Archive of Our Own

"Táta?"

"Yes, lásko?"

"Do you have a mamá?"

Viktor stares at the page of the children's book he's holding. Ixtali words stares back. He still stumbles on some of them in spite of Jayce's patient teaching and having read it about a hundred times. Zophia knows the whole thing by heart, anyway. Something about a helpless cub lost in the woods, calling out for its mother after wandering too far down the wrong path.

His own cub is looking at him with big, expectant eyes.

"I do," he nods slowly, turning over the page, though Zophia has clearly lost interest in the cub's predicament.

"Where is she?"

Viktor hesitates for a beat, racking his brain for every turn of phrase that feels appropriate for a three pushing four-year-old to hear, before he settles, as he often does, on nothing less than the truth:

"She died."

Zophia blinks at him, and it is as though he can see the little cogs in her head turning, mulling over that particular piece of information. She doesn't dwell on it long, though:

"Does Papá have a mamá?"

"He does."

"She died too?"

Viktor closes the book, putting it back on Zophia's nightstand. The cub won't find his way back to his mamá tonight, evidently. The distant clinking sounds of cutlery and splashing water rises from the kitchen, where Jayce is busy with the dishes. Viktor runs his fingers through his daughters soft locks. They'll need a trim soon.

"She's alive. She just lives very far away."

"Where?"

Viktor's mouth twitches, as though the word hurts on the way out, like a badly healed cut on his tongue that never quite closed, sore, even years later. Part of him wants to keep it vague, at a distance, cloaked behind a thick fog that doesn't let the light shine through. But, again, he gives Zophia nothing but the truth, as it is what she deserves. What he owes her.

"Piltover. It's a big city, far away from here. It is where Papá's from."

Expectedly, the next thing out of her mouth is:

"Can we visit?"

There is a deep sigh lodged between Viktor's ribs as she says it, heavy with guilt and nostalgia. It only comes out as a soft exhale as he offers her a small, sad smile.

"We can't, lásko. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

Her brows knit together in a scowl borne not out of anger, but confusion. Something she inherited from him, he's been told.

"It is too dangerous," he says, which is still the truth, if grossly truncated. Another 'why' starts taking shape in Zophia's mouth, as children that age are wont to ask tirelessly, so he continues: "There was a war there, once. We... We cannot go back. It is safer that way."

This is not a bedtime conversation. Nor is it one Viktor feels particularly ready to have, though he knows the day will come. He's promised himself; no lying to her. No hiding what he has done. One day, when the time is right, the whole truth will plug the holes of his omissions, no matter how shameful it leaves him, how flawed and fallible to her eyes.

Not yet, though.

Zophia keeps staring at him, her face pinched with focus, as though she's trying to assemble his words into a solution, until she's reached the end of her calculations and her voice comes out slow and serious:

"Papá must be sad," she concludes.

"It is not easy," Viktor agrees, nodding slowly as he pushes her hair out of her face once more. "Being away from the ones we love."

"Are you sad? About your mamá?"

Words catch in his throat before he quickly gathers himself. It is a marvelous thing, how children can say exactly what is on their mind, unencumbered by social etiquette or constraints. Viktor has always found it refreshing. Even now, when it pokes at a wound he has not scratched in years.

"It was a long time ago," he explains gently. As he inhales, he swears he can smell a faint mix of coal, ink and herbs, bittersweet melancholy filling his lungs. "But yes, I suppose, sometimes. Some days more than others."

Zophia listens intently, seemingly taking every bit of information in, as though filing them away in the great and ever expending library of her mind, her world getting bigger and bigger each day with new knowledge.

"Can Papá's mamá visit us instead?" she then asks. "It is safe here. She can stay in my room, I don't mind."

Viktor smiles at her fondly, unwilling to crush her hopes with gritty reality. There are worse things to hope for, even if this one feels singularly out of reach for a whole host of reasons his daughter doesn't have to worry herself with just yet.

"Maybe some day, lásko."

It doesn't feel like a lie in his mouth. It's a wish, if anything. Though, if Viktor is quite honest with himself, he's already pushed his luck far enough. This life is far more than he deserves. The addition of Ximena Talis feels almost greedy, an entitlement to the Arcane's generous and unearned reprieve.

Still. A wish from the heart never hurt anyone.

