Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You sip your drink, and subtly scowl at it: it’s watered down. Again.

It always is when Leander is not the one behind the bar. 

He always makes sure to give you pretty charged drinks, and goodies from outside the bar that are not only actually palatable but quite good in their own right. Always at the right times too, curiously enough. You get back from work, following his leads for odd jobs here and there or researching for a way to free yourself from your curse. You sit down at your preferred booth, at the back where you can observe the flow of the crowd coming and going, and suddenly there he is, just a minute behind you. He’s all smiles and  radiance, his hair perfectly parted and always with energy to take you anywhere or talk to you while you have the little snack he so thoughtfully brought for you. 

He comes with treats sometimes, sometimes with a pair of gloves he found or a piece of jewelry. He likes it when you use them, when he can recognize you from the far with them. 

Your gloves shimmer, glossy satin decorated with bright green thunder like lines. A bit on the nose, but who else but him could tell? 

You still wear your bandages underneath. 

The rings stay in a small jewelry box, also a gift from him, at the desk in your room. You don’t get why he insists, given that your fingers already feel so bulky with all the layers: it would be so awkward, and still. Four or five now sit there, untouched. A couple of them, way too fancy to even dare taking them out in the open. 

Why would he even give you something like that? In Lowtown that’s close to a death sentence if you do so much as turn around the wrong corner. 

Still, your fingers tap against the chilled glass, and the bandages absorb the condensation, wetting your fingertips. It’s quite a nice sensation after a long day in the sun, after all. 

“Am I interrupting your brooding time, Sparrow?” The voice reaches you before the figure does, so focused you are on watching the droplets race across the glass. He startles you, and still you try to steel yourself in hopes of not giving him the chance to mock you.

However.

“Jumpy, aren’t we?” The bastard grins and sits in front of you; he slides down on the seat enough for his leg to touch yours. It is absolutely unnecessary.

“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t so fucking sneaky.” You scoff, even when you can see your attitude only makes him more smug. 

You’re so close you could easily reach out and slap that smirk off his face.

You grit your teeth as he lights his cigarette slower than he needs to. 

“Why are you here, Ais?” You sigh, feigning exhaustion. He only shrugs, taking a drag.

“Wanted a drink.”

“Specifically on my table?”

“There’s no one else I’d like to be around.” When you look up he’s staring you down, bright red fixed on you in a way that makes it impossible to look away. It should be terrifying, blood curling, but he doesn’t feel like people say he should. There's curiosity in his eyes, honest wonder. 

It is quite refreshing. 

You end up passing your drink along. You’re not that much of a fan of watered down vodka, anyways. 

He smells the glass and makes a face. “Please, you’ve drunk worse.” You joke and he smiles wolfishly, fingers glinting under the dim lights. 

Ais drinks the entire glass in one go and gestures to the bartender to come closer. She usually doesn’t, but there’s not that many people today: it is still quite early after all. “That’s exactly the point. We need worse.” 

You can’t help but laugh. He’s charming, in an awkward way. 

The night comes quick, quicker than you’d like. Leander is busy tonight, he’s told you so, and you expected to spend your time alone drinking in the shadows. 

But this plan is better.

Around you there’s a multitude of empty glasses, one that’s being filled with the rest of Ais’ cigarettes that he keeps lighting and forgetting on the table before he sinks them down into their barely alcoholic grave. He moved from the front of you to sitting at your side when you started wobbling, threatening to kiss the table forehead first. Now he’s thigh against thigh against you, his arm behind the backrest of the bench, and trying to teach you about the difference of every shitty whiskey the bar holds. They’re not many, and they’re not different, but his descriptions are hilarious. 

You could certainly be having a worse day. 

“And this- I could smoke one of these in one breath and it would still taste less ashy than this.” He proves it by, in fact, taking a drag so long his smoke turns to ash against his knuckles. He then proceeds to fully empty the glass in one go, and lets the smoke out only after. 

It’s quite impressive if it wasn’t because the response that popped into your head makes you fold over yourself laughing before it can leave your lips. The fact your half hiccup half wheezing makes him chuckle as well is still as rewarding as anything. 

“You were supposed to let the smoke out before you drink it! Of course it’s ashy, you dimwit!” You laugh and the word hits a nerve, but barely: he still grins, his cheeks barely pink, his voice perfectly still.

