Work Text:
A waning candle flickered on the Caster's desk, outlining the figure seated at it in a warm glow. With the help of the flame dancing before him, he went about scribbling as fast as he could, as if panicked lest the smallest of ideas should slip by him should he slow down.
During these bursts of motivation, breaks were nearly nonexistent. Sometimes, very rarely, you can hear a pencil as it clatters to the desk and see the writer proceed to massage his poor, wearied wrist. But, no sooner does this happen than he's back to frantically putting every last thought of his down to paper.
Strewn around the writer and all about the room were drafts in various levels of completion. Some were rougher than others, while some stood nearly finished. The draft Andersen chose to pour his attention into was still in its early stages, as he'd only started work on it the night prior. It was still very much a rough draft, one he deemed nonsensical even. All night spent fabricating a butchered plot with nothing close to a proper conclusion—as if written only to leave the audience confused and dissatisfied. It was enough to make him scream.
However, he kept from venting these frustrations, seeing as though he had company. He wasn't about to let himself get caught throwing a tantrum over this. And while he didn't care about upholding whatever possibly respectful image the other may have of him, he was in no mood to make a complete ass of himself. After all, a visible child spewing expletives in a grown man's voice would look too comical not to laugh.
The man whom Andersen invited over to read cleared his throat and shifted in his chair; his attention wholly focused on the draft given him.
Despite how late it was, Caster refused to consider turning on the room's fluorescent lights in favor of the lone candle burning at his desk. It gave the room, littered with all manner of papers and books, a comforting and cozy atmosphere he adored but, from pride, would never admit. Considering he sat directly in front of the only light source, it came as no shock that the candle couldn't keep the rest of his room out of the dark.
Fortunately, that mattered naught to the count, whose eyes had years of practice piercing through darkness much thicker than this; he first skimmed through the draft, then reread it—all of which he did with ease.
As far as technical skill went, the count, while knowledgeable, was nowhere near a top contender for those Andersen would consider for peer review. Still, what insights he did manage proved to be pretty invaluable (even if he was too sentimental for the writer's tastes). Not to mention how devoted he is to work in silence, only speaking when need be. ("Quite unlike a certain blathering playwright," Caster groaned.) Even better was that he blended right into the room's shadows—almost too well. He offered a necessary pair of eyes, yet never once did he breathe down his neck. Had Caster not known better, he could have assumed Avenger possessed some concealment skill.
Even as he reread the draft a second time, it was easy for the count and his keen eyes to follow his friend's movements. He noticed with vague interest the way Andersen, without looking away from his writing, shot his free hand out to palm for something on the desk. Not finding whatever he needed, he huffed and drew his hand back.
Immediately following this, a smooth baritone broke in upon the count's reading.
"Seems I've left a book in the library—mind fetching it for me?" Andersen said in an utterly indifferent tone, making a vague gesture toward the door of his room as if he were shooing the count out. Without waiting to gauge his reply, Andersen continued, "It's a red, leatherbound short story collection. I'm guessing it's near the seats in the back."
As Andersen gave what particulars he knew, the count carefully set aside the papers he was reading. "Of course," he said in an equally indifferent tone. Despite whatever reluctance he may have felt at leaving his friend's side, he was quick to start for the library, if at least to get back sooner.
Unlike Avenger, Caster had the privilege of being among the first Heroic Spirits summoned since the Master arrived in Chaldea and, consequently, had more choices between rooms. It should come as no coincidence then that Andersen's quarters are so close to the library of all places. On top of that, the count's pace was naturally quite brisk; it took barely a moment for him to reach the room in question.
One firm pull and the door creaked open, enabling him to slip in quick as a shadow.