It is slightly past Zophia's bedtime when Jayce emerges from her room, stretching out a yawn as he closes the door behind him. The living-room bathes in the warm glow of the fireplace, logs fizzling and crackling from the licks of the flames.

"Sorry that took so long," he tells Viktor as he settles next to him on the couch, leaning his head against his shoulder. "She wouldn't let go. Had to sing the emergency lullaby twice."

"She asked about your mother."

Might as well rip the band aid now, Viktor decided while Jayce was tucking her in, before Zophia decides to ask questions about the War of Piltover over breakfast, resulting in choked down coffee and stunned silence.

Jayce tenses against him, suddenly very still.

"Oh," he merely says after a while. "That explains it."

"Explains what?"

"She kept hugging me, telling me she'd never leave. I just assumed..."

"Osito lost in the woods?"

"Yeah."

Jayce's body loosens enough for him to look up at Viktor. He swallows thickly. A mix of emotions flashes across his face, ranging from curiosity to grief, though Viktor can tell he is holding back from feeling the full extent of it all.

"What did you tell her?"

His face is awfully guarded as Viktor recounts the conversation, the flames dancing in his eyes before he looks away, tucking his head back against Viktor's neck, more stiffly than he probably intended.

"It's not safe," he says, his attempt at sounding casual falling short. "If she―If they find out, we'd..."

A loud snap from the fireplace fills the room like lightning fills the night sky.

"We can't risk that."

"I know."

They stare into the flames in silence. Slowly, blindly, Viktor's hand reaches for Jayce's, bringing it on his lap. There is no resistance under his fingers, Jayce's skin warm against his own. His thumb strokes the back of his hand in small, soothing circles.

"Plus she'd spoil Phia rotten," Jayce adds unprompted, a sudden fondness in his voice.

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Viktor's chest.

"Sounds like another Talis I know," he smirks, giving Jayce's hand a pointed squeeze.

"Again, all those toys were second-hand. I thought you liked a good thrift."

"We'll need a barn to store them all if you keep it up."

"Don't tempt me."

There is a slight pressure against Viktor's shoulder. The press of a smile, there, against the wool of his sweater.

"She'd make more food than we could ever eat. Or keep."

Jayce never talks about his mother. Not this openly, anyway. Not since the Council room bombing. Not since they were catapulted here, away from everything that could once be called home. Away from her.

The Arcane's clemency came at a cost. Any sense of familiarity, any tie to their former life except each other, gone. A clean slate, or its closest approximation. A thousand-mile buffer between them and Piltover, essentially leaving them dead to those who still cared to grieve them. But there are things the Arcane can not erase, that leave traces, etched deep into the soul.

A son's love for his mother chief among them.

"We'd have very lucky neighbors."

"Yeah," Jayce nods faintly. Viktor can't tell if he's still smiling. There is something fragile in his voice. "Yeah, we would."

A bittersweet haunting has begun to take place. It is everywhere Jayce looks. In the shape of his cheekbones when he meets his reflection in the mirror. In the curve of Zophia's smile. In the flash of gray that has started to bloom at his temples. Suddenly, his mother is an echo that follows him around. A constant. An absence.

She is in the food she taught him to cook. In the way he rolls his sleeves so they won't get dirty. In the voices he picks to read his daughter's bedtime stories.

The feeling has always been there, ever since they arrived here, but the void it leaves in Jayce's chest has rarely felt this raw. It builds gradually, every day, like a thousand cuts.

Jayce would catch himself daydreaming. His mother knitting by the fireplace while Viktor grades assignments. Her sitting at their kitchen table, teaching Zophia the same card games she once taught him. Her hands marbled with soil after tending to the vegetable garden that takes a lot more space than they initially planned for.

It never fails to leave a tender ache behind, routinely accompanied by the stern voice of reason chiding him for his delusions.

Until, after weeks of resolve, it starts to wither, worn down from longing.

They are lying in bed, Viktor's body pressed against his back, warm and heavy with a day's work, but not quite yet asleep. In the dark, the words escape Jayce's mouth like a long-held sigh, a confession of sorts:

"I miss her."

Viktor presses closer, his nose and cheek brushing Jayce's shoulder blade. He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to.

"I know," he murmurs, breath warm against Jayce's skin. It lingers, as though he meant to say something else, but decided against it at the last second.

There is a ruffle of sheets as Jayce shifts on his back. Even the darkness can't hide Viktor's torn expression. It is a subtle thing, nestled in the curve of his mouth, in the faintest pinch of his brow, but Jayce has known this man too long not to recognize it the moment he sees it.

