Work Text:
Though the winter storm rattles angrily against the windows, the air inside the cabin is warm, almost deceptively so.
Outside, snow is steadily falling, flakes large and heavy and mean. Fire crackles from the furnace, a calming metronome that you could let yourself sink into, your eyelids threatening to close, if not for the sound of humming from nearby.
It’s a little off-key, a song you think you recognize but just can’t place. You can’t find the person singing, either; can’t figure out where the sound is coming from — seemingly from every direction at once — but then you turn your head and she’s there beside you, like she has been the whole time, and you remember where you are, and you feel stupid for thinking it could have been anyone else.
She stops humming and smiles, small and slow, like she’s trying to do it softly, but it feels more like a spider coaxing you into its web.
“I usually hate this time of year,” Hera murmurs, turning her head to gaze at the fire, “even though it wasn’t me, exactly, I still…”
She shakes her head, huffing out a laugh, “I still get upset. Maybe it’s just the cold, or the fact that it gets dark so much earlier…
“Or maybe I’ve spent so much time in other universes, gaining the memories of my other selves, that it’s become nearly impossible for me to compartmentalize, and- and know which feelings and memories are mine and which are theirs.”
Hera sighs, long and deep, and despite yourself, your heart clenches, and your stomach dips, because this might be the closest she’s come to seeming real or human in the time you’ve been here — and, God, how long has it been?
How is it December already? Or, has it always been December? Time is impossible to measure, wherever it is that you are, and you try to think back and recall a time before this, try to remember when you were taken, but it’s all so hazy…
“They weren’t all bad, you know,” Hera says, and your train of thought is lost and long-forgotten as you listen to her speak, a little angry at yourself for still caring enough to be curious.
“Not every December,” she clarifies.
You nod, because it’s all you can do, and she seems pleased enough with your response because they continue: “Of course, you already know all about that December. The one where I — where an alternate version of me — was driven to madness trying to get home, abandoned by those they’d come to love…”
Hera clears her throat, sits up a little straighter. “But that’s just one universe. There’s…,” she laughs, a little sadly, tone incredulous, “there’s one where that version of me didn’t jump, where that version of Aimsey came back in time and we… We packed up our things and left together, found an abandoned cabin in the woods, and decorated it for Christmas.”
It sounds absurd, the way she says it, like she wouldn’t believe it if she didn’t know, empirically, that it had happened.
Hera shakes her head in disbelief, looks to you for a reaction — and whatever sort of confusion is written on your face must be enough, because Hera just sighs, laughs like you’re in on it, and starts to tell another story.
“In this universe,” Hera starts, “back when we were happy, before all of this…” she sucks in a deep, steadying breath, “We had a few good Decembers. There was one, before we got together, where we were trying so hard to not be obvious about how we felt—”
***
The snowflakes in Aimsey’s hair glimmer when the sunlight catches them.
Fauns cheeks and nose are a pretty red, flushed from the cold, and Hera wonders what her own face must look like — purple instead of red, another clear sign of her inhumanity that Aimsey pretends not to notice — as she puffs warm air onto her freezing fingers, burying them as far as possible beneath her sleeves in an attempt to keep warm.
Even with the cold demanding their attention, Hera is unable to look away from Aimsey: from the glittering of their unruly hair like a messily-made halo; from the red of her cheeks and nose and the tips of fauns ears; from the grin still plastered on their face despite the unrelenting chill.
“We’re almost there,” Aimsey assures her, and though every frozen bone in their body screams for her to turn back, Hera nods and follows them, snow crunching beneath their feet.
Aimsey pauses, waiting until Hera is beside her so faun can reach out and take their hand. As their fingers lace together, Aimsey gives a squeeze, meeting Hera’s gaze with a soft and bashful smile. Hera smiles back, just as nervous and just as hopeful, and walks hand-in-hand with Aimsey the rest of the way.
***
Hera blinks, snapping back into the moment and clearing her throat. “But we both know how that ended,” she quips, dryly, shaking her head as if to be rid of the memories.
“Ooh,” she coos, excited, turning to face you, “here’s an interesting one: there was a world where I died, but then I came back — and when I came back, I came back with a piece of the Earth inside me. For some reason, it didn’t want to let me go. I was a person with plants and flowers growing from my body, and Aimsey was a gardener, and…”
***
They’re standing inside a greenhouse — it’s warm, and a little humid; plants and flowers all around them, glass panes revealing the increasingly cold and barren world beyond.
