"And how odd it is to be haunted by someone that is still alive."
~I Guess the Old You is a Ghost (#589: June 25, 2014)
————
Scott wakes up to the sore throbbing along his hips, the morning light shining through his closed eyes, prodding him to wake up. He was shirtless, the familiar cold breeze of Rivendell nowhere to be found. His feathers were ruffled and he felt sticky.
There was something else though. Something–no, someone–has their arms wrapped around his middle, pulling him close to them, chin resting comfortably atop his head.
His eyes fly open, memories of last night flooding his mind. Memories of sloppy kisses and stumbling laughter, of heavy breathes and strained curses, and of a certain blond cod boy that is currently holding him like a teddy bear.
Panic seizes him in an instant, instinctively shoving away the Codfather, who falls off the bed with a startled "oof!". He pulls himself up the floor, seemingly in a daze, but as he meets eyes with Scott, a deep flush overtakes his features.
Neither of them speaks, neither of them want to address this rather awkward and potentially very dangerous situation they just got themselves in.
Scott's eyes darts around the room for his shirt, feeling heartrate skyrocketing to the stratosphere, because, fuck, he just fucked—well, got fucked by—the king of a not-technically-enemies-not-technically-allies empire.
He grabs and slips on the first tunic he sees and quietly thanks Aeor that his pants are still on.
Solidarity opens his mouth to speak, but he is quick to cut him off. "We will not speak of this." he hisses, standing up even as his bruised hips complain.
"Smajor, wai–"
"We will not speak of this." he repeats firmly, before jumping out the window and flying towards Rivendell.
He was so so fucked.
————
Sneaking from the guards is a relatively easy task for Scott, since he already knows they're rotations. He manages to squeeze himself through his bedroom window, falling face first onto his spruce wood floors.
He lays there for a few moments, an undignified heap on the floor, his lower extremities sore and numb. He is glad—not for the first time—that he insisted to his advisers that he didn't need a personal attendant. It gives him the time and space to wallow in his misery and regret his life choices
As if on cue, there was a knock on his door. He groans, why in Aeor's name does he have the worst luck today?
"Sire?" he hears the familiar voice of his secretary—Zehava—from the other side of the door.
Groggily, he lifts himself up, careful to not agitate his aching limbs. He doesn't have to worry about Zehava peaking in and seeing the alarming amount of bitemarks in his skin. He knows her long enough to know that she understands the concept of privacy.
"I'll be down in a minute." he calls out, hoping his voice doesn't sound too hoarse.
"Sire, I just want to remind you that you have a meeting today with Her Highness Katherine of the Overgrowth." she states in her usual calm tone.
Scott's eyes went wide. Fuck. It was a House Blossom meeting, which means Solidarity will be there. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He doesn't think he can look into the Codfather's eyes again after that. He doesn't think he can spend two hours simply sitting there and being near him. He doesn't think he can still look at him and not remember what happened that night.
Not that it was bad by any means, in fact it was the opposite. It felt good, familiar almost, and that is what scares him. This could definitely be used against him. Take his reputation and drag it to the mud, shatter the image of the perfect king he tries so hard to be. What would the other empires think if word got out? What would his people think of him? What would become of the empire he had spent so much of his life growing and protecting?
He shakes the thoughts away and moves to get dressed.
————
He descends down the stairs, his wings sweeping the stone floor. He shudders at the familiar cold Rivendell breeze, though he does prefer it over the humidity of the swamps.
He walks to the little kitchen this wing of the castle has, praying to Aeor one of his advisors won't find him on the way there, he is very much not ready for a diplomatic talk, not when his legs feel like they would crumble under him at any given moment.
Zehava was arranging his plate at the table already when he arrived. He passes her a small smile and a muttered thanks. She didn't have to do this, she is his Secretary after all, but she's also the closest thing he had for a personal assistant and was the reason his advisers consented to him not having an official one.
She shakes her head fondly, gray eyes glinting with amusement. "Enjoy your food, Your Majesty."
"Thank you," he returned, "and please, Zeva, we've known each other for a century and a half, just call me Scott."
She simply smiles at that, before sitting on the chair next to him and begins eating. He lets out a long-suffering sigh, they've known each other since they were little kids, she's guided him throughout his life ever since his parents died, she's seen him through his worst and best moments and Zeva still insists on formalities. It was a trait that would've been endearing if it wasn't so fucking frustrating, but it was quite hard to stay mad at her.
He gingerly picks on his food: a sunny side up egg with baked potatoes and steamed carrots on the side. He doesn't think he can muster the will to eat right now, not after that.
"Is something bothering you, Your Highness?" Zeva asks, concern laced on her tone.
He pauses, looking at her eyes. Icy blue meeting steel gray. There was that familiar motherly spark she always carries with her, that soft understanding glint contrasted with the harsh cold gray. For a moment, he considers telling her. For a moment, he considers giving in. For a moment, he considers opening his heart out.
But he didn't. No matter how close he and Zeva are, there are some things best left unsaid.
He merely smiles, a pathetic attempt of a genuine one. "Nothing, Zeva, nothing at all."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide, seemingly sensing it was a topic he would rather not discuss.
They finished their meal in silence, he helps her a little in clearing up before going back to his room.