"What is it?"

Viktor hesitates a beat longer, propping himself up on his elbow, leaning over Jayce. His gaze sweeps across Jayce's face, almost studying him, his lips tensing momentarily as though he's testing words in his mind before he speaks them aloud:

"It's been five years, Jayce." His voice is unfathomably soft, as if to cushion the rest of what he's about to say. "The Council... We died, for all they know. If your mother was deemed a person of interest worth monitoring then... She probably isn't anymore. Not after all that time. Maybe you could... write to her."

Something cold twists in Jayce's guts, winds and grips, making his stomach clench at the thought. He looks away, unable to hold Viktor's patient gaze.

"I can't," he grunts.

He can't entertain the idea. He can't let it lodge itself in his mind, or he'll start considering it. He just... can't. It hurts too much. It's too much risk. Too much to lose. How can Viktor even be considering this?

"I can't fuck everything up again. I can't... lose this. I can't."

"Jayce..."

"Not without risking your safety. Phia's. Hers. Just because I'm too fucking greedy for my own good. Again."

A cool, tentative hand gently cups the line of his jaw then, coaxing him into looking back. The sorrow on Viktor's face cuts his ruminations short, his heart squeezing in his chest at the sight.

"I took everything from you, Jayce. Your home. Your life. Your mother. So if there's a way―"

"Don't you dare."

His voice carries no heat, sitting barely above a whisper. He lifts a hand to Viktor's, brushing the skin there in soft, reverent touches before planting a kiss against his palm.

"I made a choice. You were it. You were my choice. Mine."

"You thought we were going to die."

"Mess with the variables all you want, V. X always leads back to you as far as I'm concerned."

It's Viktor's turn to shift his gaze, almost shy. Five years in, and the breadth of Jayce's love still manages to catch him off guard. He chews on his lower lip for a bit, conflicted, before he tries again:

"Still. If there is a way we can make contact―"

"V..."

"We could figure something out", Viktor pushes. "Something safe."

"I..."

Jayce takes a slow, shallow breath, an invisible weight pressing against his lungs. He can't figure out why, but the sensation feels more akin to panic than caution.

"If she's grieved me for five years," he manages, his voice reedy, "I can't disturb her peace after all she went through."

"She thinks her son is dead, Jayce. There's no peace to that."

The vines caught in Jayce's guts and chest tug harder, until the root if his reluctance is squeezed out of him, one hesitant exhale at a time. He stares at the ceiling, unshed tears slowly gathering in his eyes, one blink away from falling.

"What if she's... angry with me? For... everything."

Viktor rests his head against Jayce's shoulder, his face nestled in the crook of his neck.

"If anything happened to Zophia and I was offered more time with her than I ever thought possible, I wouldn't think of it as anything less than a blessing."

It takes Jayce three days to come up with a plan. Albeit a convoluted one.

He waits for Zophia to be tucked in bed to present Viktor with a faded yellow flyer, his mouth taut with focus. Viktor sets his tea down on the kitchen table and reaches for his reading glasses.

"What I am looking at?" he furrows, his eyes quickly raking through the flyer. Something about fabrics being on sale.

"A safe way to contact my mom."

Viktor's brow sinks lower in utter confusion. His gaze goes from the paper to Jayce.

"Explain."

"My mom used to get these all the time when I was a kid. Mail order slips for a bunch of stuff. She loved the ones for Ixtali fabrics. She kept them all. I'd get told off if I drew over them. She stopped using them after the Hexgates made them obsolete, but now that the Hexgates are gone..."

"You want to send her one of these? Why?"

"Because I made it myself. So she'll know it's me. So no one gets in trouble if she gets caught with it."

Viktor looks back at the flyer. It looks perfectly uninteresting. Professional, sure, but something he'd throw in the trash if it landed in his mailbox. Nothing suspicious in the slightest. Deceptively... mundane. How much time did Jayce spend on this? Did he go to the local print shop?

"She'll know it's you sending this?" Viktor blinks at Jayce, skeptical.

"I know it sounds crazy, but... Look."

Jayce points at different items on the flyer, all names and descriptions of fabrics, Viktor guesses.

