Work Text:
He can smell her before he can hear her, footsteps still light from years of footwork lessons in the quadrant, but the scent that precedes her is distinctly Sloane. It’s why he can scent her practically like a blood hound, after years being buried and encompassed in the scents that are her. There’s a warm vanilla wrapped in citrus– lemon, specifically, that comes from her summer shampoo– and an earthy, leathery scent that can only mean she just returned from a flight.
She approaches swiftly, with a practiced efficiency that only comes from years of intimacy and sharing an entire life behind closed doors. The kind of speed and ease that only comes from knowing someone, truly, wholly, and completely.
One lithe arm slides around his shoulders, and he feels the edges of her hair brush his neck before he feels her lips ghosting under his right ear.
“I was gonna say, Cat got your tongue?’ but I really don’t want to imagine Catriona Cordella anywhere near your mouth.” Sloane practically purrs against the shell of his ear, before he feels the warmth of her lips along the side of his throat. She’s warm and playful and entirely his Sloane.
“She seems perfectly content with Aarics.” He muses in response to her teasing tone, tilting his head back to grant her an extra moment’s access to her throat. Dain shifts, then, winding his arm around her waist, and with one fluid movement twists her to fall into his lap. His hand starts to slip under the softened leather of her flight jacket– his, actually, from back in college– yet his wondering is immediately ceased by the weight he feels against her chest and in her left arm. He groans– audibly, actually groans– when he processes that Sloane did not come to visit him alone. “Well aren’t you being a little tease,”
“He wouldn’t fall asleep. I took him for a ride. Works every time.” Sloane’s voice practically oozes with the soft smile on her face, as she unwraps her arm from Dain’s shoulder to reach down and smooth the soft brown curls where her littlest son’s head rests against her own body. “I meant to come here alone but, you know, duty calls and all that.”
Sloane shrugs off Dain’s flight jacket, letting the leather hit the floor with the soft thud of well worn fabric, before gently starting to unwrap her six month old sleeping little boy. She unwraps him with practiced but gentle efficiency, never moving from her spot perched on her husband’s thigh. “Seriously though, what are you working on?”
“How do you know I’m working on something? Maybe I’m just reading.” He quirks an eyebrow at her, but lets his hands continue to snake around her waist until they rested together at the small of her back. He had been mulling something over, had been for days, but it all seemed so minute now.
“You have those little lines in your forehead.” Sloane runs one single finger over aforementioned lines, before taking a moment to bop the top of his nose with her finger time. “...and you don’t usually come back to your desk after you get the boys to sleep.”
Sloane lets the long strip of fabric drop behind her as well, landing on top of the discarded jacket. She remains in a blood red, long sleeve shirt that clings to her, and the customary leather pants, a combo that has Dain’s inhale catching sharply in his chest. There’s a playful smile as she raises both eyebrows, before shooting him a wink. “Like whatcha see, Wingleader?”
“I haven’t been a wingleader in a looong time, Sloane.” Dain huffs a laugh, before sliding Sloane up his thigh and closer to his chest. “And yes, I always like what I see when I’m looking at my wife.”
“Yeah but you’ll always have been my Wingleader.” Sloane gently pulls her son away from her own chest, checking to ensure that those little brown eyes remained closed. She shifts the baby to the crook of her arm, wordlessly offering him over to Dain. “Talk to me, honey, What’s on your mind? What’s going on that brought you back to work before bed again?”
He lets out a heavy sigh, but nods and takes his youngest child into one arm. For the past five years it has been stronger than any grounding he could do in his mind to hold his children. There was nothing more centering to Dain than the feeling of one of his boys curled up in his arms, feeling their little bodies simply existing next to his.
He nods towards the papers spread on the desk, a combination of floor plans– drawn up by Imogen–, historical events –composed by Violet–, and dozens of other lists that are distinctly Dain, before directing his attention back to his sleeping baby. “Riorson has this idea for a school, right here in Aretia, and essentially offered me a job..”
“Yeah?” Sloane uses her hand that no longer holds their littlest baby to come and rest on his neck, her thumb tracking over his jawline. “What kind of job?”
“He wants me to run it. The school. He wants me to run it. Build it from the ground up, that kind of thing. The college aspect, not so much for the little kids. Violet apparently called dibs on that curriculum. He wants me to essentially run a Tyrrish Basgiath, right down the road here in Aretia.” He gives a half hearted shrug, before leaning back against the back of the leather chair.
“Of course he does, he’d be stupid not to, Dain! You’re brilliant, of course you should do it!” Sloane’s smile is wide, genuine, as she gently shakes her husband by his shoulders. “Baby, it’s great news. I’m so proud of you, you’re going to be great–”
“Is it? We saw how Basgiath went when I tried it.” Dain locks his jaw as he stares down at his son, willing away that aching feeling of doubt that was clawing through his chest as if the feeling could rip itself free through his flesh just to consume him over again. That year was awful, and while he undoubtedly succeeded as a leader, he felt like an absolute failure of a man.
“Basgiath went fine.” Sloane starts, shaking her head quickly to ward off the doubt she could see filling his eyes. “It was rough, but we made it. It went fine, you were great, it just wasn’t the right place for us.”
Fine was… an accurate statement.
They had been so young, just a few years out of the war. He had proven himself multiple times during the war, and came out the other end a decorated hero, as many of them had. A natural leader, and with the deaths of so many above them he quickly was scouted by Navarrian leadership to take over Basgiath. It was Aaric, who had ascended to the throne before the war was even formally completed, who ultimately convinced him to give it a try. A year, that's all he had asked of Dain when he signed the first contract.
Dain had, unsurprisingly, thrived professionally. He was powerful, a natural born leader, and at the core of it all loved to teach. It’s who he was meant to be. He had been trained for this, and he had done it, all without the help of his father. In fact, he had done it, maybe even to spite his father, to redefine his family name and their role in Basgiath’s history.
