Chapter Text
It started, as most disasters in Azriel's life seemed to these days, with Gwyn asking an innocuous question over tea.
They were in the private library again—their library, though neither would ever say it aloud—sprawled in their usual chairs with the fireplace crackling between them and tea growing cold on the side table. Evening had melted into night while they'd been reading, the kind of gentle transition that happened when you were too absorbed in companionship to notice time passing. Gwyn had her legs tucked under her in that impossible pretzel formation that made Azriel's knees ache just looking at it, wearing soft pants and an oversized sweater that kept sliding off one freckled shoulder.
Azriel had noticed that shoulder. Had been noticing it for the past hour, actually, watching it appear and disappear as she shifted and read, the firelight painting her exposed skin gold. He'd forced himself to look away approximately forty-seven times. He'd counted.
He was currently on attempt number forty-eight when Gwyn closed her book with a decisive snap.
"Azriel," she said, with the tone of someone about to cause problems on purpose. "I have a question about your shadows."
Every shadow in the room perked up like dogs hearing their name. Little attention seekers.
"What about them?" He kept his voice carefully neutral, but something in her expression—that particular gleam in her teal eyes—set off warning bells.
"They're sentient, right? They have thoughts and feelings and opinions and memories?"
"Yes..." Azriel said slowly, the way one might approach a suspicious package that could either be a gift or a explosive.
"And they've been with you for centuries. Which means they've witnessed literally everything about your life. Every moment. Every secret. Every monumentally embarrassing thing you've ever done."
Oh no.
"Gwyn—"
"So theoretically—" Her smile was going feral. Azriel knew that smile. That smile meant chaos. That smile meant he should flee the country. "—they could tell me all your most humiliating stories. The ones you'd never voluntarily share."
"Absolutely not."
"Why not? I'm just curious about—"
"NO. We're not doing this. Shadows, you are sworn to secrecy. That's an order."
The shadows swirled in what was clearly debate, weighing their loyalty to him against what appeared to be their overwhelming fondness for causing him suffering.
"Please?" Gwyn turned to address them directly, and—because the universe hated him—she used the voice. The soft, sweet voice that made even Cassian hand over extra dessert. "I promise I won't judge. I just want to know more about Az when he was little. Was he cute? Please tell me he was cute."
"I was NOT cute. I was fearsome. Terrifying, even."
"You were seven."
"A terrifying seven-year-old."
The shadows, the absolute TRAITORS, immediately swirled with excitement and formed an image that made Azriel's soul attempt to leave his body.
It was him. Age seven. With his head stuck in a decorative urn.
Crying.
"NO," Azriel roared, standing so fast his chair tipped backward and crashed to the floor. "BETRAYAL. MUTINY. HIGH TREASON."
But the shadows were already showing the whole scene in vivid, damning detail: tiny Azriel with his head thoroughly wedged in an ornamental urn, his little wings flapping uselessly, tears streaming down his face, while young Cassian literally rolled on the floor laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, until finally Rhys's mother had to intervene with magic while very obviously trying not to laugh.
Gwyn's mouth had fallen open. "You—your head—the urn was HUGE—"
"It was a normal-sized urn."
"It was ENORMOUS. How did you even GET your head in there?!"
"I was investigating. It was a perfectly reasonable—"
"You got STUCK." She was starting to shake with suppressed laughter. "And CRIED. The big scary shadowsinger cried because he got his head stuck in a—"
She couldn't finish. Laughter burst out of her like a dam breaking, bright and loud and completely unrestrained.
"I was SEVEN. Seven-year-olds cry! It's what they do!"
"And Cassian!" She was gasping now. "Just LYING there! Not helping!"
"Cassian is dead to me. The shadows are dead to me. You're rapidly approaching dead to me."
"The little wings!" Gwyn wheezed, pointing at the shadow reenactment. "They were flapping! You were trying to fly away FROM YOUR OWN HEAD!"
"That's not even how flying works!"
"I KNOW!" She doubled over, tears starting to form at the corners of her eyes. "That's what makes it so FUNNY!"
Azriel glared at his shadows with the intensity of a thousand suns. "I will find a way to fire you. All of you. I'll get new shadows. Better shadows. Shadows with LOYALTY."
One shadow formed itself into a very clear rude gesture.
"Did your shadow just—" Gwyn could barely speak through her laughter. "Did it just flip you off?"
"It did NOT—" But the shadow absolutely had, and now it was doing it again, more emphatically. "I'm going to have an exorcism. For myself. To get rid of all of you."