"There're hints everywhere. That's my birthday. That's hers. That's my dad's." He taps against another item. "That's the name of the street where we lived when I was a child. It's all there. And if that's not enough―"

His index trails up to the top of the page, where the name of the selling company has been printed in a bold, eye-catching font, surrounded by little stars.

"El Maravilloso," Viktor reads out loud. "What is it? Your hometown?"

"No, that's er, my wizard name," Jayce says, trying and failing to hide the pinch of embarrassment in his voice. Viktor catches him rubbing his neck in his peripheral vision. "From when I was a kid. And I wanted to be a mage, like... You know."

Viktor does know. But at present, the only thing he can focus on is:

"You had a wizard name?"

"I... yeah? I mean I couldn't do magic, obviously, but you know. Card tricks. That felt like the closest thing."

Viktor's mouth twitches into a smile, the idea of a young Jayce Talis bringing a deck of cards everywhere with him in the hopes to wow a potential audience impossibly endearing.

"Would your mother remember that?"

Jayce looks almost offended.

"She hand-sewed my wizard costume from those fabrics, Viktor."

"Eh, fair enough."

Jayce risks a smile, anxious energy radiating through every inch of him. Nerve-wracking as it is, it's a project. And there are few things Jayce Talis loves more than a project, Viktor knows.

"So? What do you think?"

"I think it's a well-thought-out first step," he nods encouragingly, handing the paper back to him. "What do we do once she gets it?"

"Oh, that's already covered."

Jayce gently taps the bottom of the flyer, where the order form has been printed. A bunch of dates are listed on the side, all a few months away from now. 'Select a delivery date of choice', it says just above, along with: 'Delivery site: Obersheim station. All transactions are to be conducted on-site at 2PM for every date listed'. Viktor stares at it. Obersheim. A few hours away from where they live. The nearest train station for miles. That means...

"You're leading her here."

"Well, not here. I'm not that reckless. But if everything goes to plan, then... Yeah. I thought... Is that okay?"

Excitement is already draining from his face, brows lowered with concern, as though bracing for Viktor's rebuttal. Is that okay, he asks. As though there is a world in which Viktor would refuse him such joy as his mother's presence. He would take it, Viktor knows that. He would accept it. Compromise, in the name of safety. Of love. Oh, Jayce...

Viktor cups Jayce's jaw, this thumb sweeping over his cheekbone.

"She's your mother, Jayce. Of course it's okay."

Jayce leaves for Obersheim on his next day off. Zophia is still asleep when he closes the front door behind him, the sky blushing with soft pinks and purples overhead.

The journey to Obersheim takes roughly three hours and a few carriage changes, but in his mind it is entirely worth it. He can't afford the flyer to be traced back home. A post stamp would give too much away, should it fall into the wrong hands. He's spent hours thinking about this, unspooling thread after thread of possible outcomes until he'd tangle himself in them. This felt like the safest option, not devoid of risk, but safe enough that it wouldn't keep him up at night, ready to pack up and leave at a moment's notice so neither Viktor nor Zophia suffered in the name of his selfishness.

Obersheim is far enough. It'll have to do.

Posting the letter barely takes any time at all. The moment passes so quickly, for something that feels so momentous. One second Jayce is waiting in line, and the next the letter is sitting in a box on the other side of the counter, stamped and sorted. A message in a bottle, set adrift until it hopefully reaches its intended shore. Quite literally out of his hands.

The return address is the Obersheim post office itself. He pays a year's worth of rent for a mailing box under a fake name the clerk doesn't even bother to check. All he needs to access it is a number the clerk scribbles onto a piece of paper that he then slides towards him. Perfect.

By the time he makes it back home, the sun has almost settled in its golden hour, painting the stone walls of the cottage with warm shadows. Zophia spots him from the garden, immediately rushing to meet him. She hops into his arms, hanging tightly from his neck as Jayce hauls her up.

"You're back!"

"Of course I'm back," he squeezes her against him, pressing a kiss atop her head. "Did you have a good day while I was away, gem?"

Zophia nods vigorously, offering him a bright, toothy smile.

"We made holes in the garden! Táta let me use the shovel!"

"Oh, did he now?"

"The trowel," Viktor corrects gently, emerging from the garden. He's still wearing gardening gloves that go up to his elbows, leaning on the aforementioned shovel as he would his cane. There's a smudge on his cheek Jayce can't wait to smooth off his skin. "The shovel's still a bit big for now, lásko."

"Do you think I'm big enough for the shovel?" Jayce asks Zophia, conspiratorial.

