Most people are saying the Sanvers engagement is rushed and I kinda agree but it’s totally in line with them. Maggie didn’t admit her feelings until she almost died. They didn’t say i love you until Alex almost died. It’s not that surprising that when the world might end that they’ll decide to get married
there’s this one time when i look at my otp and i was like ‘okay, get it together they are just the best of friends’ but then when they started to interact and act all lovey-dovey and it was caught on camera, on a live tv show and THAT’S WHEN ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE
Also, thanks so much to @hollow-kingdom and @acourtofstarsanddreams for talking to me basically all day about Nesta, it really helped me understand her better. I swear I have a job lol I really liked writing nessian, so there will probably be more of this in the future.
When Cassian wanders into the kitchen of the House of Wind, he is
startled to see Nesta sitting on a stool at the island. It is the middle
of the night and he hadn’t expected anyone else to be there, let alone
She fails to make any sign that she sees him in the doorway, taking
another drink from her glass as if he hasn’t just come in, flinching
slightly as the liquid makes its way down her throat. A half-empty
bottle of bourbon sits on the counter in front of her.
“Nesta.” Her name comes off his lips without his will, an uncertain
mixture of pleasant surprise and apprehension. He waits. A small lamp on
one counter is the only light in the cavernous room. She has become an
odd contrast of shadows and illumination, her profile in relief while
the rest of her remains in obscurity. He can make out her shape through
the thin cotton nightgown she wears and makes a note to himself to look
elsewhere, even as he memorizes the sight. Her hair is in a braid but it
has been disturbed, as if she has just woken and gotten out of bed.
She remains silent so he moves towards a cabinet, grabbing a glass. He
turns his back to her and closes his eyes briefly. If she would just say
something, call him a name, anything, he could let go of this sense of
foreboding. It is rare when she doesn’t have some clever retort ready to
snap at him. And now, she hadn’t even bothered saying hello. He finally
turns back to her, having no more pretense to give her some semblance
“Nesta, what are you doing here? Are you doing alright?” She doesn’t
live at the House of Wind. Nesta and Elain live in a townhouse by the
Sidra, to have a space that is their own. She and Cassian have barely
spoken in the weeks since she came to live in Velaris. He has to keep
himself from going to her every day, to keep himself from reaching out
to her. The bond that ties them together has been demanding that he find
her, touch her, hear her voice. If she feels the same pull, she makes
He hadn’t planned on seeing her here, now, and while his instinct is to
approach her and place a gentle hand on her back, he knows what that
would be met with. Hell, if she would let him he’d carry her to his bed,
he would let her have it, sleeping on a couch or the floor.
She hasn’t been sleeping well, a fact that she is now chagrined to
realize he is aware of. Months of adjustment to this body and nothing
has made a difference. There is something humming under her skin,
something she realizes is power, but… she isn’t sure what to do with it,
yet. Rhys has allowed her to train, to help them in their efforts
against the King of Hybern, and yet at the end of the day she still
finds herself dissatisfied, lacking something she doesn’t want to name.
He is watching her from the edge of the kitchen while she takes up all
the space at the center. She holds her glass at an angle, letting its
bottom edges roll over the marble countertop as she watches the liquid
swirl, leaving patterns along the sides.
“Stop hovering, Cassian,” she finally says. He bites back a sigh. “It’s
midnight. What do you want.” Her voice is so flat that the question has
become a statement.
“Well, I wanted a drink of water. But why don’t you tell me, Nesta, why
you are here, in the middle of the night. Why aren’t you home?”
To his surprise she responds not with a scoff or a pursing of her lips, but with frankness.
“In the middle of the night, when I wake up, I hear Elain screaming. It
has been…” she clears her throat. “I can’t get the sound out of my
She pushes the bottle across the counter towards him. He moves towards
her to take it, keeping a wary eye on her. He pours himself a drink and
sits at the stool opposite her. It isn’t the kind of thing he would have
chosen himself; this is likely Azriel’s bottle, but Cassian figures he
can replace it. He takes a drink, the spice and burn coating his throat
in a not unpleasant manner.
“She seems ok, doesn’t she? Elain is adjusting, I think. But I…” she
trails off, her gaze never leaving her glass. She finishes the last of
it before pouring herself another. “She tells me she is fine. How can
she be? Feyre is. Feyre is always fine.”
“Elain is doing well,” he replies. He pauses a moment before he adds, “She doesn’t blame you. No one does.”
“Well, that wasn’t my question, was it,” she says sarcastically. “Do you
blame yourself? Because you should.” She says the last words with the
same dead tone she had begun speaking with.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “I made you a promise. I didn’t uphold my end. It’s quite simple.”
“Cassian.” Something tightens in his chest at hearing her say his name. A
minute passes before she continues to speak again. “Once, before our
mother died, before we lost everything we had, my father promised me
something. Do you want to know what he promised me?”