"Wait wait—" Gwyn waved her hands, trying to catch her breath. "Is there more? Please tell me there's more."
"There is NOT more. That's it. End of stories. We're done here."
The shadows swirled in a way that very clearly said oh, there's SO much more, and Azriel felt his will to live drain away.
"Please?" Gwyn clasped her hands together. "Just one more? One more embarrassing story?"
"NO."
"The shadows want to tell me. Look at them. They're practically vibrating with excitement."
"The shadows can learn to manage their excitement. We don't always get what we want. That's called impulse control."
But it was too late. The shadows—because apparently Azriel had personally wronged them in a past life—formed a new scene.
It was him. Last week. In his bedroom. Standing in front of his mirror.
Practicing conversation starters.
"Oh no," Azriel whispered. "No no no no no—"
But the shadows were COMMITTED to his destruction. They showed everything in excruciating detail:
Azriel trying different versions of "Good morning" with various levels of casual friendliness.
Azriel testing out smiles—seventeen different smiles, ranging from "friendly" to "approachable" to what could only be described as "deranged serial killer."
Azriel running his hands through his hair to make it look casually tousled, then immediately messing it up again because it looked "too trying."
Azriel having a FULL CONVERSATION with his reflection about whether asking about someone's book was "too forward" or "appropriately interested."
The silence in the library was deafening.
Gwyn was just... staring. Her mouth open. Her eyes wide. No laughter. Just pure, unadulterated shock.
"That—" Azriel's voice cracked. "That was taken out of context. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation—"
"You were PRACTICING," Gwyn whispered. "How to say good morning."
"It was research—"
"SEVENTEEN DIFFERENT SMILES."
"I was not counting—"
"The shadows counted! They're SHOWING me the count! There's a little NUMBER!" She pointed at where the shadows had helpfully displayed "17" in the air. "You WORKSHOPPED your smile!"
"That's not what was happening—"
"You had a CONVERSATION with YOURSELF about whether asking about books was TOO FORWARD!" Her voice was climbing toward hysteria. "Books! The least forward topic in EXISTENCE!"
"I was simply—"
"Oh my gods." Realization was dawning on her face. "Oh my GODS. Was this—" She looked at him, her eyes enormous. "Was this for talking to ME?"
Azriel wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. "I refuse to answer on the grounds that anything I say will be used against me."
"IT WAS FOR ME." Her voice had gone up three octaves. "You practiced saying good morning to ME. In a MIRROR. SEVENTEEN TIMES."
"I didn't count—"
"THE SHADOWS COUNTED."
And then she lost it.
Completely, utterly, catastrophically lost it.
The laughter that came out of her was inhuman. It was the kind of laugh that started in your belly and consumed your entire body, the kind that made no sound at first because you couldn't breathe, and then came out in gasping shrieks that probably violated several noise ordinances.
She literally fell off her chair.
Just slid right off onto the floor, curled into a ball, laughing so hard tears were streaming down her face, actual tears, the kind you couldn't fake, the kind that came from joy so pure it hurt.
"I CAN'T—" she gasped. "I CAN'T BREATHE—YOUR FACE—THE SMILES—"
"It's not that funny," Azriel said weakly, but he was also pretty sure he was about to die of embarrassment, so his opinion might not be objective.
"YOU—" She couldn't even form words. Just pointed at him, at the shadows, at the space where the demonstration had been, and dissolved into fresh waves of laughter. "THE HAIR THING—you did it SIX TIMES—"
"How do you know it was six times—"
"BECAUSE YOUR SHADOWS HAVE A HIGHLIGHT REEL."
The shadows were indeed replaying his hair-touching moments in what could only be described as a "Best Of" compilation. With commentary. The little traitors had added COMMENTARY in the form of shadow subtitles that said things like "Attempt 3: Too Messy" and "Attempt 5: Too Neat" and "Attempt 6: Gave Up."
Gwyn was crying now. Full crying, tears pouring down her face, her whole body shaking with laughter, and she couldn't stop. Every time she tried to catch her breath, she'd look at Azriel's mortified face or the shadows' commentary, and she'd dissolve all over again.
"This is—this is how I die—" she wheezed. "Laughing about—about smile practice—"
And that's when Azriel's brain short-circuited.
Because she was crying. She was CRYING. There were TEARS. His instincts didn't care that they were happy tears, didn't care that she was laughing, didn't care about context. They just saw Gwyn crying and absolutely lost their minds.