Zophia giggles, and Jayce's chest may one day burst from the sheer joy that single sound brings him.

"There were so many bugs, too," she keeps going. "Come see!"

She pushes her palms against his chest, the telltale sign she wants to be eased down. She has Jayce trailing behind her in no time, her tiny hand gripping his, guiding him around the garden for a detailed account of the day's undertakings.

"How did it go?" Viktor asks after the garden has been thoroughly reviewed. Zophia's busy taking off her gardening boots by the front door, tapping them on the ground to remove bits of soil sticking to the soles.

"Fine. Easier than I thought, really. Those carriages do nothing for my back, though."

Viktor breaks into a small smile. His hand settles at the base of Jayce's spine, massaging little circles against his skin.

"And now we wait."

"And now we wait."

Waiting is, as always, the worst part.

Jayce thinks he can handle it the first few days, but that's before his mind inevitably starts spinning its own web of crippling doubts.

What if the letter never arrives? What if the Council monitors her mail and figures it out? What if she moved out and he has no way of contacting his mother ever again?

Some hypotheses he refuses to even entertain. The mere thought of them leaves gaping, searing holes in his chest that threaten to swallow him whole. It's been five years. So much can happen in that time. So much. What if. What if. What if―

He and Viktor call in a few favors. While they can't journey down to Obersheim on a daily basis, they know people who do. Friends, trusted merchants. The mailing box gets checked regularly enough that they never go three full days without an update.

The first week goes by easily enough. Piltover is a long way away, after all. If Jayce's calculations are anything close, the letter won't reach the City of Progress before some time. Six to seven days, give of take.

Worry truly starts seeping in by the end of the second week. Jayce finds himself distracted, lost in thought, each one more nerve-wracking than the last:

What if the Council sends enforcers to root them out? What if they never see them coming? What if they try to take Viktor? Zophia? What if―

"It's still early," Viktor pulls Jayce out of his spiral one evening.

His hand covers his on the kitchen table. They just finished dinner. Zophia's playing in the next room. Shit, was he fidgeting?

"I just wish there was a way to know she at least received the damn thing," he groans as he rubs his free hand across his face.

The clerk did ask him if he wanted a receipt of delivery, back at the post office. Jayce elected against it, just in case. Just to be safe, to avoid suspicion. He could kick himself over it now.

"Give it a few more weeks."

Viktor gives his hand a light squeeze before he lets go, standing up to gather the dirty dishes.

A few more weeks. How long until he can consider this experiment an utter and total failure? Or worse. His biggest mistake.

It happens on a rainy spring night.

The walk home is miserable under the dark, weeping sky. With winter behind them, work at the forge has picked up, as per usual. Farmers need new tools, repairs done on machine parts, new and improved plowing systems. Jayce has stopped counting his hours, but the coin for his work is well worth it. He just wishes his bad leg wasn't so damn sensitive to the humidity.

The cottage glows like a lantern at the end of the path, warm with the promise of comfort and rest. Viktor must have come home from work hours ago. Jayce forgot to look at the clock before he left the forge. Did he miss dinner?

The sound of Zophia's little feet welcomes him as she eagerly hands him a towel. It is pleasantly warm and dry, as though it was hanging by the burner just a second ago. He'll have to kiss Viktor about it later.

"Thank you, gem."

He pretends to lean in to kiss her in his drenched, dripping glory, but Zophia dodges him with a cascade of giggles. She finds refuge behind Viktor who has just has emerged from the living-room.

"How about you go pick a book for bedtime while Papá dries himself up, lásko?"

She's already scampering off. One story won't be enough tonight, evidently. Too much energy, that one. Two night owls don't make an early bird, if empiric evidence is anything to go by.

Jayce gives Viktor an apologetic look.

"I didn't think I'd be this late," he says, aggressively rubbing the towel over his hair.

"Jayce."

"I can handle bathtime and bedtime if you want."

"Jayce."

"I can eat later, it's fine."

"Jayce."

Jayce stops, the towel still pressed against his scalp. Viktor doesn't look annoyed. If anything he looks excited, in his very own quiet, contained way. He takes something out of the pocket of his cardigan.

The towel drops onto the floor.

Jayce stares at the envelope in his hands, his jaw going slack as his pulse thrashes in his ears like a flood.

"That's..."

"It is," Viktor nods with a growing smile.