Much like his friend's room, the library too was lit up, not with harsh fluorescent lights but the soft glow of candles sparingly spread out. Similarly, it left much of the place bathed in shadows, though Avenger wasn't about to complain. He stalked through the aisles like an animal in its element, taking note of the occasional book that'd catch his eye as he went. The place appeared deserted, yet a soft humming reached his finely tuned ears, proof that at least one other person was there. At first low, the sound soon grew in volume the further Avenger ventured in. As consistently steady a rhythm as that which he heard was, with equal breaks in between, it was likely it wasn't humming that Avenger heard so much as snoring. Chances were high someone had just fallen asleep reading, in which case he'd likely leave them to their slumber. Regardless, the curiosity propelled his step just a bit faster as he searched for Caster's book.
Situated near a corner in the back was a low wooden table around which were clustered some armchairs. Had this been during the day, he'd see a good handful of people taking up these seats—but, sure enough, only one person sat there now. Having already considered the idea, he wasn't surprised to find someone back here. He was, however, somewhat surprised to find his Master of all people back here, curled up with a book and soundly snoring away.
He glanced around the chairs, eyes catching on the leatherbound book he came here for, before bringing his attention back to his Master.
Actually, on second thought, curled wasn't quite the word he'd use to describe their appearance. It gave off too gentle a connotation; instead, they seemed bent, hunched over with their legs folded beneath themselves, an open book not so much held as clutched to their chest. It was a strange position to stay in, let alone sleep.
Contrary to the cold look he often wore, a pang of worry shot through Avenger as he considered the soreness they'd no doubt wake up to if left in this position. The count shot one last, futile glance around as if entertaining the possibility of him having missed anyone else on his way through. As he did so, he couldn't help but wonder where Mash could be—no doubt sleeping herself. But still, seeing as the two were usually inseparable, it was almost odd to see the Master by themselves for once.
Taking a hesitant step forward, the count leaned down until he was at eye level with them. Curiosity instantly got the better of him; he took a moment to study their face. Though still blank, the lack of stress in their features at least offered a slightly more peaceful sight than usual.
To say they rarely show emotion would be an understatement; in all the time they've known them, most Servants wouldn't even be able to say they've seen them smile so much as once. However, it'd be unfortunate to mistake this general lack of reaction as a lack of care. After all, their actions constantly prove how kind they are towards others, even if they aren't the best at expressing it. To someone like the count, it was easy to glean that they were plain shy from their body language and what few words they did on occasion say. Luckily, most Servants they came into contact with understood on some level that their cold demeanor stems more from awkwardness than anything.
A nervous smile briefly flashed across his face as the thought dawned on him that he had been staring long enough. He cleared his throat and said, "You'll hurt your neck sleeping like that."
Nothing.
An imperceptible change occurred in the count's face as he reconsidered his approach. He slowly brought a hand up and took another step toward them. "Master," he said in a low but firm tone, just as his hand connected with their shoulder.
No reaction. The count gave the slightest nudge.
They didn't even stir.
A sigh escaped him, and he backed up a step. His eyes began to dart around, soon landing once more on the red leatherbound collection. His focus shifted back and forth between the book and his Master for a few seconds but eventually settled back on his Master.
The book can wait, he decided, as another nervous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
They were huddled in a chair and had wished Mash good night; that much they could remember. The image of Mash rushing off to bed, and even the sound of the library door creaking shut behind her, they could recall easily. It's just anything after that they had trouble bringing to mind.
No doubt they were drained from rayshifting earlier that day. But to completely black out, even if it was the middle of the night? That was new. Regardless, they found themselves in bed the following morning: it seemed they (and their book) had made it safely back to their room, despite how tired they'd been.
They looked over at the nightstand again. One of Dumas' novels lay there, a story with which a particular Avenger would be more than familiar. Their eyes drifted to their glasses, the sight of which struck them a bit odd. Tired as they were, it was surprising their glasses were even off before diving into bed, as they had quite the habit of sleeping with them still perched on their nose. They hadn't been haphazardly dropped onto the nightstand as they'd usually leave them, either; they were neatly folded up and placed on the book's cover.
"Senpai?" a voice—Mash's—spoke through the door, accompanied by a knock.
"Yeah, I'm up," they rolled out of bed and stretched.
It was most definitely weird, but as they had nothing else to go off of, they put all of it out of their head. They could worry about this all they wanted to later; until then, they had work to do.