He dropped to his knees beside where she'd collapsed on the floor. "Gwyn—you need to breathe—"
"Can't—" She was hiccupping now between laughs. "Can't breathe—too funny—"
"You're going to pass out. You're going to laugh yourself unconscious and it's going to be MY fault and Nesta is going to KILL me."
That made her laugh harder. "Nesta—oh gods—wait till I tell her—"
"You are NOT telling her. You're telling NO ONE."
"I'm telling EVERYONE. This is—this is going on my list of top ten—no, top FIVE—greatest moments of my LIFE—"
"Your life has been very sad if this ranks in the top five."
She tried to respond but just made a sound like a dying seal, and more tears flowed, and Azriel felt his panic rising because she REALLY couldn't breathe now, she was gasping and crying and shaking and—
His hand moved before his brain could approve the action.
His scarred, rough, deadly hand came up, and his thumb—the same thumb that had pressed into pressure points and choked and killed—brushed against her cheek with devastating gentleness, wiping away her tears.
Gwyn froze.
The laughter cut off like someone had flipped a switch. Suddenly the only sound was their breathing—hers still ragged from hysteria, his slightly too fast because he'd just touched her face, he was TOUCHING HER FACE, what was he DOING—
Her skin was impossibly soft under his thumb. Warm. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his fingers where his hand had somehow ended up cradling her jaw. Her eyes—those stunning teal eyes—went wide, pupils dilating as she stared up at him from where she was still half-sprawled on the floor.
"Az," she breathed, and his name on her lips in that tone did something absolutely catastrophic to his composure.
He should move. Should pull away. Should apologize for touching her without permission, for invading her space, for—
His thumb moved again. Traced the path of another tear down her flushed cheek. Watched her breath catch. Watched her lips part. Watched her eyes flutter half-closed like his touch was doing to her what her laugh did to him.
The air between them went thick, charged with something that made his shadows go utterly still, that made the fireplace seem too hot, that made every nerve ending light up like he'd been struck by lightning.
"You—" Her voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "You're touching my face."
"I am." He should stop. He absolutely should stop. "You were crying."
"From laughing."
"I know. But you were still crying." His thumb found another tear, followed it along the curve of her jaw. "I don't like it when you cry. Even when you're happy."
Her breathing had gone shallow. "Your hand is—" She swallowed hard. "It's on my face."
"Do you want me to move it?" Please say no, his brain supplied helpfully. Please say no please say no please—
"I—" She seemed to be struggling with words, her eyes locked on his. "I don't know. I think—maybe I'm still oxygen deprived from laughing. Because I can't think properly when you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like—" She bit her lip, and he watched the movement with far too much intensity. "Like you're thinking about doing something you shouldn't."
"I'm always thinking about things I shouldn't." The words came out lower than he intended, rougher. "That's my default state around you."
Her eyes went impossibly wider. "That's—you can't just SAY things like that—"
"Why not? You asked."
"I didn't ask—I was making an observation—"
"An accurate observation."
"Az." It came out like a plea, though for what, he wasn't sure. For him to stop? To continue? To explain what was happening because she looked just as confused and overwhelmed as he felt?
His shadows, apparently deciding that he needed even MORE help making this situation complicated, drifted closer. They swirled around them both—around him kneeling on the floor, around her still half-sprawled against the base of her chair—and then, with a tenderness that made his chest ache, they began to help.
Wiping away her tears. Gentle wisps of darkness dabbing at her cheeks, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. Drying the evidence of her laughter with a care that felt like worship.
Gwyn made a sound—half gasp, half laugh, completely breathless. "They're—your shadows are—"
"They're helping," Azriel managed. "They don't like seeing you cry either."
"Even happy tears?"
"Any tears." One of his shadows wound itself through her hair, and she shivered. His hand was still on her face, and he became suddenly, devastatingly aware that they were alone, that she was on the floor and he was leaning over her, that the position they were in could be interpreted as—
He started to pull back. Started to give her space, to apologize, to—
Her hand shot up and wrapped around his wrist. Not pulling him away. Holding him there. Keeping his palm pressed against her face.
"Don't," she whispered.
His heart stopped. "Don't what?"
"Don't pull away. Not yet." Her fingers tightened on his wrist, and he could feel her pulse racing beneath his palm, could see the flush spreading down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her sweater. "I'm still—I'm processing. Give me a minute to process."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that you practiced talking to me. That you tried on different smiles because you wanted to get it right." Her voice had gone soft, wondering. "That you care about—about getting it right. With me."