"Did you...?"

"It wasn't my place."

He holds it out to him, his eyes warm. It weighs both nothing and a thousand tones in Jayce's hands. Nothing can prepare him for the gut-punch that hits him at the sight of his mother's handwriting. Familiar Os that loop beautifully. Curved Is. Tears sting his eyes.

In spite of the urgency rushing through him, he tears the top of the envelope with infinite care, trembling fingers against soft stationary paper. Inside, his own work waits for him, the same as he remembers, except for a few added details.

Sudden drops draw dark spots on the paper.

"Shit," Jayce sniffles, hastily wiping his cheeks.

He can't stop staring at it. Her signature. Something real, tangible. He brushes his thumb over it, overcome. We both held this, he keeps thinking. She held it in her hands and knew. She knows. She knows.

Viktor stands next to him, his free hand on his arm.

"You did it. You made contact."

Jayce nods, unable to look away. It feels unreal. Too good to be true. But the evidence is there, right under his eyes, ink on paper.

Of all the listed dates, his mother circled the earliest one. A few weeks from now. This month. Jayce's heart goes mad in his chest. His eyes keep welling up and―

"Papááááááá!"

Jayce rubs his cheeks with the back of his hand, doing his best to untangle the lump in his throat:

"Coming, gem!"

He starts folding back the flyer, the little tremors in his hands still going strong. Viktor gives his arm a squeeze.

"I'll read to her."

"No, it's okay."

He presses a hard kiss to the side of Viktor's head, euphoria slowly bubbling inside him. Gods, he could spin him around, but he's still very much drenched and neither of them have that much balance anymore. So he kisses him again. And again. Until Zophia all but drags him away to read her bedtime story of choice.

"It's okay, baby," Jayce tells Viktor, planting a fervent kiss on his knuckles as their daughter insistently tugs on his pant leg. "It's so so okay."

Jayce can't sleep.

In a few hours, he'll be at Obersheim's train station. In a few hours he will get to see his mother again.

And he can't sleep.

It is a mix of excitement and apprehension that keeps him tossing and turning. A nagging feeling in his guts. What if she doesn't make it? What if it's a trap? What if she's not happy to see him?

Viktor is asleep beside him, hair falling in front of his eyes as he takes slow, deep breaths. He frowns faintly in his sleep. He's beautiful. The sight is enough to pull Jayce out of his thoughts for a moment. He carefully tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear, earning a little sound at the touch. Here, in his bed in this house a thousand miles from home, Jayce knows he has all he needs. And somehow he is about to be granted more. More than he could ever dream off. And it scares him.

Because surely there is a limit to the universe's generosity. Surely there is a time when enough is enough. Jayce's been given so much already, so much more than he deserves. Surely...

Jayce turns over, pulling the blanket up to his chin as though to shield himself from his own thoughts.

Sleep never comes.

The Obersheim train station is a beautiful building with an iron and glass roof. Sunshine filters in in an almost iridescent light, painting rainbows at passengers and bystanders' feet. Jayce has been standing by the station wall for the better part of an hour, watching people go in and out of train cars, hugging their loved ones on the platforms. Warm welcomes. Heart-felt goodbyes.

He's pictured their reunion a thousand times. All of them different, playing in his mind as the station empties and fills with departures and arrivals. Will she have changed? Jayce can't even count the number of ways he's changed. He's not the son she remembers. He doesn't even look like him anymore. What if she doesn't even recognize him? The possibility doesn't seem that far-fetched. Jayce barely recognized himself the first time he saw his reflection after the pit, and it had only been a few months. Can he really expect his mother to know him at first glance, when he buried that version of him five years ago?

The station empties. Jayce glances at the timetable sheet he got at the front desk. There should be another arrival in three minutes. If she isn't on this one, then maybe she on the one that arrives twenty-three minutes after that. And if she's not on that one, well...

The way from Piltover to Obersheim isn't a direct line. It takes a few changes and more than a day to be comfortable. Jayce knows he will wait until nightfall, just to be sure, but he also knows the chances of meeting get slimmer with every passing minute. Ximena Talis is nothing if not punctual.

Another train enters the station.

Jayce straightens his back, watching the passengers pour out onto the platform. It's difficult to really see anything when the crowd thickens so quickly. He tries to crane his neck, looking for graying brown hair and a flash of white.

