Can you hear that?
Apr. 22nd, 2006 05:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrIt's the sound of diehard King Arthur fans everywhere screaming in agony and fury as I butcher their beloved story.
I would say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying.
Speaking of King Arthur, on doing research for this story and Vows Unbroken I got sidetracked by ol' Lancelot and learned something new (and granted, wiki should be taken with a lot of salt but cross checking has proven it true) - he's totally made up. At least, my impression is that he wasn't part of the original stories. He was thrown in later, at some chick's request.
So, technically speaking, the story of Lancelot and Guinevere was one of the world's first fanfics. And AU at that. Then again, no one seems to know quite what the Arthur story really is, other than a huge fucking mishmash.
I digress.
There is no good excuse for this story. I needed a break from longer stuff, and wanted something nonsensical and with no long-term investment. The pairing has no logica basis. I did it because I wanted to, because I could, because nobody was around to stop me, and it's fun to abuse fandoms. But it's done with love and affection, and I hope if it does not please then it at last amuses.
On a sidenote, I'm fully aware both of the Arthur stories could be longer. Not gonna happen. The first one was better, but I still like this one. 'Twas a good break. Pardon errors, I don't really bother to have these beta'd.
“Man,” Whitney said. “Can’t people just go home?” He contemplated getting the bottle of aspirin in the back room and then shook his head. “What’s so interesting about this place? I’d much rather be in bed.” He looked at Nigel, who was turned away and probably hadn’t realized Whitney was standing there.
Navy blue aprons were the closest the cheap diner they worked at got to uniforms. Which he was fine with, because Nigel looked hot in his slightly too tight t-shirts. Tonight he wore the green one, and Whitney was standing close enough – a sure sign Nigel hadn’t noticed him yet – he could smell detergent and the diner smell that no detergent could ever eradicate. Underneath it was a smell that was uniquely Nigel – sad that he knew the man’s scent but little else – like walking through a forest late at night. Fresh, woodsy, dark.
“So you’ll go chat with your lady friend and I’ll take care of the odd couple?” Whitney reached out to tug at the sleeve of Nigel’s t-shirt. Though he was braced for what happened next, it stung all the same.
Nigel recoiled before Whitney could touch, him dark eyes – so deep the brown looked black at times – blazing. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Are you this prissy with everyone or am I just special?” Whitney asked.
“You’re something, all right,” Nigel snapped, then stalked away across the diner to speak with his regular.
Who would tolerate no one except Nigel, precious Nigel, where is my lovely Nigel this evening?
Whitney had never been inclined toward violence, but he wanted very badly to kick her. Just because.
Because from the first day they’d first worked together, he’d had it bad for Nigel and Nigel had wanted bad for Whitney to go the hell away.
Because she touched Nigel all the time, and if Whitney got within three yards Nigel told him to back the hell off.
Because right now she was touching his cheek, playing with his hair, which was like his eyes, the brown so dark it may as well be black. Whitney had always wanted to play with that thick hair, bury his fingers in it, drag Nigel close and kiss him until they both were dizzy with lack of air.
Obviously he’d never get to, though near as he could tell his only crime had been a smile and a ‘nice to meet you’ when they’d first met. It had been the most humiliating handshake of his life, when Nigel had recoiled and warned Whitney never to touch him.
Angry, hurt, and confused – his usual state at work – Whitney shoved it all to the back of his mind and went to take care of his own customers. The diner was small-town enough and just far enough out of that small town that it didn’t see as much business at the odd hours of the night and morning that it usually would. This suited the owners and employees just fine.
The ‘odd couple’ was two men. They’d coming in steadily for about two weeks now, always about the same time Nigel’s precious regular came in -- one to four am. Why anyone, let alone three people, would want to spend four hours in a seedy diner was beyond Whitney. But stay they did, all four hours, leaving only when the early shift people started pouring in for breakfast.
Of the two men, he couldn’t decide who was stranger. They were the same height, but one was built and the other incredibly slender. The built one had that air about him that screamed ‘soldier’ – something in the way he carried himself, the way he was always looking around the room. He dressed plainly, in jeans and a t-shirt, work boots. Short brown hair and eyes the color of steel. Handsome, charismatic. Whitney always had the urge to salute him or something.