Professionally, he had thrived.
Personally, it had become one of the hardest years of his life.
Sloane had been so willing, to pack up what at the time were two very young children and uproot her life again. This time, it was for him. Liam was newly two, Finnley, their second baby, was not even two months old, when Sloane packed their favorite things to move them to Navarre. She had insisted that he gave so much for her, she was happy to let him follow this dream.
She had, of course, been absolutely miserable. Originally she planned to teach Runes, or something, during their time there. But, then Liam did nothing but cry. Cry for his Violet, and his home, for Sloane’s cooking, and his bed. He couldn’t be away from his mother, and so Sloane spent three hundred and sixty five days with him, and never once complained. Her son missed home. She missed home. She missed the support of Imogen, the banter of Bodhi, the taunts from Xaden. She missed her home, she missed her family, but she would be damned before she took Dain from the one dream he dared to follow.
He moved to Tyrrendor, immersed himself in that culture, for her. She could survive this for him.
She flew home with her boys often, which then resulted in missing Dain, for her and her children both.
Not to mention, despite being there he missed so much. He missed his oldest son reading a book for the first time, he missed almost everything the first year of Finn’s life– the first time he smiled, first words.
Despite the fact he was there with her, the guilt was unending that she was practically raising them alone.
Selfishly, he missed her most of all. He missed the mischievous smile she’d have on her face when she found him after getting the babies to sleep in their own spaces, pulling him into theirs. He missed the way she had a semi-permanent smirk on her face after an afternoon with Imogen. He missed the Tyrrish pastries she’d hand deliver to him fresh out of the oven, and the brilliant laugh that would come when she dared him to lick the leftover frosting off of her fingers.
Too many nights were spent crawling into bed once she was already asleep, tucked in with both of their boys in her arms. Too many meals were spent alone at his desk as he mulled over budgets, too many weekends were spent mulling over the worth of this job when his wife had to return Tyrrendor for a few days just to feel whole again.
Admittedly, even he missed Aretia. He missed his family, both the one he created by bloodlines but also by choice.
He missed her. He missed them. He missed home.
It was the easiest thing in the world. Exactly a year after he started he signed a respectful resignation letter addressed to a life long friend, and returned home just in time to watch his second child take his first steps right into his arms.
His job would never come above his family. He wasn’t his father. That's what this had all been about, hadn’t it been? He was more than what his father primed him to be, he had to be. A better father, a better friend, a better husband, a better man.
“You were miserable,” Dain reminds her, shaking his head as he keeps his eyes locked on his littlest baby. “And I missed so much, I can’t do that to them again.”
“We survived, didn’t we? I was just lonely, Dain. I’m not lonely here. We’re home here. Liam gets his cinnamon toast, Finny has his whole Auntie Vi library, this little baby here gets his dragon rides,” Sloane’s hand slides under his chin, directing him to look up at her with a firm hand. “You know what you want out of life now. You get to be the one to prioritize, to put in boundaries. You get to say you’re coming home every day for lunch, or that you’re going to leave in time to pick up Liam from school once he starts…”
“I don’t want to miss everything again. It’s a lot of hours, and they’re just so little,” Dain hesitates, but leans back in his large leather chair, pulling Sloane securely back with him. “I don’t want them to not know me, Sloane. I don’t want to leave you that often, either. It’s not fair to you.”
“Then be around. We’re home, Dain. Work while you’re there. Come home in time to pick them up from their school. The evenings can be ours. Don’t say no because Basgiath sucked, because it did. But this could be so much better. You could make it better.” Sloane leans in, so her forehead presses against his softly, close enough for their eyelashes nearly to tangle with each other. “You’re the best person for this job, Dain. Hell, do it for your boys, so that one day we don’t have to send them to another country to learn how to ride a dragon, when they could do it right here in their backyard. We have our own hatching grounds, we may as well get some use out of them. Who’s going to make a better school for your children than you?”
“Do you just want me out of the house?”
“I want you to be happy, and to use that organized, well trained brain of yours for good.” Sloane lays her head on his shoulder, trailing her nails over his bicep gently, scratching lightly at the red relic that peaks from under his sleeve. “Maybe, selfishly, I like the idea of a better, new school right here at home so my boys don’t have to go far. Just as selfishly, I like the idea of being able to say we have a better school than Navarre. Most selfishly of all, I like the idea of my hot, brilliant, powerful war-hero husband running that brand new school.”
Sloane cranes her neck to kiss the underside of his jaw, lingering just for a few seconds.
“It wouldn’t just be me. Imogen has classes in mind, and Violet has a whole list of lessons..” He shifts so that his arm strokes lazy circles on her hip, tapping gently to soothe himself more than her.
“Yeah, but they want you to be in charge. We both know you love to take charge.” Sloane plants one final kiss on his cheek, before she stands. “I think you should do it. You’re the best man for the job.”
“You’re just stroking my ego now, Sloane.” Dain muses, giving her hip a squeeze as a smile slides over his whole face. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll stroke something else if you can get him into his bed without waking up.” Sloane winks, before she starts walking in the general direction of the shower. “You know, there’s some serious opportunity there. We’ve done the whole wingleader/cadet thing, but we never got the chance to get into professor/student roleplay–”
“You can’t say that and just walk away,” Dain’s voice is firm but there's an underlying, desperate edge of frustrated desire that he can’t seem to hide when it comes to Sloane.
“I’m just giving you a prize to strive for, if you reach your goal.” She continues her walk away, this time stripping her red shirt over her head to dispose in the same pile as her flight jacket with a dramatic flare.
“You are an absolute menace, Mairi.”
“What are you gonna do? Put me in detention?”