How dare he. 

“You’re right. How silly of me.” He’s being purposefully irritating and he knows it; the fact he seems still impeccably sober only makes it worse. “We should get another and try again.”

But when he turns, decided to get up for a refill, Leander is already towering over you two, somewhat menacing even through his always wide smile. 

“Ais! I didn’t know you were coming, what a nice surprise!” He puts a hand heavily onto Ais’ shoulder but the demon looks at you instead of him before answering. 

“Am I in your seat, pretty boy?” He asks slowly, deliberately, as he puts the glasses he was balancing in between the fingers of one hand down. 

“Oh please! I’m not here to dictate who anyone should spend time with.” He chuckles easily, and still.

Something feels ominous in his words. In the way he refuses to look you in the eye when he says it. 

It might just be the liquor in your system. Leander has never been anything but wonderful to you, anyways. 

“However, you do look like you’ve been here for a little too long.” She chuckles and his smile doesn’t fade. It’s eerie how he can sometimes do that. 

Ais regards him for a minute, a polite, cold smile in his lips. After that, he turns towards you and something in his expression softens; he pulls his arm closer around you, still without touching you, only to gently bring his other hand to your jaw, following the line up to your chin so delicately your numb skin can barely even feel the touch. 

He stares at you little by little; you can see his eyes focused on the shape of your lips, the color of your cheeks, the chemical glaze of your eyes. 

“You should probably go to bed, sparrow,” he almost murmurs, his thumb caressing your chin so tenderly your breath catches in your throat. “I might have entertained you for too long.” He adds with a little smirk. 

It makes you giggle, and your own giggle makes you snort trying to stifle it. 

He laughs. “It’s worth it to hear that laugh.”

You slap his hand away playfully with a scoff before pulling his arm close to support yourself as you get on your feet. “I’m not that much of a lightweight, Ais.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He chuckles, pulling you upwards hard enough for you to lose your balance and stumble onto his chest. You hear a scoff from behind him and push away from him, just in case.

“I’ll drink you down next time,” your voice melts and drips so much it’s embarrassing: just one more drunk amongst the crowd, aren’t you? He could mock you so easily, and still he doesn’t, only shrugs.

“Anytime, sparrow.” 

“Let me take you to bed, okay?” Leander’s tone is soft and sweet as he puts his hands on your shoulders, guiding you to the stairs. 

You can’t put up a fight, even if you wanted to: your legs feel like leads, your head is swimming, and the touch of his hands is somewhat fiery, overwhelming. 

You still resist the urge to rip him off of you. 

“Anytime?” You yell much louder than necessary, whipping your head back, “Friday it is, then!” 

You can’t see him answer, only slowly walking away, but you still think you hear his gravelly easy chuckle. Leander’s hands guide you from the middle of your back, sliding down to your waist before you stand out onto the first step and turn towards him.

“I can make it, thanks.” You say, terribly sloppy, as you try to hold him back by his shoulder and miss, your hand splayed across his chest. 

“Can I take you upstairs? I wouldn’t like you to fall or hurt yourself-”

“I’m fine, it’s just two steps!” You’re loud. Why are you so loud? But you’re still firm and he knows better than to insist. 

He raises up his hands in defeat, a smile still lingering in his lips.

He always smiles. 

You tumble your way up, but eventually make it to your bed, already feeling the acrid fire in your stomach and the regret that’s going to flood you tomorrow.

Still, it feels worth it. 

Friday, isn’t it?

Chapter Text

It’s hard to count the days, and still you try.

There’s suddenly so much work to do; even if you want to, you end up missing your evenings at the bar, your opportunity to mingle and listen to the crowd talking. 

It doesn’t matter much, you reckon; it’s a lot of work, yes, but the work Leander keeps giving you follows onto leads of old parchments and dated spells that might be what you need.

You don’t know how a cure will look, anyways. You gotta take every chance you can get. 

Friday comes, marked on a sheet of paper in between your mess of notes, and you insist on finding the time to see Ais, even if just for a few minutes. You said you would, after all. It might not be the battle of booze and will you’ve promised but something tells you he’ll be fine as long as you’re there.

You go up to change, ignoring the steps behind you, around you. 