"I care about getting everything right with you," he said before he could stop himself. "It's becoming a problem."
Her breath hitched. "A problem?"
"A significant one. It's interfering with my ability to function like a normal person."
"You've never functioned like a normal person. You're the shadowsinger. Normal isn't in your vocabulary."
"Fair point." His thumb moved again—he couldn't help it—tracing the line of her cheekbone. Watched her eyes flutter. Watched her breathing go shaky. "But you make it worse. Better. Both. I don't know anymore."
"I make you worse?" She was smiling now, soft and teasing even with tears still clinging to her lashes.
"You make me practice conversation starters in a mirror. You make me worry about the angle of my smile. You make me—" He stopped himself before he could say something truly catastrophic like 'think about you constantly' or 'imagine what you'd look like first thing in the morning' or 'consider all the ways I could make you laugh just so I could watch your face light up.'
"You make you what?" She was watching him with those too-knowing eyes, like she could see every thought he wasn't saying.
"Forget what I was going to say," he muttered.
"Liar. You never forget anything."
"I'm forgetting right now. Your face is very distracting. It's right there. Being distracting."
She laughed—smaller this time, more intimate, the kind of laugh that felt like a secret. "My face is distracting you?"
"Extremely. You should probably do something about it. Put a bag over it. Or move to another country."
"Or you could just admit that you like my face."
"I refuse to confirm or deny anything on the grounds that you'll mock me."
"I won't mock you." But she was grinning. "I'll only mock you a LITTLE. Like maybe seventy percent mocking. Thirty percent genuine appreciation for your honesty."
"Those are terrible odds."
"Best I can do." Her hand was still wrapped around his wrist, and her thumb had started moving—small circles against his pulse point that were absolutely destroying his concentration. "For the record? I think your face is distracting too."
His brain stuttered. "What?"
"Your face. It's very—" She waved her free hand vaguely. "Face-like. In a distracting way. All sharp angles and brooding and those eyes that look like they see everything."
"That's not a compliment. That sounds like I'm unsettling."
"You are unsettling. But in a good way. In a makes-me-forget-what-I'm-reading way. In a makes-me-lose-track-of-conversations way." Her cheeks were bright red now. "I may have spent an entire training session last week staring at your hands instead of paying attention to Cassian's instructions."
Azriel's mind went completely blank. "My hands?"
"They're very—" She made another vague gesture. "They're just—I like them. Even though they're scarred. Maybe BECAUSE they're scarred. Is that weird? That's probably weird."
"You like my hands." He was still trying to process this information.
"I like ALL of you," she said, then immediately looked horrified. "I mean—not like that—or maybe like that? I don't know, I'm still oxygen deprived and you're TOUCHING MY FACE and I can't think straight—"
"You can't think straight when I touch your face?" He probably shouldn't sound so pleased about that.
"You KNOW I can't. You can feel my pulse. It's going crazy."
He could. Her pulse was racing beneath his palm, and the knowledge that he affected her like this—that she wasn't immune to whatever this thing was between them—made something fierce and possessive curl in his chest.
"You're doing it again," Gwyn whispered.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like—" She swallowed hard. "Like you're thinking inappropriate things."
"I'm always thinking inappropriate things around you. I've just gotten better at hiding it."
"That's—you need to stop SAYING things like that—"
"You keep asking."
"I'm not ASKING, I'm making OBSERVATIONS—"
"Accurate observations."
"Oh my GODS." She dropped her forehead against his chest, and he felt the impact of it all the way through his leathers, through his skin, straight to whatever was left of his functioning heart. "You're going to kill me. This conversation is going to actually kill me."
"I'm not allowed to let you die. Nesta would resurrect you just so she could kill me properly."
She laughed against his chest, and he felt it vibrate through him. "She absolutely would."
They stayed like that for a moment—Gwyn's forehead pressed to his chest, his hand still on her face, shadows swirling around them both in gentle spirals. The intimacy of it was staggering. Overwhelming. Perfect and terrifying all at once.
"We should probably move," Gwyn said finally, not moving.
"Probably," Azriel agreed, also not moving.
"The floor is uncomfortable."
"Very uncomfortable."
"And anyone could walk in."
"Absolutely could."
Neither of them moved.
"Az?"
"Mm?"
"Your heart is beating really fast."
"You're very close."
"Is that why?"