The guy beside him was full on pretty. Probably would punch Whitney if he ever said it aloud, but it was true all the same. His eyes were an unreal blue, the sort of eyes that seemed to see everything, surrounded by strands of soft black hair. Then there was the jewelry – tons of it. But he didn’t wear it in a flashy, trendy, gay boys love jewelry sort of way. More like a second skin, like all the silver and jewels, earring and necklaces and bracelets meant something. Like the first guy he wore jeans, but instead of a t-shirt he wore a black tank-top that molded to his skinny frame. Not Whitney’s style – he definitely preferred Nigel’s lanky b-ball frame – but hot all the same.
And they were definitely a couple. Not hands-all-over, publicly indecent. Just…the way they looked, occasional touches. Hardcore in love. It hurt to look at them, especially when he could hear Nigel laughing eight tables behind him. Whatever.
“You look upset,” the soldier guy said. Two weeks and Whitney had never managed to get their names. “Your friend mad at you?”
“Who, Nigel?” Whitney set down their drinks – hot tea for the soldier, water for the jewelry. “Not my friend. Guy hates me.”
“Oh?” Jewelry asked.
“Yeah,” Whitey said tightly. “He thinks he’ll die if I touch him. Or something. I dunno. But you didn’t come here to listen to me gripe and moan. What can I get for you?”
“Turkey club for me,” Soldier said. “Pancakes for him.”
“Sure thing,” Whitney said. He tried not to tense as Nigel laughed again, but couldn’t really help it.
“If you had a choice,” Jewelry said suddenly. “Between an easy life and a hard life, which would you choose?”
“What?” Whitney looked at him like he was crazy. “Man, there’s no such thing as an easy life.”
“Hard and harder then,” Jewelry said, lips quirking in amusement. He looked at Whitney, and something in those blue eyes made Whitney think the idle question was more than it seemed.
Something ran up his spine, a crawling tingle that he’d felt when he’d first seen them walk in two weeks ago, the same as when Nigel’s regular first started showing up a month ago. He felt hot and cold all at once, shaky like when he woke up from the bad dreams that had plagued him for the past year.
“Depends, I guess, on what I’d get with either. What makes harder worth it?”
The soldier smiled. “A good question.” He turned to look at Jewelry.
Jewelry’s eyes locked again with Whitney’s, brilliant blue to ice-pale green. “Hard – get our food, help the old man that will arrive in about twenty minutes. Take his offer. You’ll be a performer just like you always wanted.”
Whitney shivered. How’d these two know about that? Even his parents thought he was still a bio major.
“Harder – leave your tray here, and go touch the woman. Fight for him. Your life will be a hard one, with very little reward, but you just might get him.”
“Nigel?” Whitney asked softly. “He’d never want me.”
“That is his decision to make. But he cannot make it if you do not make yours. Such is the way of things.”
Whitney sighed and shook his head. “Not really a choice at all, is there? You guys are weird. I should be telling you to kiss off or something. Here goes nothing.” Setting his tray down, Whitney turned and walked down the length of the diner. Distantly he noted that around him the diner had changed. It was still. Everything was quiet. Nothing moved.
She looked like every evil woman to ever show up on a movie screen. He half expected her to start offering apples to young girls. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” he said congenially and reached out to lightly touch her shoulder, not sure what he’d do beyond that.
“What do you think—“ Nigel started, but was immediately cut off by a cry of pain and rage.
Whitney stared wide-eyed and wished his feet hadn’t suddenly glued themselves to the floor.
The woman, already pale, had turned sickly. Her shoulder where he’d touched it was burned a lurid, livid red, right through the thin silk of her barely-there tank top. “Whoa,” Whitney said. That tingling sensation crawled up his spine again, and the dense fog that had always seemed to shroud the back of his mind, the part that hid the tormenting dreams from him, began to clear. “Bitch,” he whispered. “Go away.”
For reply the woman snarled and leaped from her seat, throwing herself at Whitney in a vicious attack, flashes of silver that Whitney suddenly realized were daggers. Like something from one of his video games. “What the hell?”
But the fog that was clearing knew what they were, and knew how to resist them. He reached up and caught her wrists, and the woman screamed in pain as her flesh burned. Whitney threw her back. “Go away,” he repeated, and threw her off, watching as she crashed into a table before collapsing on the ground.