Yet when you close the door behind you, it doesn’t give. 

“Why are we in such a hurry?” He asks, charming and lighthearted and smiling so wide; the coat you forgot downstairs is hanging neatly from his arm. 

Leander always does. It’s comforting, in a way.

In a way it’s slightly unsettling.

“I’-” You start but stop yourself immediately. He has no reason to be around you; he owes you no payment, you owe him no briefing. This is your bedroom and he’s at the door, waiting to be let in. 

You did not invite him upstairs with you. He does not offer you your garment back, just waits for you.

“I got somewhere to be” You decide to be as vague as possible: your information is your own, he has no right to it, not if you don’t give it. 

“I hope it’s not life or death, are you alright?” He reaches for you, his hand curling warm around your arm. “Are you threatened?”

“No. What? No.” You step back out of reflex. His comfort is not needed, feels like a bucket of water poured where there’s no fire. 

It’s just out of place. Too out of place. 

“Well, if it’s not a big deal, then I can tell you.” He pulls himself closer to you, as if he couldn't stay away. He always felt like it to you, as if he possessed a magnetism that called for you.

Half the time you try to run from that pull, feeling it so intense it threatens to rip you to shreds to become one with him. 

Sometimes you fold. Sometimes it wins. 

“I heard something downstairs, as I was coming.” He murmurs in your ear in secrecy. “I can’t say how veridic it is just yet, but I got a new lead-”

“You should check it, then.” You say, trying to pull away. He doesn’t grab you hard enough to stop you, he never does, but his demeanor immediately changes. Big eyes, soft expression, as if you’ve hurt him. You need to explain yourself before the misunderstanding gets any bigger. “You should follow the lead, find out if there's any good information out of it. I still have something to do, Leander.”

He still pauses, takes his time to answer, his gaze onto you like a plea. 

“I see.” He says and his voice sounds somewhat detached, far away. 

“Leander?”

He smiles at you suddenly, beaming with that warmth of his, impossible to resist.

“Why don’t we have some dinner together, wind down, then? I’m sure whatever you need to do can wait until you’re refreshed.”

It’s not only the whiplash in his change of demeanor that makes your hairs at the back of your neck stand on end; it's also the fact that that line ends with the click of your lock. 

Your hands fall on your vest, your pants; you pat at every pocket but feel nothing. Your key is not there.

Your coat still rests on his arm. It must have been there. 

That’s not his key to the room, that is yours. 

“What are you doing?” You ask slowly, as if the careless intonation of only one syllable could unleash something terrible upon you. 

“Just told you! we can sit, and talk, and I can hold your hand…” He demonstrates, trying to take your hand in his but you jolt back. He frons for such a short moment you almost believe you imagined it. “You do like when I touch you, don't you?” He smiles, calmly. 

It’s comforting. It should be. 

You cannot make it feel that way. 

“Leander, I have to go.” You try again and he waits for you to change your mind. 

But you don’t.

His smile falters. 

“I know where you’re going.” His voice is ice cold, in a way you’ve never heard it before. His eyes feel empty, dead if it wasn’t for the almost eerie glow of green. He takes a step forward and you take one back; the back of your legs meet the edge of the bed as you fall onto it. 

“I know who you’re going to .” The emphasis sounds like venom out of his lips. 

He towers over you and even breathing feels like too much movement, too much of a taunt. You freeze, muscles tense, ready to run. If only you could, if only there was somewhere to run to. 

You’ve been working with him, living by his good graces in the room he placed you in, like a box you needed to fit into. You eat where he wants you to, wear what he gives you. You see him, and no one besides, whenever he pleases. Because he’s fun, he’s charming, he’s good company; because he can give you what no one else can. Connection, closeness. 

You’ve never expected him to ask for so much in return. 

“I do so much, I’ve done so much for you, and this is how you repay me? Pushing me aside?” His smile is back, but it’s something sharp, hungry, rotten. “You’re here, alive and well, and more than well if I may add, because I took you in!” 

“You said any decent person would-” Your voice is barely a shaky thread, a whisper along his booming, almost mocking, tone. 

“You’ve met a lot of those around? There are not many, I can tell you that much.” He leans onto you, his hands grabbing you by the wrists, pulling them over your head and pinning you in place. His breath is so hot, so close to you you’re afraid to breathe it in, to catch whatever corruption took hold of him to make him so, so…

Different. 