Aimsey is worried. “It’s getting colder,” she says, brows furrowed and face darkening. “There’s frost on the ground and- and I don’t…” Bloom shakes his head, eyes watering.
Flora frowns, not understanding. “What- why are you sad?” she asks, stepping closer, carefully wiping away any wayward tears that fall.
Aimsey gasps at the touch, and Flora pulls away, unsure.
“No, no,” Aimsey assures it, moving closer, “I’m just worried about you… about how your plants will do with the change in weather.”
Flora tilts its head. “Well,” she says, thinking aloud, “there are plants that grow in the winter, aren’t there? Snowdrops, holly, boxwood, winterberries, pansies, rosemary…”
Aimsey laughs, suddenly, face flushing. “Oh my God,” he mutters, “I’m such a bad horticulturist. I- I completely forgot everything that I know because I was so worried about you—”
Flora laughs, too, until Aimsey stands up and realizes what they’ve just said, the weight of it.
“I… oh, I’m so stupid. I’m sorry, Flora. I—”
Flora interrupts bloom with a fervent shake of its head. “Don’t be sorry,” she says, softly, smiling and taking Aimsey’s hands into its own, “it’s sweet that you were concerned about me.”
Aimsey blushes, looking down at their joined hands, and smiles, too.
***
“There was… also…”
You freeze, hearing the hesitance in her voice as she speaks, wondering what memories she could find so difficult to share.
Her teeth are nearly gritted together as she tries to talk, like it pains her to bite out each word, “In one universe, the one that I… that I couldn’t—” she shakes her head, lets the rest of that sentence slip away, starts again: “My clone gets engaged to him, the demon version of Aimsey, and once we’re done discovering ourselves or what-fucking-ever, we spend a disgustingly lovely December together in an adorable home we built, showing each other the Christmas traditions we’d learned… Or, in my” — she coughs — “in her case, remembered from other versions of ourselves.”
***
“I remember some things,” Nephele says, so quiet that Aimsey isn’t sure he hears them.
“What did you say, love?” they ask, fixing her with his full attention.
Nephele smiles, ducking their head, flushing under the weight of Aimsey’s complete attention even now. “That I- um,” she falters, still reluctant to bring it up despite knowing that Aimsey won’t mind, “that I remember some, um, some things that people do around this time… to, um, to celebrate.”
Aimsey’s eyes widen in understanding at the word “remember,” and xe nods, encouragingly, so devoid of any misplaced jealousy that may have once lingered in its features that Nephele almost wants to cry.
They listen, intently, as she describes the fragmented memories of traditions from every version of themself that they remember, and the two of them set out to bring them all into fruition.
And on the morning of the 21st, when Nephele wakes up with a gasp, she finds themself safe and secure in Aimsey’s arms, no longer falling.
***
You think there might be tears in her eyes. It feels like an impossibility, a trick of the firelight, but then Hera sniffs, and turns away, clearing her throat, and the fire seems to grow brighter, and the snow outside begins pelting a bit harder against the roof.
“There’s another,” Hera offers, but her heart isn’t really in it — and it makes you wonder if it ever really was — and she waves a dismissive hand in the air, like it doesn’t matter, but she tells you anyway.
“We were bunnies,” she says, meeting your incredulous look with an understanding one, “I know. But, we were, and we were happy and in love and then we died. That one doesn’t have as much to talk about. But, um, the others are a bit less straightforward. Like when I was a siren and they were a sailor.”
Hera sighs, head in her hands, and you wish you didn’t feel a little sympathetic but you do — and you’d blame it on Stockholm Syndrome, but you know it doesn’t really exist, it’s just a misogynistic term used to discredit women’s trauma, so what could it be? — and then she continues, “Time gets all fuzzy, in most of the others… It’s hard to determine when it’s December, even for me.”
You don’t know what you’d say, but you feel the urge to speak, so sudden and so strongly that it pains you as you struggle against your failing vocal chords.
“I’m sorry,” Hera says, a whisper, almost like she cares — but you know better than to believe it by now, and you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, ignoring the sinking pains of empathy in your gut.
Hera looks back at the fire, again, and you follow her gaze, nearly losing yourself in the hypnotic dance of the flames.
“Enough of that,” she declares, and all hints of sadness and vulnerability are lost, now, as she grins, too-sharp teeth on full display. “Story time’s over for the night.”
The fire goes out. It’s cold again.
“Let’s continue where we left off, shall we?” Hera asks, and you know it isn’t really a question the same way you know that you will always wake up and find her beside you, waiting.