“I told you!” The woman howled, looking at Nigel. “He means nothing but harm.”
“No…” Whitney said. “Darkness cannot touch me. My duty is to fight those who would harm.”
“See what he did to me! He intends you only grief, beloved Nigel.”
Whitney shook his head and looked desperately at Nigel. “Always you are lost to us, always you choose the dark. Do not choose it this time, I beg of you.”
Nigel stared at them both, dark eyes wide with confusion, uncertainty. He looked at Whitney. “I’m not…I can’t…”
“How would you know?” Whitney said desperately. “You would never touch me.”
The woman stood up. “That is because he is ours, has always been. He knows better than to choose you, who would only hold him until your touch left him dead.”
“He is ours, witch!” Whitney thundered. “Born in darkness does not darkness make him. Tell your mistress that this time she will not succeed.”
Her lips curled in disgust. “Purest of Arthur’s Knights, what would you know of darkness? Your pretty little hands have never felt it, do not try to speak of it. Take yourself back to your quests!” Silver flashed as she again attacked him, and again Whitney grabbed her wrists, holding on tight until she was forced to drop her weapons. He threw her to the ground again, and the scent of burning flesh filled the too-still diner.
Whitney watched her, unhappy at her pain but not sorry he had done it. “By the Siege Perilous, King David’s sword and the Holy Grail, I am declared the purest and mightiest of Arthur’s knights. Darkness shall not touch me, lest it be burned by the light it rejected.” He looked up and held a hand out. “Choose, Arthur’s nephew.”
Nigel stared at his hand, then looked up to fasten on Whitney’s eyes. He looked again at the witch still cowering in pain on the floor. “I belong there,” he said, “but always I wanted you.”
“Choose.”
Nodding, Nigel closed his eyes, then slowly placed his hand in Whitney’s, obviously braced for the worst. He stared in disbelief when nothing happened. “Whit…” he shook his head, and Whitney saw as the last of his memories came to him. With a howl of rage, the witch vanished. Whitney let her.
Not giving Nigel a chance to speak, Whitney stepped forward and leaned up, kissing Nigel as he had always wanted to, through more lifetimes than he could count, not stopping until lack of air forced them apart. Always he’d tried too late, and watched as the man he’d secretly loved was lost to the enemy. “Mordred,” he whispered against Nigel’s mouth. “You really chose us. What was different this time?”
“Nothing,” Nigel said, and held Whitney tight. “I just wanted to die immediately, instead of prolonging the agony. I didn’t know…you were actually a choice.” He pulled back enough to tenderly brush away the fine strands of Whitney’s white-blond hair. “Why would the beautiful Galahad want me?”
Whitney kissed him again, hungry and desperate, willing that to be enough to keep Nigel at his side always. “Always I have wanted you, beautiful dark knight. But you ever mocked me, rejected me, and so I lost all courage to say something.” He laughed weakly. “I can hunt for holy relics but admitting where my heart lies is impossible.”
“It seems we both are fools.”
A chuckle interrupted them, and Whitney reluctantly broke from Nigel’s embrace to look at Arthur and Merlin. He dropped to one knee on the floor and bowed his head, and the spell-frozen diner around them may as well have been the halls of an ancient castle. “Lord Arthur, my eternal gratitude. I would have missed the chance on my own.”
Fingers touched his head, and Whitney looked up, returning Arthur’s smile.
“We could have solved this problem lifetimes ago, Sir Galahad, if you had but once told me your feelings for my nephew. Pure in spirit you might be, but a devil in all else.”
Whitney’s smile turned sheepish. “My apologies, Lord Arthur.”
“Accepted,” Arthur said with a chuckle. He turned to Nigel, voice soft. “Noble Nephew, at last we have won you back. I am glad.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Nigel did not look up from the floor. “I apologize for all the wrongs I have committed, all of them in the name of jealousy and despair. I will work to set all to rights.”
Arthur smiled and bid them both stand. “I think Galahad will take a portion of the blame. It is enough to have my two finest knights once more at my side.” He looked briefly sad. “Though in joining me, you are again sacrificing the peace you would have otherwise had.”
“I would rather be here, Lord.” He looked at Nigel, and knew the heat in those dark eyes was mirrored in his own. “Always, this is right where I wanted to be.”
