding fast and quietly insisting: we were here, we are here, and we will be here still.

Notes:

Bidet, y'all! It's still the weekend so I'm counting that as me getting this chapter up on time. I hope you all enjoy the second part of this little Saturday dinner! I hope I didn't go overboard with the description of the living room. I'm still working on the collection of spicy imodna prompts (I hope to have the first few prompts up by the end of this week, or this weekend) - so if you would like to send in a prompt (completely anonymously), you can do so at thaddeusturnbuckle dot straw dot page
As always, thank you so much for the comments and kudos on this little story of mine. They truly make my heart feel so full <3

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cairophoenix on Chapter 1 Mon 23 Jun 2025 09:10AM UTC

BIG HAUNTED GRASS DOGS. Took me OUT. This is also a fantastic Nana Morri and I am so into the premise, really enjoyed this first chapter.

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 1 Mon 23 Jun 2025 09:56PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much for reading! I’m glad you like this Nana Morri :) She’ll show up again eventually!
  
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BatWingsandBlackCats on Chapter 2 Fri 20 Jun 2025 05:29PM UTC

This is super fucking cute so far, thanks for sharing!

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 2 Sat 21 Jun 2025 12:09AM UTC
  
  omfg I’m so glad you think so! Thank you for reading :) <3
  
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MildredBurns on Chapter 2 Sat 21 Jun 2025 03:21AM UTC

I adore this fic Amazinh simply wonderful

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 2 Sat 21 Jun 2025 03:33AM UTC
  
  thank you so much for reading! <3
  
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gracewolf43 on Chapter 2 Sat 21 Jun 2025 03:51AM UTC

they’re so supportive…. in their own way.
imogen you’re so brave!!<3

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 2 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:12PM UTC
  
  she’s very brave! :3
  
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cairophoenix on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 09:14AM UTC

UTTERLY charmed by this:

'Sorry, I changed my mind because a woman with really nice cheekbones smiled at me'?”

“They...they were not nice cheekbones.” Imogen said, like a liar. “They were ghoulish.”

And this made me laugh as well:

“Because I can only handle one haunted lesbian crisis at a time and Fearne's already committed to, like, three.”

Great chapter :)

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 2 Mon 23 Jun 2025 09:59PM UTC
  
  These comments of yours have been absolutely making my day! Thank you so much for continuing to read :)
  
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swords_scripts on Chapter 3 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:08PM UTC

This is so cute!

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 3 Sun 22 Jun 2025 07:13PM UTC
  
  Aw, yay! I’m so glad you think so! I don’t know where it’s going exactly but I hope it’s a cute ride. <3
  
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Lexiconatopiatlas on Chapter 3 Sun 22 Jun 2025 09:04PM UTC

This is so precious!

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 3 Sun 22 Jun 2025 11:44PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much for reading! <3
  
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Pikadragon on Chapter 3 Mon 23 Jun 2025 05:25AM UTC

Oh Imogen the absolute gay ass failure that you are. “Just testing gravity!” Sweetie please. Thanks for another amazing chapter!

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 3 Mon 23 Jun 2025 10:00PM UTC
  
  She’s such a loser, I love her so much <3 Thanks for reading and I’m so glad you’re enjoying it so far!
  
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cairophoenix on Chapter 3 Mon 23 Jun 2025 09:18AM UTC

This fic is so FUNNY:

“I once made a philosophy major cry behind the west crypts. He swore I was the spirit of existential despair.” She paused, then added helpfully, “I was wearing a lot more lace back then.”

God, I am so charmed by all of this. Absolutely can’t wait for more. :)

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 3 Mon 23 Jun 2025 10:01PM UTC
  
  Ahhhhh, I’m so happy you’re getting some laughs out of it! That’s what I’m going for :3
  
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gracewolf43 on Chapter 3 Mon 23 Jun 2025 03:24PM UTC

they’re sooo cute ;-;
absolutely adorable<3
gen getting relentlessly teased! good gracious I feel bad but its so funny. shes so awkward i love her

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 3 Mon 23 Jun 2025 10:05PM UTC
  
  Thank you! I just NEED to write some gentle love-bullying from Ashton and Fearne. I love that dynamic, especially between Imogen and Ashton for the found sibling energy. I’m so happy you’re enjoying this fic!
  