The crowd thins out, most people exiting the station after a few minutes. Jayce's eyes sweep the platform and the people remaining when he freezes.

She's there.

Her hair has fully gone white and there are a few more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but it's her. He knows her instantly, like a tether's been pulled out of his chest, hooked to her from the second he sees her. His body is both numb and tense, pins and needles prickling at his fingertips and blood rushing to his ears.

She has not seen him yet. She looks around, her body weighed down by a heavy-looking travel bag. Jayce wants to call out to her, to wave, to be seen, but his throat is blocked and his limbs refuse to obey him. She's so close, closer than she has been in years. Even back in Piltover, he'd been at a distance. He should have spent more time with her, then. He should have made time. He should have treasured those moments more, not take them for granted. He should―

His mother's eyes find him. She stops in her tracks, struck.

"Jayce?"

Jayce's chest heaves as he sucks in a shaky breath, his lungs struggling against him.

"Mami..."

His mother drops the bag onto the platform, approaching him almost as though she would a scared animal.

"Dios, mijo, it's you."

Her gaze burns with intensity as she looks at him, studies him, catalogues the changes. Maybe it's too much, maybe there's nothing to recognize there, nothing familiar to hold onto. But then she breaks into a smile, her eyes glassed over, cups his face with her hands and Jayce's legs almost give out from under him.

"It's really you."

"Mami," he chokes, a sob bursting out of him.

It's like he's six again. His arms wrap around her, hands tight against her clothes, and he cries, and cries, and cries as she holds him. He doesn't care how loud he gets, he doesn't care he's much bigger than the body holding him upright, he doesn't care people are watching. All that matter is the familiar, comforting smell that envelops him and the hand that rubs soothing strokes against his back.

"I'm sorry," he keeps saying. "I'm sorry, Mami, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. It's okay, cariño. You're here now."

It takes a long moment for Jayce to loosen his grip. It is only when his mother pushes lightly against his shoulders that he straightens somewhat, sniffling, panting from exertion.

"Let me look at you," she says, taking his face in her hands again. Her thumbs wipe away the tears on his cheeks, but hers still glisten. "My Jayce." Her smiles shakes from emotion. One of her hands combs his hair back. She gives the briefest of glances to the opalescent marks crowning his forehead. "Now, tell me you're not here just to sell me fabrics."

Night fell faster than Viktor anticipated. In the blink of an eye Zophia is fed and tucked in bed, leaving him to wait.

His good leg started bouncing an hour ago. He keeps glancing at the clock, watching the hands move round and round, worry and anticipation building in his stomach. Where are you?

His attempts at distracting himself fail miserably. Every book he opens reads like opaque sludge. Every project waiting on his workbench feels like they demand more attention and focus than he can offer them. Every assignment he needs to grade leaves him feeling on edge. He finds himself sat on the couch, one leg drawn against his chest, waiting.

While he's not one to catastrophize, Jayce has somewhat rubbed off on him. Wild scenarios cross his mind. Jayce ambushed by enforcers. Jayce having some kind freak accident on the way back. He doesn't really entertain any of them, but nevertheless, they're there, keeping him company.

The clock reads 9PM by the time Viktor hears voices coming from the path leading to the cottage. He springs to his feet as fast as his leg allows, leaning on his cane, listening intently. It's Jayce's voice. And another. Relief and apprehension fill him as one. The hand on the handle of his cane feels clammy, all of a sudden. Something cold rushes in his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

There's a couple knocks on the door. A courtesy. A warning.

The door opens from the outside, just enough for Jayce's voice to be heard clearly:

"V? We're back."

We.

Viktor takes a deep breath, or at least attempts to. They talked about this, the possibility of this. He prepared himself for it, still there is no quelling the panic rushing through him. This is stupid. He suggested this, why is his body going into fight of flight over it now?

He's managed a few steps towards the entrance door before it opens fully, letting Jayce in. Almost hidden behind his towering frame, stands Ximena Talis.

They stand there, eyes locked. There is something appraising in the way she looks at him. Viktor can only imagine what she's heard about him. About what he's done. What he became. Most of those are true, no doubt. He must be a strange sight. He bears little resemblance to the man she once knew. The change is molecular, down to his very core, twisted, remade and mended twice over like an old rag doll, the stitching showing on his skin in opalescent scars.

But the essence of him remains. Ximena Talis must know that. He hopes she knows that. Oh Janna, please...