I would say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying.
Speaking of King Arthur, on doing research for this story and Vows Unbroken I got sidetracked by ol' Lancelot and learned something new (and granted, wiki should be taken with a lot of salt but cross checking has proven it true) - he's totally made up. At least, my impression is that he wasn't part of the original stories. He was thrown in later, at some chick's request.
So, technically speaking, the story of Lancelot and Guinevere was one of the world's first fanfics. And AU at that. Then again, no one seems to know quite what the Arthur story really is, other than a huge fucking mishmash.
I digress.
There is no good excuse for this story. I needed a break from longer stuff, and wanted something nonsensical and with no long-term investment. The pairing has no logica basis. I did it because I wanted to, because I could, because nobody was around to stop me, and it's fun to abuse fandoms. But it's done with love and affection, and I hope if it does not please then it at last amuses.
On a sidenote, I'm fully aware both of the Arthur stories could be longer. Not gonna happen. The first one was better, but I still like this one. 'Twas a good break. Pardon errors, I don't really bother to have these beta'd.
Darkness Shall Not Touch
“Man,” Whitney said. “Can’t people just go home?” He contemplated getting the bottle of aspirin in the back room and then shook his head. “What’s so interesting about this place? I’d much rather be in bed.” He looked at Nigel, who was turned away and probably hadn’t realized Whitney was standing there.
Navy blue aprons were the closest the cheap diner they worked at got to uniforms. Which he was fine with, because Nigel looked hot in his slightly too tight t-shirts. Tonight he wore the green one, and Whitney was standing close enough – a sure sign Nigel hadn’t noticed him yet – he could smell detergent and the diner smell that no detergent could ever eradicate. Underneath it was a smell that was uniquely Nigel – sad that he knew the man’s scent but little else – like walking through a forest late at night. Fresh, woodsy, dark.
“So you’ll go chat with your lady friend and I’ll take care of the odd couple?” Whitney reached out to tug at the sleeve of Nigel’s t-shirt. Though he was braced for what happened next, it stung all the same.
Nigel recoiled before Whitney could touch, him dark eyes – so deep the brown looked black at times – blazing. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Are you this prissy with everyone or am I just special?” Whitney asked.
“You’re something, all right,” Nigel snapped, then stalked away across the diner to speak with his regular.
Who would tolerate no one except Nigel, precious Nigel, where is my lovely Nigel this evening?
Whitney had never been inclined toward violence, but he wanted very badly to kick her. Just because.
Because from the first day they’d first worked together, he’d had it bad for Nigel and Nigel had wanted bad for Whitney to go the hell away.
Because she touched Nigel all the time, and if Whitney got within three yards Nigel told him to back the hell off.
Because right now she was touching his cheek, playing with his hair, which was like his eyes, the brown so dark it may as well be black. Whitney had always wanted to play with that thick hair, bury his fingers in it, drag Nigel close and kiss him until they both were dizzy with lack of air.
Obviously he’d never get to, though near as he could tell his only crime had been a smile and a ‘nice to meet you’ when they’d first met. It had been the most humiliating handshake of his life, when Nigel had recoiled and warned Whitney never to touch him.
Angry, hurt, and confused – his usual state at work – Whitney shoved it all to the back of his mind and went to take care of his own customers. The diner was small-town enough and just far enough out of that small town that it didn’t see as much business at the odd hours of the night and morning that it usually would. This suited the owners and employees just fine.
The ‘odd couple’ was two men. They’d coming in steadily for about two weeks now, always about the same time Nigel’s precious regular came in -- one to four am. Why anyone, let alone three people, would want to spend four hours in a seedy diner was beyond Whitney. But stay they did, all four hours, leaving only when the early shift people started pouring in for breakfast.
Of the two men, he couldn’t decide who was stranger. They were the same height, but one was built and the other incredibly slender. The built one had that air about him that screamed ‘soldier’ – something in the way he carried himself, the way he was always looking around the room. He dressed plainly, in jeans and a t-shirt, work boots. Short brown hair and eyes the color of steel. Handsome, charismatic. Whitney always had the urge to salute him or something.