He still has a dreaded meeting to attend.
Scott wakes up to the sore throbbing along his hips, the morning light shining through his closed eyes, prodding him to wake up. He was shirtless, the familiar cold breeze of Rivendell nowhere to be found. His feathers were ruffled and he felt sticky.
There was something else though. Something–no, someone–has their arms wrapped around his middle, pulling him close to them, chin resting comfortably atop his head.
His eyes fly open, memories of last night flooding his mind. Memories of sloppy kisses and stumbling laughter, of heavy breathes and strained curses, and of a certain blond cod boy that is currently holding him like a teddy bear.
Panic seizes him in an instant, instinctively shoving away the Codfather, who falls off the bed with a startled "oof!". He pulls himself up the floor, seemingly in a daze, but as he meets eyes with Scott, a deep flush overtakes his features.
Neither of them speaks, neither of them want to address this rather awkward and potentially very dangerous situation they just got themselves in.
Scott's eyes darts around the room for his shirt, feeling heartrate skyrocketing to the stratosphere, because, fuck, he just fucked—well, got fucked by—the king of a not-technically-enemies-not-technically-allies empire.
He grabs and slips on the first tunic he sees and quietly thanks Aeor that his pants are still on.
Solidarity opens his mouth to speak, but he is quick to cut him off. "We will not speak of this." he hisses, standing up even as his bruised hips complain.
"Smajor, wai–"
"We will not speak of this." he repeats firmly, before jumping out the window and flying towards Rivendell.
He was so so fucked.
————
Sneaking from the guards is a relatively easy task for Scott, since he already knows they're rotations. He manages to squeeze himself through his bedroom window, falling face first onto his spruce wood floors.
He lays there for a few moments, an undignified heap on the floor, his lower extremities sore and numb. He is glad—not for the first time—that he insisted to his advisers that he didn't need a personal attendant. It gives him the time and space to wallow in his misery and regret his life choices
As if on cue, there was a knock on his door. He groans, why in Aeor's name does he have the worst luck today?
"Sire?" he hears the familiar voice of his secretary—Zehava—from the other side of the door.
Groggily, he lifts himself up, careful to not agitate his aching limbs. He doesn't have to worry about Zehava peaking in and seeing the alarming amount of bitemarks in his skin. He knows her long enough to know that she understands the concept of privacy.
"I'll be down in a minute." he calls out, hoping his voice doesn't sound too hoarse.
"Sire, I just want to remind you that you have a meeting today with Her Highness Katherine of the Overgrowth." she states in her usual calm tone.
Scott's eyes went wide. Fuck. It was a House Blossom meeting, which means Solidarity will be there. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He doesn't think he can look into the Codfather's eyes again after that. He doesn't think he can spend two hours simply sitting there and being near him. He doesn't think he can still look at him and not remember what happened that night.
Not that it was bad by any means, in fact it was the opposite. It felt good, familiar almost, and that is what scares him. This could definitely be used against him. Take his reputation and drag it to the mud, shatter the image of the perfect king he tries so hard to be. What would the other empires think if word got out? What would his people think of him? What would become of the empire he had spent so much of his life growing and protecting?
He shakes the thoughts away and moves to get dressed.
————
He descends down the stairs, his wings sweeping the stone floor. He shudders at the familiar cold Rivendell breeze, though he does prefer it over the humidity of the swamps.
He walks to the little kitchen this wing of the castle has, praying to Aeor one of his advisors won't find him on the way there, he is very much not ready for a diplomatic talk, not when his legs feel like they would crumble under him at any given moment.
Zehava was arranging his plate at the table already when he arrived. He passes her a small smile and a muttered thanks. She didn't have to do this, she is his Secretary after all, but she's also the closest thing he had for a personal assistant and was the reason his advisers consented to him not having an official one.
She shakes her head fondly, gray eyes glinting with amusement. "Enjoy your food, Your Majesty."
"Thank you," he returned, "and please, Zeva, we've known each other for a century and a half, just call me Scott."
She simply smiles at that, before sitting on the chair next to him and begins eating. He lets out a long-suffering sigh, they've known each other since they were little kids, she's guided him throughout his life ever since his parents died, she's seen him through his worst and best moments and Zeva still insists on formalities. It was a trait that would've been endearing if it wasn't so fucking frustrating, but it was quite hard to stay mad at her.
He gingerly picks on his food: a sunny side up egg with baked potatoes and steamed carrots on the side. He doesn't think he can muster the will to eat right now, not after that.
"Is something bothering you, Your Highness?" Zeva asks, concern laced on her tone.
He pauses, looking at her eyes. Icy blue meeting steel gray. There was that familiar motherly spark she always carries with her, that soft understanding glint contrasted with the harsh cold gray. For a moment, he considers telling her. For a moment, he considers giving in. For a moment, he considers opening his heart out.
But he didn't. No matter how close he and Zeva are, there are some things best left unsaid.
He merely smiles, a pathetic attempt of a genuine one. "Nothing, Zeva, nothing at all."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide, seemingly sensing it was a topic he would rather not discuss.
They finished their meal in silence, he helps her a little in clearing up before going back to his room.
He still has a dreaded meeting to attend.