"Viktor," she smiles at last, nothing but warmth on her face.

She makes a step towards him and, foolishly, Viktor flinches. He didn't mean to. He just... It's just been years, and the last time he saw anyone from Piltover...

He shoots a panicked look at Jayce. What have you told her? How much does she know? Jayce gives him a reassuring nod, but Viktor's pulse has already gone mad.

"Viktor," Ximena says again, risking another―careful―step. He watches her holding out her hand, slowly reaching for him. "It's a blessing to see you again."

He is not a blessing. He is the very reason Ximena loses her son in all timelines, in all possibilities. He is the root of her loss, a blithe on all she holds dear. And yet she reaches for him as though she means it. Viktor swallows hard as her hand rests on his cheek.

"Mrs. Talis," he croaks, his voice tight.

Her arms are around his shoulders before tears have even begun to fall.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she chides him gently. "It's Ximena."

Viktor chokes down a sob. She touches him with no reservations, without fear. Like he isn't the monster Piltovan parents tell their children about at night. His free arm loops around her, barely holding her, but there nonetheless. By the time she draws back, she looks at him with a fond smile.

"You look wonderful, dear," she says, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

She means healthier, no doubt, which should come as no surprise, given how sick he'd gotten the last time she saw him. Human, that is. Viktor manages a smile of his own, rubbing away his own tears.

"Thank you. I'm glad you are well. And here."

"So am I. Jayce told me you―"

"Táta?"

A sudden hush falls over them. Caught off-guard, they all turn as one, facing the same direction.

Zophia is rubbing her eyes in the living-room, her limbs still heavy with sleep and her hair wild. Viktor looks back at Jayce, then Ximena. Did he tell her? Does she know? Ximena lets out a quiet gasp, her palm resting over her heart. She doesn't look shocked, just... overcome. There must have been a lot of that, lately. Viktor can only imagine what the carriage ride over here must have been like, for either of them.

"Ximena, this is Zophia."

"Zophia Ximena Talis," Jayce adds, his voice warm with pride.

Ximena is holding back tears, Viktor can tell. She blinks quickly, looking at them, silently asking for permission. They both nod.

Zophia can be shy around strangers. Maybe it's a good thing she's barely awake now, as Ximena approaches her. She crouches carefully, securing her balance with a hand on a nearby piece of furniture.

"Hello Zophia," she says, the words filled with emotion.

"Hello."

Viktor doesn't dare to move, lest he shatters that moment between them. He's pretty sure Zophia won't remember any of this come morning, but the spark of interest burning in her eyes isn't from his imagination. He steals a glance at Jayce, who looks as though he's about to turn onto a puddle where he stands. He still carries a huge bag that must be his mother's, too caught up in the moment to notice.

"I'm so so happy to meet you."

Zophia seems to ponder that. She nods lightly and rubs her eyes again, a little whine escaping her.

"I'm thirsty."

"We'll do something about that, mija," Ximena smiles.

Behind them, Jayce shakes into action. He puts down the travel bag and he scoops Zophia off the floor, hauling her into his arms.

"Let's get you some water, gemita."

Zophia's head lolls against his shoulder, her eyelids heavy, sleep already returning to her. They disappear into the kitchen, leaving Viktor and Ximena alone.

"She will be chattier in the morning," Viktor assures her, his hand squeezing the handle of his cane.

"Oh, that's quite alright. I can wait."

You've done quite a lot of waiting already, Viktor almost says, but holds back. She's here. That's what matters.

"Would you like some tea?" he ends up asking, desperate to busy himself with something or else he might burst from all the emotions running through him.

"Oh, that would be lovely."

"The journey must have been taxing."

"But well worth it."

They both turn towards the kitchen, where, unseen, their most treasured beings live and breathe, just a few steps away. Within reach. Somehow. Somehow they both get to have this.

"I suppose Jayce told you everything on the way here."

"Yes. But I should like to hear it again, if you don't mind. From you."

"I'm not sure that is a story you'd like to hear," he warns her, affecting a small, self-depreciating smile.

She gives his arm a soft press, her own smile warm and encouraging.

"There is nothing I'd like more now that I get to hear it from both of my sons. I'm not passing that up for the world, Viktor."

Viktor lowers his eyes, overwhelmed. There's been too much crying already, he admonishes himself as he wells up again. Ximena gently tilts his chin up.

"How about that tea first, uh? Then we can start from whenever you like."