The guy beside him was full on pretty. Probably would punch Whitney if he ever said it aloud, but it was true all the same. His eyes were an unreal blue, the sort of eyes that seemed to see everything, surrounded by strands of soft black hair. Then there was the jewelry – tons of it. But he didn’t wear it in a flashy, trendy, gay boys love jewelry sort of way. More like a second skin, like all the silver and jewels, earring and necklaces and bracelets meant something. Like the first guy he wore jeans, but instead of a t-shirt he wore a black tank-top that molded to his skinny frame. Not Whitney’s style – he definitely preferred Nigel’s lanky b-ball frame – but hot all the same.
And they were definitely a couple. Not hands-all-over, publicly indecent. Just…the way they looked, occasional touches. Hardcore in love. It hurt to look at them, especially when he could hear Nigel laughing eight tables behind him. Whatever.
“You look upset,” the soldier guy said. Two weeks and Whitney had never managed to get their names. “Your friend mad at you?”
“Who, Nigel?” Whitney set down their drinks – hot tea for the soldier, water for the jewelry. “Not my friend. Guy hates me.”
“Oh?” Jewelry asked.
“Yeah,” Whitey said tightly. “He thinks he’ll die if I touch him. Or something. I dunno. But you didn’t come here to listen to me gripe and moan. What can I get for you?”
“Turkey club for me,” Soldier said. “Pancakes for him.”
“Sure thing,” Whitney said. He tried not to tense as Nigel laughed again, but couldn’t really help it.
“If you had a choice,” Jewelry said suddenly. “Between an easy life and a hard life, which would you choose?”
“What?” Whitney looked at him like he was crazy. “Man, there’s no such thing as an easy life.”
“Hard and harder then,” Jewelry said, lips quirking in amusement. He looked at Whitney, and something in those blue eyes made Whitney think the idle question was more than it seemed.
Something ran up his spine, a crawling tingle that he’d felt when he’d first seen them walk in two weeks ago, the same as when Nigel’s regular first started showing up a month ago. He felt hot and cold all at once, shaky like when he woke up from the bad dreams that had plagued him for the past year.
“Depends, I guess, on what I’d get with either. What makes harder worth it?”
The soldier smiled. “A good question.” He turned to look at Jewelry.
Jewelry’s eyes locked again with Whitney’s, brilliant blue to ice-pale green. “Hard – get our food, help the old man that will arrive in about twenty minutes. Take his offer. You’ll be a performer just like you always wanted.”
Whitney shivered. How’d these two know about that? Even his parents thought he was still a bio major.
“Harder – leave your tray here, and go touch the woman. Fight for him. Your life will be a hard one, with very little reward, but you just might get him.”
“Nigel?” Whitney asked softly. “He’d never want me.”
“That is his decision to make. But he cannot make it if you do not make yours. Such is the way of things.”
Whitney sighed and shook his head. “Not really a choice at all, is there? You guys are weird. I should be telling you to kiss off or something. Here goes nothing.” Setting his tray down, Whitney turned and walked down the length of the diner. Distantly he noted that around him the diner had changed. It was still. Everything was quiet. Nothing moved.
She looked like every evil woman to ever show up on a movie screen. He half expected her to start offering apples to young girls. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” he said congenially and reached out to lightly touch her shoulder, not sure what he’d do beyond that.
“What do you think—“ Nigel started, but was immediately cut off by a cry of pain and rage.
Whitney stared wide-eyed and wished his feet hadn’t suddenly glued themselves to the floor.
The woman, already pale, had turned sickly. Her shoulder where he’d touched it was burned a lurid, livid red, right through the thin silk of her barely-there tank top. “Whoa,” Whitney said. That tingling sensation crawled up his spine again, and the dense fog that had always seemed to shroud the back of his mind, the part that hid the tormenting dreams from him, began to clear. “Bitch,” he whispered. “Go away.”
For reply the woman snarled and leaped from her seat, throwing herself at Whitney in a vicious attack, flashes of silver that Whitney suddenly realized were daggers. Like something from one of his video games. “What the hell?”
But the fog that was clearing knew what they were, and knew how to resist them. He reached up and caught her wrists, and the woman screamed in pain as her flesh burned. Whitney threw her back. “Go away,” he repeated, and threw her off, watching as she crashed into a table before collapsing on the ground.