He nods at her.
“He said that nightmares aren’t real. He said that they are our fears,
the things we don’t want to happen. That we have to imagine them at
night so they don’t take form during the day. That if I just remembered
that the horrible things happening in my nightmares were never true,
then I didn’t need to be afraid of them.” She drinks the rest of the
bourbon in her glass in a quick swallow, tilting her head to force the
burning liquid down her throat.
“He was wrong,” she finishes. Her hand shakes as she reaches to pour
herself another, but he covers her hand in his, taking the bottle from
her. Pulling her glass towards himself, he makes her another drink,
sliding the glass across the counter towards her.
“Promises only count if someone means them. If they aren’t full of shit
the minute the words come out of their mouths. You are not full of shit,
Cassian.” She sighs, finishing her drink in another swallow.
He would make a sign to her, to tell her he understands, but holds
himself back, watching to see what she will say next. He nurses his
drink in silence with her, considering her words.
Looking up at him, Nesta wraps her hands around her glass. If she lets
it go she will grab his hand, jump over that counter, finally quit
ignoring the bond she feels at her core, leading her to him. The thread
has steadily become heavy, cumbersome, until she thinks she will go mad
from its persistent throbbing reminder. There are things she wants to
say, words that live on the tip of her tongue, and when he is around she
feels them dangerously close to coming loose and betraying her. She
decides that tonight is not the night. One day, she will tell him what
she wants. But it won’t be now. Not when she is so close to breaking and
she isn’t sure if he can put her back together. If she wants him to.
She moves to stand too quickly and the bottle tips, moments away from
falling and shattering. She waits to watch it fall, but before she knows
he is there Cassian has moved next to her to grab it, afraid the glass
will splinter and cut her. It lands in his hand with a soft clinking
sound before he sets it upright on the counter.
They are pressed together now and her hands go to his chest, steadying
herself between him and the counter that is behind her. “Is this what
you want,” she asks. The teasing note of the words rings false in his
ears, the truth of what she is saying and what she wants just below the
surface. He grabs her arm to steady her.
“Nesta, did you drink all of that?” He looks again at the bottle, hoping
that its half-empty state is not entirely because of her.
“No. You walked in on my first drink.” She looks up at him and he
finally sees a hint of sincerity beneath her nearly expressionless face.
What he finds there looks something like pain mingled with trust. Her
shield is cracking and he will be damned if he does anything to make her
hide from him right now.
“Why did you come here?” He grasps her shoulders, unsure if he will pull her closer.
She feels herself begin to speak before she is aware she has made the
decision. “I wanted to see you. To talk to you. I’ve been… I have been
having nightmares. And they are real. But so are you.” She searches his
face, dragging the tips of her fingers across his jaw. “I don’t know
what I want, Cassian. I’m not sure if I want you, or this, or why I’m
even telling you this.” She forces her mouth closed, grateful that she
hasn’t continued telling him her thoughts. I want to understand why
it feels like you can break me, even while I wonder if you are the only
one who can put me back together.
“Do you want me to take you home,” he asks, his breath a shuddering in
his chest. She shakes her head and begins to lean into him. A slight
flush has made its way up her neck, and he tries not to stare at the way
the fabric of her nightgown moves on her. “We can sit and talk, if you
want. I have a fire going in my room.” He blanches and tries to explain
himself when she cuts in.
“Yes. Let’s sit.”
She lets him take her hand from his chest, leading her to his room. He
walks in front of her, heart pounding. When they reach his room he
gestures to a large, well-worn chair, taking a smaller wooden one
himself. Nesta curls her legs under herself, her small form sinking into
the cushions. Resting her head on the arm of the chair, she looks at
him. He returns her gaze, and they sit like this, taking the measure of
“What do you want to talk about,” he asks finally.
“Tell me… tell me something true,” she replies. The soft and steady
tones of his voice take over and she closes her eyes to listen, to learn
about him. When he knows that she has fallen asleep, he gathers her in
his arms and lays her in his bed, covering her with a blanket. He
brushes her hair from her face, watching the furrows disappear and the
severe angles of her eyebrows relax. He wishes that he could keep her
like this. Not for himself, but for her.
He takes her former place in the chair by the fire, watching her sleep
through the rest of the night, barely stirring. While she rests, he
makes another promise to himself, to her, and this is one he intends to
uh yeah, yesterday was the day John Lennon met Paul McCartney, July 6th, 1957.
He and his Quarrymen skiffle group were playing at the garden fete of St Peter's Church, Woolton, Liverpool.
One of John's mates was mates with Paul, so this mate introduced Paul to John. And he asked Paul to join their group, which later became wildly known as the Beatles. With the company of George and Ringo of course.