Or was he ever this, and you didn’t notice? This… hunter?

“You trust him,” his voice is nothing but fire, rage bubbling out of the corner of his mouth, while his gaze remains so unnaturally impassive, “as if he could do half the things I do, as if he wouldn’t just… just… sacrifice you to the spring! You know better!” 

He sighs, letting you go as he gets up to put space in between you. You pant, clutching your chest; it feels like your heart stopped beating a while ago and it’s trying to keep up now, drumming wildly against your ribcage. 

“You know what? Maybe I am doing too much.” His tone is so calm and resolute it’s blood curling. “Maybe I should just leave you for the night. You’ll see what it’s like to be alone in a city like this.”

He unlocks the door behind him, kicking the coat that lays discarded at his feet. “Maybe then you’ll appreciate what you got.”

You don’t have the fortitude to say anything as he leaves, murmuring a tender good night that hits more like a slap in the face than the caress you know it used to sound like. 

However, you find your strength back when you hear the unmistakable click.

He locked the door.

He took your key. 

You run to bang on the door, shout at it; the bar is full, you know it. No one could listen. Even if someone did, how could you know they weren't a part of it, that they wouldn’t just let him do whatever without consequences?

How could you know you’re safe?

You run to your chest, your drawers, the piles of things around the room. Fine clothes, jewelry, cute delicate hair accessories and makeup in hues of green and gold; all of it, everything a mark of ownership. A leash around your neck. The food you never asked for, the room you never paid for. 

All the  things he’s done for you. He finally came to collect. And whoever you thought he is, the mirage of that savior, the hero that pulled you off the muck, shattered. 

You can feel the tears rolling hot down your cheeks. You should’ve known. 

You knew at some point, and shushed the voice down. He was so nice, so sweet; he held your hand and warmed your bed and embraced you after every nightmare. 

He was so someone else.

Until you looked away. 

You want to take it back, to yell at him to come back, that you’re not leaving, you’re not booking at anyone ever again, to make him bring the man you knew back.  But you’re smarter than that: you know now that man has never been real. 

As you sit on the bed, clutching your knees up against your chest, his words, his expression keeps swimming around in your head. 

You won’t be able to leave until morning and still you wish morning would never come. 

Downstairs, the party just rages on and on. Just one more Friday night.

Chapter Text

It could have been hours.

It must have been hours.

The Moon hangs round and pristine over a foggy sky. The streets are raucous, filled with drunken babble and fist fights, to soon turn into eerie silence, slashed only by the sounds of the hunt. Bodies hitting brick walls and screams that die before they’re fully formed.

At least you’re not down there.

You’re not sure if this is much better.

You got treats you’ve stored from previous days, from when his kindness felt real still, a bathroom to wash up and a soft enough bed, give or take the amount of bumps and dents in the mattress. 

But down there, there is freedom. Even through the talons of a Soulless. The freedom you never wanted, and now the only one that seems true, forever. 

You thought there was nothing as relentless as your curse, and yet you manage to find the one thing, the one man, more powerful than it. The one man worse than it.

Good fucking job. 

You play with an old bandage, rolled and tied into a knot in the shape of a ball with a short wick to grab onto. You lazily drop it in front of you, still sitting on your bed, pick it up with your feet and throw it back again. 

It isn’t exercise enough for your body to feel the exhaustion of having your world torn into shreds, and you with it; but it’s entertaining enough to keep your mind occupied in something simple. 

Harmless.

Throw the ball. Pick it back up. 

You’re almost too distracted to hear the slight tap in your window. By the time you turn, it might have been there for a while. It’s more embarrassing when you see what it is. 

Sitting on the windowsill at the other side of the glass, almost leaning on it, is Ais, hands covered in blood and knuckles swollen, and still smirking at you like you're a prized fish and just bit his bait; his knuckle taps rhythmically on the glass, the cigarette held in between his fingers leaving a grey line of ash along your window as it bounces back and forth. 

You ditched him. You couldn’t see him, nor tell him why. And yet he came for you.

His smirk becomes softer, almost tender. He tilts his head, pressing the palm of his hand against the window. 