“I told you!” The woman howled, looking at Nigel. “He means nothing but harm.”
“No…” Whitney said. “Darkness cannot touch me. My duty is to fight those who would harm.”
“See what he did to me! He intends you only grief, beloved Nigel.”
Whitney shook his head and looked desperately at Nigel. “Always you are lost to us, always you choose the dark. Do not choose it this time, I beg of you.”
Nigel stared at them both, dark eyes wide with confusion, uncertainty. He looked at Whitney. “I’m not…I can’t…”
“How would you know?” Whitney said desperately. “You would never touch me.”
The woman stood up. “That is because he is ours, has always been. He knows better than to choose you, who would only hold him until your touch left him dead.”
“He is ours, witch!” Whitney thundered. “Born in darkness does not darkness make him. Tell your mistress that this time she will not succeed.”
Her lips curled in disgust. “Purest of Arthur’s Knights, what would you know of darkness? Your pretty little hands have never felt it, do not try to speak of it. Take yourself back to your quests!” Silver flashed as she again attacked him, and again Whitney grabbed her wrists, holding on tight until she was forced to drop her weapons. He threw her to the ground again, and the scent of burning flesh filled the too-still diner.
Whitney watched her, unhappy at her pain but not sorry he had done it. “By the Siege Perilous, King David’s sword and the Holy Grail, I am declared the purest and mightiest of Arthur’s knights. Darkness shall not touch me, lest it be burned by the light it rejected.” He looked up and held a hand out. “Choose, Arthur’s nephew.”
Nigel stared at his hand, then looked up to fasten on Whitney’s eyes. He looked again at the witch still cowering in pain on the floor. “I belong there,” he said, “but always I wanted you.”
“Choose.”
Nodding, Nigel closed his eyes, then slowly placed his hand in Whitney’s, obviously braced for the worst. He stared in disbelief when nothing happened. “Whit…” he shook his head, and Whitney saw as the last of his memories came to him. With a howl of rage, the witch vanished. Whitney let her.
Not giving Nigel a chance to speak, Whitney stepped forward and leaned up, kissing Nigel as he had always wanted to, through more lifetimes than he could count, not stopping until lack of air forced them apart. Always he’d tried too late, and watched as the man he’d secretly loved was lost to the enemy. “Mordred,” he whispered against Nigel’s mouth. “You really chose us. What was different this time?”
“Nothing,” Nigel said, and held Whitney tight. “I just wanted to die immediately, instead of prolonging the agony. I didn’t know…you were actually a choice.” He pulled back enough to tenderly brush away the fine strands of Whitney’s white-blond hair. “Why would the beautiful Galahad want me?”
Whitney kissed him again, hungry and desperate, willing that to be enough to keep Nigel at his side always. “Always I have wanted you, beautiful dark knight. But you ever mocked me, rejected me, and so I lost all courage to say something.” He laughed weakly. “I can hunt for holy relics but admitting where my heart lies is impossible.”
“It seems we both are fools.”
A chuckle interrupted them, and Whitney reluctantly broke from Nigel’s embrace to look at Arthur and Merlin. He dropped to one knee on the floor and bowed his head, and the spell-frozen diner around them may as well have been the halls of an ancient castle. “Lord Arthur, my eternal gratitude. I would have missed the chance on my own.”
Fingers touched his head, and Whitney looked up, returning Arthur’s smile.
“We could have solved this problem lifetimes ago, Sir Galahad, if you had but once told me your feelings for my nephew. Pure in spirit you might be, but a devil in all else.”
Whitney’s smile turned sheepish. “My apologies, Lord Arthur.”
“Accepted,” Arthur said with a chuckle. He turned to Nigel, voice soft. “Noble Nephew, at last we have won you back. I am glad.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Nigel did not look up from the floor. “I apologize for all the wrongs I have committed, all of them in the name of jealousy and despair. I will work to set all to rights.”
Arthur smiled and bid them both stand. “I think Galahad will take a portion of the blame. It is enough to have my two finest knights once more at my side.” He looked briefly sad. “Though in joining me, you are again sacrificing the peace you would have otherwise had.”
“I would rather be here, Lord.” He looked at Nigel, and knew the heat in those dark eyes was mirrored in his own. “Always, this is right where I wanted to be.”