"That's definitely why."
She lifted her head to look at him, and they were so close now—close enough that he could count her freckles, could see the ring of darker teal around her pupils, could watch the way her gaze dropped to his mouth for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
"We should probably establish some boundaries," she said breathlessly. "For the sake of our friendship. And my sanity."
"What kind of boundaries?"
"I don't know. Maybe a rule about personal space? About not touching faces without warning?"
"Do you want me to stop touching your face?"
She bit her lip. "That's a trap question."
"How is that a trap?"
"Because if I say yes, I'm lying, and if I say no, I'm admitting things I'm not ready to admit."
His heart was trying to break out of his chest. "What things?"
"Nope. Not falling for that." But she was smiling, and her hand was still wrapped around his wrist, keeping him close. "You don't get to know all my secrets just because you have very nice hands and a distracting face."
"You think my face is nice?"
"I think your face is a PROBLEM."
"That's still not a no."
"You're impossible."
"You like it."
"I—" She stopped, seeming to realize she'd been about to agree. "That's not the point."
"What is the point?"
"The point is—" She took a shaky breath. "The point is we're friends. Good friends. And I don't want to ruin that by—by making things complicated."
"Things are already complicated," Azriel pointed out. "I practiced saying good morning seventeen times. That's pretty complicated."
"That's embarrassing. There's a difference."
"It's embarrassing BECAUSE it's complicated."
She stared at him for a long moment, and he watched her process that, watched understanding and uncertainty and hope flicker across her face in rapid succession. "What are we doing?" she asked quietly.
"I have no idea," he admitted. "I'm five hundred years old and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."
"That's... actually kind of comforting?"
"That I'm a disaster?"
"That you're as confused as I am." She smiled, soft and genuine. "I thought it was just me. Thought I was the only one who didn't know how to—" She gestured vaguely between them. "—navigate whatever this is."
"If it helps, I'm completely out of my depth. I'm a master spy and I have no strategy here."
"No seventeen-step plan?"
"Not even a one-step plan. Just—" He stopped, unsure how much to admit. "Just wanting to make you laugh. And apparently wiping your tears when you cry. Even happy ones."
Her expression softened into something that made his chest tight. "That's very sweet. In a totally not-planned, not-practiced way."
"Are you ever going to let me live down the practicing thing?"
"Never. It's going in my top five favorite memories. Maybe top three."
"Your standards for favorite memories are concerning."
"My favorite memories involve you. So yes, my standards are definitely concerning." She said it teasingly, but there was weight behind the words, something real and vulnerable that made his breath catch.
Before he could respond—before he could figure out what to say to that—she pulled her hand from his wrist and pushed herself up off the floor. He helped her automatically, his hand sliding from her face to her arm to steady her, and tried not to mourn the loss of contact.
"I should probably—" She gestured vaguely toward the door. "It's late. And if I stay here any longer, I'm going to say something embarrassing."
"More embarrassing than me practicing conversation starters?"
"Different kind of embarrassing." She was blushing again, looking anywhere but at him. "The kind where I admit things I'm not supposed to admit to my friends."
His heart stopped. "Gwyn—"
"Goodnight, Az." She said it quickly, backing toward the door. "Thank you for—for wiping my tears. And for being embarrassing. It was perfect."
"I didn't mean to be embarrassing—"
"I know. That's what made it perfect." She paused at the door, looking back at him with a smile that was soft and wondering and just a little bit shy. "Tomorrow. Same time?"
"I'll be here."
"Good. And Az?"
"Yes?"
"However you say good morning tomorrow?" Her smile turned teasing. "I'm going to love it. Even if you practiced it seventeen times."
And then she was gone, leaving Azriel standing in the library with his shadows and his racing heart and the ghost of her skin still warm against his palm.
One shadow swirled smugly, forming words in the air: TOLD YOU TO TELL HER.
"You didn't TELL me to tell her. You SHOWED her my most embarrassing moments."
THE SHADOWS WORK IN MYSTERIOUS WAYS.
"The shadows work in CHAOTIC ways."
SAME THING.
Azriel glared at them, but he couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at his lips. Tomorrow, he'd see her again. Tomorrow, he'd say good morning, and she'd smile at him, and maybe—just maybe—he'd figure out what to do with these feelings that were getting harder and harder to ignore.
But for tonight, he'd just stand here, his hand still tingling from where he'd touched her face, and try not to think about how badly he wanted to do it again.
He failed.
Spectacularly.