You reach for him but don’t move from the bed; your arm pulls back once it couldn’t touch him. You can’t anyways: you’re on two different sides of the box. You’re encased, a thing to be looked upon, flaunted. 

He’s free. Out there where the blood flows. Where life beats into the chests, pours onto the cobblestone.

His smile falters. 

And it’s not the same. 

Instead of spelling you, it pushes you forward; his brow furrows, worried. His eyes follow you as you softly get up onto numb legs, wobble towards him to sit on the windowsill at the other side. He runs the back of his fingers across the glass where yours rests, yet his gaze never leaves yours. 

Your brain convinces you you can feel the caress, makes your skin prickle where he would’ve touched you.

He suddenly diverts his attention to his own hands; he runs his index finger across the red traces of his evening activities, letting his skin show underneath. Pristine, of course: the blood is never his, after all. Ais then presses the finger onto the glass, focused.

You don’t want to giggle at how deep into it he is, carefully measuring his moves, but once you lean away to see what he’s doing, the laughter becomes impossible to stop.

Is that meant to be you…?

He’s drawn something akin to a semi circle, its opening pointing downwards, with a little circle on top and a couple of dripping red lines that could  be called a bird if you try really hard to find it. It’s… cute. Adorable, even, if you ignore the fact he’s using blood as paint. You convince yourself they must have done something to deserve their fate as Ais’ art supplies. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, feigning offense, but his grin is still huge on his face. He makes you smile so easily it’s hard to focus on anything else. 

He still calls your attention back to it; he paints a question mark, followed by the same rhythmically taptap taptap on the window with his knuckle, the cigarette long extinguished just hanging from his hand.

You find it curious he seems to be imitating a heartbeat. 

It takes you a moment, but you notice soon enough: it’s meant to be a cage. It is your cage, the one you jumped eagerly into and didn’t notice until the door shut violently behind you. 

Your smile drops, but instead of allowing you to look frantically for something to message him back. You’re not an artist; the pencils you have for writing notes would not leave a trace on glass. And something tells you if Ais saw you cutting yourself open to talk to him he would never let himself free of guilt. 

Heart on his sleeve, and all. 

You end up falling onto the pile of Leander’s gifts you made earlier in a frenzy at the foot of your bed. Clothes and jewelry are all strewn around the room as you look for something useful, something…

You pick up as if a sudden shockwave ran through your body. When you come back to the window, you realize his eyes have been following you the whole time. 

It’s quite endearing, actually. In such a simple, straightforward manner. 

Ais places his palm against the window again, and you hesitate for a second. You want to rest yours onto his, show him you appreciate his company, that you wanted it tonight. 

That you tried so fucking hard.

Instead, you take the cap of the lipstick you're holding into your fist with your mouth, spitting it out before you draw on the window; you make a slow, way too careful heart around his hand.

He doesn’t move it out of place, and still he chuckles, looks away. The moonlight lets you see the blush crawling upon his cheeks all the way to the top of his pointy ears. 

If you thought his kindergarten drawings were adorable before…

He clears his throat, settles down before his hand moves, encouraging you to take a step back. Once you do, his fist shoots forward, piercing through the heart and turning the window to shards in a loud booming crash. 

Your heart starts racing. He has to have heard that, someone has to. You know they're coming. 

Still, Ais calls for you and you run to the window. He pulls you into his lap, sliding an arm underneath the back of your knees as the other settles at the small of your back, holding you against him. This time the blood on his hand is still hot, dripping on your thighs; some of the cuts still have pieces of glass in them, some are deep enough to be concerning, but he shows no evidence of pain. Or at least he’s not paying enough attention to it, his gaze fixated on you. 

You want to speak but cannot find your voice; the knot in your throat becomes bigger and bigger, until your breathing starts sounding shallow. 

“Hey, little sparrow, it's okay.” He murmurs into your ear. You can see the door flexing under the heavy knocking. They've come for you. 

“I’ll be your wings tonight. Let’s fly away, shall we?”

You barely nod before you feel the emptiness swallow you, but only for a moment: he jumps off the window, crushing you against his chest, and runs. Towards the edge of the city, towards the open wastes, to where nothing but the Seaspring stands tall. 

And even then, it feels so much safer than anywhere else could be. 

Because he’s with you.