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Mr_BDece on Chapter 3 Thu 26 Jun 2025 12:19PM UTC

Testing gravity 🤣

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 3 Thu 26 Jun 2025 06:40PM UTC
  
  So smooth! Lmaooo
  
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MildredBurns on Chapter 4 Thu 26 Jun 2025 04:49AM UTC

I absolutely love this fic, they're mutual panic is funny as hell, it's always beautiful how they immediately take care of each other once they meet. They're both so thoughtful :')

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 4 Thu 26 Jun 2025 06:43PM UTC
  
  I'm so glad you're enjoying it! Right? They're both so sweet. Especially with each other.
  
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gracewolf43 on Chapter 4 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:37AM UTC

I love them all trying to give advice to Imogen and Laudna

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 4 Fri 27 Jun 2025 04:45AM UTC
  
  The best friends ever!
  
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cairophoenix on Chapter 4 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:04PM UTC

God this fic is so charming and makes me so happy. Phone number ghost is so cute. Ashton and Fearne are menaces in the best way. Chet’s advice is perfect. LAUDNA NAMED A PIGEON SQUAB. And this:

“I just wanted her to know I saw her.” Imogen let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling, her voice barely a whisper. “That someone sees her.”

WEH.

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 4 Fri 27 Jun 2025 07:28PM UTC
  
  I’m so glad that this fic makes you happy! What a wonderful compliment, WEH ;-; I had to have her use at least one slightly inappropriate food-based name since I don’t know when/if Mr. Pate de Rolo will make an appearance!
  
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temporary_tats on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 06:21AM UTC

Man this is so good 😭 I cannot wait to see where this goes next — amazing stuff, super cute, LOVE the vibes.

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 07:25PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much for reading! <3 I’m glad you love the vibes! I feel like I’m flailing around with it all lmao
  
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cairophoenix on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 02:11PM UTC

God this fic is SUSTAINING me you have no idea. I feel so light and happy. I love love love your Nana Morri, the entire scene, she is so weird and unnerving and probably-wise-but-what-the-fuck. And I loved Imogen’s text exchange with Fearne and Ashton. She’s so in love! She’s such a gay loser! She’s so brave! I’m so proud of her!
also this line made me cackle:

she left you a feather last night when she couldn't make it and said “this feels like you” and you texted “:)” and screamed into your coat for ten minutes

Like YEP. YEP. That is how it would go!!

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 07:31PM UTC
  
  The fic is sustaining you?? Your comments are sustaining ME!! I’m so happy that you like how I’ve been writing Nana Morri!
  
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one_nerdyace on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 03:12PM UTC

(cue we fell in love in october by girl in red)
this is very quickly becoming one of my favorite fics. the imogen, ashton, and fearne batner, nana mori giving cryptic yet really good advice, laudna and imogen being head over heels, i love it all

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 07:39PM UTC
  
  What?? ;-; I’m so honored that this is becoming one of your favorite fics. Seriously, you don’t know how happy that makes me.
  
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borkytater on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 04:35PM UTC

I'm mad every time I hit the Kudos button and it reminds me that I've already left kudos here. /repeatedly smashes Kudos button in unhinged delight

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 07:40PM UTC
  
  Right?? There are so many fics I want to leave multiple kudos on. Thank you so much for reading. You’re so sweet <3
  
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hopsalong on Chapter 5 Fri 27 Jun 2025 08:13PM UTC

Awww this is lovely! You really harnessed that 'how ask first date' energy and it's so real xD The vibes of this are sort of grounded and delightful, if that makes any sense. Thanks for writing it! oh to work in a graveyard of my own....Imogen is living the dream.

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 5 Sat 28 Jun 2025 02:37AM UTC
  
  Ahh, I’m so glad you think so! Thank you so much for reading <3
  Right? She’s lucky af.
  
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LesbianLil on Chapter 5 Wed 09 Jul 2025 02:06AM UTC

Your Ashton-Fearne-Imogen banter is absolutely TOP TIER. Ashton "Words? In this economy?" Greymoore is just so true to his character.
Also I was NOT expecting Imogen to actually ask her out I really thought there'd be some 'ambiguously friends but actually more' awkwardness. So proud of her honestly

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1. ThaddeusTurnbuckle on Chapter 5 Wed 09 Jul 2025 03:29AM UTC
  
  I’m so happy that you think so! Ashton is the one that’s the furthest from me personality-wise so I have to really reach to find him. You saying that makes me feel like I can actually catch them in words sometimes :)
  There are absolutely no brakes on this Sapphic Love Story Train! Just a bunch of nerves and awkwardness and charming little first-date moments! All aboard!
  
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